In the beginning, they said, there was an end.

The birthplace of humanity had been given many names over the eons. Earth, Terra, Hell, Home. When the final shadow had danced forth from that many-named rock, spreading out among the stars, humanity's empire had been shredded away to nearly nothing. From that diabolical massacre, only a single shining star had survived. The last human, and the very picture of brilliance. With once-in-a-species ingenuity, that person transcended the limits of flesh, conquering the apocalypse and birthing a new species from elevated blood.

That final survivor of humanity became the first of the Gene Nobility. The Lord Director, Eve. Having created a perfect form for Itself, It then created a perfect species from It's own flesh. The first generation of Gene Nobles, the first generation of the gods, had been Eve's own divine children.

During his time at Elizabeth's castle, Edgar had once done some reading on what remained of the old faiths. A good number of them revered multiple gods, like the dogma of the Nobility, but some beheld only one. With those, sub-divinities like the subsequent generations of Nobles would be considered something more like angels, rather than gods in their own right. Servants, so to speak.

It was surprisingly difficult to kill a servant.

The shadow of their starship danced over the threshold of the coast as it rushed to its destination. That shadow was a malformed, asymmetrical thing -- the ship had been modified extensively, modules and chunks from several different models bolted together to accumulate whatever benefits they could. A patchwork chariot to gallop across the stars.

For the last six months, the Zeilan Morhan had been their everything. Their home, their weapon, their sickbed -- even, if they were not careful, their coffin. At first, it had been filled far beyond capacity with soldiers and servants who had accompanied Edgar in fleeing Yoslof after Elizabeth's death. Those numbers had been reduced drastically -- battle after battle, encounter after encounter, plucking away a few at a time. The galaxy clawed its own back.

Even with all those losses, though, there was one new face.

Edgar turned around from the pilot's seat, a calm smile on his lips despite the severity of their mission here. Bathed in the golden sunlight of Durandura, he almost looked heavenly -- and with cool blue eyes, he looked into the darkness at the back of the ship. At the shadow sitting there.

"Make sure you're ready," Edgar said calmly. "We arrive in thirty seconds."

The shadow twitched. Whether it had been asleep or waiting, Edgar could not say. All he could say was that it was now fully alert…

…as evidenced by the malicious grin spreading across its face.

Zarakhel Baras. Dubbed the Blind Man by his enemies -- and he had many enemies.

The reason for the name was obvious. To be perfectly honest, Edgar had assumed the story of him ripping his eyes from their sockets had been Gene Noble propaganda, but if Zarakhel was to be believed it was completely true. Fresh bandages were wrapped around his eyeline, even now, and so that feral grin of his was the only true marker of his emotions.

"Finally…" Zarakhel seethed, licking his lips in anticipation.

As Edgar and Zarakhel had been created from the same genetic template, they should have been basically identical -- but life had put its claws in Edgar's brother well. He was gaunt, weathered, with the impression of a starving animal about him. Edgar had never met Vitoni -- hell, he'd only met Zarakhel a month ago -- but he suspected that all of the passion in Trilogy Blue had gone to the Blind Man.

Smoke rose over the horizon -- the crash-site where their target had come down. The personal starship of the Gene Noble they'd been tracking for the last few weeks. If all went well, this would be his gravesite, too.

"Ten seconds," said Edgar, as the crash-site drew closer. "Get ready to drop."

He stood up from the pilot's seat, letting another Cogitant take the controls from him as he joined his brother and the soldiers at the back of the vessel.

Seven of them in all.

Edgar, Zarakhel. Two Crownless women who'd escaped from a mining prison, their bodies equipped with cumbersome prosthetics to replace what imprisonment had stolen. A Pugnant man, muted by shellshock, who'd been travelling with Zarakhel before. A Cogitant who'd fled from a war-game, trained as a battlefield engineer. The last of the Musca-Pugnants from Yoslof, a plasma rifle clutched in his fearful hands.

With these seven people, they would kill what might have been a servant, what might have been an angel, what might have been a god.

