[33rd Lines, Breach of Quarantine, United Galactic Response]

...

Flashes of lights blasted the void as hundreds of ships fell from FTL speeds in a unified deceleration along the 33rd lines, and right of the bat: things were messy.

Absolute chaos was a better description. If ships could be considered melee units... well it was safe to say that punches were thrown. The millions of pieces of scrap that waited for them were all potentially infected, from the ship parts that had somehow held up, to the floating corpses of their prior crews.

So, in response, the heavy military cruisers did what they did best, and set their shielding output to “vaporize.”

If there was one sure way to keep the consumption from spreading, it was to burn it until it ceased to be. Molecular structures, alien biology, grey goo, it didn't matter what it was- if something was heated up to the temperature of a small star- it didn't stick around the way it used to. What the shields didn't deal with, the Mercurial laser systems did.

That did create a lot of visual interference though.

Quite a bit, in fact.

Over a hundred of the core species had thrown their own fleets towards the breach, and behind the shelter provided by the first couple hundred of Union military ships. That meant there were thousands of such ships which began to spread out in the grid: a formation that relied almost fully on auto-pilot guidance. Calibrations were made automatically, certainly, but until the ships could reestablish the containment array on their perimeters they were completely under the control of their AI.

Behind them, a secondary sweep was being performed by kill squads. Mercy protocol applied to anything, and no exceptions could be made. Civilian vessels, planetary platforms... colonies. Nothing was the exception.

It was no surprise most of those crews were hired mercenaries, cut throats, and Senate paid affiliates. Few species had the stomach for glassing a colony, and it helped to have loose affiliation for the ones that did.

With so much occurring so quickly...

Well, mistakes could happen.

...

[The Guild]

The Trader's guild was called many things.

Some spoke of it as an ancient family, a brotherhood that spanned species and generations. Others considered it a cult, or a mob. An organized ring of borderline criminals that worked in the gray between moral values. Others still considered it a network, where things were known, and secrets sold.

A rare few knew the truth of its purpose.

It was the Union's only true rival.

For as long as the Union existed, there was always the minority that disagreed. Some would be bent by the force of politics, to kneel at the feet, tentacles, and claws, of the core worlders that carried its mantle. Some would flee, to the edges of the influence, avoiding the dangers that swam and circled within.

Some though, abide by the rules and play the game... and then play it well enough to cheat.

For everything a species gained by joining the Union of Intelligent Life, they lost just as much. For every force, there is another equal one opposing, and eventually it is found that entropy is the only true winner. The galactic body of the Union was a necessary evil by majority decision, and it was decided long before any who currently lived even existed.

The Union was the one, and the only option. There was no other.

Agreements could be forced on a new arrival: for trade, planets, resources, protection... it truly didn't matter what. Each an every species had their own price, and would have to gain back what was lost however they could. If they wanted to get anywhere, they would have to play the game.

Some played better than others, of course.

Perhaps a natural inclination, such as an innate skill in politics. Or, possibly. the ability to communicate in ways other species could not understand. To send signals and secrets that not even the variety of translators that flooded the markets could detect.

It was a constant shuffle. As many fell, some species would find themselves rising- and the smartest of those would hide such a fact.

In the background of everything, though, the Guild waited.

Of no one particular species, it started as a mere agreement in secrecy. Unlike the Union, it was based on trust before commitment. As it grew more successful, that trust became key. Its members could play the games of the Union, but they did so not for necessity, but for camouflage.

It was found that trades done without the Union watching, for better or worse, came to be far more profitable. Of course this brought all manner of legal, and morally, questionable situations. It certainly would only appeal to the more daring individuals by its very definition. Over time though, these simply became layers, which stacked upon layers, which stacked upon secrets. The Trader's Guild was called many things, because it was.

But at the core of the Guild, were the Shipmasters.

From many species, these brave souls upheld the ideals of all who lived along the Fringes. Sworn only to their oaths, they traveled the worlds and void alike, supporting the Colonies on the frontier and the explorers of the unknown systems beyond them. Most importantly though, they were encouraged to be fiercely independent. For the Union held no sway over them, and no politics would buy them. The Shipmasters could exist outside of interference.

