OBT Forum

ComStar Class A HPG Station
Samantha City, Taurus
Taurian Concordat
October 27, 3025

“Hey, Bob,” one of the guards called out to his companion, who sighed.

“Look, Jeremy—Chief Waters is going to have both our asses if you keep talking when you are supposed to be standing post.  What?”

“You ever seen one of those before?” the relatively new ComStar recruit pointed at the ‘Mechs moving along the boulevard—a late night exercise, according to the TDF.  Nothing to worry about, the guard thought.  The Taurians often conducted exercises of tanks and ‘Mechs and infantry at odd hours—even here in the core of the capital.

“They’re ‘Mechs, Waters,” he said . . . but then he actually looked at them.  And he frowned.  They were ‘Mechs, to be certain, but of a design he had never before seen.  And the Battalion marching by . . . every last one of the ‘Mech were that same unfamiliar design.  What the hell?  No one fielded entire battalions of the same BattleMech—not since the Fall of the League, at least.  And that insignia—Robert Grey knew the shoulder flash of every TDF unit on Taurus, but he had never before seen that flash . . . and his eyes grew wide.  Not outside of a museum, the cold realization came bubbling up from the depths of his memory.

He reached down and placed his hand on the phone—and that was when the line of ‘Mechs and tanks and infantry carriers suddenly wheeled and began advancing on the compound.  “SHIT!” he screamed—but the incoming PPC bolt tore apart the guard shack before he had the opportunity to trigger the alarm.

Of course, the explosions and weapons fire was more than enough to alert the men and women who called the ComStar compound home.

********************************************************

“What is happening?” Precentor Taurus screamed as he entered the control center—he was still pulling on his robes of station.

“Thomas has gone mad—I do believe that this is his answer to the Primus,” the ROM Chief of Station said bitterly.  “He’s attacking the facility.”

The ComStar leader blanched . . . and then he cursed.  “The HPG—I’ve got to get to the HPG,” he said.  “Can you hold them off?”

“How long do you need?” the ROM officer asked with a grimace—and both men ducked as an outlying structure erupted in a fireball . . . and hundreds of Taurian infantry darted in through the breaks in the compound walls.

“Five minutes minimum—ten would be better.”

“My boys can give you three—maybe four.  May I suggest you implement the Omega Protocol, Precentor?”

Precentor Taurus nodded.  He inserted a key into one of the computer stations of the command center; entered a short code, and then he turned the key.  “Omega Protocol activated,” he said.  But the ROM Agent was already gone, leading the men and women of the security force in trying to hold back tanks and ‘Mechs and infantry with only small arms.

Damn you, Thomas Calderon.  You have condemned the entire Concordat to death with this action, he thought as he knelt in the entrance—looking at the twenty meters that separated him from the entrance to the communications dome at the center of the compound.  Twenty meters—just twenty meters.  However, it was twenty meters filled with weapons fire.  Gritting his teeth, Precentor Taurus dashed out, zigging and zagging as he rushed toward the entrance of the dome.  He never saw the Taurian paratrooper drifting down from above who fired a burst into his back as he sprinted across the open courtyard.

********************************************************

The outer compound was child’s play to secure—but the dome itself featured multiple levels, many beneath the city streets.  And the tight quarters, plus fear of causing damage to the invaluable HPG restricted the weapons that Corporal Mueller and his maniple could carry to light-weight SMGs and pistols, along with a handful of flame incinerator units.

Say what you want about their beliefs, he thought, the robes were throwing up heavy resistance in his path.  And that made him wonder—why does a religion that preaches peace need to have so many well-trained and heavily-armed people?  He stopped next to a corridor junction and then he nodded at one of his men—the one carrying the flamer.  The trooper gritted his teeth and he stepped forward, extending his arms around the bend and squeezing the trigger . . . and screams began to fill the corridor, along with a few initial gunshots.

“Go,” Mueller ordered, and the maniple of ten troopers rounded the corner—firing single shots into the burning figures ahead of them.  It was a mercy, really, he thought.  Better than letting the fire finish its work.

A single pistol shot snapped ahead of him, and Mueller crouched—but he didn’t hear the passage of the bullet.  And then another.  And a third.

He broke into a run and entered the HPG chamber itself, and without thinking he raised his SMG to his shoulder and fired three bursts into the back of the security officer who was casually shooting the technicians in the head.  Shooting his own people in the fucking head, Mueller thought as he swore.