"Zero," the pilot said.

The cargo doors opened beneath them -- and as one, their group hurled themselves out onto the sandy surface of Durandura.

Repulsors in the soles of their suits softened their fall as they landed on the beach, a heavy cargo pod crashing down right behind them. There was no time to get their bearings, no time to hesitate. When killing a Gene Noble, every fraction of every second counted.

And so they just moved.

Zarakhel charged towards the wreckage of the star-yacht, accompanied by the mute Pugnant, the Musca-Pugnant flying with his insect wings to provide support from the air. Edgar got to work with the remaining three members of the team, opening the cargo pod and hauling out the prefabricated parts within.

A cloud covered the sun as Zarakhel crested the dune, reaching the crashed starship. The rocket-shaped vessel had snapped in half upon impact with the ground, creating a huge pit in the sand. It was unlikely that any of the crew had survived, but the Gene Noble it carried certainly had.

As Zarakhel readied himself, pulling a silver spear from its holster at his side, he listened with his keen ears -- and heard the arrival.

His Noble Dignity

GUNHILD

JUDGE AND JESTER

Reboot of Maria

Gunhild pulled himself out of the crater on six thin bladed tendrils, his head appearing before anything else. His face bore the appearance of an owl, massive wide eyes taking in their environment from atop an absurdly long neck. They blinked separately with wet clicks.

Even facing three armed soldiers, though, Gunhild didn't react straight away. Now that he had survived the crash, he had no more fear for his life. The idea of humans being a threat to him simply did not exist inside his mind -- unlike Elizabeth, he had never even considered the possibility. It would be like furniture coming to life and attacking you.

Zarakhel took advantage of that momentary blind-spot -- and with an animalistic howl, he plunged his spear right between Gunhild's eyes.

His brother, Edgar had found, was not like most people -- but it wasn't that he was stronger, or smarter. He barely ever ate, and barely ever drank. Hatred, it seemed, had become the primary resource keeping him alive. That wasn't his advantage. His advantage was in what he lacked: hesitation. Anyone else might have faltered, paused for a second before directly attacking an enemy on the level of a Gene Noble with nothing but a spear.

Zarakhel didn't even twitch before he pierced Gunhild's flesh.

His thrust was fast, as was his retraction. Gunhild's neck squirmed back, blood spraying from the hole in his head, doing his best to stay out of range of a follow-up strike. His beak snapped open and an infuriated scream poured forth:

"What is the meaning of --"

Bang.

Gunhild's head exploded.

Zarakhel's spear was no ordinary implement. It contained a payload of explosive pellets -- and with each stab, it injected one of those pellets into its target. An attack from the inside was one of the best ways to take a Gene Noble by surprise. The number of them accustomed to actually participating in combat personally was surprisingly slim, and it did not include Gunhild the Judge and Jester. The defenses that would pop into his mind first would surely be external.

Still, those detonations would never be enough to kill a Gene Noble, no matter how much joy Zarakhel took in setting them off. It was a maneuver capable of stunning them, temporarily redistributing their mass, but nothing more. For a confirmed kill, something more total was required.

As Zarakhel continued to stab at Gunhild's chicken-like body, and the soldiers with him provided supporting fire, Edgar's team continued to assemble what they had pulled from the cargo pod. Some parts of the device were capable of self-assembly, but the majority of the unit needed to be put together by hand -- and so they had run countless drills in anticipation of this day.

By last count, they'd gotten their time down to a minute and two seconds. Even then, that was cutting it fine… but building a portable incinerator like this was delicate work.

The plan was simple. Zarakhel's team would use their tools and weapons to reduce Gunhild's size as much as possible and keep him on the back foot while Edgar's team constructed the incinerator. When it was complete, Zarakhel would lead a second assault to drive the Gene Noble into the box-shaped module -- and once he was secured inside, it would be activated, cremating him completely.

The destruction of the entire body… even a Gene Noble couldn't survive that.

