Birthright 2: The Gathering Chapter 18: Picking Up the Pieces, an andromeda fanfic

BIRTHRIGHT 2 – THE GATHERING

by Soledad

Author's note:

For disclaimer, rating, warnings, etc., see the Prologue.

My heartfelt thanks to the Memory Alpha members Arthur Hansen, Erinnyes and FireStar, who helped me with the technical questions. The principles of Nietzschean mating mentioned here are based on Of Sex and Violence in The Ancestor's Breath by Keith Hamilton Cobb. You can read the original concept on his website.

CHAPTER 18 – PICKING UP THE PIECES

On the command deck of the Pax Magellanic, Tyr watched the spectacle taking place in almost disturbingly close proximity to his current location. According to the agitated chatter still leaking through the Andromeda's comm system – thankfully, no one had thought of closing it so far – Höhne's plan had worked like a charm. The high-energy EMP-missiles had sufficiently blinded the Andromeda's sensors, without damaging them beyond repair, while the experimental shape-charge missiles put up a very convincing show of having destroyed the Pax. Rekeeb had managed to fool the Andromeda AI into believing that her regular missiles had hit the Pax, while they actually exploded just in front of the ship, shaking it badly, but in fact directing the explosion away from it and towards the Andromeda.

Of course, the battle for the Pax had not been won yet. Dylan could still decide to examine the debris, and the Pax was in no shape to play hide-and-seek with a fully functional Andromeda, when most of her systems required manual control. Not before the core AI was reprogrammed and re-initialized. Tyr could only hope that both Dylan and his ship were grieving deeply enough to leave the Herodotus system as soon as possible.

Currently, the Pax was floating dead in space. Having taken a hasty retreat deeper into the asteroid field, Tyr had turned off everything save minimal life support, to give off no energy signatures. He hoped that the confusing readings amidst the asteroid debris would camouflage his ship long enough. He knew, however, that he'd have to return to Andromeda, soon, or else his 'miraculous' survival wouldn't be convincing. It wasn't easy to fool Dylan Hunt, not after he'd learned from his mistakes made concerning Gaheris Rhade. But Tyr couldn't leave just now. Not before his allies arrived to secure the ship.

Leaving the Pax behind in Sabran hands did have its risks, of course. The El-Hakim clan could decide to simply seize the Pax and keep it as part of their fleet. They had considerable firepower and a great number of combatants to do so, while Tyr was alone. And while Finnabair's cleverly constructed virus had not only wiped out the core AI but also keyed the crucial systems to his DNA, a good enough computer expert still could get around the safety measures, given enough time.

Tyr sighed. He had to trust his Sabran allies, at least for the time being. He had to trust that El-Hakim's agents had been able to track the Andromeda and pick up the necessary information he'd left at the pre-arranged drop points. Otherwise, the whole act had been for nothing, and he'd have to leave the Pax behind, defenceless, unprotected and open for plunderers. He had to return to Freya, and soon. She couldn't leave her behind. Or their unborn child.

A blinking light drew his attention. Passive sensors – the only systems beside life support he dared to let on – clicked into life. The display showed an approaching ship, sneaking up from the side opposite to that of the Andromeda. The automated board systems identified it as a High Guard long-range surveillance ship… or something very similar. That would mean either Abigail or Nathaniel, then. Of course, the ship didn't send any ID-code. That could have been picked up by the Andromeda. So Tyr had no other choice than wait.

The captain of the ship was careful enough not to come into visual range. A small pod left the vessel, heading directly to the Pax' hangar bay. Tyr jogged down from the command deck to open the hangar doors manually. He'd allow limited access to the main systems whoever had come to secure the ship, but right now, manual overrides were preferable, as they didn't emit any energy signatures.

He stepped onto the hangar deck and watched the luke of the small craft opening and revealing the freshly arrived persons. Abigail was the first to leave the pod, which meant that the ship floating in space near the Pax must have been the Hand of Victory. Tyr was relieved to see her instead of one of her brothers. For an Alpha, an unbound female was always a potential ally, while a male of his own status always meant unwanted concurrence.