The next tech in line, the one that the ROM agent had been about to execute, sobbed.  “Thank Blake,” he cried.  “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

Mueller and his men spread out and they searched the chamber—but the security man with the pistol had been the last line of defense.  “Bravo Three-Two,” he broadcast.  “HPG secure—we have live prisoners,” and then Mueller frowned as he saw the red flashing lights on one console.  That can’t be good, he thought.  Then he blanched.  “Central, they’ve set their reactor on overload—we have . . . three minutes to core detonation.”

********************************************************

“I thought you were the best, Harper?” the sergeant growled at the Explosive Ordnance Disposal tech.  “Disarm the bloody thing right quick, now!”

“It ain’t a bomb, Sarge!  It’s a bloody damned fusion reactor!  And the controls are locked!” Patricia Harper snapped as she wiggled her way into the wire-filled outer containment vessel. 

“Just turn the damn thing off!” the Sergeant bellowed again.  Already, the Taurians were evacuating the troops above—and the civilians in nearby residential sections.  If this thing blew . . . well, several thousand people would have a very bad morning.  Pat crawled through the outer containment vessel and then she found what she was looking for.

“Got it!” she snarled.  “Time to core overload?”

“Forty seconds,” the radio squawked. 

“It’s all about the fuel,” she said as she worked.  “These things can’t sustain a reaction without the fuel feed—cut the lines and avert the overload.”

“Can’t be that simple, can it?” asked the Sergeant.

“Making a bomb is easy, Sarge—making one that will go off on a moments notice and NOT blow up when someone bumps into on a daily basis; well, that’s a bit more difficult.  But they don’t need to use a bomb, not when they can overload this generator.”

“Thirty seconds.”

“Problem is, unlike a bomb, it takes time to build up to detonation—and a LOT of fuel.  Cut,” she grunted as she finished wrapping the det cord, “the fuel lines and the whole thing goes cold.”

“Unless you breach containment—you are right up against the interior vessel, Harper.”

“Twenty seconds.”

“Teach your grandmother to suck eggs, Sarge.  I’ve got it—backing out now,” and she began to crawl away from the fuel lines . . . and then she cursed.

“Fuck,” she whispered as she tried to move—but she was caught on the wiring, hung up good.

“Ten seconds,” the radio whispered.

“Get out of there, Harper!” the Sergeant yelled.

“No time, Sarge,” she whispered as she lifted the trigger for the detonator.  “No time,” and she closed her eyes as she hit the clacker twice.  The explosion tore apart the fuel lines—and the reactor’s safeties automatically shut off the fuel flow as sensors indicated a leak in the outer containment vessel.  Without the fuel, the fusion reactor in the INNER vessel slowly weakened and dissipated.

She had saved thousands of lives—at the cost of her own.  And she was only one of hundreds of Taurians who sacrificed themselves for their Protector, their nation, their people that day.

Can't wait to see how ComStar reacts to this. 

ComStar Class A HPG Station
Samantha City, Taurus
Taurian Concordat
October 28, 3025

“Jack,” Helena growled.  “You said you could get this to work—what’s the hold up?”

The engineer crawled out of an access hatch on the side of the HPG, and he sighed.  “Boss, I don’t know what half of this gear is supposed to do.  Typical piece of Terran shit with a dozen components where any sensible engineer would use one!  Everything is cross-connected the Nth degree—it’s like they deliberately designed a Rube Goldberg machine specifically to spite anyone who ever got their hands on it!  I’ve got power flows all the place here, leading to circuits that don’t do anything!  But if I cut out those circuits, the whole frigging thing goes dead!”

Helena glared down at the engineer—and the team of scientists assembled from those embarked on Saucy Sam, and the surviving ComStar Adepts and Acolytes who had agreed to cooperate. 

“Damn it, Jack,” she snapped.  “I’m not asking you to rebuild the blasted thing—just make it work!”

“Boss, I . . .,” and seeing the look on Helena’s face, he sighed and rubbed a greasy hand through his hair.  “Fine.  But if we are going to be using this-this . . . piece of sh- . . .,” he winced as Thomas walked over and quickly adjusted his word choice, “junk, then we need to understand what each of these components are supposed to do—and right now, I don’t.  Know.  What.  Purpose.  Half.  Of.  Them.  Have.”