It was a gamble, Edgar knew, and one that was likely to fail. If Zarakhel made a mistake in combat and was struck down, they would all die. If someone building the incinerator got nervous and had their hands shake, they would all die. If Gunhild wasn't as caught off-guard as they'd expected, they would all die.

All a gamble, all a gamble… but those were the best odds you could get against a Gene Noble. As an enemy of the world, everything you did was a gamble. Even breathing.

As Edgar slotted the heat controls into the device and looked up, however, he realized…

…they had already lost that gamble.

A second Gene Noble had appeared, squirming out of the sand a short distance away.

It was a long worm of blood and gore, covered in sharp spines, tipped with a single staring human eyeball framed by flower petals. The pupil shrank to a pinprick as it observed the labours before it. Edgar continued to work, ready to salvage every second of output from the situation as he could, but fear froze the others right in place.

Stolen novel; please report.

One of the miners spoke. "Um --"

The Noble launched itself -- and the top half of the miner's body was shaved away by the impact, reducing her to a pair of legs that quickly collapsed. The second miner screamed, raising the support strut she'd been holding as a weapon -- but a quick lunge from the Noble turned her face into a hole. The other Cogitant just turned to run, as if that would somehow grant him clemency.

It did not.

The Gene Noble leapt into his stomach through his back, shredded his insides, and -- as his body collapsed to its knees -- poked its head out of his mouth to observe Edgar. The staring eye parted like a pair of lips, and words poured out.

"Identify yourself," it said.

Edgar's eyes flicked between the component in his hands and what remained of the incinerator. The half-built machine had suffered critical damage during that skirmish -- completing it was no longer possible. Killing two Gene Nobles, let alone one, was also impossible.

No, he corrected himself. It wasn't impossible. A method still existed. He just didn't know it.

"Identify yourself!" the Gene Noble repeated with a bark.

Edgar could still hear the sounds of explosions behind him, coupled with plasma-shots. Zarakhel's team were still engaging Gunhild. He couldn't count on any support from them. Edgar let the component slip out of his grip and fall onto the sand as he put his hands up.

A thought occurred. The voice that was questioning him right now… it was the same as the voice that had rebuked Zarakhel barely a minute ago. Gunhild's voice. That made sense. It wasn't that they'd encountered two Gene Nobles by sheer bad luck.

They'd encountered two Gunhilds.

The mental blocks Eve imposed against unauthorized reproduction were powerful -- but, just like his starship, Gunhild's body had been split in half during the crash. It was possible that even he didn't realize there were two of him yet.

Edgar searched for a way out of this situation, an exit, a path to victory -- but his mind found none. That was a little frustrating, to be honest. He knew there must be a way out of this, but he simply wasn't equipped to see it. If he was going to die, he would have preferred truly impossible odds.

"IDENTIFY YOURSELF!" the second Gunhild screeched for the third time.

Oh well, Edgar thought. It is what it is.

He opened his mouth to answer -- but before he could speak a word, a miracle occurred.

The second Gunhild heard it before he did, with senses beyond humanity. The flower-like worm swivelled around in its human plant-pot, cyclopean eye looking directly towards the ocean. The eye narrowed, like a camera zooming in.

Edgar followed the gaze of the god, and saw what it saw. Something was coming -- something from the sea. At first, Edgar thought it was some kind of low-flying bird, but no. It was a machine -- a hoverbike with two riders, kicking up plumes of water as it zoomed over the ocean…

…directly towards them.

The speed of the vehicle was absurd, overclocked to its very limits. The second Gunhild had only a moment after sighting the object to react to it -- and he did not use that moment well.

The bike slammed into him, turning his temporary vessel into a bloody smear and sending his own body flying, pulverised. Edgar blinked as he watched the mangled wreckage of the bike keep going, driven by momentum, dragging the bloody worm across the coast and leaving a crimson trail behind it.

"You good?" asked a voice from behind him.

Edgar looked over his shoulder. Even with his entire team killed, he wasn't alone. The riders had jumped off of the bike at the last moment, it seemed. A man and a woman.

