Ravens of Eternity

408 Disintegration

Taloren Prime, Throne System, Imperial Domain of the Boundless Drogar

Felothi, the long-reformed Sanguine Fundamentalist, sat on a long, comfortable couch in the middle of his family’s small but cozy hab. He was joined by his wife and two children, happily.

They had spent many years in the same habitat, through thick and thin, and grew into it nicely. Before, all they had were bare walls and sparse furnishings. Now there were shelves full of knick-knacks, souvenirs, trinkets, and random memories.

The walls had all kinds of art displayed on them, and the corners had beautiful drooping plants growing out of tall pots. There were also thin carpets that circled around the main room’s wall, which gave the space an incredible amount of coziness.

Though they didn’t have much, it was clear that they enjoyed what they did have.

All four of them watched the large circular screen in front of them with rapt attention. On the screen was their favorite historical omnicast The Imperial Cycle, a show they watched practically every week.

It was a far cry from the kind of shows that relied on reporters front and center, which were an Imperial staple. This was much more emotionally charged, even though everything the show presented was mostly factual and true.

Usually, most “factual” Imperial shows were barely-disguised propaganda filled with inaccuracies and falsehoods.

Playing on the screen was seemingly old footage, recorded with a technology long since obsolete.

.....

The recording itself was grainy, dirty, and crude. Its resolution and framerate were low enough that shapes seemed blocky and movements seemed rough. Most importantly, they didn’t seem to have any dimensionality to them, much unlike standard holoprojections.

On the recording was a family of drogar from ages past, many thousands of years ago. Behind them was a dilapidated house made of haphazardly assembled wooden planks. It looked far from safe, but it somehow still held together.

The family seemed just like Felothi’s – just regular drogar.

They were posing for whatever was taking their image in the first place, though it seemed awkward. At first they tried to smile or change their stances, but nothing seemed quite right. Their smiles certainly didn’t seem happy and felt a little forced. In the end, they stopped trying to pretend to be and wore their pessimistic faces in defeat.

Each and every one of them was shabby and forlorn. They all wore dusty, well-used robes with absolutely no adornment whatsoever.

Their hands were rough and dirty and clearly calloused. Their faces were heavy and weatherbeaten.

Even both children looked haggard and overworked.

“It was countless generations ago that the drogar civilization found itself in a steep decline,” said the ‘Cast’s narrator. Her voice was soothing yet somehow firm, which lent a level of academic authority to her words.

“All we had was our own solar system,” she continued, “and the empire was far from being galactically ubiquitous.”

On the screen, the mother drogar pulled out a cloth-wrapped package from one of her side bags, and set it atop a small workbench. She unwrapped it carefully until it revealed a small stack of flat breads inside.

Then she took the flat loaf at the top and pulled it apart into numerous pieces. Afterwards, she handed off each of those pieces to the rest of the family, with the smallest child having received the largest. She herself took the smallest piece, though her husband offered his in exchange for hers.

She didn’t accept the trade.

“Most of the people had very little to their names. They spent the majority of their earnings on simple things – food and shelter most of all. Medicine was a luxury that only the more industrious could afford.

“Of course in contrast, those who owned the most also enjoyed themselves most.”

The images on the screen switched to a different home altogether. It looked like a grand mansion sitting atop a rolling hill. The grassy grounds surrounding it were beautiful gardens with numerous clipped hedges.

More than the contents, the image itself was cleaner and clearer. It was clearly much better in terms of quality. What was glaringly different was the fact that this set of video had an audio track that accompanied it.

Though the audio was crude and scratchy, it was clear enough to be heard.

The voices of a half dozen or so drogar could be heard. Their dialects and inflections seemed foreign to Felothi and his family. They seemed so far beyond common Drogarii, yet they could still understand them to some degree.

After a moment, the image panned over from the mansion in the distance to a stretch of open garden. There, a handful of large blankets had been laid out on the grass. Each of them were host to countless dishes, from glistening slabs of meat, game, and fish, to all manner of colorful cooked and pickled vegetables and fruits.

There were also jugs and gourds of spiced wines and other fermented drinks.

Seated or kneeling all around were numerous drogar in fine, clean robes. What few decorations hung from their robes were of beautiful metalwork and cut jewelry. Also missing were their beltknives – or rather what was considered the modern beltknife.

What hung from their waists were full-on shortswords. Most seemed far more ornamental than functional, however, and were heavily decorated.

The drogar were all smiles as they feasted and chatted and cajoled with each other. A few pairs picked themselves up and began dancing off to the side.

“Of course, amidst this disparity, the empire was solidifying its foothold on the colonies seated at the edge of the Throne system. Of course, it had been done through the use of obscene force and violent power.”

The image switched again, this time to that of a blasted landscape. The skies were far from blue or even gray. They were dark from the thick clouds of smoke that continually poured into the air. And the horizon was red from the fires that consumed it.