“Understand it later,” Thomas commanded.  “Right now, I need this on-line—can you do it, Commander?”

Jack sighed again and he began to mutter.  “Blood paranoid Terrans, none of these technicians know anything other the SINGLE system component they were assigned to run.  The only ones with a complete knowledge were killed by ComStar security.”

“ROM,” corrected Henri Jouett as he smiled.  “And Precentor Taurus probably knows—but he will take some . . . persuasion to reveal his knowledge.”

“Did you know they don’t have a single manual of operations?  They memorize their tasks—rote memorization without understanding the basic theory of how it works!” Jack whined.

“JACK!”

“Okay, okay, okay,” he muttered.  “We may burn out half of the circuits that I don’t know what they do, but okay.”  He steeled himself and he stood up from the floor and turned to the senior Adept that had changed sides—Dennis Frasier.  “Is the generator aligned?”

“On target, Pre-,” the man blushed.  “Commander.  HPG is on target and auto-stabilized.”

“Charge capacitors and prepare to establish communications wormhole.”

Dennis nodded and the team of former ComStar personnel began to sing out the litany as they worked the dials and pressed the keys.

“I fucking hate Gregorian chants,” he said as the machinery hummed to life.  “Ready to record and transmit—if I am reading this board right,” and he crossed his fingers.

“Then let us begin,” said Thomas.


ComStar First Circuit
Hilton Head Island, North America
Terra
October 28, 3025

“. . . and the Pronouncement of Interdiction has been distributed across the HPG Network, Primus,” the Adept reported.  “As of two hours ago, the Taurian Concordat has been officially Interdicted as per your command.”  Then he paused, and he swallowed heavily.  “I must report, however, that the Taurus ‘A’ Station has missed its past four transmission windows—and we have no confirmation from Taurus that the Interdiction has begun.”

Julian frowned, even as the members of the First Circuit started to whisper among themselves.  It wasn’t unheard of for an ‘A’ Station to temporarily go off the air—but the timing was . . . worrisome.  “Contact directly one of the Concordat ‘B’ Stations—have them confirm and see if we can determine what is wrong with the Taurus HPG.”

“Primus,” the sweating Adept said with a deep bow, “we did so six hours ago—none have replied to our transmissions.”

“It takes time to realign the HPG,” one of the Precentors of the First Circuit began, “and ‘B’ Stations are limited . . . perhaps their response is just delayed.”

“Even a ‘B’ Station should be able to respond to a priority transmission from the First Circuit in less than two hours,” snapped Myndo Waterly.  “Unless the Precentor in command is incompetent—did we send all of our fools to Taurus?”

Before anyone could reply, the sound of pounding feet came from a corridor and an Acolyte ran into the First Circuit.  Ignoring the Primus and the circle of Precentors both, he whispered to the Adept, even as Julian ground his teeth.  The Adept jerked, and his head snapped around to stare with horror at the Primus—and his jaw dropped, leaving his mouth open.

“Pri-primus,” he stuttered.  “We have received a transmission from Taurus—relayed here.  I-I,” his voice trailed off.

“CONTROL YOURSELF!” Julian snapped.  “Play the transmission.”

The Adept swayed.  “Pri-primus . . .,”

“Did you not hear the instruction of the Primus?” Myndo asked smoothly.  “PLAY IT,” she commanded.

The Adept bowed low and he walked over to a system control and adjusted the lights.  A holo-projector in the center of the floor activated; the image was shaky, filled with static, and slightly out of focus.  Julian frowned.

“Adept,” he said softly.  “Are we experiencing technical difficulties?”

“N-no, Primus—the transmission from Taurus was not precisely attuned,” he answered with an audible swallow of the lump in his throat.  “The computers are processing and cleaning the transmission as . . . we . . . speak,” and he grew quiet as the image solidified—the color base still slightly off and shaky, but it was not the image of Precentor Taurus.  No, the image that stood in front of the First Circuit was that of Thomas Calderon.

Sharp intakes of air came as several of the Precentors gasped, and Julian grabbed the sides of his podium in grips so tight that his knuckles faded to white.

“Primus,” the image spoke as it wavered.  “I have received your . . . ultimatum and carefully considered a reply.  In the words of General Anthony McAuliffe during the Siege of Bastogne in Terra’s Second World War—NUTS!  Or, if you aren’t a fan of history, then a simple PISS OFF is our answer to you.  Part of our answer, anyways,” he said with a chuckle.  “I believe you recognize the chamber I am in?  Your own ‘A’ Station on Taurus?  It is mine now; it belongs to the Concordat.”