A group of about a dozen people followed Abigail, mostly young men wearing the crest of Sabra Pride, save from a slender, dark-haired and rather pale woman, at the sight of whom Tyr broke into a huge grin.

"Finnabair!" he cried out in delight. "I'm glad you could make it!"

"How could I have left such a challenge unanswered?" his Fourth Wife laughed and accepted a long, unhurried kiss from him. "Nemhain sent Angus with me," she added, nodding towards the young Völsung pilot whom Tyr had already met on Haukin Vora. "I'm supposed to teach him more about engineering and cybernetics as we go."

Tyr nodded in appreciation. Like a true Matriarch, Nemhain wouldn't let Finnabair go with the Sabra alone. And sending a pilot with him, who also could be used as an engineer, ensured a certain amount of control for them.

"How are you doing?" he asked. "And the others?"

"Preliminary scans show that Derdriu is expecting a boy, and so does Ayeshwariam," Finnabair replied, knowing well what he'd want to know. "My child is female. We're all well. Shakuni's new wife is pregnant, too. The new Pride is growing."

Tyr nodded again, patting her arm in affection, and turned to Abigail.

"Welcome aboard the Pax Magellanic," he said formally. "Your presence honours me. I'll have to leave within the hour, if we want to keep our guise here," he added, " but I think we should talk. In private."

Abigail inclined her head. "Agreed. I'd have asked for it myself, had you not offered, as I need to ask you a favour. The others can man their stations in the meantime, and start working."

"Finnabair, we're going to use the captain's quarters," Tyr said to his wife. "I'd like you to move there as soon as I've left."

Finnabair nodded and sat down to the engineering station to see if they had any mans to leave the system on their own.

"Mikaelan is expecting a male child," Abigail told Tyr, as soon as they reached Captain Warrick's long-abandoned quarters. "They are both fine. She intends to move to this ship when it's functional again. Which leads us to the primary question: In what shape, exactly, is the Pax?"

"Overall, it's functioning at peak efficiency," Tyr replied, "aside from the fact that is has no slipstream drive, of course."

Abigail stared at him as if he'd suddenly grown a second head. "No… slipstream… drive?" she repeated slowly. Tyr shrugged.

"None at all. The drive's exotic matter pulser has been ejected three hundred years ago – that was what caused the destruction of the planet Herodotus – and never replaced."

Abigail nodded, processing that particular piece of information for a moment."

"I see," she finally said. "And I must admit a certain grade of… satisfaction that the true fate of Herodotus has been revealed, after all."

"Are you personally interested in the planet?" Tyr asked in surprise.

"Not me alone, our entire family," Abigail replied. "We had an ancestor among the troops fighting for that planet: Strike Marshal Eleazar Ben-Gurion. Herodotus had been promised our clan as a possible homeworld, in case we managed to seize it. It wasn't until two hundred years ago that we settled for Centauris A."

"The Sabra fought valiantly in the war against the Commonwealth," Tyr said. "Unlike the Jaguar…"

"Well, they've always bred for treachery," Abigail dismissed the entire Pride with a shrug. "Tell me, could the Pax replace the missing slipstream drive? There are enough asteroids floating around to mine for raw material."

"Not as long as the core AI hasn't been reinitiated," Tyr shook his head. Abigail frowned.

"In that case we should get her to our colony somehow. Are the conventional engines working?"

"As far as I can tell – yes."

"Good. We'll fly in close formation, then. The Hand of Victory will open the slipstream portal for both ships and lead the Pax through."

"That's a risky maneuver," Tyr warned, "with an uncomfortably high possibility of failure."

"I know," Abigail said. "That's why I will pilot the Pax myself. I've done this before – and, as you can see, lived to tell the tale. Besides, there aren't many other chances to get the Pax away from here."

"I know," Tyr sighed," I still don't like it, though."

"Neither do I," Abigail admitted, "but only a well-equipped shipyard can replace a slipstream drive's exotic matter pulser. We happen to have such a shipyard, and we certainly will be very… discrete about it," she looked at Tyr's reluctant face and smiled thinly. "You still don't trust us, do you? You're afraid that we'd take the ship from you. Keep it for ourselves."

