Echoes of Duty and Doubt

Northeastern Fringe of Segmentum Obscurus. Briesann.

The huntress perched upon a jagged outcrop at the edge of the ship's central garden. Other Eldar spoke of greater, more opulent gardens on the craftworlds—places she had never seen. Yet here, amidst the cold steel of the voidship, Briesann sat transfixed by the sight before her. A forest sprawled within the vessel's belly—tended, cultivated, yet wild in its essence. Mechanisms lay hidden beneath the guise of natural forms, a strange harmony within this artificial realm. Above, a vast dome arched, clear as glass, studded with the cold, indifferent stars of the void. The garden's edges shimmered with holograms and optical tricks, veiling the boundaries of the illusion. For the Eldar, the ship's masters had transplanted fragments of Nimareephar—trees, flowers, grasses—crafting a simulacrum of home that tugged at her heart.

With a fluid motion, Briesann leapt from the outcrop, rolled through her shoulder, and vanished into the trees. She moved from shadow to shadow, a predator gliding toward the central lake. A sharp exchange of voices halted her. In the garden's manicured heart, among paved paths, Delenn and Kalmael clashed in heated debate. Words drifted in fragments, but Briesann's name surfaced again and again, a weapon in their verbal duel. The seer pressed some point, the ambassador countered with rising fervor. After a particularly fierce volley, they parted, leaving discontent in their wake. Waiting until their footsteps faded, Briesann emerged and sank onto a bench. Absently, she gathered a handful of pebbles, rolling them between her palms. Melancholy seeped into her mind, poisoning her thoughts. They spoke of me, she brooded bitterly. Kalmael must think me worthless, a burden. A stray they overpaid for. Sorrow twisted into anger, and that anger, by some perverse whim, turned upon those who had hired her. Lost in turmoil, she failed to notice the shadow creeping up behind her until a hand descended upon her head, not roughly but with a heavy, commanding certainty, ruffling her hair.

She flinched, whirling to meet Na'Tot's gaze. The Narn first officer's face was carved from stone, devoid of softness, her eyes ablaze with a cold, piercing light. Her presence radiated unyielding strength, as if the galaxy itself held its breath for her words.

— You are no object, Na'Tot's voice cut through the air like a blade, even and sharp. — Nor a slave. The council of Nimareephar would have cast you into the void to purge their ranks of defiance. We tore you from their grasp not to rot in doubt, but to rise and claim your place.

Briesann shrank, her gaze, brimming with unshed tears, darting to the ground.

— Why? she choked out, her voice trembling like fractured metal. — I am nothing. Dead weight you drag along.

Na'Tot stepped closer, her hand clamping onto Briesann's shoulder with such force that the huntress straightened involuntarily, as if bent to an unseen will.

— You are blind if you believe that, Na'Tot snapped, her tone harsher, almost cruel. — You are a bridge. You spoke to those others greet with steel or scorn. You see what their narrow minds cannot. The galaxy is not only fire and ash, but those daring to live within it. We need a voice to shatter the silence. Your voice.

Briesann drew a ragged breath, tears finally breaking free, but a faint spark kindled in her eyes.

— I don't know if I can, she whispered, her voice barely a fading signal in the aether.

— Knowledge is forged in trial, Na'Tot decreed, her words a judgment. — You've already crossed the threshold, leaving that pitiful world behind. Now the abyss lies before you—and we will not let you fall. But the choice is yours.

Briesann nodded slowly, wiping her tears with the back of her hand, her movements tentative but tinged with nascent resolve. Na'Tot lifted her gaze to the stars, her features hardening as if she glimpsed the storms to come.

— And remember, she added, her voice dropping to an icy whisper laden with grim clarity. — The galaxy does not forgive weakness. Grow stronger, Briesann. Or it will devour us all.

Northern Fringe of Segmentum Ultima. Indra.

Two months had passed since the Eldar joined the crew, their presence weaving seamlessly into the ship's rhythm. I'd toyed with the idea of introducing human puppets—a tale of rescuing a doomed vessel, perhaps—but discarded it. Humans could be hired without artifice, and if I wished to don Sheridan's mantle, I'd simply "employ" one. Earth technology? I'd pass it off as Narn innovation. Thus, I loosened my grip and sank into the journey.

The galaxy is vast, its emptiness breeding despair. Without purpose, one could drift for decades, encountering only silence. Aboard, the crew battled boredom in their ways: hunters honed blades and stalked prey in simulations, chroniclers drowned in tomes, gardeners tended their groves, builders wrought art from metal, technicians claimed the workshops, and the seers Kalmael and Saimira debated the eternal with Delenn. Briesann was omnipresent, her "why?"s raining like shrapnel—a child in the infinite void.

Inspired by their zeal, I turned to work. Not from tedium, but from impulse. First, I dissected the purchased technologies. Mostly dross: wraithbone seeds, monocrystals, gravitics—things I could replicate or deem useless. Truth be told, I'd already gleaned much on the planet—stolen, unearthed, scanned. I expected no revelations. I was wrong. Amidst the refuse gleamed a pearl—the "D-grenade." A thrown disc that rent space within eight meters, spawning quantum rifts and an electric shock. Mundane? No. Its core—entangled quantum pairs, their resonance fueling the breach. I stifled a maniacal laugh. The Eldar saw clumsy weaponry; I saw a keystone of power. Quantum entanglement solved a dozen riddles at once. I plunged into study.

Beyond dreams of dominion, I nursed the notion of recreating ships from Babylon 5. Their creators consulted physicists, and the designs rang true. Omegas and White Stars demanded a shipyard, but Nials and Starfuries were within reach. Drones in Minbari style emerged swiftly, surpassing hopes. The Earth fighter took three months of grueling labor, but the result swelled with pride. Both found admirers among the Eldar, igniting debates in the mess halls.

Kalmael.

The comm chimed, interrupting the seer's stride. A gesture, and the blue vine bracelet unfurled a screen bearing the captain's face.

— Kalmael, you're needed on the bridge. Hurry.

He summoned a platform, which arrived in a heartbeat. Seated, he sped to the first section. The bridge held the command staff, the ever-present Koshes, and Briesann. Each glance at her stoked his ire—she, equal to me in cost?

— Why is she here? Briesann snorted, whispering to the first officer.

— Kalmael, Delenn's voice held reproach, — we've discussed this.

Shame pricked him, faintly. He'd grown fond of the priestess—they shared interests, views, even habits. Once, at his request, she'd lowered her psi-shield, revealing a soul ordered, resilient, radiant. She'd make a peerless seer. Oddly, each Eldar had paired with a crewmate, as if drawn by unseen threads.

— Ladies and gentlemen, two hours ago we caught a signal. The scout returned with this.

The screens flared: two massive Imperial ships, a swarm of smaller craft, and a trail of debris.

— Your thoughts?

— The first is an Imperial transport, Kalmael preempted Briesann, — ore-hauler, like those that visited Nimareephar. The second, a light cruiser.

— That's a light cruiser? The captain's jaw dropped. — Our battleships are smaller.

— Yes, light. Both are Rogue Traders. Miner and corsair.

— Understood, a pause. — Experts, intervene or abstain?

— For ties in the Imperium, Briesann cut in, — a indebted Rogue is ideal.

Kalmael noted her "us" with mild surprise.