Starcrossed
Prologue: The Great Game
by Cain

There is a little-known theory, now circulating throughout some areas of the universe, that games are vastly important to all known life-forms. It is claimed that not only do games teach the young to deal with real life, but that these games can also be shown to be directly connected to life itself. Games, it is said, are the physical manifestation of Fate.

This theory is, of course, nonsense.

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Long ago, before the residents of the planet now known as Terra/Earth Four/Earth Delta/Lost Jerusalem realized they were not alone in the universe, they created a game. It was a game of strategy. A game of war. A game where two opponents tried to win over each other, not with brawn or numbers, for by the rules of the game both were equal, but by tactics.

This game was called Chess.

The game was quite simple: It was played on an eight-by-eight black-and-white checkered grid. One player was assigned all pieces of the color black, and the other was assigned white. White, for unknown reasons, always made the first move. The genius of the game was that there was no element of randomness about it: each side was given an equal number of pieces, and an equal number of each of the individual pieces. Each piece could make only certain types of moves, and thus were of varying use depending on the position in which they were placed.

White and black pieces inclusive, there were, altogether, thirty-two pieces. Half of these were pawns. Pawns, always placed in front, were the expendables, the pieces that were used only as stepping stones. Once a pawn moved out into the world, it was impossible for it to be retrieved; it could only move forward. If they survived to reach the other end of the board, they could be "promoted," and become a different, more powerful piece. Pawns were the groundwork for the more powerful pieces to wage their war, and the game would have been less without them. Black and white both had eight pawns. This meant that there were sixteen pawns.

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Silence waited. He was, of course, silent, as he always was. He'd been mute for over three centuries, but he'd never been much of a talker anyway, and didn't miss the ability. He wasn't deaf, but even so his cabin was bereft of sound; even his breathing didn't make a sound. He could, he supposed, breathe heavily, but he had come to rely on his silence over the years. Silence, it has been said, is golden, and nobody knew this better then Silence himself.

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Figures flew by faster than most people could even see them, but Thomas Tenser was not lost in the flood pouring forth from his PMD. There was something missing. He was certain. His latest idea would be a masterpiece, blending technology and magic in a way unparalleled anywhere outside the Sol Dominion. The only problem was that the thing wasn't working, and that meant that something was wrong with the design. This, of course, would not do. He was Thomas Tenser, brilliant inventor, sweetheart of the entire Empire. So he worked on into the night until he finally fell asleep in his chair. But he didn't sleep well.

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Gina's eyes opened, and for the ten-thousandth time (or more) it struck her that she was in a coffin. She was not dead, nor did it look like she would be for centuries to come, but it was nonetheless a disturbing experience. Still, for Asellus' sake, she would endure. She may not worship Asellus in public like Zozma, but in her heart she belonged to the Half-Mystic completely. She would kill for her. Or die for her. Or anything else.

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Mason chuckled as he gazed upon the I.S.C. Infinity. Of course, he didn't dwell on it, because he had work to do. Mechanics always did. But soon, one day very soon, he would own that ship, he and his own crew. It would be a grand joke.

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"Where is he!?" Antoine exclaimed, and his perfect face was slightly marred by a frown. "Mason should be back by now!"

"Hell," Quinn muttered. "For once, 'Twan has a point. I'm hungry." She scowled as Jeanette began to pout.

"I am getting impatient too," Jeanette whined. "He is supposed to bring the food, no?"

"I'm getting tired of having to wait on Mason!" Antoine grumped.

Quinn shrugged. "You got anything better to do?"

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He had once had a name, but no longer. Now he was Hunter Seven. He was nothing else. At the moment, he slept, along with other Hunters, but they might as well have been on other planets for all his thoughts touched them. He had been human once, when he had a name, but the dreams that ran through his head weren't human, not by any stretch of the imagination. Still, now and then a memory surfaced, a memory of a pretty woman, or of a mec or a child, or of a very strong drink. These memories shouldn't have been there; none of these things had ever happened to Hunter Seven. Nevertheless, he experienced them and kept them. One day, maybe he'd understand them. But for now, they were unimportant. He had to sleep, and be ready for his next mission.

