Chapter 13: In Sight of Swords

Elijah. 8

There was, as ever, something to be said for timing.

The negotiations had taken place inside the captain’s board room—a small, conference-like room paneled with sleek, dark wood and lit by soft, ambient lighting that gave the space a serious but welcoming atmosphere. Strategically situated to one side of the ship’s extensive bridge, the boardroom had the air of seclusion and importance, with heavy hatches sealing it from the corridors outside. Within, a long oval table of polished metal anchored the room, surrounded by chairs that could have been more at home in a luxury cruiser rather than a vessel of war and diplomacy. It also had expansive windows, conveniently and not accidentally facing out into the void of space to give the perfect view of the derelict hulk of the Primis

The room also boasted direct access to the corridor through discreetly armored doors. This architectural feature was not without purpose; it meant the Mariner delegation—ostensibly a group of tough, resourceful, space-faring individuals led by the indomitable Lycander and represented by the Five of Seven council members—could be ushered efficiently from the ship’s outer hatch to the meeting place without so much as a glimpse of the bridge in full swing.

Elijah didn’t want to occlude the marvels of the Atlas command deck from Lysander and the Five of Seven out of spite or secrecy. Indeed, letting the delegation’s eyes wander over the flurry of activity on the bridge, the sophisticated technology at the crew’s fingertips, might have softened them up, making them keen to partner up for the promise of shared tech and knowledge—”All this could be yours for the price of ... whatever Wu thinks we need,” he could almost hear himself muse internally.

Master Wu, the old Guardian, had advised caution and Elijah knew he was right. It wasn’t about dangling carrots; it was about finding the right allies—ones that sought to engage in the fight for reasons of conviction rather than convenience or, worse yet, greed.

The fine furniture, the curated environment—every detail in the room was designed to put the Mariner delegation at ease, showing respect and offering comfort while tacitly communicating the strength and advancement of the Ancients.

The subdued hum in the background was a constant reminder of the ship’s power. Elijah, focused yet apprehensive, played his part both as Ancient Marshal and earnest negotiator. He understood that the allure of reactivating their system was potent bait, but he didn’t want the Mariners to bite for the wrong reasons. The terms of the engagement were, in fact, two separate agreements: The reactivation of the Primis’s powercore for Wu’s pick of whatever relics he deemed valuable, including the entire contents of the eons-undisturbed hangar bay. The alliance was separate and unique. For their help in the war to come, Elijah promised them absolute freedom and autonomy.

Elijah looked into the eyes of the delegates, their expressions a mixture of curiosity and caution. The air was thick with unspoken thoughts, each participant weighing the gravity of the decisions laid before them. The alliance to be forged here wasn’t a mere transaction; it was a commitment. A shared fate. A united front.

History, Ancient and human—laden with examples of fleeting alliances forged by self-interest that crumbled under the slightest adversity—loomed over the room as a silent third party to the negotiations. Elijah’s voice, when he spoke, was steady, a testament to his earnest desire for a lasting partnership. He explained, with careful optimism, that the terms of system reactivation were a gesture of goodwill but also a test of intentions.

Ambition was welcome, but loyalty was paramount. The Mariners had to decide whether to stand shoulder to shoulder with the Ancients for the sake of the collective cause or to walk away with only short-term gains in mind. It was a choice they would have to make themselves, free of coercion, with a clear understanding of what it meant to be allied with the Ancients. For Elijah, and for the future he envisioned, it all came down to this room, this moment, and the boundless potential that awaited their conjoined paths.

In the delicate dance of diplomacy and power, the Ancients had orchestrated a moment of theater that could very well tip the scales in their favor. The boardroom, which up until now had been steeped in a mix of tension and skepticism, was about to witness a spectacle that would change the trajectory of the discussions entirely. As if on cue from some unspoken director’s signal, the universe itself seemed to conspire to punctuate the negotiations with a display of might and promise.