Horrified—and furious—voices began to echo around the chamber, but the transmission continued.

“As you might notice, your Precentor Taurus is not present—he is under arrest and the evidence is damning.  I have been assured that he will be sentenced to death for his crimes against the Concordat.  My forces have seized not only the ‘A’ Station on Taurus, but every ‘B’ Station within the Taurian Concordat—and we are operating this station now to send you this message.”  Thomas paused and canted his head as he smiled.  “Seriously, you did not think that the sons and daughters of Samantha Calderon could figure out how to operate this technology?  If so, Primus, you are a fool.”

“We here in the Periphery have much experience with the perfidy of Terrans, Primus Tiepolo.  Your demands were unacceptable to us—and your actions in causing the incident upon which you based those demands were unconscionable.”

Julian’s face went white, and the image sneered at him.  “That’s right—we have access to your archives here on Taurus.  And it was orders from Terra that instructed Precentor Taurus to alter Grover Shraplen’s message to Brigadier Tharn of the Pleiades Hussars.  Those altered orders and communications which resulted in the attack on your facility on Jansen’s Hold; without them, it would have never occurred.  I don’t know what is more contemptible, Tiepolo—your callous sacrifice of men and women who served you or your greed over what the Concordat possesses.”

“But that is now over.  I hereby declare ComStar an outlawed organization within the territory of the Taurian Concordat—all who owe it allegiance will leave immediately under pain of death for defiance of this order.  I hereby nationalize your HPG stations—we Taurians will operate them ourselves, for our own good.”

“Of course, we will consider handing them back to you—in exchange for the head of one Julian Tiepolo.  Nothing attached—just the head,” Thomas said with a grim smile.  “There is an old expression, Primus, which you should have considered before this gambit began—fuck with the Bull and you get the horns.  Don’t push us into going further, or by the Horns, you will regret those actions forever.”

The transmission flickered again, and then it abruptly ended.  And utter chaos descended on the Chamber of the First Circuit.

Julian swayed and he tried to speak, but he couldn’t draw breath—and then he staggered as the pain in his chest exploded.  He collapsed onto the floor.

“PRIMUS!” someone shouted, but Julian couldn’t see his face—his voice seemed so very far away.  “GET A DOCTOR IN HERE!”  And everything faded to black.

At least his head is easier to remove this way

ComStar First Circuit
Hilton Head Island, North America
Terra
October 28, 3025

“So, to repeat,” the physician-Adept from Kappa Division reported, “the Primus remains unconscious in critical condition . . . but we anticipate a full physical recovery from the cardiac event that he suffered.”

“And mentally?” asked Myndo.

“Treatment was provided within minutes—there should be no permanent mental impairments,” the doctor answered.

“Very well,” Myndo snapped.  “With the Primus incapacitated, it falls upon us of the First Circuit to respond to this travesty on Taurus.  I believe that my fellow Precentors now see the need to act decisively to eliminate this threat to our very existence.”

“How?” snapped Precentor Sian.  “He has at least one HPG under his control and he has made a broadcast!  Once the Great Houses learn of this, they will . . .,” but she didn’t finish the sentence.

“One broadcast—possibly using traitors within ComStar forced to work the machinery at gun-point,” Myndo interrupted.  “He doesn’t under the technology—and he cannot replace any of the parts.  Only we, here on Terra, can do that.  And we all saw that message—he cannot even work the HPG properly!”  Myndo paused and she nodded.  “The Concordat already lies under interdiction—if he broadcasts again, the message will be stopped at Stations loyal to us.  Now is the time to respond to this affront—to make certain that Taurus regrets the day it lifted a hand against those who are faithful to the Word of Blake!”

“And what do you suggest, Precentor Dieron?  That we send the Fleet?  If we do that—and the Great Houses learn of it—we are done,” Precentor Tharkad bluntly asked.

“Taurus is their economic, military, industrial, and spiritual heart, Precentor Tharkad,” Myndo said with a grim smile.  “The Station which they took by force lies there, in Samantha City.  Where the Protector and his family reside.  Where their military and intelligence commands are headquartered.  Where their most prestigious universities and service academies are located.  Where their industrial strength is concentrated.”

