The Dragon Never Sleeps

[Cyrus Tregessar]

The storm front loomed, an impenetrable fortress of lightning and pitch black cloud casting an ominous shadow over the sunbleached top layer of Axxila's upper city. Dark and fearsome it approached slowly, seemingly devouring the duracrete and metal cityscape as it passed. From low orbit it had appeared as some sort of eldritch monstrosity. Up close it was even more terrifying.
Seated towards the back of an otherwise empty inter-orbital shuttle, Cyrus watched the looming front with a disdain that was almost palpable. He'd paid upfront and overprice for the trip, all other passengers deciding to wait out the storm in orbit. The pilot had initially balked at the trip, but had quickly found a new source of courage when presented with triple the usual fee. He seemed to be questioning the wisdom of the decision now, and every few minutes he nervously glanced over his shoulder his gaze lingering of the lighting-wracked rust-blackened clouds. After almost half an hour of loitering the tension evidently became too much for him.

“This karking storm, it's been looping the planet all week, traffic in and out of Argenta has been hell. Last I heard there were six craft downed yesterday. Goddamn chaos.”

Cyrus nodded, still unable to find any real cause for concern. He watched a Naval Patrol Cutter swoop in and out of the inbound traffic patterns for a while, it's sleek lines and turret protrusions a stark contrast to the bulky thrusters of the shuttles. He'd commanded such a craft, once upon a time. You nearly died there. Was that the first time? “Doesn't House Corvath run the weather control system? Did it break down?”

The pilot shrugged. “Kark knows. I heard they'll let it go wild if no one pays them, that's how they keep their power. Hold the whole damn planet hostage.”

It was baseless rumor, of course. There was simply no way the Great Houses would let such a situation exist. Though whether there was money or favors in exchange in this particular situation remained to be seen. Further replies were halted by Sioness Argenta Control finally reaching out to the shuttle. Fifteen minutes later they touched down, and as Cyrus reached the hatch he could feel the first drops of stinging acid rain. The pilot peered out and shook his head. “Hell with that, I'll wait it out here. Not like these pads are gonna see any more use. The whole Upper City is gonna be a poodoohouse tonight.”

He paused a moment, considering something. “If you ain't got somewhere to be in a hurry, you could wait it out here. The old bird'll be fine, but you're gonna be fighting mobs trying to get below the Rend.”

It was a weird sort of charity, a sudden burst of humanity and survivalist compassion Cyrus hadn't dealt with in decades. But he did have a place to be, and a means to get there.

“Obliged, but I'll make my way.”

The pilot just shrugged and turned away.

The rain struck in force before Cyrus had made it to the terminal, and he pulled his longcoat tight and pushed through the wind and packed bodies that shoved and made a mess of the entryway. It was a disorderly and chaotic sort of line, but it moved at a steady pace, unceasing and utterly devoid of compassion for the individual.

An abstract for the tormented planet, perhaps.

 

[Cyrus Tregessar]

He had been traveling incognito, something he had never done before and given the experience, something he wasn't exactly keen to do again. But the message from his sister had indicated that secrecy was paramount. It wasn't done entirely mundane, he'd thrown money around liberally to make things happen, but that was far from unusual for Axxilans, and people who dealt with the planet regularly quickly learned you didn't ask too many questions.

Not worth the risk of getting on the wrong side of the unsavory sorts. Axxila was no anarchic hellhole like Nar Shadda, but money and power have ways of making unpleasant things happen to those who question their legitimacy, no matter how dignified or law-abiding those with the means pretend to be.

Getting anywhere on the City-Planet meant either using private aircars, or utilizing the extensive mass transit network. For the vast majority, the latter was the only real option. Given that the main House Tregessar holdings including the Citadel were literally a continent away, that normally would'be meant a days long trip on hyper-mag trains, with dozens of stops, transfers, and long stretches seated in cramped compartments rolling back and forth on repulsor skids.

But there were limits to what tedium Cyrus was willing to endure, even for the sake of secrecy. He had a pick up point per-arranged, all he had to was drop any tails and get there. It still took four hours, of which one was spent ensuring that the only interested parties was a pair of young gangers, easily tripped off course, and three more catching rail lines and section elevators down to where the suspended spires of the Upper City dangled out into the gulf of the Rend, as if threatening to plummet and pierce the Lower City below.

A seemingly unmarked door led to a platform at the edge of a hab section. A wave of a sensor wand revealed a particular electromagnetic signature on a tiny device near the frame. It had no purpose beyond being a marking, and it meant he was at the right spot. He stepped through without fanfare onto a small balcony, suspended over the Rend, with the storm-wracked Upper City above and haze and gloom shadowed Lower City below. All around him water cascaded down, pouring from ever tiny crack and crevice in the upper city. It coalesced in the streets and ridges formed by endless rows of duracrete monoliths, pooled around the massive support struts that kept the Upper City suspended, and finally fell in gigantic waterfalls far down below.

Aircars and small lighters filled the space in the Rend, a hundred million souls all going somewhere with the characteristic Axxilan hurry. They ignored the storm, mostly, though the paths of lights bent around the steady streams of water. Nowhere did natural light piece through the layers of construction, all was lit with a steady artificial glow.

An aircar pulled up the platform with merely a quiet rush of air. It was unmarked, but as it came to a stop against the balcony the opaque window tint faded to translucence, and the pilot wore a brilliant crimson uniform, with the dragon sigil of House Tregessar clearly visible on his shoulder. Cyrus stepped inside without a word, and barely acknowledge the greeting of the pilot, or the presence of a pair of armed guards in the back, also wearing the uncharacteristic crimson. As car drifted away from the balcony and back into traffic, he could hear the driver speaking, something about his sister waiting at the Citadel, but the words were so much insignificant mush. Crimson was the color of mourning on Axxila, and for even bodyguards to wear it meant someone truly high up in the House must have passed. There was only one conclusion.

Mikael Tregessar, Head and Chairman of House Tregessar, and Cyrus' father, was dead.