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Jonah Clinton, twenty five years old adjusted, was feeling utterly miserable. An enthusiastic xenohistorian and a promising student at Vale Row University on Icara, the young man had begun the day brimming with excitement, knowing he was less than a fortnight away from finally visiting an alien planet. Now he was sat in the professor's office feeling his hope die. "I don't understand, sir. Why has the trip been cancelled?" "Because our visas have been revoked." The aged professor answered flatly. "Since the upheaval on Ryyksaad they are voiding all permits to travel to the planet. Tavaraatha has also suspended access to visas to Icaran citizens." "But why?" Jonah asked. He had asked this several times so far, and the answers given never satisfied him. The professor shrugged wearily. "I don't know. Maybe it's to do with the increased border piracy. There's nothing we can do - and don't suggest we try to go to Urokon. I already thought of that; almost every nation has made it that much harder for aliens to gain access. I don't think it would be safe to travel now even if we could." The young man's head lolled against his chest. "So that's it?" "I'm afraid so. If you're really fixed on going off-world I can probably find you a place on another trip, the Va'uuk exchange perhaps?" Jonah summoned a mental image of the Va'uuk; pestilent, puss-riddled scavengers that fed on rotting corpses. The idea turned his stomach. "No, thank you... I suppose I'll just have to manage some other way."

The bar was known as the Rough House. Jonah liked it there because it was a great place to find alien company. The owner was a xenophile and the Kyyreni, Va'uuk and Chaldakri traders liked to unwind there. It was a good place to people watch, even if some of the regulars pushed the definition of people. Wodka sat at the bar and sucked his knuckles. A younger, though much more heavily built Kyyreni was on all fours behind him picking teeth up off the floor. A quadruped creature, like some ungodly amalgamation of turtle and shark, gurgled a remark that made the bloody-muzzled brute swear at him. "Bookworm!" Wodka toasted Jonah with a very full glass of spiced rum. Not many humans used the bar, so those that did became well known by the regulars. Jonah settled onto a bar stool, ordered his drink and surveyed the damage. "What was the fight about?" "This is a Rough House, bookworm! There doesn't need to be a reason!" He knocked his drink back and caught the look in the young man's eye. "You had a bad day I take it?" Jonah nodded. "Turns out I'm not studying on Ryyksaad this year." "Good! Ryyksaad's a shithole!" Wodka turned at a surly growl from the recently downed Kyyreni and raised a fist. "You back down or I put you down, child!" There was a cheer from the open floor at the centre of the establishment. A trio of young Kyyreni, none older than sixteen, set upon each other in a good-natured fight. Half the bar watched as the wrestling turned to punching, and soon two of them were knocked to the ground. The victor gave a boastful shout, helped his friends back to their feet and ordered them to go get drinks. "Why did you want to go to Ryyksaad anyway?" Wodka asked when the show ended. Jonah sipped from a pint of weak beer. "I've always had an interest in warrior cultures. It started in school. I'd studied all kinds of ancient Earth nations and ways of life, so when the opportunity came to look at other races... what's so funny?" "Sorry," Wodka chuckled, "but you're about as far from a warrior as any man can get. No offence meant, of course." Jonah shrugged off the comment whilst Wodka noisily ordered more drink. The owner of the establishment, a thirty-something woman named Victoria, made a flirtatious comment and took his money. "I think it's missing out on the winter hall I regret the most. During our stay we were invited to partake-" "Winter hall?" Wodka paused with a glass of something dark and strong halfway to his lips. "So is that what you wanted, to hear tales of the ruling houses?" Jonah nodded. "The Kyyreni are one of the few races that still retain a very strong oral history. Most species abandon that tradition around the time the written word becomes commonplace." "Never throw away what you might need later." Wodka toasted his own folk wisdom. "Still, perhaps if I asked our dear bargirl very, very nicely..." Twenty minutes later, Jonah left the bar feeling uplifted; the winter solstice couldn't come fast enough.

There is a fundamental rule regarding young boys of any species living together, and that is one will always want what the other one has. For Vaahn this was sometimes less straightforward than would be the case for other Rejuves because as a Penitatas, soft timer though he may be, he simply was not permitted access to certain things. The issue of chocolate was a prime example; Jas enjoyed chocolates as an occasional treat, but for Vaahn that was out of the question. However, buying sweets with Vaahn in tow felt wrong to his parents, who both saw nothing to gain in forcing their Kyyreni son to watch them buy what he could not have. Jas also found the simple pleasure of junk food soiled by the fact it almost had to be eaten in secret. Even with almost a year of living in a Penitatas household under his belt, Jas was still coming to terms with some of the realities of just what his chosen childhood would involve. Thankfully, there were some areas where the boys could share their interests, and so on a Friday afternoon in late November, having learned their usual plans were cancelled on account of Jackie having 'attitude problems', Jas had borrowed (in the loosest sense of the word) one of Vaahn's holodisks he'd received as a birthday present, whilst Vaahn was relearning his musical skills. With Matt keeping an eye on Jas (though the Aspatrian rarely ever needed to be supervised), Chloe decided to loiter upstairs. Vaahn was not studying music this year, but a Penitatas' chosen means of self-expression was often useful as a way to monitor their internal feelings. It had been a troubling year for the Johansson household, and Vaahn had not long ago learned of the death of one of his sons. It was only to be expected there would be something there left to resolve emotionally. Still, if there was some underlying sorrow it was not emerging just yet. Vaahn's idle toying with the instrument paused intermittently as he checked over a datapad containing notes and lyrics. After a few false starts he settled into a simplistic rhythm and quietly sang a song to himself. It was a Human song, or at least written in Panglish, though it was not one Chloe immediately recognised. Still, the music stores at the mall, or the school's music room database, were able to locate almost any song ever recorded providing you asked them the right questions, and Vaahn had used these facilities before to find some interesting tunes. Out of sight of the doorway, Chloe abandoned her busywork to listen. It was a song about loss from what she could tell; loss of faith and loss in war, but there was a stronger note as well - defiance and independence. She smiled at that; it really did summarise her son perfectly. "When you've walked my road and you've seen what I've seen then you won't go talking about righteous men. You know damn well why I want to keep to my sky, I'll never cry 'neath nobody's heel again..." Vaahn paused his private performance at the sound of movement outside the bedroom. Chloe wandered in nonchalantly, a duster in one hand and a can of polish in the other. "Don't mind me, I'm just cleaning up." A few carefully placed stresses drew Vaahn's attention to his rather hastily, and quite poorly made bed. With some reluctance he surrendered Jas' instrument and remade the bed to his mother's satisfaction whilst she dusted the surface tops. "You like that song I take it?" Chloe asked. The top of the wardrobe was swiftly tidied, having not been allowed to gather much dust at all, and she moved on to the desk. Vaahn nodded without turning around from his bed. "It's a fun tune. Why, don't you approve?" "Oh no, that's not it at all. I just always assumed you'd like war songs more." Vaahn chuckled at that. "Humans can't sing war songs."

