In the far distant future two galactic powers, the Commonwealth and the Union, engage in a deadly dalliance for control of every know and established galaxy.
Rylen Thompson doesn't pay much attention to the why behind the war, he's too busy surviving on the fount as one of the Union's time traveling Kahkorr Soldiers. It's taken him a lifetime to carve his place in the galaxy, and along with his Phalanx who he considers family, he knows to keep it the questions must be kept at bay. Yet after a mission gone wrong, Rylen's Phalanx must begin to question everything - who to trust, what to do, and most importantly how to survive. With alies dead, many actively attempting their murder, and old enemies the only ones holding answers, questions are the only plentiful things. Answers, however, are in short supply. |
Classified Assignment
WIP, Kylior's story is giving me grief as I write it. Currently at two chapters at about 7,500 words
Characters involved: Kylior (page located on The Union) Writing Type: Closed, I don't commission people to write this. Status: This is fully written by me and I concentrate on it when I'm not working on Darkest Minds. I may rewrite the whole thing because it's not fitting some ideas/what I want it to be. Idk, I don't like it that much. |
Chapter One
A memory, for the man who is soldier first scientist second eternally, has one foot in past and the other present, so the cruelest irony makes him fully devoted to neither:
“It’ll be a moment,” his father sighs, fishing his keys out of his pocket, “I just have to get some notes.” The facilities reliance on objects as outdated as keys is something to ponder while he looks down the deserted lab corridor. Narrow and unadorned, lit dimly with soft phloresents that fizz occasionally, it’s far from state of the art. The tile steals his bodies' precious heat, and it is that reason alone that the six-year-old edges closer to the only other living thing in the vicinity.
The door opens without ceremony, revealing a substantially larger room, though not any warmer. His eyes burn as they adjust to the sudden brightness and his father brushes past him - mind already ten steps head on other matters. Even illuminated, this area is darker than the outside hall, the stone floor which folds into stone walls (and what he would assume to be a stone ceiling, it looms so far above his head, shrouded in darkness even with the hanging lights, that he can’t make it out). With caution he enters, careful not to touch any of the scattered notes taped to the walls, it’s the first time he’s been here - his father’s sanctuary - and it’s not what he had expected.
Well, maybe he thinks as he observes his father absentmindedly search for something on a desk that looks no less crowded when he tosses a folder on the floor.
Towering file cabinets square around the entryway and obscure the rest of the lab from his view, but he can tell from the several desks (all as paper clad as the first), swivel chairs, and wastebaskets overflowing with crumpled sketches that they’ll be here for a while.
Easily, he is able to spot his father's handwriting, it stands out from the others because of it's neat sloping curve - his co-workers’ are barely legible, all jagged edges and condensed shapes. Table to table he wanders, peering at the various scraps of parchment and notebooks filled to the brim with what seem to be stages of embryonic development?
He hasn’t spent much time thinking about what it is that his father does. Genetic Enhancement and Modification sounds fancy, especially when you attach supervisor in front of it and the fact that it's at one of the Union’s largest biotechnology companies - Mictctech. But what does he do here? Hours upon hours are spent in this very lab instead of at home, and for the life of him he can't figure out why. Surrounded by the musty scent of paper and assaulted by the lights?
In front of him, the file cabinets perpendicularly fold inwards, nearly completely enclosing them. He makes his way over to where the cabinets stop, the reason for the observation of nearly. There’s a small space, about the size of an upright file cabinet, that is barren, creating an entrance to what seems to be another part of the lab. Forgetting all adages about cats and curiosity, he walks through.
Surprise stalls his steps as he takes in what makes this place, well, a laboratory. Under the harsh light sit cylindrical wide glass tubes filled with fluid slightly thicker than water. In the nearest one, a string of bubbles race through the syrupy substance, making a break towards the surface which is heads higher than his. And these containers fill all available space in the vastness, for as far as the lab stretches they are spaced evenly apart - some with notes taped to them, others color coded. The real interest, however, lies with the inhabitants of these tubes.
Each is filled with a person, different stages of life ranging from infants to children to young adults and then stopping as if they go somewhere once they're old enough, floating in the center and attached with various tubes.
So this is what his father does.
He shouldn't be this surprised.
Resuming his wandering, he glances at each container, noting that they seem to be arranged by age and gender - the youngest to the front, growing older and he continues forward with females on the left and males on the right. The air here is so cold, and each step he takes echos slightly - how large is this place?
Mindlessly he journeys, fingers brushing against the glass - leaving a trail of smudges in his wake. A tap vibrates from where he made contact slightly too hard, and he jumps stumbling in the broken silence. When he corrected himself, something doesn’t feel right and his eyes are drawn to the tube in front of him and the girl in it.
She’s old, for here at least, late teens, white tresses cascade around her slender frame suspended unnaturally in the liquid. A fair word to describe her, actually, unnatural. Taking a step closer to rest a hand against her cage, he contemplates the girl in front of him. The structure of her face isn’t human, it’s sharp, dangerous looking and made frightening by the pointed, elven ears her snowy hair is tucked behind. Ivory fangs curl in front of her lips, coming to knife sharp points, and contrast against her polished umber skin.
His eyes trail to hers and he holds back a gasp, robin eye blue irises sit on top sickly yellow scleras pupils absent, but it’s not that which steals his breath, they’re open.
“Ah ha!” Comes a cry from the front room, his father’s found the files apparently. Silence reclaims the room, while blue eyes face brown and he forgets to breathe. “Rye,” his name, the first crop the Union genetically modified, comes through the chamber and he manages a squeaky here. “I swear,” the voice loudens to match the approaching footsteps. “The Swinsdons need to understand that I have other cases, just because I made one error in the genome sequence.” He huffs, a tired yet mildly amused sound, “Like can’t they be happy if their daughter has hazel instead of green? I made all of the other modifications. Some people.” The sound is almost on top of him now and he lets out a shaky breath.
“Dad.”
“Rye,” a rusle, even with his eyes locked on the girls he can picture his father frowning at his watch, suit crumpled, Orange Classification stripes standing starkly against his jacket.
“Dad.”
“Rylen.” It’s slightly less enthusiastic, more parental less friendly, and he knows that his father thinks his precious time is now being wasted.
He gets out, “She, the Mogs’s, looking at me.”
A chuckle and a hand is rested on his shoulder - the place where two years from now his Classification will sit - he starts. “First off it’s a Genetically Enhanced and Artificially Curated Specimen, not a Mog. That vernacular is slang that’s demeaning to the time I’ve spent creating the life form. Second, it is not a she. It’s been created in my laboratory with germ cells not belonging to any Union Citizen - ones created in a lab - thus not a human and we cite it as such. Third, it's not looking at you, it's nearly ready to exit incubation and be shipped out. All specimens open their eyes at this stage.” He pauses, and Rylen wrenches his gaze to his father. His usual diselvedness seems to be less prominent, in this environment he shines. At home with his Yellow Classified wife rarely does Geneticists Thompson ever speak of his intellectual pursuits. He wonders if his father wants his Classification to be one with a high intellect trait because the man looks years younger and a whole lot happier now that he's expressed interest in one of his projects. “But I'm glad that you picked specimen Lax to question me about. I was actually going to show it to you, I'm quite proud.”
“She's, it's,” he amends, trying to find an adequate word, “interesting.”
His father huffs and his arm settles into a comfortable side hug around his neck, moving them into a side by side position to view Lax. “That's one way to describe it. Lax’s a genetically engineered advanced strike unit, a” his face twists in disapproval, “Military Mog as they say. In a few weeks, it's being shipped to the front.”
His gaze once again focuses on his father, “She's going to fight the Commonwealth?” The idea is intriguing, Rylen knows about the war of course. Everyone does, yet he knows about it in a vague it's happening sense, nothing explicit. It's a credit to his parents that they’ve managed to keep their child innocently in the dark about the other galactic power threatening annihilation.
“Of course,” comes the pleased response, and he knows his father is excited by his awe. The scientist in him puffing like a proud peacock at his work being appreciated, “Note Lax's enhancements. The obvious ones, fangs, and heat insulated hair - usefulness self-explanatory. Also, the eyes - allowing vision in almost total darkness, nothing new of course, removing the pupils on Strike Units is old tech. But all Specimens have them, it’s a dominant trait.” His father pauses, leaning into Rylen slightly, as he gestures at Lax, “If you look a little closer, you can see how the body is lean and the hips are broad with the legs significantly longer than an unmodified human. It can reach a speed of 40 miles per hour. Under the surface, large lungs mean it can hold it’s breath for up to three minutes. While a slow metabolism ensures it can go two weeks without eating before feeling the effects of starvation, three weeks without hydration before death.” The stream of information slows, and Rylen stares at Lax, she or it or whatever is amazing, “In summary, completely above all other specimens on the market. Oh, and it's life expectancy has been increased by a third to nearly twelve years.”