The growth of unrest was palpable among the Mariner delegation as they exchanged uneasy, sidelong looks. The weight of open conflict with the Imperium, a prospect daunting enough on its own, was compounded by the implications of potentially sharing their closely guarded technology with the rebels. They were a leadership weaned on prudence and foresight, unaccustomed to gambles without a clear path to benefit. More than that, they were the product of generations worth of steadfast isolationism; they didn’t - as a rule - play well with others.

It was at this critical juncture that the miraculous occurred. Without fanfare but with unprecedented timing, the darkened husk of the Primis abruptly sprung to life as though goaded by an unseen hand. Every light behind every distant porthole glowed with the power now flowing through the Primis’s core. It wasn’t just a display of lights—it was a testament to power, capability, and the promise of renewal. The event rippled through the chamber with the force of destiny unfolding.

Illumination radiated from the ancient vessel, casting a near-hallowed glow in the vastness of space—a beacon of resurgent technology that had slumbered through the eons. The boardroom’s windows provided front-row seats to a show that none of the delegates could have anticipated: a magnificent tapestry against the cosmos.

The Mariner delegation collectively gasped, caught between disbelief and wonder, their differences momentarily forgotten. They leaped from their seats like awe-struck children and pressed their faces against the glass, eyes wide and fixed on the grandeur of the reawakening. The Primis, a relic considered little more than a myth by many, was announcing its return with a brilliant spectacle of awakening lights.

Moments later, as though responding to the crescendo of the visual symphony, the Primis’s engines shuddered to life. They did not roar to propel the ship across the celestial seas—not yet. They hummed with a gentle yet unmistakable power, casting an ethereal blue aura that signaled their readiness to conquer the void once again. It was not a mere functional display; it was a message broadcasted in the universal language of strength and capability.

Lycander and his compatriots couldn’t possibly see the activation of the control bridge from their vantage point, nor the myriad of terminals now pulsating with life, ready to accept commands. But Elijah, privy to the inner workings of the Ancient’s technology, knew that every screen was aglow with indecipherable scripts and symbols, every console bathed in the cool light of Renaissance. The once-dormant nerve center was now a hive of potential, awaiting only the guiding touch of those who knew its secrets.

This was a piece of theater that acted not merely upon the eyes but upon the very spirit. Doubts that had seeded among the Mariner leadership were being overruled by an enigmatic force, one that spoke to the possibilities of unity against a common foe. Master Wu might have allowed himself a secretive smile, watching the ripples of astonishment spread among their guests, had he been there. But Elijah knew the man’s focus was on something wholly more valuable than shocked human expression.

In this moment, the Ancients had unveiled not just technology but a vision of a future—a compelling, tangible offering that beckoned the Mariners away from caution and towards a horizon brimming with shared glory. The subdued murmurs of the delegation transformed into animated conversation, the tenor of the talks shifted, and Elijah perceived that the conversation had irrevocably changed.

An Ancient relic now reborn promised a future of united strength, and the Mariners, long guided by cold calculations and harsh, reactionary decisions, found themselves swept up in the tide of a shared and vibrant destiny. The ship’s revival was not just a pledge of power but an overture of the Ancients’ good faith and the potential magnificence of an alliance against the darkness that threatened to envelop them all.

With a power like this at their fingertips, the prospect of freedom was no longer a childish pipe dream; it was no longer an idea pondered by overly optimistic philosophers and historians but an actual, tangible reality. They could take on the Imperium...

And they could win.

The room was abuzz with an electric fervor. The members of the Mariner delegation were captivated by the spectacle they had witnessed, their eyes flickering with reflections of the Primis’s awakening. It was a moment that transcended the mundane trappings of their cautious lives, a stark realization of possibility that was as entrancing as the starry expanse beyond the viewport. In the wake of such a revelation, they couldn’t help but redirect their gaze, eyes brimming with something akin to reverence, toward the figures responsible for this marvel.

One of the two men, hitherto almost unnoticed in the shadow of their own achievement, suddenly became the focal point of rapturous attention. There stood Elijah, his blue eyes radiating the depth and wisdom of the Ancients—a testament to the era-defining abilities encapsulated within his slight, unassuming form. Missing from the meeting room was Master Wu, his long gray beard and keen eyes often giving away nothing, yet today they would have held a flicker of triumph, if he wasn’t off indulging himself in the one thing that made him more excited than anything Elijah had ever seen from the man. Together, they represented the catalysts of change, the architects of a new dawn for the Mariners.

