Chapter 2: Sandstalker

The Courser emerged from superlight like a needle piercing the fabric of the cosmos, a cloud of colorful gas spreading behind it as the vessel tore a hole in reality. It drifted for a moment, the thrusters along its chassis flickering as the autopilot righted it, emitting jets of blue flame. It was shaped vaguely like a torpedo, pointed and streamlined, the engines and the nuclear reactor that powered its drive housed far at the back of the sleek hull. The cockpit and the limited cargo area was situated at the pointed front of the craft, linked by a long, skeletal scaffold that helped to reduce its mass. A Courser was the most optimal ratio between mass, carrying capacity, and power consumption that the Navy could build. They were designed to be as fast as possible, ferrying important personnel and critical information over great distances where slower methods just wouldn’t suffice.

From within its passenger compartment, Korbaz slowly came to, spitting out her plastic bit and releasing the manacles that were secured around her wrists. She leaned forward in the padded crash couch, cradling her head in her furry hands. Superlight travel was supposed to get easier over time, but she didn’t see it that way. After every jump, she felt like someone had beaten her with clubs. The wracking energies of these arcane, human engines had a strange effect on living nervous systems, sending the occupants of the craft into varying degrees of seizure and unconsciousness. It was one aspect of being an Ambassador that she wasn’t going to miss.

A human voice came through on the nearby intercom, her ears flattening against her head as the sudden noise exacerbated her lingering migraine.

“There’s a shuttle en route to pick you up,” he said, followed by a crackle of static. “Hurry up and get your gear, I ain’t hangin’ around for any longer than I have to. Your boss paid me to drop you off, not to stare down the railgun barrels of a UNN fleet. I just got hit with a dozen fuckin’ radar pulses.”

How she would have loved to tear the insolent whelp from his cockpit and teach him a lesson about respect, but now was not the time. Every moment that she wasted was a moment that she was not serving her Matriarch.

She rose from her seat on legs that were still unsteady, slinging her pack over her shoulder. The passenger compartment was cramped, even by human standards, and she narrowly avoided hitting her head on a protruding pipe as she made her way across the metal deck. The docking umbilical was already extending from the ship when she arrived at the pressure door, Korbaz watching through a tiny porthole as the flimsy tube telescoped outwards into space. It looked like a metal frame wrapped in flexible material, hardly sure footing. A shuttle appeared from her right, its retros flaring as it decelerated. It was similar to the troop transports used by the UNN, albeit an older model. While the Matriarchy didn’t have the resources to buy frigates and gunboats like the Elysians, owning a few private shuttles was a necessity.

The two vessels lined up, then there was a loud thud as they locked together. The pressure doors opened automatically, a rush of stale air blowing her hair as she took a step forward. The shuttle door was perhaps fifty feet away, the white material that served as her only protection from the vacuum beyond couldn’t have been much sturdier than a plastic tarp. The metal walkway creaked underfoot as she slowly made her way over, loosing a sigh of relief when she stepped onto the shuttle.

The pilot was a Rask, and he greeted her with a respectful bow of his head. There wasn’t much room for him to do anything else considering how cramped the cockpit was, so she didn’t expect a more formal reception.

“Take me to the palace,” she muttered, tossing her bag to the floor before taking a seat on one of the crash couches. She strapped in as the pressure door sealed with a hermetic hiss, the shuttle beginning to drift away from the Courser. Through the cockpit’s canopy, she got a view of her homeworld, the sprawling deserts seeming to stretch infinitely. Coming home should be a good feeling, but all she felt was a twinge of apprehension. She didn’t know what the Matriarch expected of her, what her role might be in the coming conflict.

Korbaz would never dare to openly question her superiors, but as the shuttle banked towards the planet, doubts swirled in her mind. The Matriarch had never left the homeworld, she hadn’t seen the might of the Coalition with her own eyes. The humans had mass drivers that could crack planets mounted on their battleships, they had nuclear weapons that could turn the entire territory into an irradiated crater if they so wished. Did she really know who she was picking a fight with?

The aliens were obsessed with their laws, their regulations, their rules of engagement. They went to such lengths to avoid what they called war crimes, collateral damage, but was it safe to assume that they could not be provoked into breaking those rules?

They descended through the atmosphere, turbulence buffeting the little craft as the flames of reentry began to lick at its nose, the Rask territory coming into view. Where many territories were encircled by a protective wall of verdant jungle, Rask was exposed, the desert sands spilling through the miles-wide breaches between the trees. These broken bands of jungle did a poor job of trapping moisture and creating a micro-climate, resulting in the territory’s interior being dryer and harsher than any other. There was water, and there was forest, but Borealis had not bestowed the same gifts upon all of her children.