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Newton backed slowly away from the group of armed thugs. He'd been trying to keep things low-key, but so far it hadn't been working. Apparently, nice, new clothes didn't guarantee anonymity; they guaranteed muggers. Next time, he'd buy old, ratty clothes. For now, however, it looked like he might have to resort to plan B.

He pulled up his coat-sleeve, and whispered "Right: Mode Three." There was the sound of metal sliding on metal as the two long claws slid out of the device on his forearm. He didn't even have to turn the thing on before the thugs all went running.

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"Son of a bitch," Zade muttered. She'd just discovered the worst new she'd had in months: she had a partner. Some new guy. He hadn't even been in the MIA for a week. She glanced through his file again. This time, something caught her eye that she'd missed last time. She double-checked. Disgusted, she tossed the file to the table and tried to forget about it.

Human, she couldn't help thinking. He's a fucking human!

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He didn't remember his name anymore. All he knew now was survival. After thirteen years in this hell, he couldn't remember much of anything but that. He now slept exactly six hours a day, and spent the other thirteen hours fighting for his life and trying to gather food. Such a routine had become so instilled in him that there was room for nothing else. Except fear. Fear of the devil that ruled this hell, fear of the thing which had left him to live or die here. Why, he did not know. All he knew was that it would pay. It, and its mad creator.

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Fedrin Larze smiled. Life was good. He groaned happily, letting the masseuse do her work. His heavily muscled shoulders were tense, and a nice mud-bath, coupled with a massage, was exactly what he needed. And later on tonight, he was going to go out to dinner with Lady Asellus. If that didn't get the girls impressed, and the guys jealous, he didn't know what would. He soon fell asleep, and the masseuse took a break. He snored heavily as he dreamed an easy and untroubled sleep.

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It was cold as he walked in his simple white robe, but he didn't shiver. He was beyond something as trivial as that. Tonight, he was going to do what he'd always dreamed of: his first summoning. That, and not the cold, gave him goose-bumps. He finally reached the appointed place, and began to chant. The chants meant something, or had once in an ancient language, and he was perhaps the only person left who knew what they meant. He finished the chant, and smiled. It was working. It was working!

Darkness swept from the newly formed portal, and he found pain and euphoria beyond anything he'd ever imagined.

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The man who now called himself simply Rod was silent as he whirled and spun. His opponent, an impressive swordsman, was breathing hard, but Rod's breath came easily as he blocked another thrust. Finally, realizing that MysPol would be coming soon, Rod finished the battle with an economical sweep of his blade, neatly cutting through the edge of the other man's throat. He hurried back to his ship and then took off, after making sure to leave no evidence or witnesses.

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Masan struggled feebly against his restraints. He'd been released from his suspended animation again, just so the scientists could study him. He was older now than he had been centuries ago. He now looked to be a teenager. He flexed his muscles, but couldn't break out. He frowned. He would wait. Even if it took centuries more, he would wait.

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"Have you seen this man?"

The young human had no idea who he was, and had never seen the young man in the picture. Of course, since the picture was hand-drawn and not a photograph, it wasn't perfectly accurate, but it was close enough. The teen shrugged and shook his head, getting away from the weird man in black as quickly as he could.

The man frowned. No luck. He'd been searching for fifty years, and had found no sign of Rakin Guardia. But he wouldn't give up. Not yet. Maybe not ever. He'd hunted the boy down once, and he could do it again.

Later that day, while studying historical records for signs of Rakin, he stumbled upon something else very interesting.

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The next piece was known as the Rook, though the reason for this is now lost to antiquity. It looked much like a castle. The rook was the heavy artillery. The rook was what you called in when you weren't feeling particularly subtle, but you did feel like killing something. The rook could move straight, or it could move sideways, but not diagonally. Each side had two rooks. This meant that there were four rooks.