The moment’s import was not lost on anyone present. With the Primis now sentient, its systems humming with vitality, the Mariners were unburdened from a mantle they had worn for generations. No longer anchored to a singular location, the legendary vessel could be moved - under its own power - to any bastion of safety or any covert sanctuary they deemed necessary. The strategic implications were vast and immediate.

Although bringing the Primis to full martial readiness would require some time—orchestrating the reintegration of its formidable weapons and complex shielding systems that had been removed to be studied generations ago—the task was deemed eminently feasible coupled with an Ancient Guardian as a close ally. The timeline for such a resurgence would be brief, measuring in months rather than decades and meshing seamlessly with the contours of burgeoning strategies and missions blooming in the minds of the Ancient Marshal and his potential allies.

The two Ancients’ abilities shattered a four-decade impasse that had stumped the most brilliant Mariner minds, a feat executed with such an effortless display it seemed almost a mere afterthought. In their hands, they held not only the likeness of the most almighty vessel known to the quadrant but also the fate of countless lives.

Now, the impending conflict with the Imperium, once a distant and disheartening prospect, crystallized into a beacon of hope. It took on the sheen of a fight not just survivable but winnable. The possibility of wresting their eternal freedom from the clutches of a relentless and unyielding enemy was transformed from a mere dream into a palpable, imminent reality.

Elijah’s steady gaze bore the conviction of their capabilities without arrogance, embodying the promise and fortitude essential to lead the way. This was no longer about technological supremacy alone; it was about lighting a fire in the hearts of those who had known only the cold weighing of risk. An invitation had been cast—a call to stand together not just as cohorts in battle but as comrades in arms, fighting for a future where words like ‘liberty,’ ‘exploration,’’ and ‘sovereignty’ would regain their hallowed meanings.

A new chapter was unfolding for the Mariners and the Ancients alike, written in the language of unity, driven by the engines of an awakened Primis—the harbinger of unprecedented change and the emblem of an indomitable spirit that refused to fade into the night.

Elijah held each of the delegate’s eyes in turn, a silently spoken message that communicated one simple fact: he was a friend if the Mariners wanted one, but he could become a stranger again if his invitation were refused, and now the Mariner command staff were fully aware of what that could mean for them.

“Please, ladies and gentlemen,” he said, gesturing to the seats they had vacated in their shock. “Let us continue...”

Laura. 13

Laura’s breath caught in her throat, a silent utterance that barely escaped her lips — “Holy fuck.” It was a barely audible exhalation reflecting the vast bewilderment that had swiftly conquered her composed facade. The phenomenon that had stolen her command of language was the very same spectacle that had rendered Master Wu, the old Guardian, momentarily frozen. His hand had clamped onto her wrist with uncharacteristic urgency, gripping not in search of comfort or steady footing but rather as if latching onto the fabric of reality itself. For what lay sprawled before them in the titanic embrace of the hangar seemed to belong to the domain of dreams.

Laura recognized the look of unrestrained astonishment that rippled across Wu’s features — it was a look that heralded the shattering of expectations, a reaction betrayed only by legends coming to life. To stumble upon this sight was to confront the impossible, and Wu, with his eon-spanning wisdom, was possibly the only person alive capable of grasping its significance. He gazed over the sight with an intensity that magnetized Laura’s own perception. His face, a mirror of marvel, now reflected back at Laura as she, too, succumbed to an expression sculpted by sheer awe.

The vast hangar of the Atlas had teased them with its potential, hinted at the greatness of what the Ancients could amass, but it had been just that — a hint adorned by but a scattering of vessels. They had been standouts in their solitude, radiant and imposing, yet it was the vacancy around them that coaxed the imagination to wander. In stark contrast, the hangar they now found themselves in knew no such void.