A call from downstairs brought Chloe and Vaahn down to the living room. Wodka greeted them both warmly. "Aha, the young Noble! Matt and Chloe, I wanted to invite you and your sons to a little get together at years end. It's a way off yet, but I'm eager to get all the details right. So many people to inform, you know?" "What sort of get together?" Jas piped up, his interest piqued. "A Winter Hall." Wodka announced proudly, seeing how both boys looked at him in surprise. For the benefit of the Humans he added, "On the winter solstice we will gather together at the Rough House. Everyone there feasts and drinks and tells glorious stories of days gone by! We honour the dead, praise the living and make sure the young learn the lessons of the old. It is a fine tradition, and I dearly hope you will be a part of it." "This is taking place in a bar?" Matt viewed the dog-eared Kyyreni with suspicion. "I don't know if that's something the boys should be involved with." "Oh but they must! Vaahn in particular!" Wodka pleaded. "It's only in a bar because the Rough House was the only place big enough! I promise you there'll be no misconduct. On my life and on my honour, there will be nothing un-towed taking place." "You mean 'untoward' I hope." Chloe corrected. She glanced down at Vaahn, who was palpably hungry for the chance to join in with the 'winter hall', whatever it really was. The boy looked up at her, pleading wordlessly with puppy-dog eyes. She had to admit, that worked much, much better on a species with a vaguely canine skull. "I suppose... if it is as culturally important as you claim." She had to smile at how Vaahn's eyes lit up. "But you will be on your best behaviour!" "Of course!" Vaahn insisted. "I will be, I promise!"

* * *

It was ten in the morning and Wodka was already drunk. He lay next to a roaring fire pit; a simulation carefully crafted out of holo-projectors and heating units that dominated the floor space of the Rough House. He was also practically naked, his decency maintained purely by a loincloth. The doors opened and a sharp blast of inhospitably cold December air rushed in, followed swiftly by four visitors. They stamped their feet, whinnied and huffed and performed the various other traditions associated with coming into a warm space from the cold. After a short period of acclimatisation they found somewhere to put their hats, coats, gloves and scarves. "Valcom tor Rough Haus." The barely-intelligible greeting came forth from the throat of an elderly Nightsider female who sat by the door. She had unladylike growths of hair along the sides of her muzzle and dry, shrivelled lips. She smelled of mild incontinence. "Hae for Vunter Hol, yers?" Matt was about to offer a handshake, but he thought better of it. "Yes, yes we are. Are we early or-" He halted at the sight of a young Human woman approaching. "Oh, you must be the Johansson family! Come this way, please!" When safely out of earshot she added. "I'm Vicky. Don't mind old Welj; she's not long for this world, the poor dear. She claims she'll be dead by the end of the week." "Why doesn't she rejuvenate?" Chloe asked, glancing back toward the elderly Kyyreni in a mix of curiosity and morbid fascination. Vicky shrugged. "Something about it being 'her time', apparently. Now, some of the local boys have been hitting the bottles early, but they're all adamant there'll be no trouble and for what it's worth I believe them. I see these lads day in, day out; normally there'd have been at least three fights by now based on how much they'd put away. Whatever my dear Wodka's got planned it's important to them." The words 'my dear Wodka?' were mouthed by Matt to his wife, who gave him a stern look as a reminder to behave. The family moved into the hall space proper and took in the forming scene. Over on the stage against the back wall an impromptu band had assembled. They played various string instruments that Matt assumed were bass, guitar and violin. Their tune was fast and uplifting; the violinist in particular was happily skipping in circles, completely oblivious to anything except the music in his head. A pair of Kyyreni women were clapping along from a nearby table. "Aha! The Johansson family!" Wodka's merry voice boomed out as he caught site of the guests. There were half a dozen Kyyreni with him, men and women, all stripped to the waist and working hard to make the Rough House an alcohol-free environment. One of them was singing along to the music, though he was clearly running several beats behind the actual tune. "Sit down my friends! Let me get you all drinks! These are my friends and business partners!" Chloe was introduced to the women, "this is Yvelja and Fryyd." Matt was then introduced to the men, "Half; Broot; Koskr; Kard. Now for drinks!" "Actually, I-" Matt gave up. Wodka clearly wasn't going to listen to anyone but himself. Fryyd was the first of the group to interact with the Johanssons. She was getting on in years, though she was clearly an experienced mother, if not a grandmother. This was displayed by her natural talent to embarrass small children. "This must be Vaahn! And little Jas! Ooh I miss my boys being that age!" She gave Vaahn an overly familiar embrace and ruffled his fur playfully as he tried to escape her grip. "[Odd name though.]" Broot said. His accent was Urokoni; heavily accented in the manner of the planet's deep south. "[Where are you from?]" "Yvenik." Vaahn answered. Broot huffed at the boy. "[That explains it.]" "[Ah, shut up you miserable twat!]" The insult came from Half, a Nightsider. "[I swear that ugly sod's never smiled in his life!]" "Isn't it nice having so many children with us?" Yvelja said to Chloe absently. There was something about the way she scowled at Broot that made Chloe suspect they were married. Matt, on the other hand, had been on the receiving end of enough disapproving looks to know for certain.