The grey-haired young man bore the golden eyes of a Pugnant, but his build seemed far too short and slight for the subspecies. Defective, most likely. Edgar had heard of such cases: Pugnants failing to develop properly, producing low-level troops that were good for nothing else than tossing into the meat grinder of a war-game -- that, or recycling for raw materials.

In his hand, he clutched what at first looked like a pistol, but no -- it was connected by a tube to a fuel tank on his belt. A portable flamethrower, then. A good choice against a Gene Noble.

The young woman, on the other hand, looked at Edgar with black sclera beneath short black hair, tiny yellow pupils staring from the depths of her dark gaze. An Umbrant. It was funny -- the Umbrants, along with Zarakhel, had been responsible for sparking this rebellious movement, but this was the first time Edgar had actually met one in person.

In each hand, the androgynous-looking woman held a buzzing scimitar. High-frequency vibrations in the blades would allow them to cut through just about anything. Again, a good choice against Gene Nobles. These people knew what they were doing.

"Hey!" the Pugnant man -- the one who had spoken first -- said again. "You okay, man?"

Oh, right. These two had definitely just saved Edgar's life. They'd probably be happy if he thanked them.

He nodded. "I'm not hurt. Thank you -- I appreciate it. Who are you?"

"I'm Azez," the Pugnant said, before jerking his head towards his Umbrant companion. "That's Bieshu. It looks like we were hunting the same prey, huh? You got a way out of here?"

"I'm sorry?" Edgar said.

Azez stepped past him, pulling his flamethrower from its holster. "This is a shitshow," he said grimly. "We need to get out of here now. Our ride's out of commission. I take it you guys have a ship?"

His golden eyes were fixed on the distant wreckage of his bike -- the wreckage that the second Gunhild was now squirming its way out of. On the other side of the dune, the first Gunhild was pushing Zarakhel's team back. Within a minute or so, they'd all be trapped in one place… and then the slaughter would begin.

Hm. This seemed unwinnable.

Edgar put a finger to his ear. "Get us out of here, Zeilan Morhan."

"Damnit!" Zarakhel roared, slamming his fist against the cargo hold's wall. Then another punch, and another. "Damnit! Damnit! Fuck!"

He was the very picture of frustration -- face contorted with tension, teeth bared with such ferocity that saliva was spilling down his chin. Azez and Bieshu exchanged bemused glances. Perhaps they too had assumed Zarakhel's hateful reputation was the product of propaganda.

Zarakhel's anger was understandable, though, even if Edgar didn't share it. Zarakhel's team had only fared a little better than his own -- the mute Pugnant had been killed by one of the first Gunhild's attacks, leaving only Zarakhel and the Musca-Pugnant to evacuate.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

Even as they sailed through the dark void of stars, Zarakhel wasn't giving that wall a rest. Finally, he seemed to tire himself out, his fist sliding down the wall until he collapsed into a vague sitting position on the floor.

"Ridiculous…" he growled, running a hand over his face. "Goddamn ridiculous. He split into two? What?! These fucking things can kill us just by getting wounded."

Bieshu nodded in agreement, her arms crossed. "I've seen people get killed by puddles of their blood," she said, her voice surprisingly soft. "If it gets to the point where there's an actual fight, it's basically impossible to kill them."

Zarakhel sniffed, turning his head up towards her. "Watch your fucking mouth, bitch. If there had been just one of the bastards, like there should have been," he snarled, nostrils flaring. "I would have killed it. Don't give me coward shit like saying it's impossible."

"I'm not saying it's impossible to kill them," Bieshu gestured with a hand, not responding to Zarakhel's provocation. "What I mean is that it's only possible under very specific conditions, where we have complete control over the battlefield -- and those conditions aren't easy to come by. Tell me, how many Gene Tyrants have you killed?"

Edgar cocked his head from the corner. "Gene Tyrants?"

Azez smirked wryly. "What exactly is 'noble' about them?"

"One," Zarakhel grunted in response to Bieshu's question, ignoring Azez -- it seemed he wasn't too excited about the new terminology. "The one you know about. We drove that bitch Olga right into a star." A sly grin spread across his lips. "Turned on the communications and listened to her squeal. Best moment of my goddamn life."