It was an armada enshrined in slumber. Seventy or more vessels of various classes and designations lay before them, an entire fleet in quiet repose. Each ship, a harmony of form and lethality, basked in the glow from an unseen source above, their hulls reflecting back the interplay of shadow and light that danced across the massive chamber. Like Wu, Laura could feel her jaw slacken, her eyes widening as her mind labored to reconcile the grandeur before her with the realm of the distinctly possible, let alone observable.

Laura and Master Wu shared a moment suspended in time — a quietude of speechless reverence. Even as they grappled with the comprehension of what they gazed upon, they recognized the precipice upon which they stood. Here was a power that could reforge galaxies; here was the legacy of the Ancients laid bare in glinting silver metal and ominous shadow. And it was this recognition, this electrifying synthesis of past and potential, that rooted them to the spot, a tourist and a returning resident peering into the heart of a civilization that had mastered the heavens.

As Laura’s gaze wandered across the hangar, the variety of ships sparked a curiosity and an excitement she could barely contain, and she had no idea if that excitement was on her own behalf or for Wu, who looked like every Christmas since the dawn of time had come at once. The smallest, which she remembered the Guardian referred to as the Valiant class Destroyer based on their nimble appearance, reminded her of swift, celestial predators. There were about fifty of them. They were sleek and trim, with a design that cut through the vacuum of space as if they were born from the shadows themselves. The Valiants’ almost minimalist elegance belied their potential for ferocity – she could make out the recessed outlines of weapons that, she assumed - based on the ease with which the Atlas’s weakest weapons had obliterated Hillman’s Frigate - could be swiftly deployed to devastating effect.

The twenty Mediator class cruisers commanded her attention next. They were more substantial, with a menacing grace that set them apart from the smaller ships. These cruisers had a layered, muscular build, giving them a presence that was both reassuring and formidable. The Mediators were larger and prouder, with expansive hulls that promised endurance and a wealth of firepower. She noticed ornate carvings that swept along their prows – perhaps a vestige of the aesthetic values of their creators. While she didn’t know their exact role within the fleet - at least compared to Mariner fleet dispositions - it seemed clear that these were ships built for prolonged engagements, versatile, robust, and deadly.

And then, finally, the five colossal Sovereign class battleships. Even without an understanding of their history, the size and majesty of these leviathans were breathtaking. They stood as kings among the vessels, with Laura intuitively feeling these were the flag bearers of the fleet. Their sizable gunmetal forms were accented with hints of decorative brilliance that proved beauty and power could coexist even in war. The Atlas and the Primis had housed countless sunken weapon turrets that could be deployed at a moment’s notice, and these Sovereigns seemed to have been built around the same idea. She couldn’t help but compare them to the flagships of the home fleet: massive, cobbled together, vicious-looking ships in their own right, but these, despite looking to be roughly the same size, give or take a few meters, managed to look both more refined and elegant than the Mariner battleships, but also vastly more dangerous.

As Laura and Master Wu stood observing the dormant fleet, the difference in scale and design between the three classes spoke volumes to Laura. Each class represented a different face of aggression and defense, all part of a harmonious force of power and precision. They were silent, still, yet in their repose, they whispered stories of a time when they ruled the stars with ease and spoke promises of the ease at which they could do it again.

“I don’t normally resort to such crudeness,” Wu finally spoke, swallowing hard before words were able to be formed. “But in this case, Holy Fuck seems rather apt.” He looked at her with that glint of excitement firmly behind his eyes. “This is a very good start.”

Laura almost choked on her own tongue. “A good start?!?”

“There are at least two more of these fleets out there somewhere.”

Laura blinked, and her eyes shot back up to the spectacle before her. “That sounds ... terrifying.”

“Nonsense,” Wu laughed, finally seeming to remember that he was capable of self-propelled movement. He released his grasp on her wrist and started to walk toward the nearest ship, a cruiser, if she wasn’t mistaken. “You are one of us now; you have nothing to fear from these ladies. Shall we?” He held an arm out for her, that grin firmly back on his face now that the anticipation that had built for the past few days had finally borne fruit.

She chuckled and shook her head in amazement, not only at where they were and what they were seeing but at the ever-shifting faces of Wu’s demeanor before she hooked her arm into his and let him lead her onward.

