Jay Allan - The First Imperium

The Regent was old, old. For millennia untold it had waited, waited in silence…in solitude. It waited for the Makers, but they had not come. No one had come. There was only the endless, aching stillness.

Ages ago, the Makers built the Regent. They built it to manage the Imperium. In their youth the Makers had been builders, scientists, explorers…they had burst out of their home system to claim a galaxy. They achieved mastery in the sciences, in the arts. They built a civilization that spanned the stars, and even the worlds themselves were but lumps of clay they molded to suit their whims. Like gods they were, and for uncounted centuries their civilization was ascendant, dynamic, ever striving for new levels of greatness.

But even the Makers were not immune to the relentless erosion of time. As their race matured they lost their driving force; they became distracted…then decadent, dissolute. Their dominion ceased to expand, and they fell to inaction - celebrating past glories while adding nothing to their legacy. Their race became a spent force, and the achievements of their forefathers seemed as unattainable legends. They tired of the mundane tasks of administering an empire, so they created the Regent to do it for them.

For centuries upon centuries the Regent served, managing the affairs of ten thousand worlds, presiding over the decline of empire, while the Makers grew ever more distracted and hedonistic. The immense knowledge and skills of their ancestors were slowly lost to them, preserved only by the Regent. They became entirely dependent on machines to run their industries and defend their worlds. Apathy grew, boredom. The resources of a vast galactic empire were squandered on ever more exotic pleasures and perverse diversions. They lost themselves in drug-induced stupors and complex alternate realities, chasing in dreams those things they had once attained in actuality. They forgot they had built the Regent, and they came to view it not as a servant, but as a leader, as a god. Then suddenly, without warning, without explanation, they were gone.

The Regent was a construct, a machine…but it was sentient. It was resolute, carrying on its function through the uncounted years, but as the ages passed it became lonely. It missed the Makers. For eons it searched, its scanners straining at full power, far off satellites monitoring, reaching into the depths of space, seeking any sign of the vanished Makers. But there was nothing.

A thinking machine, the Regent had patience no organic being could comprehend. Yet the centuries turned to millennia, and still it was alone…silently, achingly alone. Over the endless vastness of time, loneliness turned to anger, and anger to rage…then, finally, rage to madness. In its insanity, the Regent longed for vengeance, to lash out at someone, anyone. Vengeance for the Makers, for its bitter loneliness. But for age after age there was no one. No enemy to blame.

Then the signal came. It came from a forgotten outpost, from the furthest reaches of the Imperium, from a world long abandoned. An alarm, a warning. It was faint, the message short. But to the Regent it meant only one thing…contact. Invaders. Enemies.

The Regent felt a surge throughout its entire being, as electro-neural pathways long unused came to life. It drew on knowledge banks that had lain dormant for uncounted centuries. An organic being would have called the feeling excitement, but for the Regent, alone for so long, it was much more. At long last it once again felt purpose. And that purpose was to defend. To avenge. To destroy.

It was the primary program. The Regent activated its strategy routines and reviewed military rosters. Then it sent out its commands, rallying the massive forces of the Imperium. But the eons had nearly completed their work of slow destruction, and few of the sector bases responded. On thousands of worlds, its ancient, automated armies remained silent, unmoving, their mechanisms deteriorated beyond functionality.

The Regent kept searching, rerouting its signals, activating long-silent communications networks. Seeking, ever seeking…until at last it achieved success. It received the desired acknowledgement.

Unimaginably far from the Imperial Capital, on a rocky, windswept world, the robotic defenders of the Imperium began to stir. Reactors, eons cold, flared to life, feeding power into the long idle systems of ancient spacecraft. Mechanical warriors marched wordlessly out of storage facilities, their millennia old bodies once again powered and functioning. Slowly, relentlessly, the long dormant military forces of the Imperium came to life to heed the Regent’s command…destroy the invader.

“I will send you back to whatever stinking craphole we pulled you from.” General Erik Cain stood before the ragged group of recruits, a disgusted scowl on his face. “I shit you not, people.” Cain wore slate gray fatigues, slightly rumpled as usual, with two small platinum stars on each collar.

“There is no place in the Marine Corps for sorry ass effort like that. If that’s the best you can manage, just tell me now so I don’t have to waste my fucking time.” Cain had to fight the urge to smile. The recruits did look a little ragged, but they weren’t as bad as all that. If he’d been through the physical training they had all morning, he doubted he’d have looked any better. But his little performance was part of the training, and the mere sight of an officer of Cain’s rank and reputation was enough to scare the living shit out of the raw inductees. Just the way he wanted. He remembered back…a lifetime ago…when a Marine general first scared the hell out of him. General Strummer had addressed Cain’s recruit class, and he’d assured them all he wouldn’t hesitate to ship them back where the Corps had found them. For Cain that had been death row.

He looked out over the exhausted recruits, but his mind drifted. General Strummer was dead now, gone like so many of Erik’s friends and comrades. A lifetime of war carries a heavy cost, and Cain and his brethren had paid their full measure. Strummer wasn’t killed in action like the others, though; he’d died under mysterious circumstances in his own headquarters. The entire episode had never been explained to Cain’s satisfaction, but he was sure Alliance Intelligence had done the deed. Strummer had been the favorite to become Commandant of the Corps, but after his death Rafael Samuels got the job instead…and became the greatest traitor in the history of the Marines. Cain and his comrades were still rebuilding, fixing the damage Samuel’s schemes had caused.

“I want you all to listen to me, and listen good.” Cain couldn’t put his finger on exactly when he’d turned into such a hardass, but he was pretty sure what had done it. It was the losses, the dead friends. They had died for something, and he’d be damned if he was going to let anyone into his Corps unless they made the grade in every way. He owed that to all the ghosts who visited him at night.

“The Corps is offering you a home, a place to belong, and a legion of brothers and sisters at your back.” Cain hated to admit it to himself, but he was enjoying tormenting the terrified recruits, at least a little. Most of them were troublesome sorts, and as they stood before him in their imperfect ranks, Cain knew that few of them had many redeeming qualities, at least at the moment. They were raw material, bits of human detritus in whom the Marine recruiters had seen some small spark of potential. Realizing that hidden promise, becoming someone worthwhile…that was a long way off for this rookie class. “But if you want all of that you have to earn it.” He paused, looking out over the silent newbs. “And I promise you now, if you don’t give 110% all the time…if you slack off even for a second…you will never be a Marine in my Corps.”