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As he sat on the bridge of his ship, the I.S.C. Sei, Prent realized he was bored. He hadn't been involved in a good battle in two years, not even a Rebellion. He almost wished the Dominion would decide to attack, so he could finally do what he was born to do: defend Lady Asellus and her Empire from all forces. He was the best of the best. He'd never lost a battle. He'd even managed to beat Asellus herself in fair combat, but he wasn't sure whether or not she'd gone easy on him. Whatever the case, he still served her as faithfully as ever. He'd fight to the death for her, if necessary. All he needed was a chance to prove it.

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Ildon, Captain of the I.S.C. Suzaku, didn't even bother to look up as the door to his cabin slid open. There was no sound before it slid shut, which meant that Silence was most likely inside already. With anyone else, Ildon would have listened for a sound, or looked out of the corner of his eye for a shadow, but he knew he'd find neither when it came to Silence. He could always look directly at Silence, he supposed, but he was busy trying to decipher the coded message he'd just received on his PMD from Facinaturu.

"New orders coming, Silence," Ildon said simply. "Rouse the men and get ready to move out." The opening and closing of the door again was the only indication he had that Silence left. Finally, the message was fully decoded, and Ildon re-read it, just to be sure. He frowned. These orders didn't make any sense, especially for a captain of his standing. He sighed. Whether they made sense or not, he planned to follow the orders. He would serve Lady Asellus faithfully.

He didn't have to like it, though.

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"Commander!" the soldier shouted. Rimune turned, impatient. He was busy right now. And unless they were under attack right now... "They're attacking," the soldier continued, and that was enough for Rimune to forget about what he'd been doing and break into a dead run towards the General's quarters. His legs didn't seem to carry him fast enough, and he could vaguely remember having traveled more quickly once, but not how. He remembered many things, things that weren't possible on this world, but they were unimportant. Right now, he had to prepare to lead his men into battle. They couldn't fail.

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In the darkness of space, something shifted. It only took a moment, but in that moment a huge mass, easily more than a hundred miles wide, appeared. It wasn't a sudden appearance. It was more like it had always been there, but nobody had been paying attention. It was like a person entering a conversation when they'd been silent up until then, and standing in front of you the whole time. The Vagabond was proud of his creation. The Orphanage. It sounded so humble, but one day it would bring them to their knees. And that was all he needed. The Orphanage was the castle from which he'd wage his war, just like he had... so long ago...

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The next piece, known as the Knight, was incredibly useful... if you knew how to use it. Unlike the Rook, the Knight was anything but blunt. It was well-known for unexpected moves. The Knight could only move in an "L" shape: two spaces, and one to the side, or one space and two to the side. Thus, it was best to give Knights a good deal of room, unless you could get close enough to breach their defenses. Each side had two Knights. As such, there were four Knights.

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Rana stared up at the sky apprehensively. On this planet, Tempestas, the rain could kill. It wasn't that the weather ever got too bad; storms were very rare, when compared with other planets. And lakes and rivers were safe enough. However, something in the atmosphere made the rain highly acidic, to the point where only native species, and stone, could survive direct contact with it. And it came far too often. However, if the rain was filtered, it could be drunk. The problem was, it ate through most metals. Thus, the only protection the poor colonists of this beleaguered planet had were caves, the skins of native animals... and her.

She ran a finger along the hilt of her black sword, her constant companion, the strange runes on the blade engraved in her mind. One day, when she left this planet, she'd find the sword's secret, and discover what the letters meant. One day.

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Schala, daughter of Janus, sat in the passenger section of the rather small ship, staring out into space. If she concentrated, she thought, maybe she could see her sister, somewhere out there. It was Destiny. And when they met, there would be another Dance of the Blades. Sister and Sister. Thief and Knight. Right and Wrong. Then she could live happily ever after with her Prince.

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Slowly, Zozma rose. His early morning devotions were over, and his mind was calm. Today would be a long day, spent training the newest recruits to the First Guard. Other than that, the rest of his day would be mostly politics, but that didn't stop him from going through his early-morning exercises. One never knew what sort of threat would come along next, and as Lady Asellus' most loyal subject, he didn't intend to take chances.