"It wasn't a fight is what I mean," Bieshu nodded. "By the time she realized you were trying to kill her, she was already doomed, right?"

The grin widened. "Right."

"How about you?" she looked over to Edgar. "I've heard you killed a Gene Tyrant too. How did that happen?"

Edgar nodded. "It wasn't a fight," he conceded.

"With such small numbers," Azez took over for his friend. "The only thing we can rely on are fortuitous circumstances. Miracles, basically… and you can't rely on miracles to keep coming around. Tell me -- how many people do you have right now?"

"Six."

It was neither Edgar or Zarakhel that answered, but instead the Musca-Pugnant -- the only other survivor of Zarakhel's team. Until now, he'd been noting something down in a little journal of his, biting down hard on his lip. He stuffed it into his pocket as he stood to face Azez.

"Sorry," Azez said. "I didn't catch your name, friend."

"Hellywood," the Musca-Pugnant said. "We've got six people."

Azez chuckled. "Including us, huh?"

"You're here, aren't you?" the Musca-Pugnant crossed his arms, leaning against the wall.

"It's a triumph for even six people to stand up against the Gene Tyrants," Azez smiled warmly. "But it's not enough to beat them." His eyes flicked towards Edgar. "Tell me. What exactly was your objective today? Why were you going after Gunhild?"

Edgar smiled pleasantly. "You're asking me?"

Azez matched that smile. "You're the leader, aren't you?"

"Wouldn't it be natural to think Zarakhel is the leader?"

"Nah," Azez smirked, shaking his head. "He talks too much, and you talk too little."

Edgar nodded. Even after his force and Zarakhel's had joined together, they'd agreed that Edgar would continue to be in charge of their plans and strategies. If this tiny group was still something that required a leader, it would probably be right to say it was Edgar.

"Gunhild is well-liked among the other Gene… Tyrants," Edgar explained. "Our hope was that, after we killed him, they would tighten their control of this sector in response, torment it. The people would react to their increased suffering and revolt as a result. It's exactly as you say -- we understand that increasing our numbers is the key to victory here."

Azez seemed to wince at Edgar's plan, shaking his head.

"Okay…" he muttered. "I get where you're coming from with that, so… okay. Let me ask you something else. Why is it you rebel against the Gene Tyrants?"

Edgar didn't even have to think about that one.

"There are two things I value in this world," Edgar said. "Happiness and harmony. A world where everyone is smiling, and a world where everything is quiet. I used to think it was possible for the Nobility to create a world like that. Now, I understand they're the obstacle to it. It's as simple as that."

Azez nodded along. "You seem like a logical sort of person. That's why you think of all this in terms of numbers and increasing them -- but the numbers already exist," he said, leaning forward. "There are groups just like yours all over the galaxy already. Tiny teams who think they still need to inspire the people to rebel." He jerked a thumb over his shoulder at his friend. "Ever since me and Bieshu escaped… ever since we set out, we've been searching for these groups, trying to link them all together. The people are already inspired, the people are already fighting. Everyone just thinks that they're alone… but that's not true. That's never been true."

Bieshu smiled as her partner spoke. The Musca-Pugnant listened carefully. The pilot was watching from the cockpit. Even Zarakhel had shut his mouth -- a rare occasion indeed.

Azez, however, looked only at Edgar as he spoke. This pitch was for him more than anyone else.

"The Tyrants are the ones who built this world. The Tyrants are the ones who control this world. But they made it out of us -- out of people. We're the ones holding the whole thing up. All it takes is enough of us to just throw up our arms… and we can win. If enough of us do that… it's impossible for us not to win."

The man with the golden eyes offered his hand -- and as he did, the light of a star passed through the portholes of the Zeilan Morhan, washing over the scene.

How strange, Edgar idly thought. My heart's beating a little fast.

"How about it, Edgar?" Azez smiled. "Do you want to end the world with me?"