Wodka returned with drinks. This was met with near-universal approval. To his Kyyreni friends he handed a round bottle made of green glass, from which they poured a measure of wine into a jug of water. From that solution they filled their glasses and drank. Chloe and Matt were both given a glass of locally-grown wine, whilst Vaahn and Jas had what Wodka assured was spiced milk. Settled by the holo-fire, and becoming increasingly aware of why the gathered Kyyreni were so under dressed, Matt decided to seek information. "How exactly does this 'winter hall' work?" Wodka settled down into his seat again. "We tell stories, mostly. There's some music and dancing and plenty of drinking, but the stories are the main point. We gather here to remember the past year, and all the years before. We try to keep things positive early on; the sorrow and mourning can come later. Aha! More people!" As quickly as he'd come, Wodka was off again. Over the course of an hour the bulk of the visitors arrived; mostly Kyyreni, though one or two other species were present. Most of the band packed up and hit the bar, but the violinist was still on another planet and carried on playing the same song he'd started ten minutes ago. As if in protest a counter-band started playing over by the front door. To pass the time waiting for the rest of the guests, Half told a story of his childhood in the Night. He had a talent for it; as he spoke the room seemed to grow colder, as if he were channelling the freezing black of his homeland. His account of how he'd first hunted and killed a vyeljughaad, which Vaahn said was "a cross between shark and narwhal," kept the gathering enthralled until Wodka was ready to call the event proper to order.

"Brothers and sisters!" Wodka roared as he vaulted up onto the stage. The violinist was reluctant to stop his performance so Wodka kicked him off the stage, much to the amusement of everyone bar the victim. "My friends!" He started again, holding his hands up for silence. "Thank you all for coming. Tonight, Icara witnesses its first Winter Hall! Today the old year dies, so let us make its light night one to remember!" A series of approvals answered the grizzled trader. Quite a few of the Kyyreni drank to his words. "Some of you here have never known a Winter Hall before. Some are too young..." Those words were clearly directed at the most recent arrivals; families who had brought young children, some of which were no older than Vaahn. "...whilst some are from other cultures." That was not, to the surprise of Chloe and Matt, directed at them. Instead, Wodka seemed to be speaking to a young man sat quite close to the stage. "Let me begin then by reminding us all how we toast the death of a year - with tales of our past! All are welcome; be it a tale of a young man's first glory or the legends of heroes of old. Share with us your memories so that they may be our memories as well. Remember, brothers and sisters; no man is dead as long as he is remembered." A murmur of approval rolled across the hall. Wodka knelt down to accept an offered cup and held it high. "[What shall be first?]" he asked. "[What shall we drink to?]"

Vaahn had been radiating excitement since the moment they entered the bar. His parents had noticed it right away; he had listened keenly to Half's story, he toasted Wodka's words with his near-empty glass of milk, and as Wodka's opening speech drew near its end it seemed he could barely sit still. When Wodka asked for something to toast, Vaahn practically jumped off his father's lap. "Someone's son came home!" the boy cried. Though many other voices rose up at the same time, Wodka caught his shout instantly, as if he'd been expecting it. "Who said that?" His eyes met Vaahn's and he smiled eagerly. "Johansson! Bring your son up here!" The whole family came forward, finding seats closer to the stage. Vaahn exchanged a brief word with his father and was helped up. Wodka gave the boy an approving nod and stepped back a little. "Someone's son came home." Vaahn said again. The hall was silent now; all present were focused on him. "I am Vaahn T'Rol, son of Brahlt, son of Garo. I was... I am Noble Lord of the House of Tu'ri. I think some of you may know of me." Vaahn closed his eyes for a moment, breathing deep and savouring the silent, expectant air. "It's been over twenty five years since I last stood before a Winter Hall. Ever since I was old enough to listen I've committed the stories of my lineage to memory. Every legend of T'Rol I know by heart. More than that... I know the truth of him. I know the stories only his bloodline have shared..." He felt the eagerness in the air. His family felt it too - the gathered Kyyreni began to whisper softly to each other, eager at the prospect of hearing a 'true' tale of T'Rol. "I will not speak of T'Rol. Not yet, anyway." Vaahn said quickly, silencing their expectations. "There is a tale fit for a Winter Hall I wish to share. It is one I have never shared before... and I am sorry for that. I am sorry because the dead deserve to have their tales told, and as this is the first Winter Hall on Icaran soil, it is only right we begin by honouring those who perished on this world." A cold realisation began to seep through all present. Matt leaned over to Chloe and whispered, "is he... he couldn't have been involved in that, could he?" Vaahn confirmed his father's suspicion with a strong, confident proclamation, slipping back into his native tongue to tell the tale properly. "[This is the take of the Invasion of Icara.]" * * *

War was upon them, but as Vaahn travelled down the streets of Yvenik he would have been forgiven for thinking they'd already won. People flocked to cheer as the muster marched toward the city's star port. Vaahn turned his battle-scarred head toward the rear of the open-topped transport and watched the ranks of young men moving in formation behind him. It should have stirred his heart, but he couldn't shake the fear that he was leading them to their deaths. "I wish you'd reconsider." Uikke growled from beside him. The Nightsider had been sulking for days. Vaahn was careful to keep his expression confident for the sake of the crowd. "Uikke, this is going to be hell." "All the more reason for me to be there!" The adopted son of Brahlt returned. Looking to Jaahl for support, Vaahn once again sought to use reason. "Uikke, the House of Tu'ri cannot afford to lose every son of T'Rol in one bloody clash. With Taryyk gone to the Royals there's only four of us left. Don't pretend you don't know how easily we two could die out there." With that all eyes were drawn to Poys. Never the greatest of Brahlt's children and the youngest remaining brother since Eskal's departure, Poys was nevertheless always ready to prove his loyalty to House and family. He gave his lord a confident nod. "I won't let you down, Vaahn." Ever allergic to sombre or serious moments, Uikke quickly slapped Vaahn hard across the back. "Maeg's Bite, but think of the action! Rumour has it a million men will partake in the landings! You be damn sure to bring us back a vid-log, eh? Stories won't do it justice!" "No," Vaahn said dryly. "I suspect they won't."