Rylen’s breath catches, twelve years? That’s awfully short, even to him, whose only lived half that time. “Come on Rye,” his father says, slipping his arm away, shoes already clacking away, leaving his son to stare up at the girl or rather specimen who in a short time will begin her short life which will undoubtedly be harder than his will ever be.
He reluctantly trails after his father and swears that he can still feel her gaze long after he’s left the lab.
And still, he shivers, now, as similar eyes bore into him:
“Rylen Thompson,” a pleasant, though a little too preppy for six thirty, voice greets. He forces his eyes to focus, while the girl gestures for him to remove his wrist from under the scanner. The port is busy, with recently landed Citizens waiting to be granted re-entry to the planet that serves as the Union’s base of government.
The attendant before him is young, and nothing is an immediate tell that she’s a Mog. But Rylen’s the son of a Biological Modifier, and certain things like the way she perches herself in her chair - too tense to be comfortable, on the cusp of the end in a way that would lend her time to run if need be - and the tilt of her head as she takes him in - bird-like, listening to him, while also paying attention to the rest of the noisy Capitol Port - clues him in.
Also, the obvious sign - the lack of pupils, though since she’s of the pleasure variant her sclera's are white - is evident when she pushes her sunglasses down to observe him.
From behind her desk she smiles, and he finds himself frowning at the gesture. He doesn’t like Pleasure Mogs, doesn’t understand their purpose. Why create genetically engineer specimens then not take it a step further and make them superior? The other two subclasses of Mogs, Military and Labor, differ greatly from regular Citizens, with modifications that help them on the front or with their strenuous work. But Pleasures, they just are. They fill undesirable jobs, nothing beneficial, Rylen can’t for the life of him see the need for them.
It seems almost sad, to create Mogs who exist under terrible conditions, with no exact endgame in mind.
His father never made Pleasure Mogs, there’s little enjoyable work in the creation of them - they look like humans, though with extravagant hair, skin and eye colors.
In fact, there’s not that much difference between a Pleasure Mog and a Citizen with a Disparate Bloodline. The people who were modified before birth, their parent tweaking their eye and hair colors and sometimes even modifying the embryo's facial structure and height. Something else he finds distasteful, though he supposes there is something to be said about a little modification here and there. He himself has a Pure Bloodline, no modification by his ancestors whatsoever, but he’s in the minority. Most Citizens of the Union have a Disparate Bloodline.
At least they're not Impures, bloodlines who have actually mixed with Mogs.
“Pardon?” He asks the girl, retreating from his thoughts at her annoyed huff.
She lifts her olive eyes from the computer screen to glare at him, her fingers leave the keyboard as she lifts her arms to rest her elbows on the desk. From behind him the long stretching line grumbles and Rylen can’t help but feel a twinge of pity. She’s probably running on about three hours of sleep, if her disheveled appearance is anything to go off, and if she’s a tenth as frazzled as her sunset curls it wouldn’t hurt him to be kinder. The Mog didn’t ask to be made, she didn’t ask to get an Assignment at the port welcoming and scrutinizing Citizens as they touched back down on the planet, she certainly didn’t ask to be dealing with Rylen and his multitude of problems the least of which is the meeting he’s about to be late to.
“I asked you your Classification.”
For a moment he’s confused before it hits him. On his way back to the capital planet he must have forgotten to change back into his uniform. Half dressed, probably rather disheveled looking, with his untucked white shirt and crumpled grey trousers. His jacket is missing, left on the shuttle, which means his shoulder stripes, the color of his Classification, that every Citizen is required by law to have on their shoulders are absent, another reason for everyone’s apparent annoyance with him today. To not have your Classification explicitly shown is incredibly rude, Rylen’s surprised he hasn’t been told off yet. “It’s Green,” he tells her, slightly embarrassed by his oversight.
“You know,” her voice comes over the tapping of the keys, she’s probably putting a reprimand on his record, “We don’t get many off world Greens coming to Providence, where are you coming from?”
A slight smile manages to worm its way on his face at her curiosity, it’s one thing he’s always loved about Mogs ever eager to learn and never shy about questions, “Adicia. It’s where I relayed information after I left the front.”
The tapping stops, and her gaze latches onto him, “You’re a soldier.”
He shrugs, “A Kahkorr, but yeah.” She doesn’t seem that surprised, faced with a man who has jumped through time. Though most people don’t really think about Kahkorrs in that respect, they’re more like highly esteemed soldiers. For people to examine what he does would mean knowing that there’s a way back to the past, that some people have the power to get there, and there’s potential to change everything. It isn’t something the common Citizen can fathom without a crisis, so the Union keeps it under the radar.
“What’s that like?” The frown reforms, the small talk becoming too much of an integration for Rylen’s liking. He shrugs, even though she’s once again focused on the computer.
“What’s it like being a Mog?” If she’s surprised it doesn’t show, instead she merely hits a key with a flourish and his Planetary Identification Wristlet - grey and cold and metallic on his right hand - begins the sentence scrawl of ‘Welcome to Providence”. Olive eyes fixate on him, intense and prying, much too serious for someone whose most likely been alive for only a few years.
She’s silent for a long time, before declaring with finality, “It’s empty. If that makes any sense. What’s it like being a Green?”
The question takes him back slightly, but then again Mogs are never given Classifications. The life-changing event that every Citizen of the Union undergoes doesn’t happen for them. No one’s ever asked him, a citizen asking another citizen that is like asking them what it's like to be alive.
What is it like? He’s never known anything else, “It’s everything I am,” he tells her after a moment, hoping that it satiates her curiosity.
Thoughtfully nodding, she gestures for him to proceed into the planet. “United we conquer.” She intones to him as he turns to leave, the Union phrase sounding strange on the lips of a Mog who will never be part of their ‘United Planets’.
“United we conquer.” He replies as a farewell, but her attention is already on the next arriving Citizen.
“It’ll be a moment,” his father sighs, fishing his keys out of his pocket, “I just have to get some notes.” The facilities reliance on objects as outdated as keys is something to ponder while he looks down the deserted lab corridor. Narrow and unadorned, lit dimly with soft phloresents that fizz occasionally, it’s far from state of the art. The tile steals his bodies' precious heat, and it is that reason alone that the six-year-old edges closer to the only other living thing in the vicinity.
The door opens without ceremony, revealing a substantially larger room, though not any warmer. His eyes burn as they adjust to the sudden brightness and his father brushes past him - mind already ten steps head on other matters. Even illuminated, this area is darker than the outside hall, the stone floor which folds into stone walls (and what he would assume to be a stone ceiling, it looms so far above his head, shrouded in darkness even with the hanging lights, that he can’t make it out). With caution he enters, careful not to touch any of the scattered notes taped to the walls, it’s the first time he’s been here - his father’s sanctuary - and it’s not what he had expected.
Well, maybe he thinks as he observes his father absentmindedly search for something on a desk that looks no less crowded when he tosses a folder on the floor.
Towering file cabinets square around the entryway and obscure the rest of the lab from his view, but he can tell from the several desks (all as paper clad as the first), swivel chairs, and wastebaskets overflowing with crumpled sketches that they’ll be here for a while.
Easily, he is able to spot his father's handwriting, it stands out from the others because of it's neat sloping curve - his co-workers’ are barely legible, all jagged edges and condensed shapes. Table to table he wanders, peering at the various scraps of parchment and notebooks filled to the brim with what seem to be stages of embryonic development?
He hasn’t spent much time thinking about what it is that his father does. Genetic Enhancement and Modification sounds fancy, especially when you attach supervisor in front of it and the fact that it's at one of the Union’s largest biotechnology companies - Mictctech. But what does he do here? Hours upon hours are spent in this very lab instead of at home, and for the life of him he can't figure out why. Surrounded by the musty scent of paper and assaulted by the lights?
In front of him, the file cabinets perpendicularly fold inwards, nearly completely enclosing them. He makes his way over to where the cabinets stop, the reason for the observation of nearly. There’s a small space, about the size of an upright file cabinet, that is barren, creating an entrance to what seems to be another part of the lab. Forgetting all adages about cats and curiosity, he walks through.