The gangways unfolded before Laura like the internal spine and ribs of some gigantic stellar whale, their metallic grating and skeletal architecture mirroring the image she remembered from the Atlas. It was a déjà vu of sorts — the rigid platforms, the precise intervals, the descending staircases that branched off to explore the secrets held by the lower levels. Yet, as her tread echoed upon the walkways aboard the Primis amidst the silent congregation of dormant ships, the sameness only served to enhance the differences that whispered insistently to her senses.

Though the hangers of both the Atlas and the Primis could very well have been twins in dimension, walking through the Primis was akin to traversing a bustling metropolis, frozen in time, compared to the rural expanses of the Atlas’. Where the hangar of the Atlas was a hollow cavern, echoing with the empty promise of its few slumbering occupants, the Primis’ felt brimful — every space charged with the latent vitality of its myriad vessels. Ship after ship, row upon row, they loomed like stoic guardians of a bygone era, each vessel a silent bastion of history that hummed with unseen energy.

Even without the breath of crews or the thrum of engines, these craft murmured stories of the void, their very forms radiating an essence that, combined, seemed to animate the air itself. The luminosity of the hangar appeared almost reverent in the presence of these celestial giants, the overhead lights casting a vibrancy that shimmered off the polished hulls and highlighted the architectural prowess of the Ancients. Despite this, the array of ships created a hierarchy of illumination and shadow — the upper echelons basked in a golden clarity, while the lower ones, snuggled deeper into the belly of the Primis, were cloaked in an ever-deepening twilight that played with the contours of their designs.

As her eyes adjusted to the variegated lighting, Laura felt the pseudo-presence of crews at their stations, the whispered conversations of pilots and engineers, the clanking of tools and the low hum of idling power cores — all imagined echoes bouncing off the walls of the giant chamber. It was a fullness, an echo of life and purpose that resonated in her bones, a stark contrast to the relative desolation aboard the Atlas. The Primis, a dormant titan of a bygone armada, was paradoxically vibrant in its slumber, a vessel of shadows and lights, a museum of might with its exhibits proudly on display.

Finally, their journey through the echoing space of the hangar brought Laura and Master Wu to the threshold of a Mediator class cruiser. Its entryway yawned before them, a silent invitation into the belly of the Ancients’ craft. Above the hatchway was an inscription, characters woven in a script that teased Laura’s eyes with its complexity—symbols of that same enigmatic language as on the ships computer systems, the ones that whispered of stories and names she yearned to understand. The Ancient text seemed alive, almost pulsing with an inner meaning that escaped immediate comprehension.

As Laura’s eyes traced the flowing lines that radiated outward from the hatchway, she was struck by the craftsmanship. It was as though a master tattoo artist had bestowed their life’s work upon the cruiser’s skin, each stroke a deliberate testament to the ship’s identity. The recognition settled in her—that the patterns on each ship were a unique fingerprint, a visual echo of the vessel’s name and soul. This notion resonated within her, seeding an impression of importance that she couldn’t quite articulate. To her, the patterns felt akin to the Rosetta Stone: to some, it may have been an inanimate object covered in indecipherable lines and patterns, but to her, it was a profound insight into the minds that had created these titans of war.

This deliverance of insight was more than a linguistic puzzle to be unlocked; it was an opus of cultural revelation, a tangible connection to the minds who had conceived and constructed these leviathans. Propelled by a sense of reverence, Laura reached out tentatively, her fingertips brushing against the hull. The surface was cool beneath her touch, as smooth as if the very concept of roughness was anathema to its composition. Unlike anything she had encountered, the hull seemed to rebuff the very notion of abrasion, like it had vaguely heard of the concept of friction but decided it wasn’t worth the effort and ignored it entirely. Its polished facade existed in defiance of the natural order.

Her awe deepened as she comprehended the true nature of the artistry; the patterns upon the hull were not superficial adornments but integral carvings, an essential part of the ship’s very being. To imagine the cruiser’s creation, the meticulous labor of embedding such detail into its frame from inception to completion lent a sacred dimension to its existence. It was an intentional, proud proclamation of identity — an indelible statement that this ship was more than a war vessel; it was a canvas upon which the Ancients had etched their heritage and aspirations.

