Chapter VIII: The Confluence of Secrets and Shadows
Leondis-Spartari Ecumenopolis — Heart of the Seventh Core World
In a dimly lit war intelligence chamber, a long obsidian table stretched between twelve sharply attired figures seated opposite one another. The air inside was taut, charged with the prickling tension of nerves barely contained, punctuated by furtive glances cast toward the thirteenth chair — conspicuously vacant, like an unspoken omen. The dozen present were early, naturally; no one dared risk the ire of the man whose arrival they awaited, a presence whose lateness was neither tolerated nor forgotten.
Step... step... step...
The sharp cadence of approaching boots rang out, slicing through the murmurs like a blade. Each individual instinctively straightened, fingers making final, precise adjustments to their immaculate black and blood-red military uniforms, a fabric weave of authority and discipline. As the door swung open with a soft hiss, every man and woman rose as one, bowing deeply in unison, their voices weaving a chant that echoed with reverence and dread:
"A thousand victories to you, my king."
The man himself — regal and imposing — entered, his stride a measured march of raw command. His face was weathered, carved by decades of brutal campaigns and the cold calculus of war. Mid-fifties, perhaps, though the years weighed heavily in the deep furrows and the perpetual frown that haunted his visage. Yet it was the razor-sharp sweep of his eyebrows, the thin line of his lips pressed into a relentless, unyielding expression, and the sheer magnetic force of his posture that made him unforgettable. His voice broke the chant with a low, gruff command:
"Speak."
The woman seated at his right inhaled deeply, steadying her breath before launching into the report.
"Yes, Your Grace. Approximately one standard week ago, the accursed scourge known across the sector as the Swarm launched a sudden and devastating assault on twenty-seven outer rim planets under Spartari dominion. Ordinarily, these incursions wouldn't warrant your personal attention, especially not a recall from the Drakoshi front. However," — her voice lowered, heavy with unease — "this enemy has exhibited behaviors heretofore undocumented in the past decade."
The king's eyebrow arched sharply. "Elaborate," he commanded, eyes narrowing to slits as the data pad was handed to him, its surface glowing faintly with the countless reports streaming in from the affected worlds. His fingers flicked through the digital files with impatient precision, a growing perplexity knitting deeper lines into his brow.
"They stopped?" The word was a growl.
Turning to the assembly, he demanded, "What do you mean they stopped?"
A hulking man, muscles bulging beneath his uniform, broke the silence with a voice like gravel.
"Your Grace, at precisely 3:52 pm Core World One time, every single Swarm unit — from the smallest drone to the deadliest elite, including Basilisks and Brain Bursters — ceased all movement. Total, absolute paralysis, lasting exactly five minutes."
A murmur rippled across the room. The king's mind raced, searching for rational explanations.
"Hmm," he mused aloud, "there must be some logical cause. What of the gas they released just before resuming? Was it hostile?"
"No casualties reported among those exposed," the woman answered firmly. "Precautionary quarantines are in place to mitigate any potential bio-weapon risk."
"And beyond our sectors? Any intelligence from the coalition worlds?" the king pressed.
From the far end of the table, a tall blue-skinned humanoid adjusted his collar before responding.
"Our operatives within the treacherous coalition confirm similar occurrences on their planets, Your Grace. Details remain scarce."
The king's lips curled into a thin, disdainful sneer. What madness was King Lysander of the coalition thinking, allowing these xenos filth to join their military? he thought bitterly. If only I could orchestrate the downfall of that civil king Dickon, replace him with a puppet loyal to Spartari interests — then the infestation might be purged before it spreads.
Pushing aside his corrosive prejudices, he refocused.
"So, these strange events are not confined to our systems? If it were so, perhaps we had uncovered a weapon capable of freezing the Swarm's advance."
"Any hypotheses at hand?" he asked, keen to pierce the fog of uncertainty. "Speculation sometimes precedes discovery."
Two officers clad in white research uniforms exchanged uneasy looks before one spoke in a voice equal parts cautious and sly.
"Your Grace, some at R&D speculate the existence of a psionic weapon targeting the Swarm's neural command network. But such a device, given our current knowledge, is considered theoretically impossible and has been dismissed."