Surprise stalls his steps as he takes in what makes this place, well, a laboratory. Under the harsh light sit cylindrical wide glass tubes filled with fluid slightly thicker than water. In the nearest one, a string of bubbles race through the syrupy substance, making a break towards the surface which is heads higher than his. And these containers fill all available space in the vastness, for as far as the lab stretches they are spaced evenly apart - some with notes taped to them, others color coded. The real interest, however, lies with the inhabitants of these tubes.
Each is filled with a person, different stages of life ranging from infants to children to young adults and then stopping as if they go somewhere once they're old enough, floating in the center and attached with various tubes.
So this is what his father does.
He shouldn't be this surprised.
Resuming his wandering, he glances at each container, noting that they seem to be arranged by age and gender - the youngest to the front, growing older and he continues forward with females on the left and males on the right. The air here is so cold, and each step he takes echos slightly - how large is this place?
Mindlessly he journeys, fingers brushing against the glass - leaving a trail of smudges in his wake. A tap vibrates from where he made contact slightly too hard, and he jumps stumbling in the broken silence. When he corrected himself, something doesn’t feel right and his eyes are drawn to the tube in front of him and the girl in it.
She’s old, for here at least, late teens, white tresses cascade around her slender frame suspended unnaturally in the liquid. A fair word to describe her, actually, unnatural. Taking a step closer to rest a hand against her cage, he contemplates the girl in front of him. The structure of her face isn’t human, it’s sharp, dangerous looking and made frightening by the pointed, elven ears her snowy hair is tucked behind. Ivory fangs curl in front of her lips, coming to knife sharp points, and contrast against her polished umber skin.
His eyes trail to hers and he holds back a gasp, robin eye blue irises sit on top sickly yellow scleras pupils absent, but it’s not that which steals his breath, they’re open.
“Ah ha!” Comes a cry from the front room, his father’s found the files apparently. Silence reclaims the room, while blue eyes face brown and he forgets to breathe. “Rye,” his name, the first crop the Union genetically modified, comes through the chamber and he manages a squeaky here. “I swear,” the voice loudens to match the approaching footsteps. “The Swinsdons need to understand that I have other cases, just because I made one error in the genome sequence.” He huffs, a tired yet mildly amused sound, “Like can’t they be happy if their daughter has hazel instead of green? I made all of the other modifications. Some people.” The sound is almost on top of him now and he lets out a shaky breath.
“Dad.”
“Rye,” a rusle, even with his eyes locked on the girls he can picture his father frowning at his watch, suit crumpled, Orange Classification stripes standing starkly against his jacket.
“Dad.”
“Rylen.” It’s slightly less enthusiastic, more parental less friendly, and he knows that his father thinks his precious time is now being wasted.
He gets out, “She, the Mogs’s, looking at me.”
A chuckle and a hand is rested on his shoulder - the place where two years from now his Classification will sit - he starts. “First off it’s a Genetically Enhanced and Artificially Curated Specimen, not a Mog. That vernacular is slang that’s demeaning to the time I’ve spent creating the life form. Second, it is not a she. It’s been created in my laboratory with germ cells not belonging to any Union Citizen - ones created in a lab - thus not a human and we cite it as such. Third, it's not looking at you, it's nearly ready to exit incubation and be shipped out. All specimens open their eyes at this stage.” He pauses, and Rylen wrenches his gaze to his father. His usual diselvedness seems to be less prominent, in this environment he shines. At home with his Yellow Classified wife rarely does Geneticists Thompson ever speak of his intellectual pursuits. He wonders if his father wants his Classification to be one with a high intellect trait because the man looks years younger and a whole lot happier now that he's expressed interest in one of his projects. “But I'm glad that you picked specimen Lax to question me about. I was actually going to show it to you, I'm quite proud.”
“She's, it's,” he amends, trying to find an adequate word, “interesting.”
His father huffs and his arm settles into a comfortable side hug around his neck, moving them into a side by side position to view Lax. “That's one way to describe it. Lax’s a genetically engineered advanced strike unit, a” his face twists in disapproval, “Military Mog as they say. In a few weeks, it's being shipped to the front.”
His gaze once again focuses on his father, “She's going to fight the Commonwealth?” The idea is intriguing, Rylen knows about the war of course. Everyone does, yet he knows about it in a vague it's happening sense, nothing explicit. It's a credit to his parents that they’ve managed to keep their child innocently in the dark about the other galactic power threatening annihilation.
“Of course,” comes the pleased response, and he knows his father is excited by his awe. The scientist in him puffing like a proud peacock at his work being appreciated, “Note Lax's enhancements. The obvious ones, fangs, and heat insulated hair - usefulness self-explanatory. Also, the eyes - allowing vision in almost total darkness, nothing new of course, removing the pupils on Strike Units is old tech. But all Specimens have them, it’s a dominant trait.” His father pauses, leaning into Rylen slightly, as he gestures at Lax, “If you look a little closer, you can see how the body is lean and the hips are broad with the legs significantly longer than an unmodified human. It can reach a speed of 40 miles per hour. Under the surface, large lungs mean it can hold it’s breath for up to three minutes. While a slow metabolism ensures it can go two weeks without eating before feeling the effects of starvation, three weeks without hydration before death.” The stream of information slows, and Rylen stares at Lax, she or it or whatever is amazing, “In summary, completely above all other specimens on the market. Oh, and it's life expectancy has been increased by a third to nearly twelve years.”
Rylen’s breath catches, twelve years? That’s awfully short, even to him, whose only lived half that time. “Come on Rye,” his father says, slipping his arm away, shoes already clacking away, leaving his son to stare up at the girl or rather specimen who in a short time will begin her short life which will undoubtedly be harder than his will ever be.
He reluctantly trails after his father and swears that he can still feel her gaze long after he’s left the lab.
And still, he shivers, now, as similar eyes bore into him:
“Rylen Thompson,” a pleasant, though a little too preppy for six thirty, voice greets. He forces his eyes to focus, while the girl gestures for him to remove his wrist from under the scanner. The port is busy, with recently landed Citizens waiting to be granted re-entry to the planet that serves as the Union’s base of government.
The attendant before him is young, and nothing is an immediate tell that she’s a Mog. But Rylen’s the son of a Biological Modifier, and certain things like the way she perches herself in her chair - too tense to be comfortable, on the cusp of the end in a way that would lend her time to run if need be - and the tilt of her head as she takes him in - bird-like, listening to him, while also paying attention to the rest of the noisy Capitol Port - clues him in.
Also, the obvious sign - the lack of pupils, though since she’s of the pleasure variant her sclera's are white - is evident when she pushes her sunglasses down to observe him.
From behind her desk she smiles, and he finds himself frowning at the gesture. He doesn’t like Pleasure Mogs, doesn’t understand their purpose. Why create genetically engineer specimens then not take it a step further and make them superior? The other two subclasses of Mogs, Military and Labor, differ greatly from regular Citizens, with modifications that help them on the front or with their strenuous work. But Pleasures, they just are. They fill undesirable jobs, nothing beneficial, Rylen can’t for the life of him see the need for them.
It seems almost sad, to create Mogs who exist under terrible conditions, with no exact endgame in mind.
His father never made Pleasure Mogs, there’s little enjoyable work in the creation of them - they look like humans, though with extravagant hair, skin and eye colors.
In fact, there’s not that much difference between a Pleasure Mog and a Citizen with a Disparate Bloodline. The people who were modified before birth, their parent tweaking their eye and hair colors and sometimes even modifying the embryo's facial structure and height. Something else he finds distasteful, though he supposes there is something to be said about a little modification here and there. He himself has a Pure Bloodline, no modification by his ancestors whatsoever, but he’s in the minority. Most Citizens of the Union have a Disparate Bloodline.
At least they're not Impures, bloodlines who have actually mixed with Mogs.
“Pardon?” He asks the girl, retreating from his thoughts at her annoyed huff.
She lifts her olive eyes from the computer screen to glare at him, her fingers leave the keyboard as she lifts her arms to rest her elbows on the desk. From behind him the long stretching line grumbles and Rylen can’t help but feel a twinge of pity. She’s probably running on about three hours of sleep, if her disheveled appearance is anything to go off, and if she’s a tenth as frazzled as her sunset curls it wouldn’t hurt him to be kinder. The Mog didn’t ask to be made, she didn’t ask to get an Assignment at the port welcoming and scrutinizing Citizens as they touched back down on the planet, she certainly didn’t ask to be dealing with Rylen and his multitude of problems the least of which is the meeting he’s about to be late to.