She paused and smiled at the members of the First Circuit.

“I submit that this city which is home to Thomas Calderon is a cancer which must be removed—doing so will cripple the Concordat and show the Taurians that not even on Taurus behind their asteroid defenses and their nebula are they safe.”

“Destroying their capital city?” Nicholas asked into the silence.  “Are you mad, Myndo?  We are speaking of ten million civilians living an area the size of Greater London.  Even with Backdoor allowing our Fleet to bypass the asteroids and enter the Taurus system without engaging their main defenses, what makes you think they will survive to enter orbit?  We all know how the Taurians will respond to three WarShips entering THAT system—their fighters will be carrying nuclear weapons; the Concordat has a tremendous stockpile of tactical devices that they will not hesitate to use.”

“Precisely, Precentor ROM,” Myndo snarled.  “I do believe that you have at least one agent in place in the facility which produces their tactical weapons—Fission Utilities, Consolidated and Unlimited?  That is the name, yes?”

Nicholas sighed.  “I do have an agent there.  But those are small—TACTICAL—devices, of about 35 kilotons each, Precentor Dieron.  Even if I sent my agent an order to detonate one, it wouldn’t destroy the entire city.”

“No, one device will not suffice.  Nor will multiple devices concentrated in a single location,” Myndo mused.  “But, if I am remembering your reports correctly, the Taurian Defense Force must regularly replace their existing warheads with new ones—half-life being such a bitch for these . . . primitive weapons.”

“Yes,” Nicholas whispered.

“And this Foo-Coo does so in bulk, yes?”

“Fuck you,” Nicholas said with a hint of a smile.

The Chamber went silent as the blood drained from Myndo’s face—she began to snarl, but Nicholas raised one hand.  “It is pronounced ‘fuck-you’, not ‘foo-coo’, Precentor Dieron—although many in the TDF and those who work there refer to the facility as ‘Nukes ‘R Us’.”

The silence dragged on as Myndo struggled to compose herself, but then at last she nodded.  “Thank you for that correction, Precentor ROM,” she snarled.  “They produce replacement warheads in bulk, do they not?”

“Yes.”

“And they ship them in blocks of one hundred, yes?”

“That is a typical delivery—one hundred warheads, once every two months,” answered Nicholas.

“You agent will supply other ROM teams with the next scheduled delivery—and they will appropriate it.  A single 35-kiloton detonation will not achieve our goals—but one hundred?  Distributed throughout Samantha City?  And I do believe that these Taurian weapons—being intended for use in space—leave massive amounts of lingering radiation behind, yes?”

Nicholas nodded, but he set his jaw.  “Do you believe that the Taurians will not move heaven and earth once they realize that someone has stolen one hundred nuclear warheads?”

“Are you saying that ROM cannot accomplish this, Precentor ROM?” Myndo asked sweetly.

“We can accomplish this—if the Primus orders it.  You are not Primus, Myndo Waterly.”

“The Primus is . . . unavailable, Precentor ROM,” she answered in a sharp voice.  “And if the First Circuit commands it—you will act.  Or you will be replaced.”  She paused.  “To the rest of humanity it will appear as if the Taurian obsession with these weapons of mass destruction resulted in a tragic accident that took the lives of so many millions of their own civilians.  I dare say, we might be able to convince the Great Houses to begin reducing their own stockpiles—for if this can happen to the Taurians, it might happen to them.”

“Any analysis of the blast patterns will indicate . . .,” began Protector Atreus.

“They will analyze information that passes through our HPGs—we will give them the data that conforms to our story.  It’s not like Hanse Davion or Takashi Kurita or Maximillian Liao will visit Taurus to confirm the story with their own eyes.  We control the flow of information—and through it, we WILL control humanity,” Myndo snapped.  And then she glared at the members of the First Circuit.  “Which is why we must end this Taurian Crisis NOW.  Before the situation grows out of control.”

One by one, the voting members of the First Circuit slowly nodded their agreement, and Nicholas sighed.

Myndo . . . glowed with delight, and she nodded as well.  “And in the wake of this . . . tragedy . . . we must begin to look to our own defenses in the Outer Worlds.  Perhaps it is time to address deploying the ComGuard and Militia to defend our compounds—slowly, of course.”

