A highly radioactive world with only a single valley capable of
sustaining life. Trom's life is predominantly humanoid, with
a natural ability to transmute elements from one form to
another. Throughout history there have been rogues who
resisted the spiritual teachings forbidding Trommites from using their
abilities on foreign worlds. Of the most infamous was
Dagon-Ra, a space pirate who terrorized the Alpha Centauri sector
before his defeat by the Licensed
Extra-Governmental
Interstellar
Operatives
Network.
Spiritual texts on Trom reveal a once thriving, plentiful world able to
sustain a population of nearly 3.4 billion people before the 21st
Century Daxamite Incursion, which reduced the population to mere
thousands. --Encyclopedia
Galactica.
“P-please... I beg you... no more. No more of
the... killing. I cannot bear any more of the
killing.” The Minister had long since collapsed on
his knees, as was demanded of him. His torn vestments
appeared moth-eaten and were stained with the blood of recently
murdered compatriots but he was oblivious to all this. Shock
had overcome much of his capacity to rationalize once he had witnessed
the other ministers in the room slain one by one. Those
responsible were now standing behind him, a clue that the Minister's
turn might come soon, but instead there only came waiting.
He leaned forward, wanting the reassuring calmness the polished marble
floor would give him but a hand grasped at his long, gray hair and
forcibly yanked his head backward. The Minister cried out and
found himself once again forced to set his eyes upon the merciless
being in front of him. He who had ordered the murder of
Trom's governing council and its civilization as well. Kivun
Roxxas.
Roxxas stood with his legs spread and his fingers interlaced behind his
back, picture perfect stillness before a scene of carnage as Trom died
all too quickly around them. The sound of deck-board mass
drivers and low altitude drop charges should have made it difficult for
him to be heard but that was not the case. Skiffs whined
through the air as they passed closely by and barbaric man-raiders
laughed at the scattering crowds, all harmonically mixed with the
screams of injury and rattles of death. Roxxas looked over
his shoulder at the Minister, purple painted lips slowly curving into a
gentleman's smile...
“You can end this, Minister
Dek Ahrr. As it was once within your abilities to heal,”
Roxxas over exaggerated his glance down at the mangled flesh that used
to be the Minister's hands, “now it is within your abilities to
preserve. Your race is so... fragile as it is.” He
turned toward the Minister and a rising cloud of fire and smoke behind
him caused the edges of his brown and lavender Andarian felt coat to
glow. As he walked, his matching pants created a sound that
reminded the Minister of a flitterbug when it rubbed its legs together;
a lush repeating whisper.
Roxxas paused about a foot away from the kneeling Papal Minister of
Trom and allowed himself a moment to ponder while placing two fingers
on his cleft chin in such a way that the white ruffles of his cuffs
peeked out from beneath his coat. He pursed his purple lips and
the destruction of Trom's civilization glimmered off his shadowed
eyes. He leaned forward, not a chestnut colored hair falling out
of place, and gracefully took the Minister's chin in his manicured
hands.
“Please,” Dek Ahrr moaned. “I cannot... give
you what you want. Our entire society... is founded on those
principles.” Tears leaked from the corners of the
Minister's eyes, tortured by the dramatic pauses Roxxas took as they
only guaranteed that the Minister would hear more of the mounting
destruction outside. The basilica they were in shuddered as
something exploded in the sky above. A fine mist of Trommite
rendered mineral descended over those inside and Dek Ahrr shuddered,
his shoulders heaving with helplessness.
After all, this was Kivun Roxxas the infamous pirate captain of
Murgador. Dek Ahrr couldn't remember how many missionaries had
come to port with tales of Roxxas' exploits. How many cities had
been razed, how many colonies pillaged, how many planets plundered to
quench his insatiable greed or his boundless evil? Though Roxxas
would have Dek Ahrr believe that everything transpiring on Trom was his
fault, everyone throughout the United Planets would know it was Roxxas
the Butcher who caused its final death. For it was well known
that Roxxas himself told his own tales in those port towns, to be
repeated on planets everywhere.