“I asked you your Classification.”
For a moment he’s confused before it hits him. On his way back to the capital planet he must have forgotten to change back into his uniform. Half dressed, probably rather disheveled looking, with his untucked white shirt and crumpled grey trousers. His jacket is missing, left on the shuttle, which means his shoulder stripes, the color of his Classification, that every Citizen is required by law to have on their shoulders are absent, another reason for everyone’s apparent annoyance with him today. To not have your Classification explicitly shown is incredibly rude, Rylen’s surprised he hasn’t been told off yet. “It’s Green,” he tells her, slightly embarrassed by his oversight.
“You know,” her voice comes over the tapping of the keys, she’s probably putting a reprimand on his record, “We don’t get many off world Greens coming to Providence, where are you coming from?”
A slight smile manages to worm its way on his face at her curiosity, it’s one thing he’s always loved about Mogs ever eager to learn and never shy about questions, “Adicia. It’s where I relayed information after I left the front.”
The tapping stops, and her gaze latches onto him, “You’re a soldier.”
He shrugs, “A Kahkorr, but yeah.” She doesn’t seem that surprised, faced with a man who has jumped through time. Though most people don’t really think about Kahkorrs in that respect, they’re more like highly esteemed soldiers. For people to examine what he does would mean knowing that there’s a way back to the past, that some people have the power to get there, and there’s potential to change everything. It isn’t something the common Citizen can fathom without a crisis, so the Union keeps it under the radar.
“What’s that like?” The frown reforms, the small talk becoming too much of an integration for Rylen’s liking. He shrugs, even though she’s once again focused on the computer.
“What’s it like being a Mog?” If she’s surprised it doesn’t show, instead she merely hits a key with a flourish and his Planetary Identification Wristlet - grey and cold and metallic on his right hand - begins the sentence scrawl of ‘Welcome to Providence”. Olive eyes fixate on him, intense and prying, much too serious for someone whose most likely been alive for only a few years.
She’s silent for a long time, before declaring with finality, “It’s empty. If that makes any sense. What’s it like being a Green?”
The question takes him back slightly, but then again Mogs are never given Classifications. The life-changing event that every Citizen of the Union undergoes doesn’t happen for them. No one’s ever asked him, a citizen asking another citizen that is like asking them what it's like to be alive.
What is it like? He’s never known anything else, “It’s everything I am,” he tells her after a moment, hoping that it satiates her curiosity.
Thoughtfully nodding, she gestures for him to proceed into the planet. “United we conquer.” She intones to him as he turns to leave, the Union phrase sounding strange on the lips of a Mog who will never be part of their ‘United Planets’.
“United we conquer.” He replies as a farewell, but her attention is already on the next arriving Citizen.
Chapter Two
The Mog’s question plagues him as he walks, rather quickly he’s increasingly late, to his meeting. Rylen’s been a Green since he was eight, the standard age for a child to take the Classification test.
It’s not uncommon to be a Green, and it’s not particularly undesirable - it just is.
The pristine grey streets of Providence pass him by, but Rylen, for once, is too involved with his thoughts to marvel at the glamour. Against a backdrop of towering, twisting, skyscrapers, a picture-perfect blue sky lit with the golden warmth of the solar systems nearby red sun, an analysis of Classifications takes place in his mind.
He isn’t certain if anyone knows for sure how or when Classifications originated. Most agree it was likely after humans left their home galaxy. By giving Citizens Classifications it ensures their society is as fulfilling as it can be for everyone. Your Classification plays a role in everything. From the little things like offering suggestions of foods based on previous Classification preference to determining a person’s lifetime job or Assignment. Often, it dictates who your friends will be as some Classifications get along better than others and who you will marry.
Without Classifications the Union would fall apart, how else would people know who they are? What they’re supposed to do?
Eleven traits or aptitudes determine a person’s classification: honesty, temperament, leadership, intelligence, empathy, decisiveness, loyalty, cooperation, credulous, and socialness. The Classification test determines how high or low (on a scale of one to ten) that person is with each trait. The system works, he has never encountered anyone who they were improperly Classified. Still, a part of him wonders if a ten question test is sufficient. Especially since some Classifications come with such stigmas.
Every time he meets someone or passes a stranger on the street, their eyes immediately flit to his shoulders. Without fail, the first impression he makes consists of what his Classification is.
And Green isn’t a terrible Classification.
It’s just that balance is always a primary goal of the Union in all things - marriage, war, pleasure - and Classifications are no different. Having a medium scored aptitude, or a result of four through seven on the Classification test, are desired.
Too much of something is always bad, while too little is as well. That’s why being Green, with five medium scored apitutes and five high scored aptitudes is decent - but not the best.
He is jolted from his thoughts by the slight shake of his Planetary Identification Wristlet, which each morning inks a green hue on itself and flashes, Green Kahkorr Rylen Thompson. It now declares that the meetings began, before the text disappears in a cloud of green.
Green. It’s always Green, isn’t it?
He reasons that both his tardiness and Green Classification aren't a horrible thing. Rylen isn’t too far from the Union Armed Forces Headquarters, a few minutes at most. Hopefully, his absence won’t be noticed.
In a perfect scenario, he’ll be able to blame his lateness on forgetting how odd Providence is in terms of transportation. The marvel of the modern world is a no-fly zone, ships have to be parked in three main ports (a few notable exceptions being the armed forces bay), while also not allowing any kind of automobiles. Covered in sidewalks, greenery, and shop windows, the place is devoid of roads. If you want to go anywhere you either walk or hop on the public trams whose tracks crisscross the sky like the looming branches of a great oak.
He’s heading to the heart of the city, crowds growing thicker and the railways above him condensing into an almost canopy - sunlight dappling onto the grey pavement. Through the throng of people, he can make out his destination. A point where the sidewalk ends in a roundabout colodisack revealing the Hall of Justice, Court of Legislature, and the Headquarters of Union Forces. Each shines like polished silver, and though they are vastly different in terms of infrastructure they complement one another. As the place of the Union’s government should.
The squat, wide Headquarters nears and he picks up the pace further, almost in a run. Rylen’s not dangerously late. And certainly out of the eleven possible Classifications, Green is probably the best (though others would definitely negate that.)
His five medium traits mean he has been deemed emotionally stable, not unfeeling like Blues or too aggressive like Reds, he knows when to lead and when to step back not controlling like Blacks or too passive like Yellows, his intelligence isn’t high enough be a threat but he has enough wits to get by, when faced with a new person he isn’t too quick to trust, and he takes facts into consideration before acting - far from risk taker Reds, or over calculating Oranges.
These are all good things. Mediums are inherently good things. It's to be expected then, that Greys, the only Classification to have all medium scored aptitudes, are considered the best. He can remember back in school before the Classification results how everyone wanted Grey. With his knowledge now, Rylen knows that Grey is not all glory, he wouldn’t want the pressure that comes from having the rarest, and often most sought after Classification.
Rylen has no low traits, and that he is thankful for - not to be an all low White, indecisive and passive and untrustworthy. Although high traits are just as bad - Blacks, with their expressive erratic emotions, are as frowned upon.
The classic ‘Green’ personality, comes from his high ranked aptitudes. He’s too honest, too much of a bleeding heart, too loyal to his friends, too talkative and too willing to sacrifice his beliefs for the ease of others. It makes him the perfect team player, but not a very great leader. He doesn’t know when to give up on soldiers or count a man dead.
And he is fine with that, better to be a feeling Green than a heartless White or an explosive Black.
Just sometimes it irks him, that others see Green before they even see him. People already have preconceived ideas about Greens and before they even meet him they think they know who exactly who he is. Sometimes Rylen has to bite his tongue to keep from retorting and letting out his own conclusions about their Classifications.
Another calculating Blue, he really needed to be judged today. An explosive, hot-headed, uncooperative Red? How great. Greys are great, perfect, with their inflated egos and self-importance. Hey, Oranges not every conclusion about the world can be learned by facts.
He doesn’t, of course, maybe it’s all that Green in him. Rylen wishes people would see him before his Classification. How because he’s a Green doesn’t mean he’s perpetually happy or dumb because he trusts others.