Its people were a reflection of their environment in many ways. Like their home, they were scarred, inhospitable. The Rask prided themselves on their tenacity, their ability to face the hardships of daily life and thrive on them.

The Elysians had a lake that was bigger than the entire Rask territory, ringed by jungle so dense that not a grain of sand could reach the interior. Being within its bounds was like stepping into a different world. Food was plentiful, they never had to range far to find a gourd hanging from a vine, they never had to swim far to find a shoal of fish. The Rask had to fight for everything that they had.

The shuttle began to circle above the territory, spiraling down towards the sparse jungle canopy, shedding velocity as it glided on its stubby wings. It was sandstorm season, and there was already a roiling wall of dust drifting over the territory from the West. I would soon blanket everything in an obscuring, orange haze that would limit visibility to only a scant few feet, the harsh winds that carried it buffeting their little craft.

They flew low over the lake, the city rising up before them as they neared the far shore. The squat buildings were constructed from blocks of yellow sandstone, overlaid with protective mortar that gave them a hand-sculpted appearance, the wooden support beams that helped to reinforce the structures protruding from their facades at intervals. They had no windows, all the better to keep the interiors cool, and to prevent the ever-present sand from finding its way inside. Few were more than one or two stories high, as the Borealan gravity made building tall structures architecturally challenging. The larger and more decorative buildings had stone arches and domed roofs that were self-supporting, and stout, load-bearing pillars that were carved with murals and inscriptions. Between them, the cobbled streets were already packed with drifts of sand from the previous storm. There was no point clearing it away at this time of the year, as it would soon be deposited again. What few figures that could be made out at this altitude were wrapped in robes that protected them from the airborne particles, the wind tearing at the fabric. Most of the citizens would be taking refuge inside right now.

Korbaz spied the Matriarch’s palace in the distance, sitting in the center of the city. Land was at a premium in the Rask territory, the sprawling compound a testament to her wealth and power. It occupied a space of about fifteen thousand square feet, most of which consisted of a large courtyard, the complex surrounded by tall walls. At each corner was a needle-like spire that reached as high into the air as the Rask dared to build, the white marble caps ensuring that they could be seen from a great distance.

The main building was a sprawling cluster of domed structures that almost look like soap bubbles from the air, each one tipped with another towering spire. Every needle was adorned with a finely embroidered flag that fluttered in the wind, their edges tattered by generations of sandstorms. They depicted various triumphs and important historical events in the territory’s history, some of them now too damaged to make out clearly.

The courtyard itself was overlaid with a covering of red marble, veins of lighter yellows and oranges winding their way through the massive blocks of stone. It gradually gave way to dirt and sand, the center of the space occupied by an artificial oasis. The pool of water shimmered as it caught the light of the suns, as clear as a mirror, the colorful desert flowers and spindly trees that encircled it adding a splash of color and greenery.

Unlike the streets outside, everything inside the palace walls was spotless. There were people seeing to its upkeep around the clock.

The shuttle banked, heading towards a clearing on the far side of the palace, just outside of its walls. The sandstorm was coming in fast, already darkening the blue sky as they began to descend. There was a thud as the craft touched down, bouncing on its landing gear for a moment as the engines wound down. Korbaz collected her bag, waiting by the troop ramp as it began to slowly descend. The heat hit her like a wall, but she welcomed it, feeling it warm her to the very bone. As she left the artificial gravity field of the shuttle, she had to save herself from stumbling, Borealis’ gravity tugging at her. Her body had been hardened by this environment, but she had spent many months on the Pinwheel, where the humans kept the gravity thirty percent lower.

She was greeted by a pair of Palace Guards who were dressed in a blend of the UNN Shock Trooper armor that had been supplied to them by the aliens, and the traditional Rask armor. The Matriarch wanted to make use of the best technology available, but she liked to give everything a little native flair. They were wearing thick, padded jackets over the high-tech battlesuits, left open to expose the ceramic chest piece beneath. On their right shoulders were short, purple capes that were embroidered with gold threads, a holdover from their traditional uniform. Rather than the tactical rigs favored by the Marines, they wore slings and holsters that were filled with knives and handguns, the majority of which hung from belts around their waists. Their boots were more suited to the desert, and the leather cuisse armor that they wore helped to break up the clean, artificial lines of the alien suits. There was no danger of them overheating, Korbaz knew that the armor was climate-controlled as long as its batteries were charged.

“Welcome home, Vice Admiral,” one of the guards said, his voice muffled by his opaque visor. “The Matriarch awaits your arrival. We have been sent to escort you to the palace.”