“Minister Dek Ahrr,” Roxxas began, ever so politely and
ever so calmly, “how many more deaths do you think Trom can
endure and still survive? How many did the Daxamites leave behind
a millennia ago? Two thousand? Three?” The
Butcher slowly released Dek Ahrr's chin, but not without wiping the
soot grained tears off his fingers. “How many will you
leave alive to inbreed your society into a malformed oblivion?
Hmm?”
“You-you've come, seeking our power, Roxxas. You've come to
make us change your worthless spoils into priceless metals. You
are not the first.” Dek Ahrr's voice carried a tone of defiance
that he hadn't known since the first of his High Ministers had
fallen. For a mere breath he wished himself defiant enough, not
to give Roxxas what he wanted, but to use those sought after abilities
to transmute the very chemicals that kept his body corporeal.
Alas, using the powers gifted to them by the creator for such malice
was as dire a sin as succumbing to the mad pirate's demands and Dek
Ahrr would not resign himself to an eternity of formless
damnation. Not for the Butcher's sake.
“I may not be the first, Minister, but at the rate I am murdering
your people, I may just be the last. So then what is the harm,
hmm? There have been Trommites in the past who have... wandered
from your philosophies.”
“And for them, all of Trom has paid the price.”
Roxxas wrinkled his nose at the Minister's trite retort and leaned in
so that he could be heard clearly as his up to then pleasant demeanor
shifted for the worse. “Not to me you haven't.”
Of all the scattering people of Trom, few were as arguably important to
its future as one family in particular. They slowed their escape
at great risk, squeezing themselves between two large buildings with
the hope they'd be shielded from the flying skiffs that were tearing
apart Trommites with ease. A man and a woman and their teen-aged
son sidestepped down the path, their backs pressed tight against a
wall. Though safe for the moment from the ships overhead, there
were still raiders on the ground to be concerned with. These were
savage men with deadly weapons and a barbaric rapture in their eyes who
preferred a more hands on approach to genocide.
“Is it the end times?” the son asked, nervously looking
behind him from his place between his parents.
Tarn Arrah looked to his wife, Garras, unsure how to answer that while
his heart was breaking. “Yes, Jan. It is the end
times. Sinners have descended upon us with steadfast greed and
irrevocable hatred in their hearts and they will devour us who are not
only pure but bring purity to all things. These are things who
can not be turned, my son.”
Following his father's lead down the alley, Jan tried to rationalize
what was happening to them, to their home. “What will
become of us?”
Tarn stopped at the mouth of the alley and checked the opening to
ensure it was safe to continue. Satisfied, he stepped out and
waved for his family to follow and at the same time, trying his best to
quell his son's fears. “Remember your lessons. In our
final moment, we will be taken back to the Architect, just as the
Ministers tell us. And though the unchanged may have our mortal
forms, they will never claim our inner pattern for that is the source
of what makes us of Trom.” Tarn gave his wife another glance and
held her gaze as he went on. “But that is for us and not
for you, my son.”
Jan looked up suddenly as if startled. What could his father have
meant by that? Uncertain, he looked to his mother and saw that
his parents were sharing a knowing glance. He'd seen that one
plenty of times when it was time for them to know something he
couldn’t.
Garras Arrah placed her hands over her son's shoulders and noted once
again with pride that he was as tall as her now. “You are
far too young, your form barely taken shape. No Jan, for you we
have a different fate in mind.
A puzzled look washed over Jan's face and he considered where they were
heading. “What are we doing? We have to get to the
shelters!”
“There is no shelter for us now, Jan. Look around
you. Even now we run on the remains of our fellowship. I'll
not have death for my son, not now. Not yet. Follow
me.”
“But our teachings...” Jan was scared. Wasn't it just
a moment ago that his father told him to remember what he had learned
from the Ministers?
“Will not save us until we are but moments from death. For
you Jan, I plan to delay that inevitability as much as possible.