And it's not to say he doesn't fall into the trap of hypocrisy. Something to consider, his own want of individuality while painting broad assumptions of everyone else. Maybe that's what being Green is idealistic thoughts with mundane actions - walking examples of doing as I say not as I do.
The Classifications should take another aptitude into consideration, something about wandering retorial thoughts. Because once Rylen’s reached the entrance to where he needs to be he's ten minutes late.
It’s a small room, where the delegation is taking place. Simple and windowless, a rather tiny rectangular oak desk sits in the middle - four chairs are placed parallel to one another on the two longer sides, with another at the head.
Maybe it’s a massive room made small by the larger than life people seated at the table.
No one notices his entry, but he performs the Union salute anyway. Slamming his curled left fist over his heart, and then the splayed palm of his right over it. The following thump and slap of Rylen’s salute go unacknowledged, but he feels better knowing that he did it. The meanings there to signify ‘I fight only for the Honor of the Union’, and when Rylen dips his head towards the table it means ‘I fight for the United glory of us’. Its a rule of thumb to salute those who you find honorable and worthy. After the disrespect of not bearing his Classification on his shoulders, he needs to tread carefully with people of such high esteem.
And there are none more deserving of his admiration that the four Councilors of the Union and the Matriarch.
The elected Councillors squabble among themselves, fierce and loud in their talks, they draw all the attention of the room. In a way, Rylen’s glad it’s on them instead of him, but he knows they aren't the ones he needs to please. The head of the table, the absolute ruler of the universe, the Union’s Matriarch, Jonathan Smiths observes the proceedings with a vulture-like gaze. While the Councilors are elected by the people, earning their positions through acts of bravery, honor, and loyalty, the Matriarch is an Assignment given only to those with a Matriarchal Bloodline.
The Smiths have defended that line for over seven generations, a feat none before have accomplished. Jonathan is the greatest Matriarch the Union has ever had. The Union has thrived and spread under his leadership, while the Commonwealth has lost significant ground of the front because of his strategic thinking. The honor he has brought upon their worlds is staggering.
Rylen can count on his fingers how many times he’s been in the man’s presence. He serves the Blue Councilor as a Kahkorr - it is almost unheard of that such meetings take place, where the Matriarch is in attendance with all the Councillors. If Rylen had known the scale of this meeting he would have been here days in advance.
The aging man’s eyes flit for a second from the Councilors, and he is struck by the calculation and depth of the emerald gaze. The Matricah is large, solid and scared - the result of many victories Rylen has no doubt - but there is deep intelligence under that brawn. Under his scrutiny, he knows why their leader has been Classified a Grey
What does he see, Rylen wonders. A scrawny gentitist’s son whose barely old enough to drink? A tired soldier whose regretting not combing his wild brown hair into something resembling control? The brown eyes of a pure bloodline? One thing's for certain, the Matriarch notes the absence of his Classification.
After what feels like ages, the Defender of the United Planets, Concour of the Front, Wedder of Mogs turns back to the table and Rylen can once again breathe.
There’s no seat for him at the table, he notes, but that’s to be expected. As a Kahkorr he isn’t on the same level as the Councilors. He can remember though when he and his team used to gather for weekly briefings with the former Blue Councilor. Reis treated them as equals, which was honorable in his own way. Less so when he died on the front along with the common soldiers and military mogs, leaving Rylen with the newly elected Ryan Jos as a Councillor.
Ryan’s alright, he has strong morals and a clear vision of the Union, but he isn’t Reis. Maybe it’s because he’s of Disparate bloodline, and thinks in the majority world of pure blooded politics everyone is out to get him.
Though you would think, being a rational Blue, Ryan would understand that his Kahkorrs aren't going to murder him.
While the newest and youngest of the Counselors sits at the table, Rylen's expected to stand, again nothing new, and finds comfort in the fact that there are already three others standing off to the side. Though it’s expected that his Phalanx is here, it nonetheless brings a sense of safety.
Kahkorrs, because of the energy needed to operate their weapons called Ujians, work in teams, a Phalanx. Team is a rather weak word for the bond a Kahkorr should have with their Phalanx. To Rylen, Phalanx is synonymous with everything he has to protect, everything that he has in life, everyone he cares about and can trust wholeheartedly. On the front, on missions, his Phalanx is the only thing that keeps him alive. His Phalanx is his family, it’s everything.
Not to say that he doesn’t hate them sometimes, but they’re more than can be defined. A bond stronger than blood, or legal papers, or words.
Phalanxes consist of five members, never more typically never less. Each Councilor and the Matriarch has a Phalanx, meaning that at any given time no more than twenty-five Kahkorrs exist.
They’re leaning against the wall, watching, instead of the proceedings, their unofficial leader approach.
Beckett is nearest and gestures to his lack of shoulder patches, then at his Black ones as if to say Rylen can take his. He rolls his eyes at his unofficial second in command earning a smile. When he first met Beck, it was like looking into a mirror same dull brown hair and eyes. Though his fellow Phalanx member, with his rash actions and borderline insane decisions on the front, isn’t as similar personality wise as everyone likes to say. Nowadays, Beck’s cut his hair adopting a more militaristic style and his eyes are wary, laughing less.
But if he looks, Rylen can still spot the child that shaved his head during the night.
His second member, Thrana taps Beck on the shoulder, drawing his attention away. She points to the table, and in the sign language, they as a Phalanx developed when younger says Pay attention.
It’s something his Red Classified Phalanx member suggested, drawing inspiration from old tales of the deaf learning to speak with their hands. In the Union, of course, no one is deaf, they have medical procedures to fix eardrums, the language used back in the days of such things is lost. Their developed language probably doesn’t mirror the old ways at all. It’s flicky, with needless swoops and some words that require two hands, but it’s useful on missions or as it goes meetings.
Beck signs Mean, where he wanted to say, hypocrite if Rylen knows anything. She merely glares at him and returns her own orange eyes towards the proceedings. Out of all of them, Thrana is the only one with a disparate bloodline. It gives her remarkably fiery eyes and beautiful ocean-like hair, which she keeps short and near her ears. Something he knows, she is ashamed of, even if she never admits it. I hate you, she signs eyes fixated on the table.
Often, the two's similar personalities with pendants for danger and risk-taking heatedly clash, it may seem like Thrana’s words are true. Rylen knows, however, they would do anything to protect each other, as he would for them.
No, you don’t, Beck's response is prompt and Thrana scowls.
While his two Phalanx members begin to bicker, or as much as they can given that signs don’t allow for much voice inflection, Rylen greets the Phalanx's youngest. He tries not to dwell on the space beside Thrana that even still, after all these years, hurts him to see empty.
Wedged between the Black and the Red, Spencer still appears to be watching the Councilors. He’s eternally small, in both height and bulk, dwarfed by Beck and Thrana but radiates an intense focus that outweighs their presences. He looks astute, one foot propped up against the wall, arms crossed, blue eyes (to match his Classification) trained on the table - on one person, in particular, the new Blue Councilor.
Ryan Jos is the predecessor of Spencer’s father, perhaps one of the reasons why their new Councilor doesn’t trust them. He thinks Spencer feels wronged somehow, which isn’t the exact truth. At seventeen, Spencer is the youngest of them (in his opinion too young for the front) yet Reis insisted that his son, only twelve at the formation of their Phalanx, be a Kahkorr. He’s taken his death hard, but it isn’t mutiny that fuels his anger towards Jos, it’s the helpless anger of a grieving child.
The youngest isn’t a focused as he seems for he manages to sign, Rylen, good to have you back. Straight down to business as always, Spencer leaves his position to come stand next to him. Sometimes Rylen wants to ruffle the Blue Kahkorr’s dark auburn hair and infuse some levity into the serious young man.
Today, however, calls for straight faces and he simply asks What have I missed?
Rylen thinks he hears Spencer sigh, before launching into a flurry of signs he has trouble catching. The emergency meeting was called by Lyson, and Rylen thinks of course it was. She’s the instigator of almost every plan the Union has, the Purple Classified Councilor is the loudest of the bunch.
Second youngest, she’s only been on the Council for four years. In some act of solidarity Ryan Jos and Tina Lyson always vote and advocate together against the older Counolors. She’s upset because she’s been trying to get one for months if the first few minutes of her shrilly complaining are anything to go by. He smiles, able to picture Lyson telling off her older peers. She’s intelligent, he’ll give her that much and isn’t afraid to project her opinions, her only downfall being her sometimes underestimate of her enemies. Rylen hasn’t met many Purples but if they’re all like the Councillor they have his grudging respect.