The king inclined his head slightly. "Impossible indeed. Psionic weaponry of that caliber defies all precedent. Even I, with my limited war gear attuned to psionic energies, have not encountered such overwhelming force."
The other researcher, her tone cold and robotic, interjected.
"From autopsy and analysis, we know the Swarm is a hivemind species. It is conceivable that their central intelligence was forcibly occupied, distracted, or overwhelmed by a superior entity, compelling the cessation of control over their lesser drones."
The room fell into a heavy silence. The implication — that a being powerful enough to wrest control from the hive's mind existed somewhere — was a chilling prospect.
The king cracked a dry smirk. "An entertaining theory, techno-mechanic. But speculation, nonetheless." He tapped the pad thoughtfully. "Wherever the Swarm's true home is, it lies at least fifty years' travel time away under our fastest FTL technology. Even if this superior force exists, it is nowhere near us — assuming it exists at all, which I doubt."
"Nonetheless," he continued with renewed command, "dispatch twice the usual reinforcements to the northern outer rim. New behaviors from an enemy always demand extreme caution."
He rose, weary.
"That will be all. Now that I have returned to the Ecumenopolis, I must endure the torturous political dance with King Dickon — several days of pointless council meetings ahead."
The twelve present stood as one, voices booming their farewell.
"A thousand victories to you, King Sigismund."
…
Meanwhile, aboard the void swimmer Kimchi and I gazed through the same translucent hull I had admired a week prior. Outside, the universe unfolded in a spectacle of ineffable beauty — a riot of lights flickering and fading, reality itself warping and shifting in impossible hues I could not name. The psionic energies battered the ship's hull, a pounding mental tempest that both threatened and enchanted my psychic defenses. It was majestic beyond all words.
Kimchi explained the hive's unparalleled mode of faster-than-light travel, unlike anything the galaxy had encountered. Through elaborate, detailed expositions, she distilled it for me:
Because of their psionic might, the hive senses vast tendrils of pure psionic energy branching invisibly throughout the cosmos — veins of power threading through space-time itself.
The tendrils on their ships act as psionic keys, allowing them to merge with these cosmic branches, becoming one with the universal psionic network. Traveling through these tendrils renders the speed of light sluggish by comparison.
With current human FTL tech, a journey from Apollo Minor to the hive homeworld would take 128 years. The hive, riding these psionic tendrils, completes the same trip in a mere two weeks.
There was one drawback: the hive cannot manipulate these tendrils at will. Sometimes, branches deposit scouting fleets in dead zones, where no sustenance exists for the hive's needs.
However, the more a single tendril branch is used, the larger it grows — allowing successive invasions to approach their goal ever closer.
Suddenly, Kimchi's voice filled my mind again:
"Apollo-mate, the last thing I wish is to diminish the joy you radiate through our link, but the psionic agitator has exited torpor early. She wishes to scan your mind for residual damage from last week's incident."
Kimchi's hand — now a delicate stump — stroked my face gently. She had severed her left scythe to avoid harm while caressing me. She promised that once we return to the nest world, a major gene-splice augmentation — the same bio-infiltrator process she endured — would be performed to enhance her ability to care for me.
"It's no problem, dear Kimchi," I replied, noticing again the funny little squeaks she made whenever I used words of endearment. Since day two of our journey, I had noticed this reaction — 'classic Kimchi pauses,' followed by a cute squeak.
It amused me to no end to tease this towering, five-meter death machine.
"Kimchi is happy you are happy," she beamed through the link, releasing a sweet pheromone trail simultaneously.
"How long does the agitator want me for? Though I have no quarrel with her, all those writhing tentacles make me feel like I've been dropped into a Japanese animation — and I'm not about that."
Kimchi replied with a hint of puzzlement, "Orchid does not understand these words, Apollo-mate. But Kimchi feels your intent — do not worry. While you are with the agitator, Kimchi shall remain by your side."
I sighed, a small wave of relief washing over me. Even though the psionic agitator could do nothing to provoke a scream of "YAMETE," Kimchi's presence kept my nerves tethered, my mind calm and composed.