It is something I've pondered but that's only been accomplished by the
Master Artisans.” It was clear to Jan now that his father
meant to lead them farther away from the center of their civilization,
closer to the edges of the valley where none dared stay for too long
for fear of being poisoned by the air there.
Jan had been to the edge of the valley plenty of times with his
parents, a pilgrimage to those that had died there hundreds of
generations ago. He could not recall, as he ran behind his
father, any shelters or caves dug into the twin mountain walls
however. Where would they hide? How would they survive the
poison air or the choking rains let alone the raiders that would surely
be behind them?
“Do you think we can do this, Tarn?” His mother asked
behind him. His father never paused or slowed to look at her
again. He found within himself courage, Jan could hear it in his
voice. Jan promised right then that if they lived, he'd never
forget the sound in his father's voice. The conviction. The
bravery. The hope.
“To save our son and the memory of Trom, we have to try.
But I cannot do it alone, Garras. Will you help me?”
“Yes my husband. For our son. For Trom.”
Roxxas had taken to pacing about the room, tugging at his ruffled white
shirt and quoting from some archaic literature of Xanthu, feigning
patience when he in fact had none left. All the while the three
pirates chosen earlier for the task of rendering Trom leaderless, save
for Papal Minister Dek Ahrr himself, gleefully abused their less than
gracious host. One would strike with a fist and another would
pull the Minister back to his knees while another would violently
rebuke Dek Ahrr for failing to kneel in the first place. More
than once, the wet smack of flesh against flesh would render a harsher,
snapping sound as one or more bones finally gave way and by now, Dek
Ahrr was little more than a beaten skin sack holding in a menagerie of
fatal wounds. For every effort Dek Ahrr gave to transmute his
bones back into place, the pirates in the room would answer thrice fold
to bash them apart again and again.
A hand rose in the air, stopping the pirates mid swing and kick and
Roxxas briskly marched over to Dek Ahrr. He grabbed the old man
by his blood and spittle soaked robe and twisted so that his ceremonial
ornaments of office became little more than a gold encrusted
noose. There was a primal fury in Roxxas' eyes now, replacing the
calm arrogance of the man making demands just a few minutes
earlier. Dek Ahrr tried to focus his sight beyond the bruised,
swollen lid closing over his right eye because in that moment it was as
if an entirely different man were standing there.
“Look at you! Do you care nothing for your life?
Bestow unto me just one of your kind to do as I've said and all of this
will be over! Grant me one of your followers and spare thousands
more! Why is this so hard for you to comprehend, old
man?!”
“I comprehend everything,” Dek Ahrr managed.
“It is by choice that I defy you, Butcher. No son or
daughter of Trom shall use their talents... against their will, against
their kin, or when not beneath the ever watchful Eye
above.” The Minister swallowed and nearly gagged on the
thickness of his own blood. His last open eye stared into madness
and spat out his remaining courage. “I defy you,
Butcher! Hence I shalt <i>not</i> do as you
ask!”
Roxxas nodded for a moment and then straightened. His calm had
returned and so too did his smile. In delicate tones he addressed
Dek Ahrr once again. “Now what... exactly, made you think I
was asking for
anything?” He reached out with an empty hand of favor, and
produced from within his ruffled sleeve a quick and accurate metal
stiletto, which bore itself into the old man's brain.
“I despise the religious.”
“Orders my captain?”
“Same as if it were another town, another ship.”
Roxxas tugged at his sleeves then shrugged to re-settle the coat on his
shoulders.
“Kill them all and leave no edifice intact.”
The anthem of genocide was coming closer. The ground beneath them
shook with the constant hammering of mass drivers against the Trommite
city nation. Every scream brought a new wave of fear that washed
over Jan Arrah, especially since they had stopped running minutes ago.
“Let Mom go first!” he begged.
“I told you, Jan, I need your Mother's help finishing this.
When we're done, we can help each other, I promise.” Beads
of sweat slid down Tarn's temples as he focused on the crystalline
entity slowly growing around Jan's legs. Garras was beside him,
not only granting Tarn the confidence he needed but also transmuting
the thin layer of air between Jan and the crystalline.