To hold a meeting of such caliber, a majority of the Councilors have to call for one - a reason why these never happen. With new Councilors versus old, there’s hardly anything but a split.
It also doesn’t help that historically Red and Blue Councilors never side together. The same can be said of Ryan Jos and the oldest Councilor Walter Sonton.
The Red Councilor is steadfast in honorable combat, preferring to face the Commonwealth on the battlefield rather than in the scheming ways Lyson suggests. More battle marked than the Matriarch, he’s thrice over earned the esteem of all at the table. That may be one reason why he rarely interjects his opinion, and why everyone stops to listen when he does. He’s been a Counselor for longer than Rylen’s been alive, and the Matriarch, who pretends not to pick sides, values his opinion.
Then Delisa told her that everything she suggests is dishonorable, meaning for the first five minutes nothing much got done besides those two insulting one another. Spencer’s hands stop and he glances at the second oldest Councilor, it’s rare to see a Yellow this high up the chain of command. Arera Delisa achieved the respect of the people when she was newly assigned to the battlefront. Striking a decisive victory against the Commonwealth, and winning them territory disputed over for lifetimes. She subverts the expectations Rylen has of those Classified Yellow.
Honest yet brutal, loyal to the Union to a fault, and not unintelligent like he was brought up to think about Yellows (with his mother as an example). She instead knows a few things well and executes them, leaving her weak areas to those under her command.
The squat, portly woman, a jagged scar running across her face, snaps at Lyson who snarls back. That’s to be expected, Rylen tells Spencer much to his Blue member’s amusement. No one’s quite sure what to do with the Purple and Yellow Councilor’s feud. If it came to physical violence Delisa would throttle the smaller, younger woman - but in meetings such as this it’s unsure with Councilor holds more of the Matriarch’s approval.
True, Spencer signs, Lyson wanted to present an attack, which she eventually got Sonton to agree with, on Squl.
He interrupts, Like the Commonwealth base? The heavily fortified one Delisa said needed an all-out siege.
The youngest nods, But before we got to that, the Matriarch reprimanded them for their lack of success in apprehending. Spencer pauses, searching for the word and finally settling on, the heir.
“Kylior?” Rylen says, shocked into using his voice. After a quick glance at the table, and the debating Councilors, he’s relieved to find that no one noticed. Their hands stilling, Thrana and Beck turn towards him. Black Kahkorr clenches his right fist, turns it over, flicks out his thumb, and mouths Kylior.
Thank you, Spencer signs.
He frowns, looking around at his Phalanx, I thought we halted our searches? The first few months after the Matriarchal Heir’s assassination attempt on his father had been hectic. All the available Phalanxes, which were a grand total of three ever since the Yellow Phalanx had been declared MIA, were assigned to his recovery. Rylen can remember long missions with the newly appointed Ryan breathing down his neck. Their efforts amounted to nothing, of course, because the leader of the Matriarchal Phalanx was a Kahkorr himself and certainly knew how to hide.
Thrana interjects, Kahkorr searches stopped. There were still parties consisting of armed soldiers.
A scoff, Beck signs, That basically means searches stopped how is anyone but a Kahkorr going to catch one? Let alone Kylior who's the oldest.
Age doesn’t dictate skill, Beckett. Spencer resorts, crossing his arms.
In this case, it does, Rylen tells the group before things get out of hand, if we couldn’t catch him no one can. Especially since he has his whole Phalanx with him. He wonders, not for the first time, about the why behind the heir’s actions. Kylior wasn’t favored in the Union, yes, but how could he be being impure in the Smith’s long line of pures. Despite his mother being a Mog he had risen far, a Silver Classification, second only to Greys, a loyal Phalanx, on track to becoming the next Matriarch. Was his greed so great that he had to try and kill his father to receive something that was already his faster?
Spencer shakes his head, growing impatient, and leans over Rylen to smack Beck’s hands which are starting to sign something along the lines of all of them having no intelligence. The point is that reports came in that one of Kylior’s Phalanx suddenly died, eyes rolled back pulse stopping - everything.
This time, Rylen doesn’t care if the other people in the room hear his gasp. “Cessation?”
Ujians, a Kahkorr’s nearly sentient weapon, allows them to send their consciousness back in time. After intensive training, bonding, and mental exercise with the crescent blade-like objects they’re only able to jump about an hour or so back. If the Kahkorr is particularly experienced they may be able to jump a day at most. It’s the reason for Phalanxes, so longer jumps can be accomplished. Cessations occur in inexperienced Kahkorrs who push themselves too hard in jumps and sever their consciousnesses from their bodies, resulting in as the name suggests sudden death.
It’s how the fifth member of their Phalanx died, years ago when they were still young, trying to jump them hours back out of an attack.
Rarely do Kahkorr’s past their second year on the front push themselves to the point of cessation. It’s almost impossible to think that one of the Matriarchal Phanlax, the best in the Union, would make such an elementary mistake.
So Kylior’s jumping? Rylen signs after a moment, thinking of hazel eyes and small half smirks (of the missing member of their family).
Evidently.
“But then that would mean jumps from the future,” Rylen says, looking at his Phalanx each of which look various degrees of uninterested.
Thrana snaps, “Of course, and a lot of them by the looks of it.”
“Commonwealth cooperation in the future, probably.” Beck frowns, running a hand through his hair - forgetting for a moment that it's at the shortest it's been in years. “Something big, for them to mess up a jump.”
He hums, in agreement with the Black, while Spencer signs All of you are terrible at being quiet.
It takes them a moment to realize that the room's gone quiet, and a minute longer to figure the reason why. They’ve stopped signing and started speaking. Slowly, Rylen turns towards the table to meet Councilors and the Matriarchs’ eyes.
It’s not uncommon to be a Green, and it’s not particularly undesirable - it just is.
The pristine grey streets of Providence pass him by, but Rylen, for once, is too involved with his thoughts to marvel at the glamour. Against a backdrop of towering, twisting, skyscrapers, a picture-perfect blue sky lit with the golden warmth of the solar systems nearby red sun, an analysis of Classifications takes place in his mind.
He isn’t certain if anyone knows for sure how or when Classifications originated. Most agree it was likely after humans left their home galaxy. By giving Citizens Classifications it ensures their society is as fulfilling as it can be for everyone. Your Classification plays a role in everything. From the little things like offering suggestions of foods based on previous Classification preference to determining a person’s lifetime job or Assignment. Often, it dictates who your friends will be as some Classifications get along better than others and who you will marry.
Without Classifications the Union would fall apart, how else would people know who they are? What they’re supposed to do?
Eleven traits or aptitudes determine a person’s classification: honesty, temperament, leadership, intelligence, empathy, decisiveness, loyalty, cooperation, credulous, and socialness. The Classification test determines how high or low (on a scale of one to ten) that person is with each trait. The system works, he has never encountered anyone who they were improperly Classified. Still, a part of him wonders if a ten question test is sufficient. Especially since some Classifications come with such stigmas.
Every time he meets someone or passes a stranger on the street, their eyes immediately flit to his shoulders. Without fail, the first impression he makes consists of what his Classification is.
And Green isn’t a terrible Classification.
It’s just that balance is always a primary goal of the Union in all things - marriage, war, pleasure - and Classifications are no different. Having a medium scored aptitude, or a result of four through seven on the Classification test, are desired.
Too much of something is always bad, while too little is as well. That’s why being Green, with five medium scored apitutes and five high scored aptitudes is decent - but not the best.
He is jolted from his thoughts by the slight shake of his Planetary Identification Wristlet, which each morning inks a green hue on itself and flashes, Green Kahkorr Rylen Thompson. It now declares that the meetings began, before the text disappears in a cloud of green.
Green. It’s always Green, isn’t it?
He reasons that both his tardiness and Green Classification aren't a horrible thing. Rylen isn’t too far from the Union Armed Forces Headquarters, a few minutes at most. Hopefully, his absence won’t be noticed.
In a perfect scenario, he’ll be able to blame his lateness on forgetting how odd Providence is in terms of transportation. The marvel of the modern world is a no-fly zone, ships have to be parked in three main ports (a few notable exceptions being the armed forces bay), while also not allowing any kind of automobiles. Covered in sidewalks, greenery, and shop windows, the place is devoid of roads. If you want to go anywhere you either walk or hop on the public trams whose tracks crisscross the sky like the looming branches of a great oak.