The Kyyreni warfleet dropped back into real-space deep in the system, throwing the Icaran defence forces into total disarray. The Excellence was the first Starfleet vessel to encounter the invaders; a Third-Rate cruiser on routine system patrol as part of a shakedown following refit. She was subjected to simultaneous bombardment by two hundred and thirty-one separate craft from a range of one hundred thousand miles - point blank in space combat terms. Her shields held for eight-point-four seconds before being overwhelmed. Her hull armour lasted one-seventh of a second after that. The shattered remains were reduced to space dust less than a minute later when her main drives suffered a catastrophic overload, but by then the Kyyreni were already dividing and engaging their fresh targets. It was a bold move, bordering on the reckless. In the past year alone six raiding fleets had been annihilated by Starfleet vessels, and at least two remote outposts had been occupied in the name of 'peace-keeping operations'. The leaders of Urokon had united to discuss the matter and, in a display of co-operation that was all but unheard of, agreed on this joint venture. A battle fleet was dispatched to deploy a million-strong ground army onto the soil of Icara and bring the planet to heel. None would ever be allowed to question Kyyreni dominance. The five fleets moved swiftly toward their objectives. Observation Station 'Daedalus' was swiftly assaulted and occupied, though she did not go down quietly. The next engagement came several days later as the second Kyyreni fleet reached the Starfleet Command Platform and blockaded it, commencing a series of fleet skirmishes and boarding actions that would play out over the course of a week. For the bulk of the forces, their objective was Icara. It had taken them four days to reach the planet from their system entry point and the defenders had not wasted any time in preparing for their arrival. Nevertheless, it was a one-sided fight. Despite taking severe losses, the Kyyreni fleet began their assault on the orbital docks and satellite platforms that ringed the planet, leaving the bulk of their forces to begin their ground assault.

In the arrestor harness of his drop-ship Vaahn allowed the terror to wash over him. He had spent the hours on approach arguing with his superiors as to the folly of the ground war. Normally, a man such as Vaahn would have supreme command over such an operation, but in this case command had been given to the Baron of Niirgol and Vaahn was stymied. His orders were to deploy directly into Icara City itself and take their star port. To that end, a fifth of the Kyyreni had been placed under Vaahn's overall command. Strategic control had been delegated to Lord Dath of House Caehn; as a son of T'Rol, Vaahn intended to lead from the ground, not an orbiting starship. A sharp jolt of turbulence as the craft hit the atmosphere made the Noble question his decision. His headset earpiece squawked reports of the first casualties - assault craft blown out of the sky by point defence guns on the orbital docks, or intercepted by the ships and attack craft the Icarans had recruited to defend their home world. Vaahn listened in particular for reports of losses being suffered by Lance One, his own formation. Every report of a shot down craft meant hundreds dead. He gazed around the dual-purpose cockpit and command deck, taking in information that scrolled down the pale blue screens. Icaran ships were pouring into the system, still days away from Icara, but the largest fleet was just hours from the Daedalus platform. He cast an eye across the reports from the other Lance teams. Lance Two had taken a severe pounding on the final approach to Icara and many of her troop ships had been destroyed. At best, only a third of the allocated troops would be making planet fall. Their commander would not be joining them; Lord Owlf had been atomised along with his attack cruiser. The air shook as weapons fire rushed up toward them. The communication links became full of discordant cross-chatter as the Kyyreni began to die. Fighter screens rose up to meet them, but found a mass swarm of razor-winged interceptors break from the drop formation and engage them. Vaahn gave a thin smile as the fighters began to tally up kills, feeling pride that his steadfast refusal to go into war without them had paid off.

As suddenly as it had begun, the ground fire ceased. A series of hypersonic shells burned through the air around the attack craft, slamming into the great shields erected over Icara city. The blinding flash of megaton-yield detonations temporarily blinded the visual links. The instant the atomic flash began to fade a storm of bombardment fire was unleashed. Vaahn watched in shock as the display system began to recalibrate, revealing a still-standing shield system over the city. "Four orbital charges and that damn shield still stands..." Vaahn shuddered at the thought of just what kind of power source the Icarans had wired into their city's defensive grid. "Is this still a safe drop?" The pilot's body language said "no", but his mouth replied, "Radiation levels dropping sharply, sir. Should be troop-safe in... twenty two seconds." The Kyyreni bombardment ended and the Icarans began their reply. Troop ships began to die once more as they made their final approaches, forced to abort their primary attack route and bank around to the north-western regions of the city. Self-propelled guns chased targets all the way, sending machines slamming down into the shield where they were obliterated. Some craft survived the impact, resting atop the shimmering green energy dome where they and their cargo were slowly vaporized. Vaahn gripped the sides of his seat tight as his craft took a glancing blow to the starboard side. By the time they cleared the shield and swung back down under it he was already resorting to fervent prayer. "Touchdown in ten seconds!" the pilot yelled. A missile flashed up ahead of them and struck the underbelly of a drop craft not forty metres away, showering the command craft with wreckage. "Vaahn to assault craft!" The Noble's voice trembled in time with the superstructure as the mighty retro-burners began to fire. "Craft thirty through to seventy break off and hit target SP-14! Craft eighty through one-twenty-" the Noble swore as a glancing shot jolted the craft. "-Hit SP-12! No, eighty through to one-forty hit SP-12!" There wasn't any time for acknowledgements. The pilot was yelling for all hands to bail. Vaahn released the harness and picked up his weapon, his mind too busy focusing on tactical deployments to catch the urgency in the young man's voice. His ears pricked as the shrill scream of a lock-tone broke through his concentration. "BAIL OUT!" the Noble's scream caused men to hurl themselves off the rear ramp and out the side doors with reckless abandon, giving no heed to just how high the craft was. Vaahn shoulder barged a soldier out of the nearest door and was flung out himself by the momentum. The two barely cleared the door before a missile struck the opposite side of the craft an obliterated it.