“I know the way,” she replied, the pair flanking her as she set off towards an arched entrance in one of the towering walls of the compound. There were two more guards posted to either side of it, long rifles clutched in their hands, the barrels lined with copper-colored rings. Those were XMRs, the standard-issue railguns of the UNN. They were designed with a modular frame that could be scaled up or down based on the stature of the wielder. The bayonets mounted to their long barrels had been replaced with a decidedly more wicked design, making them look more like spears than rifles.

They emerged into the courtyard, Korbaz admiring the reflective sheen of the polished marble beneath her paws. The fronds of the trees that encircled the oasis waved in the wind, the flowering shrubs seeming to flutter. She looked to her left, seeing that the ominous shadow of the storm was still encroaching.

As she neared the main structure, the two guards broke off, returning to their posts. She passed beneath another ornate arch built from blocks of ochre-colored marble that was streaked with veins of white, the temperature cooling as she stepped inside the building proper, as though she was entering an underground cave. The interior was also decorated with varying colors of marble, masterfully sculpted pillars from which were suspended tapestries and banners lining the long, sandstone hallways. The walls were at least ten feet apart, the ceiling twice that height. The floor was paved with smooth, black stone, reflecting the glow from the burning chandeliers that hung from the wooden beams above. Mineral deposits were one of the few resources that the Rask possessed in abundance.

She pressed on, steeling herself for an audience with the Matriarch herself. Her heart began to beat faster as she approached the audience chamber, finding a pair of heavy doors blocking her path. The wood was engraved with scenes of battle, the reliefs depicting the victories and massacres of the territory’s storied history. Korbaz stopped before them, taking a moment to collect her thoughts. She fought the impulse to relinquish the myriad of weapons that hung from her belt, as she was required to do when entering secure areas on the Pinwheel. That was a human custom. In Rask culture, everyone attending an official function was expected to be armed. If one attendant drew their weapon, then so would everyone else. It was mutually-assured destruction, a guaranteed blood bath.

The Vice Admiral swallowed the lump in her throat, then pushed the great doors ajar with a loud creak, stepping through into a vast chamber. The main dome of the palace rose high above her head, perhaps thirty feet at its apex, opulent pillars carved from solid chunks of black marble ringing the circular room to support its immense weight. There was almost no sandstone visible here, it was all covered up by flowing drapes in shades of deep purple, the delicate fabrics extending from the beginning of the dome to the ground. Between each pillar was a stone column topped with a ceramic pan that was filled with burning coals, the bright flames licking at the air. They served as the chamber’s only illumination, casting dancing shadows, their light reflecting off the polished floor.

At the far wall was a subtly raised platform, the steps that led up to it made from the same black marble. Upon it sat a massive throne hewn from a single block of red stone that was crisscrossed with white veins of ore, giving it an uncanny resemblance to fresh meat. It was carved with more intricate reliefs, the armrests ending in the sculpted heads of Rask hounds.

One of the creatures was sitting beside it obediently, an especially large specimen, its long snout covered in faded scars from past dominance battles. It stared at Korbaz with its glassy, beady eyes as she approached, its sagging lips pulling back to reveal an impressive set of pearly tusks as it snarled menacingly. The archeox were beasts bred for war, quadrupedal pack hunters and scavengers native to the Borealan deserts. As fearsome as they appeared, their social system made them ideally suited to domestication. Its pointed ears swiveled to face her, the thing rising to its feet, the dull claws on its splayed paws scratching at the platform. It was about five feet tall at the shoulder, the wobbling hump on its back rising a good foot higher, its ample store of fat indicating that the animal was well-fed. Its coat was sand-colored, patterned with horizontal stripes, and there was a comb of raised fur running from its skull to the tip of its tail that was a darker shade of brown.

The large figure that occupied the throne reached down to tug at the chain that was attached to its leather collar, the beast returning obediently to its reclining position.

The Matriarch was imposing, even by Borealan standards, reaching almost nine feet in height. Her sun-kissed skin was covered in the remnants of healed scars, and she wore an eyepatch over one eye that had been lost in battle, the other a striking shade of amber. Her mane of long, blonde hair had a feathery, puffy quality to it. It cascaded over her shoulders like a golden waterfall, almost reaching her clavicle. Her appearance was not especially regal. She wore no elaborate jewelry, no cape or crown, only a leather jacket and pants in the usual Rask style. The only indication of her high rank besides her stature was a purple sash that she wore across her chest, which was adorned with golden badges and medals. The jacket, too, was finer than most. The various zippers and buttons were all made from gold, and the lining was fashioned from soft, purple satin that was only really visible on the collar.