He’s heading to the heart of the city, crowds growing thicker and the railways above him condensing into an almost canopy - sunlight dappling onto the grey pavement. Through the throng of people, he can make out his destination. A point where the sidewalk ends in a roundabout colodisack revealing the Hall of Justice, Court of Legislature, and the Headquarters of Union Forces. Each shines like polished silver, and though they are vastly different in terms of infrastructure they complement one another. As the place of the Union’s government should.
The squat, wide Headquarters nears and he picks up the pace further, almost in a run. Rylen’s not dangerously late. And certainly out of the eleven possible Classifications, Green is probably the best (though others would definitely negate that.)
His five medium traits mean he has been deemed emotionally stable, not unfeeling like Blues or too aggressive like Reds, he knows when to lead and when to step back not controlling like Blacks or too passive like Yellows, his intelligence isn’t high enough be a threat but he has enough wits to get by, when faced with a new person he isn’t too quick to trust, and he takes facts into consideration before acting - far from risk taker Reds, or over calculating Oranges.
These are all good things. Mediums are inherently good things. It's to be expected then, that Greys, the only Classification to have all medium scored aptitudes, are considered the best. He can remember back in school before the Classification results how everyone wanted Grey. With his knowledge now, Rylen knows that Grey is not all glory, he wouldn’t want the pressure that comes from having the rarest, and often most sought after Classification.
Rylen has no low traits, and that he is thankful for - not to be an all low White, indecisive and passive and untrustworthy. Although high traits are just as bad - Blacks, with their expressive erratic emotions, are as frowned upon.
The classic ‘Green’ personality, comes from his high ranked aptitudes. He’s too honest, too much of a bleeding heart, too loyal to his friends, too talkative and too willing to sacrifice his beliefs for the ease of others. It makes him the perfect team player, but not a very great leader. He doesn’t know when to give up on soldiers or count a man dead.
And he is fine with that, better to be a feeling Green than a heartless White or an explosive Black.
Just sometimes it irks him, that others see Green before they even see him. People already have preconceived ideas about Greens and before they even meet him they think they know who exactly who he is. Sometimes Rylen has to bite his tongue to keep from retorting and letting out his own conclusions about their Classifications.
Another calculating Blue, he really needed to be judged today. An explosive, hot-headed, uncooperative Red? How great. Greys are great, perfect, with their inflated egos and self-importance. Hey, Oranges not every conclusion about the world can be learned by facts.
He doesn’t, of course, maybe it’s all that Green in him. Rylen wishes people would see him before his Classification. How because he’s a Green doesn’t mean he’s perpetually happy or dumb because he trusts others.
And it's not to say he doesn't fall into the trap of hypocrisy. Something to consider, his own want of individuality while painting broad assumptions of everyone else. Maybe that's what being Green is idealistic thoughts with mundane actions - walking examples of doing as I say not as I do.
The Classifications should take another aptitude into consideration, something about wandering retorial thoughts. Because once Rylen’s reached the entrance to where he needs to be he's ten minutes late.
It’s a small room, where the delegation is taking place. Simple and windowless, a rather tiny rectangular oak desk sits in the middle - four chairs are placed parallel to one another on the two longer sides, with another at the head.
Maybe it’s a massive room made small by the larger than life people seated at the table.
No one notices his entry, but he performs the Union salute anyway. Slamming his curled left fist over his heart, and then the splayed palm of his right over it. The following thump and slap of Rylen’s salute go unacknowledged, but he feels better knowing that he did it. The meanings there to signify ‘I fight only for the Honor of the Union’, and when Rylen dips his head towards the table it means ‘I fight for the United glory of us’. Its a rule of thumb to salute those who you find honorable and worthy. After the disrespect of not bearing his Classification on his shoulders, he needs to tread carefully with people of such high esteem.
And there are none more deserving of his admiration that the four Councilors of the Union and the Matriarch.
The elected Councillors squabble among themselves, fierce and loud in their talks, they draw all the attention of the room. In a way, Rylen’s glad it’s on them instead of him, but he knows they aren't the ones he needs to please. The head of the table, the absolute ruler of the universe, the Union’s Matriarch, Jonathan Smiths observes the proceedings with a vulture-like gaze. While the Councilors are elected by the people, earning their positions through acts of bravery, honor, and loyalty, the Matriarch is an Assignment given only to those with a Matriarchal Bloodline.
The Smiths have defended that line for over seven generations, a feat none before have accomplished. Jonathan is the greatest Matriarch the Union has ever had. The Union has thrived and spread under his leadership, while the Commonwealth has lost significant ground of the front because of his strategic thinking. The honor he has brought upon their worlds is staggering.
Rylen can count on his fingers how many times he’s been in the man’s presence. He serves the Blue Councilor as a Kahkorr - it is almost unheard of that such meetings take place, where the Matriarch is in attendance with all the Councillors. If Rylen had known the scale of this meeting he would have been here days in advance.
The aging man’s eyes flit for a second from the Councilors, and he is struck by the calculation and depth of the emerald gaze. The Matricah is large, solid and scared - the result of many victories Rylen has no doubt - but there is deep intelligence under that brawn. Under his scrutiny, he knows why their leader has been Classified a Grey
What does he see, Rylen wonders. A scrawny gentitist’s son whose barely old enough to drink? A tired soldier whose regretting not combing his wild brown hair into something resembling control? The brown eyes of a pure bloodline? One thing's for certain, the Matriarch notes the absence of his Classification.
After what feels like ages, the Defender of the United Planets, Concour of the Front, Wedder of Mogs turns back to the table and Rylen can once again breathe.
There’s no seat for him at the table, he notes, but that’s to be expected. As a Kahkorr he isn’t on the same level as the Councilors. He can remember though when he and his team used to gather for weekly briefings with the former Blue Councilor. Reis treated them as equals, which was honorable in his own way. Less so when he died on the front along with the common soldiers and military mogs, leaving Rylen with the newly elected Ryan Jos as a Councillor.
Ryan’s alright, he has strong morals and a clear vision of the Union, but he isn’t Reis. Maybe it’s because he’s of Disparate bloodline, and thinks in the majority world of pure blooded politics everyone is out to get him.
Though you would think, being a rational Blue, Ryan would understand that his Kahkorrs aren't going to murder him.
While the newest and youngest of the Counselors sits at the table, Rylen's expected to stand, again nothing new, and finds comfort in the fact that there are already three others standing off to the side. Though it’s expected that his Phalanx is here, it nonetheless brings a sense of safety.
Kahkorrs, because of the energy needed to operate their weapons called Ujians, work in teams, a Phalanx. Team is a rather weak word for the bond a Kahkorr should have with their Phalanx. To Rylen, Phalanx is synonymous with everything he has to protect, everything that he has in life, everyone he cares about and can trust wholeheartedly. On the front, on missions, his Phalanx is the only thing that keeps him alive. His Phalanx is his family, it’s everything.
Not to say that he doesn’t hate them sometimes, but they’re more than can be defined. A bond stronger than blood, or legal papers, or words.
Phalanxes consist of five members, never more typically never less. Each Councilor and the Matriarch has a Phalanx, meaning that at any given time no more than twenty-five Kahkorrs exist.
They’re leaning against the wall, watching, instead of the proceedings, their unofficial leader approach.
Beckett is nearest and gestures to his lack of shoulder patches, then at his Black ones as if to say Rylen can take his. He rolls his eyes at his unofficial second in command earning a smile. When he first met Beck, it was like looking into a mirror same dull brown hair and eyes. Though his fellow Phalanx member, with his rash actions and borderline insane decisions on the front, isn’t as similar personality wise as everyone likes to say. Nowadays, Beck’s cut his hair adopting a more militaristic style and his eyes are wary, laughing less.
But if he looks, Rylen can still spot the child that shaved his head during the night.
His second member, Thrana taps Beck on the shoulder, drawing his attention away. She points to the table, and in the sign language, they as a Phalanx developed when younger says Pay attention.
It’s something his Red Classified Phalanx member suggested, drawing inspiration from old tales of the deaf learning to speak with their hands. In the Union, of course, no one is deaf, they have medical procedures to fix eardrums, the language used back in the days of such things is lost. Their developed language probably doesn’t mirror the old ways at all. It’s flicky, with needless swoops and some words that require two hands, but it’s useful on missions or as it goes meetings.