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Moodily, at least as moodily as a Dashor Sai ever got, he stared through the window of the endlessly floating space station. The stars winked back at him, as if trying to cheer him up, and they very nearly succeeded. Space travel had always fascinated him, as he had been born on Makhin, or Earth 1232, as it was officially designated. He had left his homeworld in search of the thing he was missing, but so far he had not found it. Silently, he prayed for it, even though his prayers had gone unanswered for decades. Sometimes his faith wavered, especially when surrounded by unbelievers, but it always came back stronger. He was a devout Knight of the Holy Order of Kazhin. And so he continued to pray for the one thing he lacked that all of his race had.

A name.

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The next piece was named the Bishop, but has also been called other things, most notably the Mage. The Bishop is, when compared to, say, the Rook, extremely sneaky and underhanded. And, unlike the Knight, the Bishop is quite capable of getting itself out of trouble. The Bishop is able to move diagonally across the board, and only diagonally. This makes for some surprising attacks, and some surprising escapes. Each player has two bishops (one confined to black squares, and one confined to white squares). In other words, there were four bishops.

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A man stared out through a window, at the blue sky above. He was a pale man, but not unnaturally so. His hair was long, and bleached blond. As usual, he was lost in his own thoughts, trying to... remember. He'd always felt he was missing something important, besides his name, something vital.

"Jane," his wife called. "Could you come here for a minute?" He smiled, and banished the dark thoughts. He turned, and joined his wife and daughter. There was no need to think so hard about the past, whatever it was. Life was good.

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Gaston smiled in the dark of his personal quarters. It was nighttime, midnight to be specific. And it was black, pitch-black. It wasn't as if he missed his home, (far from it, in fact) but this planet was far too bright for him. Of course, he was using somebody else's eyes, but he still had to make an effort not to squint every time somebody turned on a lamp. And living in a living body was hard to maintain, although it was quite fun fooling an entire planet. Soon, though, they'd know who they'd been dealing with. And then he would be worshiped. Or they'd all die. Either way, he was looking forward to it.

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For the first time in exactly thirty-five years, Thyme Oregano opened his eyes. For the first time in exactly thirty-five years, he remembered where he was. And for the first time in exactly thirty-five years, he screamed. Just as he had done the last nine or ten times. The orderlies who were removing him from the cryo-capsule were, of course, used to such screams, as it seemed almost all cryogenically imprisoned criminals screamed when removed. It didn't hurt, exactly. It was just the knowledge that exactly thirty-five years had passed while they had slept the time away.

Thyme's limbs sagged, and he looked utterly helpless and hopeless. He was helpless for the moment, that was true. But not hopeless. He had hope. He had a habit of escaping from impossible situations, and he had no doubt he'd do it again. Eventually. Maybe even soon. He waited. Where was Masan?

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Rosemary Oregano slept. It was a deep sleep, far beyond the sleep of most of the living. It wasn't the sleep of the dead, either, but it certainly wasn't normal. She breathed about once every twenty minutes. But while her body was still, her mind moved right along, her dreams bright and hopeful where her reality was not. She wanted to escape, but also didn't want to. She wished that she had Thyme's ability for getting out of tight spots, but she knew she didn't.

Oh, Thyme, she thought in her dream, Why aren't you here? Why couldn't you be here to help me figure out what to do? And she slept.

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The Queen was originally only somewhat powerful, being able to move one space in any direction. However, at some point the rules changed and the Queen became an exceptionally powerful piece, able to move infinitely in any direction. This piece was used to perfectly complement the King. Each side had only one Queen, meaning that there were two.

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The Lady Asellus sat on her large throne, idly sipping a red, thick wine. She was alone with her thoughts for the moment, and she wished that she wasn't. She didn't really trust herself alone. Her thoughts sometimes seemed to move in strange ways.

One would think that, being the ruler of an Empire, she'd be extraordinarily busy, but such was not the case. She was rarely consulted except on matters of great importance, which was how she preferred it. Asellus loved all of the perks of being a ruler, not to mention living forever, but she abhorred all of the boring politics involved.