The soldier was dead. He'd hit the ground hard enough to break his spine, and Vaahn landing on top of him hadn't helped any. Dazed, the Noble staggered to his feet and tried to take stock of the situation. Kyyreni forces were pouring across the landing pads of the port, blazing with small arms or hammering heavier guns into emplaced weapon positions. The landers themselves were taking a beating. A significant number had crash-landed, many choosing to do so on purpose in the hope it would buy the passengers a little more time to flee. Most of the men who had been in Vaahn's craft were dead and a significant number of the survivors were now wounded, most of them with broken legs, sprained ankles or similar injuries from the fall... ...Poys. The name fluttered across Vaahn's mind like a shred of paper wafting out of a fire. Poys had been in the dropship. Vaahn turned and shouted his brother's name, swaying drunkenly as he looked toward the smoking, fire-blackened remains of the command craft. "Vaahn, get down!" A stocky figure tackled him and made him kiss tarmac. Vaahn rolled onto his side and looked into Poys' sooty face. The man was unharmed for the most part, clutching the anti-material cannon he'd been issued tightly in his right hand. "Are you alright? You've got blood on your head." Vaahn touched the wound Poys pointed out. It didn't feel deep and wasn't bleeding much, but it did explain the sudden onset of a headache. "Fine. Come on, we can't stay here." The Noble climbed to his feet, inhaling smoke and retching at the rancid stench. Men fell into step beside him; the survivors of the command craft. Only eight of the two-hundred aboard had made it down. And then they were gone.

It was a quad-barrelled pulse cannon mounted on a mobile skimmer platform. The weapon was designed for an anti-air role, but the sheer rate of fire made it formidable against infantry. Vaahn felt the air around him blister as the ultra-violent pulses screamed past, reducing his men to vapour in the blink of an eye. He went down instantly, fire racing up his right leg and a fierce blistering sensation forming along his left shoulder. Poys' cannon bounced to the ground beside him. There was no sign of its former owner, only a few tattered shreds of burnt uniform. Vaahn lay there, trembling in terror as the barrage continued overhead. "Poys..." the Noble felt the fear inside him melt away as something else came forth. Hate. Pure and hot and utterly insatiable, Hatred welled up inside of him. Hatred gave him the strength to reach for the cannon. Hatred eased it to his shoulder. Hatred squeezed the trigger. The gun barked and bounced in his grip. Vaahn kept it steady and emptied the eight-round magazine in a tight burst that shredded the vehicle. He rose to his feet, almost hyperventilating as he broke into a sprint and headed for the machine. The driver was dead, blown inside out by the fourth shot. Vaahn jumped onto the slumping rear of the truck and vaulted the mauled firing screen, wielding the emptied cannon like a club. He came down on top of a Human soldier whose legs had been ripped clean off by the anti-tank shots as they passed through his weapon systems. The man tried to beg for mercy, but there was no mercy to be had. Vaahn flattened his nose with a wild swing and crushed an eye socket with a second. Then he discarded the weapon and dropped down onto his knees so he could wrap his hands around the man's neck. Howling incoherently, Vaahn squeezed and shock the soldier until the life left him. He let the throttled corpse drop to the ground as a tired, fuzzy feeling began to seep through his body. He picked up the man's dog-tags, reading the inscription absently as his body began to register just how badly hurt he really was. A throbbing sensation in his leg made him look down and he saw that his right leg was drenched in blood. There was a chunk of someone's jawbone embedded in the meat three inches above the knee. "Not the best of endings." Vaahn muttered. He staggered to his feet and managed to advance four paces before collapsing unconscious to the ground. * * *

Vaahn paused in his tale to finish off his drink. He felt giddy as he paced the stage; he was the centre of attention, with everyone hanging off his every word. It was an exhilarating feeling for someone who had become used to being side-lined and forgotten. Still, there was something else Vaahn couldn't put his finger on. He felt different somehow, but try as he might he couldn't think why. "[Is that when you were taken?]" the question shook Vaahn from his moment of introspection. "No, I wasn't captured until much later." Wodka returned from one of his many forays to the bar and offered Vaahn a freshly filled glass. The boy drank from it. The milk was thick and full-fat, laced with sweet spice and a sharp taste of- Vaahn grinned. "[Thank you, Wodka.]" Now he knew what that strange feeling was. His eyes drifted to the table near the front where Jas and his parents were sat. They too had been listening closely. The Aspatrian boy met Vaahn's eye. "You... you killed a man with your bare hands?" Vaahn winced at the pained look on Jas' face. "He wasn't the first, Jas. I was thirteen when I first throttled the life out of a man." He sat himself down on the edge of the stage, no longer speaking directly to his friend but to the hall in general. "Killing with a gun is easy. Killing with a blade is tricky, especially if your opponent is skilled. Killing with fist and tooth... you've really got to want a man dead to kill him that way." He let his head drop against his chest and closed his eyes. "[Poys was the first of my brothers to die. Taryyk died soon after in a fleet engagement, his body lost to the void. Jaahl well within a year as well; I ordered him to his death. For the longest time my House believed I was dead too. Brahlt's curse we called it. It was my father who first spilt Human blood, and the Icaran War claimed each of us in turn. Only Uikke survived, but he was adopted. Only I survived out of my bloodline...]" He stood up once more, looking to his parents. He'd expected some anger or revulsion there - he'd honestly expected them to hate him for 'glorifying' war and death. Instead, he saw something akin to compassion. It left him somewhat adrift; he'd almost counted on their lack of acceptance to spurn him on through the tale. With another deep swig of his drink he announced, "[let us continue.]"