The jacket was open, revealing the grey tank top that she wore beneath it. The garment exposed her impressive cleavage, along with the sculpted rows of her abdominal muscles. Her body had been honed by a lifetime of Borealan gravity and savage battle, bestowing her with a figure that looked as though it had been chiseled from the same marble as the palace halls. She was the epitome of everything that a Borealan strived to be. Confident, powerful, commanding. She sat with her stout thighs parted, the dimples of her muscles visible through the clinging leather, lounging on the padded cushions of her chair.

She was not alone. On soft cushions that were arranged around the foot of the throne sat half a dozen consorts, a display of youth and beauty that Korbaz couldn’t help but drink in. Male and female bodies in their prime were on display, clad in delicate, flowing fabrics that left nothing to the imagination. This was not the Matriarch’s pack, these people had been selected to sate her appetites and nothing more, their fresh faces and full lips drawing the Vice Admiral’s gaze. These were not slaves. Any sound-minded Rask would revel in the opportunity to serve their Matriarch in any way that she required.

Korbaz took a knee as she reached the foot of the platform, bowing her head. The marble floor was so polished that she could almost see her reflection in it as she stared intently at the ground.

“My Matriarch, I answer your summons.”

“Rise,” a deep, gravelly voice replied. Korbaz dared to lift her eyes, watching as the towering figure began to descend the steps. “You have made good time, Vice Admiral.”

“Only thanks to your foresight, my Matriarch,” she said as she stood up straight. “It was wise to hire a Courser. The troops stationed on the Pinwheel will not be returning for two weeks, maybe more if the humans take measures to delay them, as I expect they will.”

“I needed you at my side,” the monarch replied, Korbaz turning to walk beside her as she made her way to the wooden doors. “You have dwelt among the aliens, you know them better than anyone.”

“Their politics, certainly,” Korbaz said as the pair stepped into the long hallway.

“I need that expertise,” the Matriarch continued. “Their laws, their rules of engagement, what measures they will and won’t take against us. You are also an accomplished Crewmaster, you made a name for yourself as a sand sailor.”

“Yes, my Matriarch,” Korbaz replied as she hurried to keep up with her long strides. “I have experience commanding raiding parties.”

“You must be wondering what my plans are, what preparations I have made,” the Matriarch continued. “I could not warn you in advance, the humans have spies everywhere. It would be foolish not to assume that they have full control over the communications technology that they created, that they can intercept messages, listen in on our conversations when we think ourselves alone.”

“You are wise, my Matriarch. I know that to be the case.”

They exited beneath the marble arch, walking across the courtyard. The wind whipped at the Matriarch’s golden hair, Korbaz glancing to her left, seeing that the sandstorm was nearly upon them.

“For some time now, I have been building my forces in secret, knowing that the day would come when we would be at odds with the Coalition. From the outset, I knew that they did not understand our ways, that they did not respect our traditions. But we needed their weapons, we had no hope of countering Elysia’s forces unless we made a pact with the humans. Now, we have their weapons, their technology. Our warriors have been put through the crucible of war on a dozen worlds, they’ve been trained in the alien’s tactics, their battle doctrine. The humans have unknowingly sharpened the blade that we will be putting to their throats.”

“My Matriarch,” Korbaz began hesitantly. Phrasing her question as a criticism could earn her another scar for her insolence. “The humans are as numerous as they are powerful. We face a far superior force, one which has capabilities that we do not. In your wisdom, how do you plan to achieve your goals?”

“Your doubts are well-founded,” she replied, “but you merely lack the keystone that holds up the arch. Defeating the Coalition is not our goal, nor could it ever be. As you say, they are far beyond us. Yet their strength is not that of an Alpha, they do everything in half-measures. They have the power to induct the entire Galaxy into their pack, but not the will to do it. The Rask bow only to true strength, our fealty cannot be bartered for trinkets and toys.”

“So ... how does one win a war without ... winning a war?” Korbaz asked, confused.

“This is why I value your expertise so greatly,” the Matriarch replied as she led the Vice Admiral towards the far wall of the lavish compound, her leather pants creaking with every step. “Your station has been to learn their laws, their conventions, the terms of their treaties. You know how their laws permit them to respond, in what ways their sacred conventions will stay their hand. This war will be a careful balancing act. We must defeat them in the field, but we must never provoke them into using their full strength against us. We will exploit their civility, their pity, their compassion. We will strike from the sands and fade away before they can react. We will out-maneuver them, trap them, sabotage them.”

“A guerrilla war,” Korbaz mused, nodding her understanding.

“Just as our ancestors have always done, we will use our maneuverability and our knowledge of the land to our advantage. We will exhaust them, and when the war becomes too costly for them to continue, they will abandon it. They do not care about Borealis, they never have, their focus is on protecting their colonies from the insect hordes. They use our people as cannon fodder, they shield our world only to deny a foothold to their enemies.”