"The thought occurred to me, yes," Tyr answered slowly. Abigail nodded.

"That would be the logical choice, indeed – if not for the 'small' matter of your genetic heritage."

Tyr frowned. "I'm not sure I can follow you."

Abigail leaned forward in her chair, her face intensely serious.

"The genetic tests speak a clear language," she said. "You are the closest match to the Progenitor that has been known for centuries; and we've kept records for a very long time, so you can believe that. If he's to be reborn, it would be from your loins. Therefore, we need you on our side. One of your descendants will be the perfect match one day, and when he reunites the Prides, the Sabra will stand behind his throne as the elite force of the new Nietzschean Empire."

"You certainly have long-lasting plans, don't you?" Tyr asked, half-impressed, half-amused.

"Of course," Abigail said. "In fact, my grandfather, Leonidas, has already planned an alliance with the Kodiak. He wanted to marry me off to your elder brother, Loki. Of course, the massacre on your Pride was pretty much the end of his plans, too."

"Which is where we come to the favour you need to ask me," Tyr said, fairly certain of what to expect.

"We do," Abigail agreed. "As you know, I already have four children; all of them Alphas, raised by the family of my brother Jonathan. I've always chosen my mates very carefully. And now I want to do even better than before, as long as the uncertain peace lasts, while I'm less demanded on the command deck of my ship. I want to have a child from you."

"Because I'm such a close match?" Tyr asked with a small smile. Abigail smiled back at him.

"Precisely," she said. "Isn't that not what every Nietzschean woman dreams of? To give birth to the Progenitor? By lying with you, I'll have better chances than most. And I have a lot to offer."

Tyr thought about that. Abigail would have been an excellent choice indeed, with good genes and valuable personal traits. Not to mention the fact that procreating together would make them allies. Still, there were other aspects to take into consideration.

"Would you keep the child with you, to strengthen Sabra Pride?" he asked. That was always the woman's right. He couldn't demand that she gave him the child if she didn't want to. But he has already lost Amritray's unborn son to Völsung Pride and was not willing to do so with more of his progeny.

"I'd be willing to let you and Mikaelan raise our child," Abigail said. "I don't intend to give up my duty as a warrior and become a docile homemaker – that's not in my blood."

"What does Mikaelan say to it?" Tyr inquired. Freya not being present, he needed at least his Second Wife's agreement.

"We've discussed this with the entire family, and Mikaelan is agreeable," Abigail replied. Her voice became urgent and intense again. "Think about it; our child, whether male or female, would be an asset to your new Kodiak-Sabra Pride – and you do need children with good genes. Your Völsung wives won't bear you Alpha children, you know."

Of course he knew that. But they were blood. He didn't even try to make Abigail understand.

"Very well," he said, "we can do it here and now. But first I want a binding contract that you'll give the child into my custody."

Abigail grinned and produced a flimsy, carefully formulated and officially validated by the signatures of Ezekial El-Hakim and the Pride Matriarchs.

"I knew you'd demand something like that," she said. "So I took the freedom to prepare the necessary documents in advance."

Tyr checked the document very carefully. Such things were taken seriously among Nietzscheans, and Abigail would expect him to do so. Everything seemed to be in order, the text phrased in the most formal manner, the signatures validated by fingerprints and DNA-codes. The legal technicalities thus being cleared, Tyr saw no reason to refuse Abigail's request. It was a most reasonable request, after all.

'Love', as humans would call it, played no role in this business. Nietzschean women, with very few exceptions, selected their mate – or, in Abigail's case, their mates – based on the sole purpose of making genetically superior children, for the furtherance of the Pride in general and that of the bloodline from which they came in particular. Abigail's current choice, inspired by the ambitious dream of becoming the mother of the Progenitor, was an excellent example of this practice.