* * *

"Thought we'd lost you sir." Vaahn opened his eye and scanned the dirty, tired faces before him. The air stank of blood and chemicals - the foul stench of a field hospital. Beyond canvas curtains he could hear men screaming, crying and calling out for salvation. He tried to blot the sounds out. "What's our status?" He asked, forcing himself upright. Dull fire surged up his body at the movement, but he had long since grown accustomed to living in pain and so he ignored it. The young officer, whose name Vaahn could not recall, handed over a military-issue datapad. "We've secured the port, including the communications tower and ground control stations. You've been out for about three days, sir." The man's final comment was a pre-emptive answer to the question Vaahn had been about to ask. Instead, the Noble scanned the slate and asked, "Any word from the fleet?" This caused the man to shift uneasily. He looked to one of the skull-masked doctors, who shrugged and went to find someone who needed help. "We... we suspect the fleet will not be able to hold orbit much longer. The Icarans are pooling reinforcements and have already re-taken their deep-system platforms. A lot of the men think we'll be evacuated soon." "With the shield still up?" Vaahn was looking out of the window, where the sky was clearly tinted an electric green. "We are not leaving this world alive, soldier. The best we can do is sell our lives dearly." The man answered with a salute and left. Vaahn eased himself to his feet, dressed stiffly, and proceeded out into the open air. The medical centre had been some kind of storage area originally; cargo pallets and containers of personal belongings had been dumped outside or dragged off to form ad-hoc fortifications. Soldiers saluted him as he passed them and he acknowledged each one as he wound along his absent-minded course. Once or twice he checked he pad to confirm deployment of troops or to confirm a landmark. His route took him toward the civilian end of the port where some of the heaviest fighting had taken place. A tank-lander had been brought down here at some point, crushing a barricade, demolishing the glass-fronted wall and reducing every living thing between the two points to a bloody smear. Vaahn watched a young soldier bagging body-parts in the aftermath. Something, perhaps it was the boy's bewildered expression, made Vaahn go over to him. "Problems?" The Noble asked. "I... I don't know whose side they were on." The boy shuddered as he shovelled the latest glob of meat into the black bag. The impact had been enough to grind bone to dust and everything had been flash-cremated when the fuel tanks ruptured. Vaahn closed up the bag for him and wrapped a paper tag around it. He pulled out a wax pencil and scribbled "someone's son" onto the label. "In death, they're all one of ours: they are all someone's father; someone's brother; someone's son. Remember that." "I will, sir." Vaahn left the young man to his work. Not far away he caught the familiar site of Odrak, the Tzajii-born Captain who acted as Vaahn's second in command. He was shouting at people, which was something he had a natural talent for. Vaahn waited until he had to pause for breath before stepping in. "Report." Odrak span sharply and barked a belly-laugh at the Noble. "By the gods, you're unkillable!" "So it would seem." Vaahn smiled back. "Now, that report?" "Tower was taken intact, but it's an obvious target - I'm setting up shop down here and I've got two other command posts scattered around. Command has officially written us off now, Noble; if we can withdraw, we should. If not..." Vaahn snarled at the unspoken suggestion. "I have no intention of dying here, Odrak. Give me a map." The order was obeyed quickly. Vaahn gathered as many officers as he could find and informed them of his plan. It was brutally simple - a blitzkrieg assault of the main shield pylons. The port would be all but abandoned in the process in order to guarantee victory, and with the shield down a proper evacuation could begin. "Comments?" Vaahn asked. There were none. "Alright. Odrak, I leave holding the port to you. Tell the fleet to have bulk haulers ready to extract us all at a moment's notice. If they protest, tell them I'll shoot them personally!" "How are we dividing the men?" Vaahn hesitated at that question. "How many do we have?" "Able bodied? I'd say about forty thousand." "Does that include the men who hit the pylons on the way in?" the hope in Vaahn's voice was swiftly crushed. "Yes. Worse still, those pylons did sod-all; the projection range of the shield can skip pylons. We got some of those boys back, but most of their tanks are still trying to hold SP-12. SP-14 we lost five hours ago." Odrak's words sent a shiver down Vaahn's spine; to lose over three-quarters his force in barely four days of fighting was a far more extreme attrition rate than even his worst predictions. "I'd hoped we'd be in better shape." He admitted. Then he shook the doubt away and soldiered on. "Odrak, you get ten thousand men. Pick them yourself. You can keep the armour too, but I want as many of the assault troops as possible to be armed with infantry cannons. How's the ammunition?" "Low." Taaj, a lieutenant from a Yvenik mercenary guild chimed in. "The bulk of our supply ships aborted the drop when the shield withstood our bombardment. We've got whatever's left of our bandoliers, plus a couple of ammo drums that made it down with the tank and triage. We're looking at one mag per man." "Then loot the enemy dead." "Already done." Odrak cut back in. "Problem is they don't have any man-portable tank killers." Vaahn muttered something inaudible at that. "Alright, we'll make do. Assemble everything we have that can fly and fill them. I'm leading this one myself..."