To Jan it felt wet and thick, like a gel of some sort. His
parents hurried and the tandem effort was causing the shell around him
to grow rapidly, beyond his knees, toward his midsection. Even
now Jan found it hard to move, which did nothing to ease his
fears. He looked out past his parents, through the thin
scattering of trees that had overcome the harshness of the atmosphere
to grow all the same, blood red leaves and mud brown trunks barely
concealing the Arrahs. The raiders would be on them soon, Jan
knew, which meant his parents would have to finish the process soon if
they were going to do the same for themselves. That is, if they
even intended to.
“Breathe easy, son. We're almost done.” The
double layered shell had reached Jan's neck and in another moment,
would cover his face.
“How will I breathe at all?!”
“You'll remember. It will be like it was when you were
forming in your mother's womb, Jan. We love you now as we loved
you then and so shall we always love you. Remember that,
Jan.”
“You'll make us proud, my son. Just be yourself as you've
always been.” Garras Arrah smiled and then changed the air
around her son's head to the same substance that covered the rest of
his body. She felt a stab in heart at the panic in Jan's face but
relaxed at last when Tarn finished the process, growing the crystalline
over top of their son.
Garras stepped alongside Tarn and took his hand in hers, never taking
her eyes off Jan. The crystal was dark, reflecting the color of
the oxygenated substance inside but she knew where his eyes
were. “He'll be fine,” she heard Tarn
say. “We have to go now.”
Hand in hand, Tarn and Garras Arrah took two steps back from their son,
who by now would be fast asleep, and then turned back toward the way
they came. Back toward their burning home and Roxxas the Butcher.
As in the case with too many incidents, on too many worlds, word came
of a travesty far too late to react. Trom's cry for help took
days to reach Earth, the capital of the United Planets. To
formulate a response had taken more time and even by then, despite the
UP's Stargate Network, the arrival of the Science Police made them
little more than gravediggers. Roxxas' pirates had carried out
their captain's orders with wanton exuberance.
Once Trom's orbit was secured, word was sent via the Science Police's
more dependable communications network of what had apparently
transpired there. It was nearly a week after Roxxas departed the
planet that President R.J. Brande, having stubbornly ignored his
government's warnings and desires, arrived via personal shuttle.
Flying low over the carnage, the UP President's hand shook as he
pinched at his thick, white mustache. Silence permeated the
shuttle's interior for the several minutes it took to survey the
destruction. Only when the shuttle banked to take a second pass
did Brande address the members of his staff.
A scarce few of the Presidential staff were on hand, many of them left
on Earth to maintain a presence of government. Those that could
not see Trom for themselves were represented by disembodied heads,
holographically projected so that Brande could address them if need
be. Along with those members represented, was the image of
General Terrakin, a chiseled, pale skinned officer of the Science
Police marines.
“We've not yet finished a survey of the area, Mr.
President. I actually hesitate in reporting to you that the
entire civilization on Trom is dead. There are actually some
highlands on the nation's borders that--”
Brande closed his eyes and waved dismissively. “The
entirety of Trom's civilization was confined to this valley, General,
as it has been for millennia. Pursuit was not a burden for Kivun
Roxxas.”
“Begging the President's pardon, we still don't know for certain
that it was--”
“By damn, you fool, look around you! His handiwork is
everywhere. Investigate, analyze and deliberate if you wish but I
will tell you this, in my mind Kivun Roxxas is as good as
guilty.”
President Brande didn't like getting mouthy with the good men and women
of the Science Police but things like this were happening far too
regularly for his tastes. The lack of communication between
member worlds of the UP, the agonizingly slow reaction speed of its
defending Science Police, these were two of the reasons why Brande so
graciously offered the secrets of Stargate technology without
cost. It wasn't to purchase the Presidency, as Leland McCauley
cried. The Presidency was the last damn thing R.J. Brande
wanted. But since he had it, maybe it was long past time that he did something with it.