And at this very moment, they were in a panic.

What had started as a panicked sending of a mere thirty vessels, had turned into a gathering of thousands. The greatest Trade Ships in the verse and their Shipmasters had agreed to dock at the Gathering Station. All because of one message.

One that had barely be capable of translation.

“The Union has been compromised.”

Its ID had been sent with a maximum issued emergency tag. If that hadn't been enough, the message had passed on a set frequency that was complete with three layers of security tagging, and bio-scan of its sender.

It was a death note.

The death note of Cethol Trohon. Elected representative of the Rullah.

To say chaos and pandemonium were present in the meeting hall, would have been a vast understatement. The Shipmaster's and their beasts were all present, and they were furious. From Hellion of the Shell, Iizayz the Seeker of the depth, to Dervash of the Legion, all of which with their collared defenders obediently at their sides.

Still, none were as angry, nor vocal, as Saito of the Wrathbringer.

The Rullah stood at least a full unit above all others in the room, and bore a sole gigantic scar that travelled down his entire torso. Saito had earned his title, hundreds of times over during his career, as the most dangerous shipmaster alive. On his first trade expedition, he was betrayed by his crew and left to die on a high gravity world set for quarantine and annihilation. That was where he had collared and tamed his beast- a Prime Dragling, and obtained rescue. To this day, it was the only Prime within inhabited space not locked behind the metal bars and a shock field of a Union preserve. A level XIII threat assessment. Not another being had ever tried to tame one since, much less attempt to simply place a collar on its barbed scales.

The rumor went, that all who had betrayed him, had ended up traveling down the creature's gullet. This was substantiated by the fact that he still piloted his original ship, a large and beautiful carrier, complete with a set of haywire pulse cannons, and a single Array Class turret.

Clearly, Saito the Wrathbringer had not come to wear his scaled cloak through peace.

Still, as evident as Saito's rage was, the creature at his side shared his fury- letting out a sound that filled the room with a deafeningly horrible scream before clamping its jaws together in a furious crack. The silence came immediately. The time to listen had arrived, even those who had not met Saito knew to hold their tongues after a display such as that.

As his four lower limbs pushed his body forward, toward the stage in the center of the chamber, his free arms drew two blades, and clanged them together, showering sparks out above him. Each blade represented a piece of his heritage, for they were traditional weapons- much like his people's war bows. Only Rullah could wield the things with any degree of skill and strength, and Saito was the strongest of them all.

As if to prove that fact, as he reached the center, he reared up on his lower most limbs, and threw the two swords in the air. High up, they spun and spun. Their Deadly cuts swinging through until his lower limbs deftly caught the blades with ease as his upper limbs raised with his voice.

“Here we are brethren, and the time has finally come to be!” His voice bellowed out over the many watchers. “Our inner circles, those who have observed and guided our path, have come upon the news that will shake the very galaxy in which we inhabit!”

A quiet cheer arose from many in the crowd, but many more remained silent. Semantics were not what the came for: they wanted more than that.

“For those of you who do not know me, I am Saito the Wrathbringer. For those of you who know that, fewer know my true name.” With emphasis, he launched one of his blades into the air, a deadly spin that fell point down to stick into the stage before him. “The weapon before you belongs to the family line of the Trohons.”

Any cheering that had still been ushering through the crowd ceased.

“I tell you this in hopes that you will join me. Before this cycle is complete, I will rally the Rullah battle fleets under my blood! I will sweep the Inner-systems, and I will avenge my brother and his allies!”

Thousands of shouts came to greet Saito, as he soaked them in. His upper and lower arms outstretched, as if to catch them all.

Some were in support, some against- but it didn't matter. The tide had turned, and the beings of the Guild were rallied to this cause. The Shipmasters were held to their oaths. If they could not defend the citizens of their homeworlds- no one would. The quarantine had held their attention from the dangers close at hand for far too long. They would not let this corruption and murder go unrewarded.

“We go to war!”