For the second time in four days the skies were filled with Kyyreni craft. They flew low over the rooftops, exploiting the narrow gap between shield and structure. They sped over advancing infantry and vehicle columns with barely a token burst of fire from the occasional door-gunner. Vaahn ordered all sergeants to discipline any man who wasted ammunition, and prayed he'd left Odrak enough firepower to handle what was coming. Taaj died as Vaahn's lander banked around the north side of the pylon compound. The lieutenant was halfway through trying to deploy infantry on the south side when an artillery shell blew apart his retreating dropship. The lieutenant's body was later found cut in half by shrapnel. Vaahn's ship was a Daysider model - a dagger shaped thing with a single assault ramp on the prow and a pair of nose-mounted cannons. These were invaluable and the gunners used them well, raking anti-air emplacements and obliterating the modular bulwarks the Icaran soldiers had erected. Bulk landers rushed in to exploit the gap the command craft had made, and before long Vaahn was on the ground amongst them. The assault was spearheaded by a detachment of Daysider mercenaries who, having expended their ammunition during the initial assault, were now setting about the enemy with hatchets and knives. Vaahn found himself wondering if it was courage or insanity that drove them on. Twenty metres from the nearest barricade he came under fire. A female soldier, no older than twenty five, opened up on him with a semi-automatic burst. Firing wildly, she put half a dozen shots in Vaahn's direction, but not one hit. Vaahn brought his rifle up and put a single round into her chest. A second round blew her throat out. She took almost a minute to bleed to death, by which time Vaahn had cleared the barricade and killed four more of her squad. "No quarter!" the Noble roared, snapping off shots in tight, precise bursts. He was running on pure instinct - an instinct born of a lifetime of violence. The Icarans were mostly un-blooded and reliant on suppression, but the Kyyreni refused to be suppressed and were slaughtering them wholesale, especially where flamers were deployed. Entire platoons abandoned their stations in the face of the fire-throwers, particularly once they realised the ignition gel could not be extinguished with water or standard flame-retardants. "This is Vaahn - north section secure! Commanders, sound off!" A blurt of static filled his ear for a moment as an unknown officer struggled to make himself heard. "South side facing heavy resis-" Nothing else was forthcoming. "Bolguf here; west is secure." That at least set Vaahn's mind at ease. "Watch your south flank, Bol; I think they've got something heavy there." A throaty chuckle answered him. Damn but they do! I can see the muzzle-flares! I'll do something about that, don't you worry." Vaahn allowed himself a smile as the link went dead. Perhaps this could be won after all...

The first team to bring explosives to the shield complex were killed the moment the doors came down. The Icarans had kept some of their best troops in reserve, unwilling to commit them for fear of being flanked by the lightning strike. Now the north front had begun the siege proper, the counter-attack was moving to stop the Kyyreni. Bursts of energy weapon discharges tore the squad apart. The defenders stepped out into view, weapons hunting targets and killing with cold efficiency. Vaahn watched with almost morbid fascination as a squad of a dozen child-soldiers emerged, each of them handling their weapons like a life-long veteran. The oldest of the squad was ten years old at most. "Child soldiers?" a trooper named Jaag peered at the advancing Icarans through his gun scope. Vaahn shrugged. "I don't know... see if you can drop one." Jaag grinned at the order and fired, blasting the lead child squarely in the face. The little girl, six years old by Vaahn's estimate, staggered backward as a pair of rounds slammed into her skull. Then she righted herself, took aim and decapitated Jaag with a single shot. Vaahn swore loudly and dropped into cover as three more shots pulped his cover. "Automata! Those damn children are Automata!" "Right then!" Trooper Volg rushed forward, anti-material cannon raised and loaded. "Let's see the metal endure this!" The burly man began to fire. The roar of the cannon made Vaahn's ears throb and he beckoned a squad to follow him and try to flank the slowly advancing gunfight. He followed the sandbags until they met a brick wall, which he vaulted over before seeking cover behind an abandoned howitzer. From there he watched one of the Automata come apart under a storm of heavy calibre shells. Two more had already died - or rather, been disabled - and the rest were now seeking cover. To Vaahn's annoyance he saw that almost all of them sported bullet wounds, but they seemed largely untroubled by them. He was planning to advance when one of the machine-children saw him. Vaahn rolled to the side as an energy burst shrieked past. One of the soldiers advancing behind him took the shot in the chest and flew back over the wall. Two men armed with Icaran-issue energy weapons blasted the android and seemed to hurt it, though one was quickly torn apart by the return fire. "Hellfire!" the second man yelped as Vaahn hauled him into cover. A lucky shot had removed one of his hands. "Sir... how do we kill those things?" Vaahn didn't answer. Instead, he wordlessly removed a grenade from the man's bandolier and primed it. "Give me cover fire." The soldier obeyed, crawling out on all fours despite the pain to give himself a firing solution on the android. He got three shots off, none of which hit, before the android took off his head. His sacrifice bought Vaahn enough time to land a grenade at the android's feet and blast it into the air. When it landed four Kyyreni shot it to pieces just to be sure. "Don't be cheap with your explosives!" Vaahn's words urged others to hurl grenades. The machines seemed just as hard to kill with shrapnel as they had been with bullets, but one took a grenade to the chest and was explosively dismantled. Portable cannons and sheer weight of fire finally dropped the rest. No order was given to press the attack - none was needed. Vaahn set about scavenging equipment from the dead, handing out energy weapons and grenades to men as they rushed past. Volg joined him, discarding the anti-material cannon and accepting a rifle; he had expended the last of his penetrator-shells finishing off the Automata. "They took some killing." The big man rumbled. Vaahn nodded in agreement. A rough head-count suggested the Automata had cost him over sixty men, virtually all of whom were killed outright. As he rose to his feet his ear-piece began to fill with urgent chatter once more - the squads inside had met more androids. "This is going to be a costly fight." The Noble sighed. Then he waved Volg's squad forward and fell in beside them, ready to kill again.

At four twenty-six in the morning on the fifth day, Kyyreni forces finally reached and secured the main power generators for the primary shield pylon. Eighteen minutes later the command room fell, and just two minutes after that, Kyyeni sappers blue the primary power system. The shield grid failed pylon by pylon. By then the Icarans were launching a simultaneous counter-attack against both the main pylon and the star port. Androids stationed to guard the other pylon stations were drafted to retake the main station. Despite many being civilian models hastily reprogrammed for battle, their computer-perfect accuracy and unliving endurance made them excellent linebreakers. The pylon repelled the first attack by six thirteen, then a second at seven forty-one. By then less than twenty thousand Kyyreni remained to hold the line. By half past ten, after an hour of sustained shelling of the pylon, the Icarans launched their final attack. The timing proved unfortunate as their artillery support, which had been deployed in a public park a mile away, found itself the target of a lightning assault as the surviving garrison at SP-12 chose to attempt to regroup with the main force. Several of the guns were captured intact and turned on the Icarans, breaking their resolve and allowing Vaahn's troops to stage a breakout. Pausing only to rendezvous with their newfound tank and artillery support, the Kyyreni rushed back to the star port. By two o'clock the Kyyreni were consolidated back inside the port's grounds, despite a series of running battles intended to halt their advance. Odrak requested orbital fire be called in to drive off the last of the Icarans, as he had done ever since the shield collapsed, but once again his requests fell on deaf ears. At ten past two, whilst pausing to eat and drink a little, Vaahn received confirmation that the war was over. The fleet had requested a ceasefire to begin evacuation, and was in the process of pulling all forces off the Icaran orbital platforms. The troops still at the star port were given explicit orders not to engage in any further conflict.