“I need time to think. I'll be in touch.” He
ignored the surprised looks on the holographic faces, the open mouths
desperate to find something that would let them be heard but Brande was
too quick to switch off the channel they were communicating over.
The heads vanished into nothing and before any of his staffers that
were actually present could argue, he kicked them out too, save for one.
“Luornu, stay for a moment will you?”
Luornu Durgo stopped short of the door and turned, smiling. She
pressed the executive omnicom she had been carrying closer to her chest
and hovered near the door. A native of Cargg, Luornu was Brande's
personal assistant and, as it turned out, his conscience at
times. He admired this young woman who could split herself into
three separate versions of herself, each with their own personality and
opinion. She made the perfect sounding board when he needed an
honest answer, a devil's advocate and not just another 'yes man.'
“I don't think I can do this any more, child. Not like
this. Not alone.” Brande rubbed at his mustache and
looked out of the window of his shadow as it was flying over Trom's
remains again.
“Are you alone, Mr. President?”
“More than you know. All these politicians and policemen...
they are failing to make a difference. That scene down
there… that should make it clear that something is
missing. Something. Or someone.”
Luornu sought the President's eyes but he seemed mesmerized by the
destruction, by what he must have thought was his own failure.
Her violet eyes descended to the floor and she denied the impulse to
run a gloved hand through her auburn, pageboy styled hair in
frustration. The pleasant old man who had given her this job
needed her help but what could she say or do about something like
this? Self-conscious, Luornu found herself standing at the door,
in near retreat. She smiled faintly and found a seat across from
the President and aimed to break the uncomfortable silence.
“Some... one, sir?”
“You remember your history. The legends. Valor, the
Superman of Krypton, the last Martian. Each of them took Earth as
their home and there were others... combining their compassions,
their... ideals with those already on Earth. The tales tell us
they were heroes, Luornu. Heroes.” He looked at the
young girl with him, his eyes almost glossy with memory.
“Where are the heroes now?”
Luornu did remember her history, and the legends, especially those from
the Books of Valor. She felt the President's stare pass right
through her and she almost blushed, uncomfortable with the sudden
attention. “T-there haven't been many meta-positives
detected since--”
“I know when,” Brande interrupted. “Even still,
does that mean there are no more exceptional people out there?
People to inspire hope and duty and honor back into a people too smart
for their own good? People with the compassion to see the tragedy
in this,” he pointed out the window, “and the power to do
something about it <i>before</i> it happens? I tell
you, Luornu, people today are crying out for their missing heroes,
myths or not.”
He was on the cusp of something, Luornu knew. She waked from her
bout of shyness and looked up at her President, and the fine hairs on
her arms stood at attention as she blurted out the first thing she
could think of. “Well, by damn, it's time we show the
people that someone is listening.”
Brande was startled at the response and simply blinked at Luornu for a
moment. “I don't think I could have said it better,
girl.”
“What are we considering, though, Mr. President? Some sort
of league or society?”
“No, not this time, it won't be enough.” Brande
looked back out the window as if for reassurance. “No, I
believe what we need, Luornu... is a Legion.”
A sudden rap at the door seemed to startle them both. The door
opened enough for one of Brande's Ministers to poke their bright
pink-skinned head though. “My apologies for the
interruption, Mr. President but the Science Police survey team has been
trying to contact you over omniwave.”
“I switched off the receiver,” Brande told her as a
matter-of-factly.
“I see. Excuse the assumption but I thought you'd want to
know, Mr. President. They found a survivor on the surface,
sir. A boy encased in some sort of crystal. They are seeing
about freeing him as we speak.”
Brande looked abruptly at Luornu with a hint of a smile, even if one
death did not make up for the loss of thousands. “See?
There's a sign, girl. Maybe we're on to something, by
damn!” R.J. Brande looked sternly at his Minister and
deepened his voice. “Tell the pilot to land this damnable
ship. I'll have a look at that boy myself.”