Beck signs Mean, where he wanted to say, hypocrite if Rylen knows anything. She merely glares at him and returns her own orange eyes towards the proceedings. Out of all of them, Thrana is the only one with a disparate bloodline. It gives her remarkably fiery eyes and beautiful ocean-like hair, which she keeps short and near her ears. Something he knows, she is ashamed of, even if she never admits it. I hate you, she signs eyes fixated on the table.
Often, the two's similar personalities with pendants for danger and risk-taking heatedly clash, it may seem like Thrana’s words are true. Rylen knows, however, they would do anything to protect each other, as he would for them.
No, you don’t, Beck's response is prompt and Thrana scowls.
While his two Phalanx members begin to bicker, or as much as they can given that signs don’t allow for much voice inflection, Rylen greets the Phalanx's youngest. He tries not to dwell on the space beside Thrana that even still, after all these years, hurts him to see empty.
Wedged between the Black and the Red, Spencer still appears to be watching the Councilors. He’s eternally small, in both height and bulk, dwarfed by Beck and Thrana but radiates an intense focus that outweighs their presences. He looks astute, one foot propped up against the wall, arms crossed, blue eyes (to match his Classification) trained on the table - on one person, in particular, the new Blue Councilor.
Ryan Jos is the predecessor of Spencer’s father, perhaps one of the reasons why their new Councilor doesn’t trust them. He thinks Spencer feels wronged somehow, which isn’t the exact truth. At seventeen, Spencer is the youngest of them (in his opinion too young for the front) yet Reis insisted that his son, only twelve at the formation of their Phalanx, be a Kahkorr. He’s taken his death hard, but it isn’t mutiny that fuels his anger towards Jos, it’s the helpless anger of a grieving child.
The youngest isn’t a focused as he seems for he manages to sign, Rylen, good to have you back. Straight down to business as always, Spencer leaves his position to come stand next to him. Sometimes Rylen wants to ruffle the Blue Kahkorr’s dark auburn hair and infuse some levity into the serious young man.
Today, however, calls for straight faces and he simply asks What have I missed?
Rylen thinks he hears Spencer sigh, before launching into a flurry of signs he has trouble catching. The emergency meeting was called by Lyson, and Rylen thinks of course it was. She’s the instigator of almost every plan the Union has, the Purple Classified Councilor is the loudest of the bunch.
Second youngest, she’s only been on the Council for four years. In some act of solidarity Ryan Jos and Tina Lyson always vote and advocate together against the older Counolors. She’s upset because she’s been trying to get one for months if the first few minutes of her shrilly complaining are anything to go by. He smiles, able to picture Lyson telling off her older peers. She’s intelligent, he’ll give her that much and isn’t afraid to project her opinions, her only downfall being her sometimes underestimate of her enemies. Rylen hasn’t met many Purples but if they’re all like the Councillor they have his grudging respect.
To hold a meeting of such caliber, a majority of the Councilors have to call for one - a reason why these never happen. With new Councilors versus old, there’s hardly anything but a split.
It also doesn’t help that historically Red and Blue Councilors never side together. The same can be said of Ryan Jos and the oldest Councilor Walter Sonton.
The Red Councilor is steadfast in honorable combat, preferring to face the Commonwealth on the battlefield rather than in the scheming ways Lyson suggests. More battle marked than the Matriarch, he’s thrice over earned the esteem of all at the table. That may be one reason why he rarely interjects his opinion, and why everyone stops to listen when he does. He’s been a Counselor for longer than Rylen’s been alive, and the Matriarch, who pretends not to pick sides, values his opinion.
Then Delisa told her that everything she suggests is dishonorable, meaning for the first five minutes nothing much got done besides those two insulting one another. Spencer’s hands stop and he glances at the second oldest Councilor, it’s rare to see a Yellow this high up the chain of command. Arera Delisa achieved the respect of the people when she was newly assigned to the battlefront. Striking a decisive victory against the Commonwealth, and winning them territory disputed over for lifetimes. She subverts the expectations Rylen has of those Classified Yellow.
Honest yet brutal, loyal to the Union to a fault, and not unintelligent like he was brought up to think about Yellows (with his mother as an example). She instead knows a few things well and executes them, leaving her weak areas to those under her command.
The squat, portly woman, a jagged scar running across her face, snaps at Lyson who snarls back. That’s to be expected, Rylen tells Spencer much to his Blue member’s amusement. No one’s quite sure what to do with the Purple and Yellow Councilor’s feud. If it came to physical violence Delisa would throttle the smaller, younger woman - but in meetings such as this it’s unsure with Councilor holds more of the Matriarch’s approval.
True, Spencer signs, Lyson wanted to present an attack, which she eventually got Sonton to agree with, on Squl.
He interrupts, Like the Commonwealth base? The heavily fortified one Delisa said needed an all-out siege.
The youngest nods, But before we got to that, the Matriarch reprimanded them for their lack of success in apprehending. Spencer pauses, searching for the word and finally settling on, the heir.
“Kylior?” Rylen says, shocked into using his voice. After a quick glance at the table, and the debating Councilors, he’s relieved to find that no one noticed. Their hands stilling, Thrana and Beck turn towards him. Black Kahkorr clenches his right fist, turns it over, flicks out his thumb, and mouths Kylior.
Thank you, Spencer signs.
He frowns, looking around at his Phalanx, I thought we halted our searches? The first few months after the Matriarchal Heir’s assassination attempt on his father had been hectic. All the available Phalanxes, which were a grand total of three ever since the Yellow Phalanx had been declared MIA, were assigned to his recovery. Rylen can remember long missions with the newly appointed Ryan breathing down his neck. Their efforts amounted to nothing, of course, because the leader of the Matriarchal Phalanx was a Kahkorr himself and certainly knew how to hide.
Thrana interjects, Kahkorr searches stopped. There were still parties consisting of armed soldiers.
A scoff, Beck signs, That basically means searches stopped how is anyone but a Kahkorr going to catch one? Let alone Kylior who's the oldest.
Age doesn’t dictate skill, Beckett. Spencer resorts, crossing his arms.
In this case, it does, Rylen tells the group before things get out of hand, if we couldn’t catch him no one can. Especially since he has his whole Phalanx with him. He wonders, not for the first time, about the why behind the heir’s actions. Kylior wasn’t favored in the Union, yes, but how could he be being impure in the Smith’s long line of pures. Despite his mother being a Mog he had risen far, a Silver Classification, second only to Greys, a loyal Phalanx, on track to becoming the next Matriarch. Was his greed so great that he had to try and kill his father to receive something that was already his faster?
Spencer shakes his head, growing impatient, and leans over Rylen to smack Beck’s hands which are starting to sign something along the lines of all of them having no intelligence. The point is that reports came in that one of Kylior’s Phalanx suddenly died, eyes rolled back pulse stopping - everything.
This time, Rylen doesn’t care if the other people in the room hear his gasp. “Cessation?”
Ujians, a Kahkorr’s nearly sentient weapon, allows them to send their consciousness back in time. After intensive training, bonding, and mental exercise with the crescent blade-like objects they’re only able to jump about an hour or so back. If the Kahkorr is particularly experienced they may be able to jump a day at most. It’s the reason for Phalanxes, so longer jumps can be accomplished. Cessations occur in inexperienced Kahkorrs who push themselves too hard in jumps and sever their consciousnesses from their bodies, resulting in as the name suggests sudden death.
It’s how the fifth member of their Phalanx died, years ago when they were still young, trying to jump them hours back out of an attack.
Rarely do Kahkorr’s past their second year on the front push themselves to the point of cessation. It’s almost impossible to think that one of the Matriarchal Phanlax, the best in the Union, would make such an elementary mistake.
So Kylior’s jumping? Rylen signs after a moment, thinking of hazel eyes and small half smirks (of the missing member of their family).
Evidently.
“But then that would mean jumps from the future,” Rylen says, looking at his Phalanx each of which look various degrees of uninterested.
Thrana snaps, “Of course, and a lot of them by the looks of it.”
“Commonwealth cooperation in the future, probably.” Beck frowns, running a hand through his hair - forgetting for a moment that it's at the shortest it's been in years. “Something big, for them to mess up a jump.”
He hums, in agreement with the Black, while Spencer signs All of you are terrible at being quiet.
It takes them a moment to realize that the room's gone quiet, and a minute longer to figure the reason why. They’ve stopped signing and started speaking. Slowly, Rylen turns towards the table to meet Councilors and the Matriarchs’ eyes.