For Laura, running her fingers over the intricately carved grooves, the granular texture subtly contrasting the otherwise liquid-smooth surface grounded the behemoth before her in the reality of craftsmanship and purpose. Each line was a verse in the greater epic of the Ancient fleet, its significance magnified by the realization that such beauty had been envisaged from the keel up. These were not merely tools of war but monuments to the artistry and vision of a bygone civilization.

Wu had already stepped inside, turning to say something to Laura only to find that she wasn’t there, her attention completely caught by the sculpted splendor of the hull. He smiled at her, realizing what she was looking at. “I suppose it’s a bit redundant to say ‘they don’t make ‘em like they used to,’ hmm?” He grinned.

Laura yanked back to the moment, giggled, and stepped aboard the ship. “Do those lines and patterns mean anything?”

“Yes, they do.”

Laura squinted at the old man. “Could you tell me?”

“Nope,”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t have the first idea what it is.” He winked at her before hooking his arm back into hers and dragging her further into the depths of the ship. It took her a few moments, but she burst into laughter. Wu waited for her to finish before he spoke again. “The writing above the doorway translates to something like “The Ranger,” I’m assuming that is this ship’s name, the patterns I’m not sure about; that would be the Marshal’s purview, I’m afraid. Or, at least, I think it is.”

“If it’s not your area of expertise, wouldn’t that make it his by default?”

“Oh heavens no,” he snorted. “We are but two of a whole society’s worth of roles and purposes. That would be like having an orchestra and assuming because the cellist can’t play the trumpet, the pianist must be able to.”

Laura opened her mouth to speak, but about a dozen questions all jumped onto her tongue, vying for the right to be asked first. She closed her mouth and frowned, putting her thoughts into a more coherent pattern before allowing her lips to move. She wasn’t sure why, but that seemed like something Wu would approve of. “So...” she started slowly. “ ... if there are other roles, are there any that you need that you don’t have right now?”

Wu paused, stopping his forward march to consider the question. “The short answer is no,” he finally said. “For the war, Elijah is all we need, and I am capable of running and maintaining the fleet.” Laura nodded and waited for the “but”. “But, after the war is a very different matter. We don’t have anywhere near the expertise to rebuild even an approximation of ancient civilian society or infrastructure. We would be woefully out of depth trying something like that.”

“You would need people who are descended from other, civilian roles.”

“Exactly, but the most important roles crossed the boundaries between military and civilian. Marshals are a good example of that; it’s why Elijah is so gifted at Diplomacy and science; he needs to understand the technology behind the vessels he commands.”

Laura nodded. “Is there a role you think would be most important?”

“Right now, or in general?”

“Both, I guess.”

“Hmm,” Wu’s free hand stroked through his ridiculously long beard as he pondered the question. “If I could pick who we found next, I would choose an Alchemist.”

“What’s an Alchemist?”

“An Alchemist is ... well, it’s a lot of things, I suppose,” Wu said as he started walking again. “They are the ones who make all of our ... stuff. They know how the hull is constructed, how the anti-grav sleeping cells are made, and how to construct buildings. So, kind of a cross between an engineer and an architect, but also, weirdly, a medic. They have the knowledge to repair our bodies in much the same way they would repair a battle-damaged ship. It would be impossible to build pretty much anything without one. I am able to maintain the systems on these ships, but if one needs to be repaired, replaced, or built from scratch ... I believe the saying is: We are shit out of luck.”

A peal of laughter escaped Laura once more, her mirth resonating through the cavernous space beyond the hatch and the long, brightly lit corridor inside it and casting a warm contrast to the solemnity of their surroundings. Her amusement wasn’t spurred by the awe she felt toward the plethora of singular equipment and ancient technology that encircled them — those relics of unparalleled design and purpose, which she realized may very well be the only specimens of their kind she would ever witness, perhaps the only ones that would ever exist. Instead, her laughter was drawn out by the incongruity between Master Wu’s usually composed demeanor and the unexpected profanity that had just slipped past his lips.