The sound of a door sliding open drew her attention. A Princess walked in, eyes downcast. She was sweeping. Asellus didn't know why, but she preferred to have Princesses act as her personal servants. Maybe it was just paranoia. After all, the Princesses would sacrifice themselves for her, so they presumably made excellent bodyguards. However, something told her that her reasoning was different. Something told her that she knew the reason, if she would only admit it.

That something began to tell her more, and she quickly pulled a small vial of clear liquid from a pocket. She poured it into her wine and took a long gulp. The something soon faded away, leaving her alone with her thoughts and the quietly sweeping Princess. Asellus said nothing, simply stared at the Princess as she did her duty. She frowned. Ruling an Empire was hard enough without hearing the voice of a dead man.

It was enough to drive a person crazy.

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Fear. The young woman woke up in a cold sweat and immediately sat up. It was dark, and there didn't seem to be anyone around.

She began to quietly panic. She felt so... odd. Not quite whole. As if a vital part of her was missing. Besides that, she also felt pain; she felt cuts and bruises all over, as well as what she instantly recognized as phantom pains from a missing hand. What scared her was not that she was missing a hand (or indeed, her whole forearm). What scared her was that she couldn't remember losing it in the first place. In fact, she couldn't even remember her name.

She searched her mind, closing her eyes (at this point she realized that she only had one), trying to find some memory that went further back than waking up in this bed. But she only met with horrible, depressing failure.

She soon fell back into a fitful sleep, occasionally murmuring a name hidden deep in her mind. Watching her, nobody would ever realize that her day was soon to come. She would be a villain, a heroine, a lover, a killer, and many other things. And to many, she'd be a beacon of hope.

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Finally, and most importantly, was the King. The King was the vital piece of the game; once it was lost, so was the game. The King wasn't always the most powerful character, but it was more important than any other. Everything depended on the King. The King, if necessary, could fight and destroy any piece but another King. Both sides had one King, so there were two.

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Bal jumped at a sudden sound from off in the trees, but nothing jumped out and tried to kill him and his comrades, so he kept walking. The Imperial Army had, quite accidentally, discovered this binary solar-system less than two weeks ago, and had quickly claimed credit for the find. As such, the Army would have more say in the future of this planet than MysPol or the MIA... as long as they investigated it themselves.

As Imperial Privates, he and his comrades weren't very subtle. In fact, he had used the word "subtle" once, only to find that his fellow soldiers didn't know what it meant. As such, Bal felt that they were ill-suited to the job of planet exploration. They had not, of course, had any choice in the matter.

Bal was just beginning to wonder why they hadn't been attacked by any wild animals for the last mile (this planet had a diverse range of dangerous animals that didn't know a human from a rabbit) when he and the rest of his team suddenly broke into a clearing. This was a big enough surprise, as almost all of the planet they had seen so far was forest. The bigger surprise was the simple wooden hut, built on stilts, standing right in front of them. This was a surprise because the planet had, according to all indications, proven uninhabited.

Another surprise was the man that suddenly walked out of the forest not too far from them, carrying on his shoulder an animal, the kind that the squad had only just managed to escape from intact. He was armed only with a simple spear. His clothes were mostly rags, except for a few articles which looked hand-woven from some of the local plant-life. The man's blond hair was long, too long for his age; the end dragged on the ground.

As he approached the hut that presumably belonged to him, he paused to look at them. Quietly, unsurprised by the sudden appearance of Imperial Soldiers, he said, "Dorfray. Veran ter Elosia. Dors perose rontile fera tekkan?"

For a moment, silence reigned, until Bal suddenly recognized what he was hearing. "Hey, that language sounds familiar..."

The strange man nodded and closed his eyes. After a moment he opened them and said, "Hello. I am from Elosia. Would you get me a ride off of this planet?"

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It was dark in here, but the Creator didn't care. His name hadn't always been the Creator, of course, and in fact there was nobody around who could call him that... but her. But of course she didn't talk. Not yet. Soon, she would be complete, and he could release her to find her freedom. But until then, he went on Creating, in his dark laboratory, on a dead planet.

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The pieces are all in place. Let the game begin.

 

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