Xeno Core

Bruen's Story 2: What's a Promotion?

The enforcer who entered the small interrogation room was old. Bruen could easily imagine Pel Tosk and his master serving together in the long-ago days of their youth.

The heavy scroll he carried in with him is rather well preserved, the ink still fresh upon the official seal.

"Have you seen this form before, Mos Bruen? It lacks only your own sigil to make it official," Tosk gently says to the bewildered youth sitting across from him at the interrogation table.

"Forgive this worthless one, but you must surely have been misinformed, sir. I am merely a servant, casteless and now without master."

The aged enforcer sets the ornate scroll down in front of a shaking Bruen. "Just look it over. If you don't agree to the conditions let me know. You are free to refuse this opportunity, if you are so foolish."

He then exits the room, leaving Bruen alone with the scroll. Fearing the worst, the distraught youth picks it up and unrolls it, his hearts pounding madly in his thorax. He nearly drops it in his shock, his tendrils going limp from astonishment.

His master had put into motion something so rarely seen that most did not think it even possible. Bruen had been accepted into the Mos caste, vouchsafed by Mos Denn and adopted into his lineage as prime heir.

There at the bottom, shining with bound energies, are the personal sigils of the heads of six of the most prestigious lineages of the Mos caste, his master's mark foremost among them. Adding his own sigil would cause his standing to shoot up beyond his wildest dreams.

The dates encoded into each mark tell the tale. This parchment was originally penned four seasons ago and has been shuttled across the known worlds to reach those whose approval was required. One by one the marks were added, and only days ago the scroll returned to its place of origin.

During the earliest seasons when he had first began serving Mos Denn, his master had hired trainers to teach Bruen various weapon and fighting styles. He had claimed to want a servant that could double as a bodyguard. Lessons disguised as fireside reminiscing filled his evenings with tactics and troop deployment details.

Bruen wishes his master were still alive to witness as his machinations finally come to fruition. Pride in Mos Denn's ability to plan and force those plans to work fills Bruen's gizzard nearly to bursting.

Mos Bruen stands and is about to call out when the door opens. Pel Tosk walks sedately back in, bearing a ritual dagger and finely tanned chuka hide bandage.

The cream-colored bandage is placed on the table reverently by the old enforcer before he offers the dagger to the young general. Bruen takes it in a lower tendril and cuts deeply into the large crease in his carapace between the two clusters of upper tendrils. A superficial wound, but it bleeds nonetheless, allowing the reservoir in the handle to fill before drawing it out.

Carefully Tosk winds the wrap around the thorax of the youngster, stifling the modest flow of blue. Bruen inscribes upon the pale parchment the mark that will give him the power to command armies and to conquer nations. The half-filled dagger is carried out by a junior Pel, to be placed under anti-entropic field. Proof against later need.

Few castes are more respected than Mos, and almost none may issue them commands. The price paid for such power is long seasons of grueling training and service that leaves few survivors.

"There is still the issue of my mast- father's murder, Pel Tosk," he states slowly, still reeling mentally. "I additionally find that my duties have grown much heavier. If you discover anything concerning Jurer Nuhst, you can find me by contact of," he trails off and checks the scroll. "Mos Riyl at the front lines on E'guna."

---

It takes the young general only a few days to arrange for caretakers to take charge of his estate. Unwilling to be around the scene of such traumatizing tragedy Bruen spends this time visiting his new caste mates. The local military base hosts a fine officers' club, with a secluded room in the back for high caste officers.

"You should get you some protective reinforcement before your carapace is too shattered to be properly inscribed," advises one scarred old male in tones of regret. "The uncles told me when I first went off to the front, and I'm telling you. Find a good thaumatist, we all need them eventually, may as well get started early."

Between the scars can be seen tubes and hoses, powering some arcane process inside the failing body. While not to the extent of his former master, all of the few other patrons sport bodily modifications and enhancements. Bruen's lack was quick to draw attention.

A casteless server brings a tray piled with exotic fruit slices and choice organs, all still fresh and dripping. The tray is deposited on the table and the servant withdraws silently.

"Leave him be, Hersh. Those dust eaters can inscribe a composite plate as easily as your own shell," declares a female whose body has been heavily grafted with steel armor and ceramic plating as she slurps up a fine smelling liver. "And more importantly, they can put more into the ward compared to weak organics."

"Maybe so," concedes Hersh, "but those plates of yours don't grow back. Young as he is, he'll be able to grow fresh chitin for a while yet."

A third old-timer, quiet until now, speaks up from their place nestled in the shadows of the corner. Their voice is artificial in nature, and grates out in a monotone, "Those enhancements, impressive though they are, remain dependent upon being attacked to be useful. If you destroy your opponents before they can act, you do not need strong defenses."

While little of this one isn't covered by heavy robes, it is clear that blades have been grafted to the ends of his lower tendrils.

"And how well has that worked for you, then?" The armored female's tone is light, but her posture promises swift violence. Her taunt is waved off by the unimpressed veteran.

"Tell us, young Bruen, what path do you intend to walk? Old Denn chose the mixed way; guile, artifice, and enchantment all serving in their place," inquires Hersh of the youth seated before him. "But he was the first of us to die. Ha!"

Mos Denn had often set such verbal traps. No matter how Bruen answered he would be slighting more people than he praised, and thus would be worse for answering. From the predatory looks upon the three elderly faces they all could see the tricky situation Bruen had been placed in.

He stalls for time to think by popping a sliced gall into his mouth, savoring the nutty flesh as he chews slowly.

"I can say that I have seen my father's way played out to its natural conclusion," begins a subdued sounding Bruen. "I was there to clean the messes he coughed up; blood mixed with oil. The burnt bits of chitin flaking off his power charged body. And I know the way he managed to make us all want to do our best for him. I do not say it was the best way, but the way that he used best. I hope to learn what will serve me best, and appreciate the advice you so freely give to me."

The shadowy figure in the corner is the first to respond. The static filled sounds that emit from the worn vocoder couldn't be described as mirthful, though the old one shakes with laughter. "Yes, this one was indeed raised by old Denn."

"You would know, Scro. He defeated you often enough before your city finally joined us," teases the armored female.

"Not the Shadow General, Mos Scro? Of Enslia? Mos Denn said you were one of his toughest rivals," exclaims Bruen, realizing he was in the presence of one of his heroes. "He would curse your name late into the night. 'Scro killed my best officers, every time, Bruen,' he would say and then he'd describe each one in detail."

Mos Scro stands and walks over to the table Bruen and Hersh are sitting at before he says proudly to the youngster, "He didn't make it easy. I lost these," at which he waves the stumps of two of his left side upper tendrils, "getting into a duel with his eldest daughter the first time we met."

The others nod and make appreciative noises, as is appropriate.

"He kept one in his trophy room," Bruen says. "He loved that story. Would you tell it, sir?"

Scro seats himself carefully at their table and launches into the longwinded tale. His monotone voice crackles as he begins his tale. "My pleasure, the better to correct any mistruths you might have been told. We were among the very first to make it to the Rust Isles and set up our forward base right at the high water mark..."