The quality of the recording was the worst of the three. It was shaky, incredibly scratchy, and skipped numerous frames. As a result, the drogar on it seemed robotic and unnatural and inhuman in their movements.

Not that they did much.

Imperial drogar in their simple military uniforms sat in the mud of their trenches with their faces long and filled with fear and sorrow. There was also a kind of horror buried deep in their eyes, as though they had seen things they never wanted to see.

All seemed exhausted. Not just physically, but emotionally and mentally as well.

Each of the soldiers were barely armored beyond their thick, muddy, torn uniforms. At best, they had plated shins and forearms, but little beyond that.

Their relatively simple weapons were laid out on the ground or were leaned on the trench walls next to them. No matter where they were, they were in fast, easy reach of their owners. Even if they didn’t want them to be.

These weapons were far from the highly refined versions of the modern Imperial era. These were large, bulky, and unwieldy. They appeared to be somewhat crude, as though they were made by hand.

A handful of drogar in well-pressed uniforms walked morosely down the trenches and observed the soldiers all around them. Unlike the others, these drogar had the markings of officers – ropes of silver hung from their shoulders, and handfuls of medals were pinned to their lapels.

As such, they were privileged enough to have armor. In addition to the standard vambraces and greaves, the officers also wore robust chest plates and helmets.

The officer at the head of the procession looked at his soldiers with absolute dejection. It was clear that he could feel their misery.

He knelt down in front of one of his soldiers, who was doubled over and crying softly. The officer put a hand on his shoulder to help ease him. With the other hand, he dug into a pocket and pulled out what appeared to be a finely rolled cigarette, then offered it to the soldier.

“There’s a saying about history and repetition,” said the narrator. “That its notes echo through time, over and over. All of us at The Imperial Cycle agree. This is a tune that we’re once again hearing loud and clear.

“Our empire is embroiled in a needless, costly war. The technocrats funding it grow fat from its spoils. And everyone else is left to fight for what resources are deemed ‘for the public’.”

The screen switched again, but this time the footage was modern and clean. It was clearly taken by an EyeCast drone, which flew swiftly and smoothly around every image it captured.

Its lens caught another family just like Felothi’s. But their robes were rough, and their faces were caked by layers of dirt. Whatever luster their scales had was long gone.

More than that, their bodies were gaunt and their movements were weak or slow.

Similar to the family from ages long past, this one had a ramshackle dwelling that had been set up in a back alley between towering coral buildings. Worse, it was only one of many that lined the entire alley. Dozens and dozens of families just like theirs made their home here.

Each of their shelters were flimsy and looked as though they were on the verge of collapse. Their interior frames seemed as though they were built haphazardly and carelessly with whatever was available. Most were covered with numerous synthetic sheets – their only defense against the elements.

“Five years have passed since our last emperor was assassinated. In that time, everything but the war machine has gone into an absolute standstill.

“In that time, billions have lost everything.

“And billions of us have had enough.”

The image on the screen switched again, this time to the Spiral Towers on Lacroseth City.

There was a massive procession of classy and armored hoppers that surrounded the towers themselves. They all moved in a circle around as crowds in the surrounding zones cheered at them wildly.

Each of the hoppers went up to the main entrance at the second tallest tower, and let out their passengers one after another.

Two Swarmfathers in their full regalia got out of their armored hopper, saluted the numerous security forces around them, then walked into the entrance.

Right after their hopper left, another took its place. Two senators stepped out of this one, both aged and rotund. Both wore truly fine robes which were adorned with precious gems and stones.

The two were in a jovial discussion with each other, and practically ignored the crowds and security and aides that surrounded them. They too walked into the building after the Swarmfathers just as their hopper sped off.

“In a stunning show of civil resistance, hundreds of civilian groups banded together to reject the elites’ obvious show of opulence. These groups were comprised of drogar from every ideology, from the extreme right Sanguine Fundamentalists to the left-leaning Voices Forward Movement.

“Together, millions of them stormed the Spiral Towers once again, and showed the ruling class who was truly in charge of the Empire.”

Just as another set of dignitaries entered the tower, loud screams from the crowd interrupted the proceedings. Most of the EyeCast drones immediately spun to capture whatever the source of the screaming was.

They were immediately met with swarms of armed and armored drogar coming in from every direction. Hundreds of thousands of them burst through the cheering crowds and overwhelmed the procession and their security with their sheer numbers.

Though there were a few firefights and rifle exchanges, most of it ended quickly.

Any security forces out there were quickly swarmed, overwhelmed, and ultimately killed. Many were literally beaten to death with their own weapons as their security tokens were ripped from their suits.

Tens of millions of drogar swarmed the Towers, and literally ripped apart the ruling class using the talons on their own hands.

“In that single attack, many senators and military officers and media moguls and industrialists and technocrats were removed from their positions... permanently.”

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