She turned her gaze back to Nicholas.  “One final matter,” she said.  “Have an intermediary pass along to Maximillian Liao and Michael Hasek ALL of our information on the latest deployments of the TDF—border defenses, what units are present.  EVERYTHING.  With an Interdiction already in place, I doubt very much that those two can resist the . . . opportunity to wrest a dozen or so worlds away from the Concordat.”

She paused again, and smiled.  “When our Great Work is finished, we will have completed the job that the Star League began—and the Taurian Concordat will no longer be a thorn in our side.”  She waited until the voting members nodded their agreement.  “Then we are in recess—Blessed be Blake!  May his Word bring Peace to all Humanity.  United under our rule—of course.”

This is a real coup!

Evacuation Tunnel Alpha
Hilton Head Island, North America
Terra
October 28, 3025

Myndo cursed as her guards pressed her back against the wall; the Acolyte who led them into the passageway staggered as his body absorbed the hail-storm of bullets emerging from the side corridor that connected to the evacuation tunnel.

“DAMN HIM,” she snarled.  Who would have thought that Nicholas Cassnew would have dared such an action?  That he would have the audacity to attempt to overthrow the First Circuit itself!  “When are our reinforcements arriving?” she asked her security chief.

The Adept shook his head.  “Precentor Dieron,” he said slowly, “the ComGuard and Militia has declared itself neutral in this conflict—they refuse to support either side; we have no reinforcements coming.”

“Options?” she asked.  Of all of the members of the First Circuit—the ones that mattered, the ones with a vote and a power base—she was the sole survivor.  If—IF—she could get out of this trap which Nicholas had transformed Hilton Head into, then she was certain that ComStar would rally to her cause.  But it all depended on getting free of Hilton Head Island and the massive facility built beneath the surface of the land and sea.

“ROM is coming for us, Precentor—we have no way out,” the security man paused.  “It is time to consider a negotiated end to this be-. . .,”

“NEGOTIATE?  Nicholas is the one that has spilt blood here on Holy Ground, Adept!  HE is the one who has abandoned all that Blake commanded of us—there can be no negotiation!  Do we still have communications with the outside world?”

“No, Precentor.”  Comms had been among the first thing that Nicholas had severed with powerful jamming devices blocking almost all signals.  Only the land-lines and optical cables had not been affected—but now, even those had been cut.

“Toyama foretold that this day would come,” Myndo snarled.  “When those who deny the Word of Blake attempt to seize the power of Terra and plunge humanity back into chaos and confusion—only through Blake can we know Peace.”  She sighed.  “Can we get to the Device of Last Resort?”

Her security chief winced as his men exchanged fire with the ROM agents loyal to Nicholas—and then he nodded.  “Perhaps, Precentor.  If he has not anticipated us attempting to trigger the device.”

“Blake will grant us a way, Adept—lead us there; leave half of your men here to cover our passage.  Their deaths will give us time to initiate the self-destruct of this compound.”

“You would kill every member of the Order here on this island, Precentor?” asked the shocked voice of Myndo’s aide-de-camp.  “Destroy this facility completely and leave ComStar leaderless and adrift?”

“Precentor ROM has already done that!” Myndo barked.  “If they follow Nicholas Cassnew and fail to abide by the Word of Blake, then those who fight us are heretics—apostates!  A new First Circuit will arise from the ashes, one which will lead us into a Golden Age.”  Myndo smiled.  “Besides, Sharilar,” she said.  “There is an evacuation pod accessed in the device’s chamber—we shall make our escape and rebuild the First Circuit—as Toyama and Blake intended.”

Myndo paused.  “And then we will deal with the Taurians once and for all time.”  She smiled.  “They were the cause of the downfall of the League and they seek to do the same to ComStar—we will implement a final solution to the Taurian problem.  Never again will they threaten humanity!”

Sharilar Mori just shook her head in disbelief at first, and then as the gunfire in the corridor increased, she drew a pistol from the folds of her robes.  “As the Primus orders,” she whispered.

Myndo Waterly smiled broadly.  “Yes.  You see the Truth, Sharilar.  I am the true Primus of Com . . . PUT DOWN THAT PIS- . . . !” she began to yell, her eyes growing wide as her aide raised the barrel aligned with the chest of Precentor Dieron—the guards moved fast, but not fast enough.  None had expected such a betrayal here, among the inner circle of Myndo’s chosen—and that gave Sharilar time enough to steady the weapon and squeeze the trigger.