They had less than an hour left before Tyr had to return to the Andromeda, but once a woman's choice was made, the mating process usually ensued quickly – and with the usual Nietzschean efficiency. By the average Nietzschean mating, the likelihood of conception lay over ninety per cent. Just as they were bred to fight efficiently, they were also supremely efficient in procreating.

So he did his best to be efficient and left Abigail behind in the hope that he'd succeeded in getting her with child. It was a strong possibility that he had, but they couldn't be absolutely sure. Even Nietzschean women needed at least one day for that.

"Be well, lady mine," he said, speaking his farewells to the beautiful and deadly assassin. "Let me know the outcome of our efforts."

"I'll leave messages at the usual drops," Abigail promised. Her clan had a well-established information network that had served them for generations.

Tyr nodded. It was better than running everything through Ferahr. Too much knowledge would have been dangerous for the human, and Tyr didn't want to lose him. Ferahr was the only aspect of his past – well, of the past two decades – that he didn't despise.

His goodbye to Finnabair was equally short and hurried. He regretted that he didn't have the time to lie with her – pregnant women, even Nietzschean ones, liked a little reassurance – but that couldn't be helped. He hoped that one day he'd be able to reunite his scattered family, and they could sit all together in peace and unwatched by outsiders, to exchange stories and strengthen the family bonds.

At least he had a family now. Wives and in-laws and, hopefully soon, children as well. What could a Nietzschean hope for more? Well, except the painful and prolonged deaths of his enemies, of course. That, too, will come one day. But for that, he first needed to get back safely to the Andromeda.

Half an hour later, the Andromeda picked up a battered lifepod from the Pax among the debris, with a royally pissed but very alive Tyr Anasazi in it.

"I didn't reach the command deck in time," he explained sourly. "Barely made it out at all."

Everyone accepted his words without further questions. They'd all seen the explosions, after all. And Tyr looked properly battered, himself.

"Well," Beka said, when the former Maru crew got together in the mess hall, "can anyone tell us what exactly happened in the VR matrix the last time? Why was the Pax trying to kill us all? I don't think that either Rommie or Dylan would spill, but perhaps Harper managed to squeeze the truth out of that annoying little chinhead."

"More or less," Harper grabbed a can of Sparky and took a long drink. "Apparently, the Pax avatar and her captain had a… thing going. Ya know, doing the horizontal mambo…"

"We get the picture," Beka interrupted, before he could get into any more detail. "And?"

"Well, when Captain Warrick ordered friendly fire down on his own position, the babe apparently refused to self-destruct, as she was supposed to do," Harper shrugged. "Not that I'd blame her – organic or not, who'd want to die if there was another way? The Commonwealth had already lose two galaxies by then. So she ejected the slipstream engine, which blew up the entire planet, with all the Übers on it. If you ask me, it would have been a good idea – if only her own crew weren't sitting in a rat trap on the same planet."

"It was a remarkable act of self-preservation," Tyr commented. He was preparing dinner for them and Freya, having achieved honorary crewman status for saving Harper's life. "I'd think she was programmed by a Nietzschean."

"That's a distinct possibility," Rev Bem said. "Dylan keeps telling that Nietzscheans once used to be 'valuable members of the Commonwealth', doesn't he?"

"We were," Tyr shrugged, his knives doing a speedy dance with the assorted vegetables that could make any onlooker dizzy. "Before the Commonwealth came to the insane idea of making a treaty with the Magog. No offence intended," he added, with a sidelong glance at Rev Bem, while his knives kept working as if on their own.

The Wayist monk inclined his head. "None taken. I'm well aware of the ways of my people – and I'm not proud of them. I guess Dylan was led by his old instincts, drilled into him at the High Guard Academy, when he hired both Tyr and myself."

"He seems to have changed his mind since then, though," Harper said. "He'd have left Tyr behind, had Amritray not intervened."

"That was only logical," Tyr shrugged. "Five lives in exchange for one – plus his own. I'd have done the same."

"Yeah, but at lest you have the excuse of being an Über," Harper pointed out, "and we all know that Übers are selfish bastards," he glanced at Freya apologetically. "Except the ladies, of course."