As the time to evacuate drew near, Vaahn occupied himself as best he could with the bloody business of tending to the dead and the dying. Funeral pyres were arranged so bodies could be burned, though only the Kyyreni dead were disposed of in this way - the remains of the Humans, Drakonians and other races who had defended Icara were left unburied and unburned so their own people could tend to them appropriately. Odrak noted grimly that they would not have time to burn all of their dead. Vaahn replied, equally morbidly, that many of the dead had no bodies left to burn. Just as the engine trails of the bulk landers lit the sky, Vaahn set about one final duty. He found the spot easily enough; the wreck of his original transport was too big to be easily moved, and nobody had seen any need to shift the transport where Vaahn had made his first kills of the fight. Vaahn found what he believed to be the exact spot and knelt down, cutting torch in hand, so he could burn runes into the floor. When he'd finished he stood up and examined his handiwork.

Poys of Tu'ri died here.

He touched his forehead and made the Sign of the Gate out of respect for his lost brother before thinking of the others - the men of the squad and those who had still been in the transport when it went down. For them he made a separate, communal remembrance; a message burned onto the hull plating of the dead craft.

They were someone's father. They were someone's brother. They were someone's son.

That seemed enough. * * *

When Vaahn's tale ended Wodka took the stage once more, giving the boy a respectful nod and letting him re-join his family. "Quite a tale to begin with; I think there's a few ghosts in the air now, and the day is still young! Who is next with a tale?" As the next speaker took their turn, Chloe and Matt's attention remained on Vaahn. The boy seemed quite content. Jas was clearly less comfortable, finding it much harder to enjoy the tales of war and glory that the celebration revolved around. "So..." Chloe said, unsure how to properly bring up the subject. "You led that invasion?" "The ground assault." Vaahn corrected. "I was chosen because I had a reputation for achieving victory no matter the cost. In a sense, I did... but the cost was too high." More tales came and went. As time went on the stories became more energetic in delivery and epic in nature, as if each teller sought to outdo the last. Food was provided, though the Johanssons stuck to human dishes rather than the traditional Kyyreni fare. To their surprise, Jas chose the latter. Vaahn gorged himself on everything he could get, particularly favouring the sweet blue pastry balls filled with meat and sour-sauce. During the celebration Vaahn was called to the stage three more times. His stories were clearly well known, depicting ancient battles of his ancestor, T'Rol. Some resulted in some jovial heckling from Kyyreni who traced their ancestry to the 'bad guys' of Vaahn's stories, but there was no real malice in it. Finally, as the younger members of the gathering began to tire, Wodka led the hall in a formal act of remembrance. "[Brothers and sisters! The year is dying, and as is our tradition we look back to our ancestors. Think to yourself and your actions, and ensure they are honourable, for you carry the honour of the dead with you. Honour the dead!]" "[We shall honour them!]" The hall replied, drinking to the toast. Wodka took his own long pull. "[No tears, my brothers and sisters. That is our way; no tears for the dead. To cry is selfish, for what is there to mourn for those who have gone past Kalkar's gate? Nothing!]" The orator paused to wipe some beer froth from his lip. "[But all men must be selfish sometimes, and here's as good a time as any. Let us be selfish a moment, brothers and sisters. Let us mourn the dead.]" "[We shall mourn them.]" the droning reply was given with little energy, and was quickly swallowed up by the thoughtful silence that followed. Matt saw tears rolling down Vaahn's cheeks. Up on the stage, Wodka himself remained lost in thought for some time. Eventually, he shook himself free of the reflective torpor and called for attention once more. "[Brothers and sisters, I would have your attention one last time! We are all someone's father, someone's brother, someone's son...]" he paused to glance to someone in the crowd. "[No need for that look, Fryyd! You know damn well what I mean! Brothers and sisters, let us do our ancestors proud the best way we can - by living! A new year is born tonight, and she knows just as we do that death is coming. I give a promise to this young year; you will live forever, as will we all, for no-one dies as long as they are remembered! Let us remember this year; remember all who gathered here; remember all who we have spoken of! Remember, brothers and sisters, for one day they will tell tales of us in such a hall as this...]" Raising his glass of beer high, Wodka roared, "[Remember the dead!]" His toast was returned with enthusiasm. Wodka departed the stage to let the band take over once more - dodging a spiteful kick by the violinist in the process - and the party changed in a heartbeat. It was still the same celebration, but the sense of formality had gone; now it was just another excuse to drink and sing and make merry. "Time to go home I suppose." Matt said, noting how drowsy his boys had become. They thanked Wodka for the invitation on the way out, gathered their coats and braved the cold once more.

Around a table stacked high with empty bottles, Wodka and his friends sat and discussed business. "[A real Noble, eh? He could be useful.]" Fryyd said as she polished off yet another bottle. Half nodded in agreement. "[Get him to found a House, get it recognised by Urokon - if what you said is true, Wodka, he has the contacts to do that - and we will have ourselves a fine boost to business!]" "[And political power.]" Broot added. His wife shook her head dismissively. "[Don't even think of it, dear; you've not got the brains for politics. Leave that to me.]" Wodka chuckled, letting plans roll across his inner vision one after another. "[I think Vaahn will be a useful friend to have... let us drink to him, and the profit he'll bring us!]" "[To Vaahn!]" the group answered, each of them seeing themselves as a future Lord of Icara.