Freya laughed. "No, we are no exception. In fact, we are a lot worse than our men. Especially when we are pregnant or protecting our children."

"But you look a lot better," Harper bowed towards her with exaggerated gallantry, and she grinned. "Anyway, it seems that after the Pax babe offed all the Übers, plus her own crew, out of unrequited love or whatnot, she started feeling lonely. So she got into the genetic database and fabricated android replicas of her fave crewmen, starting with Dutch. And since they couldn't leave the system or replace their slipstream drive, she spent the last three hundred years wallowing in self-pity and feeling guilty. End of story."

"Sounds pretty convincing," Beka judged. "It certainly explains everything – including the Pax trying to hide the ugly truth at any costs. She must have known what she'd have to expect in case anyone ever found out what had happened."

"Not anyone," Tyr corrected, dumping the vegetables into a frying pan, "just anyone from the High Guard, with their high and mighty morale and suicidal idealism. Any Nietzschean would approve of her actions, despite the fact that she'd wiped out several of our infantry units down on Herodotus. Had she not been programmed with those oh-so-elated High Guard values, she hadn't gone mad, and we'd have another heavy cruiser to our disposal."

"Well, Dylan did everything in his might to save her," the holographic image of Rommie flickered to life near their table.

"Yeah, including risking all our lives," Harper growled.

Rommie gave him a puzzled look. "I don't understand you, Harper. You'd have risked your life to save me when I was accused of murdering President Lee. How could you be so… indifferent about my sister?"

Harper's eyes narrowed. "You might by Dylan's ship to command, but I'm your engineer. I have built you with my own hands. She was just a crazy machine to me, who tried to kill us all. I'd say there's a big difference. Even though Dylan seems to think I'm not part of your cosy little family."

Beka suppressed a smile as she saw both Rommie and the Nietzschean staring at Harper in surprise. Yes, her little engineer played the role of the good-natured, easily excited, cheerful and harmless mudfoot so convincingly that most people never thought about how he'd managed to survive on Earth for twenty years. That's why they were fairly shocked whenever the ruthless, self-protective streak of him surfaced.

"That was… not a very nice thing of Dylan to say," Rommie admitted reluctantly. "I guess he was back in the good old times, in spirit anyway. Remember, for him – or for me, for that matter – the Commonwealth isn't a distinct historic period. For us, it was very real, only a few months ago."

"Oh, I don't blame him," Beka said in a manner that belied her words. "For a few hours, he had all that spit and polish again that he loves so much. Hourly reports, highlighted in three colours, ensigns saluting crisply whenever he walks by, everything looking up to him in admiration, kissing his ass… I guess, had I grown up like that, I'd miss it, too."

"Structure," Rommie said. "Order. Discipline. Control. Captains like that sort of thing. But he still has the most important thing: a crew he can count on. And he knows that."

"He does?" Beta asked, puzzled. "It sure as hell doesn't sound like that when he's ranting about our work. Which he does at least once a day."

"He's having a hard time coping with the changes," Rommie said. "Give him a little more time. Remember, he's lost almost everyone he loved. Lost his entire life."

"He's not the only one," Harper riposted, "but the rest of us doesn't try to get each other killed, just to cling to a shard of our pasts a little longer. Well, Tyr maybe, but he's an Über, so that's different."

"Indeed," Tyr agreed, setting the heaped plate of excellent stirfry in the middle of the table. "I might risk your lives, especially if you keep calling me Über. I'd never risk mine. So your best chance of survival is to be where I am, all the time."

"Wouldn't that be a little crowded in some situations?" Harper leered, shooting Freya a double-meaning grin.

Tyr shook his head tolerantly. He'd kill any man who'd dare to look at any of his wives like that, but one could not be angry with Harper. Not for such crude but basically harmless jokes. Besides, the engineer was cute when he flirted.

"Eat and grow strong, little man," the Nietzschean said. "You might need it. That perpetual horniness of yours will be your death one day."

"I cannot help being irresistible," Harper complained, ignoring the collective eyerolls around him with practiced ease, and turned his attention to the tasty food with his usual enthusiasm.

In their shared quarters, the two Perseids activated the clever little scrambler that Harper had made for them, in exchange for some engineering tricks usually known to Perseids only. This way, they could talk without Andromeda being able to eavesdrop… at least for good twenty minutes, until the AI adapted. As the scrambler changed its frequency randomly every time they used it, that meant twenty to thirty unwatched minutes at any given time.

"I'm not completely happy with how things have turned out," Höhne said. "I'd have preferred to keep the Pax for ourselves. But that's not an option anymore. Well, at least we were able to save her."

"Do you think Anasazi – or his allies – are going to give us access to the ship as promised?" Rekeeb asked doubtfully. He didn't look well, had still a bad headache after his cranial implant had been half-fried by the Pax.

"Oh, they will, no doubt," Höhne laughed. "They'd want updates to their ships in exchange, though. And who else would be more suited to do those updates than us?"

"Are you really willing to give the Nietzscheans technical advantages?" Rekeeb didn't seem very comfortable with the idea. "After all the times they've raided us?"

"Particularly after those times," Höhne said. "Give them what they want, and they'll leave you alone. Make the Sabra your ally, and you'll have a shield against the Drago-Kazov. It's that simple. Even though that stubborn fool Nabroth won't admit it."

"The Sabra?" the younger Perseid repeated. "Anasazi is allied with Sabra Pride?"

"According to our sources on the Centauris A colony, he's currently married one of the Pride Alpha's daughters," Höhne replied. "The Sabra on Centauris A have a small but rather impressive fleet. They also have an orbital shipyard, although it cannot be compared with ours. I'm quite sure they'll tow the Pax there."

"And they'll ask for our help?" Rekeeb doubted.

"Rebuilding a slipstream drive is a tricky job," Rekeeb said. "And the Pride Alpha has had contacts to Nabroth for quite some time. Yes, they will ask for our help. Which gives us an advantage. A much-needed one, I may add."

"But wouldn't that strengthen Nabroth's position against the new Commonwealth?" Rekeeb asked in concern. "It'd have been more advantageous for you if we had got the Pax alone."

"Of course," Höhne nodded. "That's what I've tried – and failed. I must not fail with the Commonwealth membership. A new Commonwealth would be a welcome balance to the various Nietzschean alliances, none of which is a steady one. But we cannot change what happened. Now we have to make the best of the current situation. And right now, the best thing is to cooperate with the winner."

"True enough," Rekeeb admitted. "Still, I can't shake off the feeling that we're being blatantly dishonest to Captain Hunt."

"We most likely are," Höhne agreed. "But we don't have a choice. We have to see that our own world remains safe. Somehow. Anyhow."

"That," Rekeeb said slowly, " had an uncomfortably… Nietzschean sound to it."

"Ironic, isn't it?" Höhne asked with a faint smile. "After having fought against them for three hundred years, we've become just like them. The Universe truly has a warped sense of humour."

After Rev Bem was done with comforting Rommie, he and the grieving android finally left Obs deck. Tyr Anasazi came forth from the shadowy corner where he'd been hiding and stepped up to the huge viewscreen to admire the bright stars beyond it.

His future was somewhere out there. Somewhere among the billions of celestial bodies was a planet best suited to become the new Kodiak homeworld. One day, he would leave the Andromeda Ascendant behind as an insignificant part of his past, together with the delusional dreams of her captain, to begin to build his own dream. A dream, the foundation of which had already been laid in the wombs of his wives and consorts.

One day, they'll be all together. His wives, his children, all the Nietzschean Prides. United or erased. There would be no more sundering among his people.

But first, he had to retrieve the cornerstone of that dream-to-be-build. And that cornerstone was currently in a place deadly perilous for him. On Enga's Redoubt, the center of Drago-Kazov might.

Granted, it was a risk more insane than any other risks he'd taken all his life. But it had to be done – and he was confident that he'd succeed.

It was his birthright, after all, to hold the bones of the Progenitor under guard. He'll not allow the usurpers to take his rightful place any longer.

The End