Chapter 44: The Three-Year Warning, The Planet Armed
The message from the Imperial Deep Watch Observatory in the Mountains of the Morn crackled through Princess Lyra's encrypted communication device, relayed to Emperor Vorhax in his obsidian sanctum atop the newly finished Apex Tower of Vorantgrad. The "star-callers," the anomalous energy signatures he had tracked for two decades, had not just subtly altered course; they had executed a sustained, high-velocity burn. Their projected arrival time in the Westerosi star system had collapsed from a comfortable ten years to less than three.
A silence, colder and deeper than the void between stars, filled Vorhax's meditation chamber. For a being who measured plans in centuries, whose patience was as vast as his ambition, this sudden, drastic acceleration was an unexpected variable, a dissonant chord in his carefully composed symphony of conquest and preparation. But if there was surprise, it was fleeting, instantly consumed by the black hole of his Sith will. There was no panic, only a terrifying intensification of focus, a cold, burning nova of purpose. The leisurely forging of his planetary empire was over. The final, desperate sprint had begun.
"Inform the Imperial High Council," Vorhax's voice was a low, resonant hum, devoid of inflection but charged with an almost palpable power, "to convene in the Obsidian War Chamber within the hour. All current planetary development edicts are suspended. The Imperium now enters a state of total planetary mobilization. Phase Omega Protocol is initiated." Phase Omega was a contingency he had long prepared, a theoretical framework for transforming the entire globe into an armed fortress against an existential, technologically superior foe. He had not expected to enact it so soon.
The High Council gathered, their faces grim: Crown Prince Edric Vorant, his features, now in his early sixties but preserved by Imperial medicine to appear a decade younger, etched with the weight of decades of his father's demanding service; Lord Marshal Brandon Snow, ancient but still possessed of a Northman's iron constitution, his loyalty to Vorhax absolute; Grand General Gareth, commander of the Obsidian Guard, his hawk-helm tucked under his arm, his eyes reflecting his Emperor's cold resolve; Princess Lyra, her intellect a blade, head of the vast Imperial Ministry of Information and Compliance; the aged Lord and Lady William, masters of a planetary intelligence network that rivaled any in Vorhax's galactic memory; and the stern-faced Imperial Ministers for War Production, Resource Allocation, and Technological Advancement – all products of Vorhax's academies, their minds shaped by his ideology.
"The 'Great External Threat' I spoke of two decades past is no longer a distant probability," Emperor Vorhax announced, his gaze sweeping over them, Red Rain lying before him on the vast holographic map table that now displayed their solar system and the rapidly approaching alien signatures. "It will be upon us within thirty-six standard months. The leisurely pace of our Imperial Unification and Advancement is over. Every resource, every mind, every ounce of strength this planet possesses will now be dedicated to a single purpose: survival, and then, domination."
His new edicts were swift and brutal. All civilian infrastructure projects not directly contributing to planetary defense or essential war production were halted. Imperial manufactories, from the iron heart of Stonefang to the newly established industrial complexes in conquered Essosi prefectures like Myr and Qohor, were converted to round-the-clock war production. Food rationing was implemented globally, the vast agricultural surpluses of the Empire diverted to feed the massively expanding Imperial Army and to create strategic stockpiles. Every citizen, from the age of ten to sixty, was conscripted into some form of Imperial service – be it in the legions, the labor corps, the manufactories, or the agricultural communes. Discipline, already absolute, became a matter of life and death; any hesitation, inefficiency, or dissent was met with summary execution by the omnipresent Obsidian Guard Compliance Legions.
The focus of technological advancement narrowed to a razor's edge:
Military Technology: Mass production of his most advanced "dragon's breath" cannons – now rifled, breech-loading, and firing devastating explosive or armor-piercing shells – was given highest priority. These were deployed in hardened orbital defense batteries constructed on the highest mountain peaks (true orbital platforms were beyond their immediate capability, but super-elevated, shielded fortresses could engage low-orbiting targets), in coastal defense networks that bristled across every shoreline, and as mobile heavy artillery for his field armies. The Imperial Navy's ironclad steam-dromonds were up-gunned, their hulls reinforced with new Stonefang alloys. The Obsidian Guard and elite legionary units were fully equipped with advanced, magazine-fed rifled firearms, and experimental "repeater firelances" (crude machine guns) were rushed into production. Vorhax even ordered the accelerated development of heavily armored, steam-powered land-crawlers – primitive tanks – designed to break enemy formations and withstand energy weapons, which he suspected the aliens might possess.
Communication and Detection: The Imperial Deep Watch Observatories were augmented with new, Vorhax-designed "ætheric resonators" (his attempt to replicate Force-enhanced sensor technology), their sensitivity and range dramatically increased. A global network of hardened communication bunkers, linked by armored landlines and powerful optical telegraphs, was completed. Research into directed radio-wave transmission for interstellar communication and jamming was pursued with frantic urgency under Princess Lyra's direct oversight.
Air Power: The Imperial Aeronautical Division, once a curiosity, became a critical arm. Legions of giant, armored war-dirigibles, powered by improved steam engines and filled with inert gases, were constructed, designed as high-altitude observation platforms, bomber carriers (for alchemical firebombs or explosive charges), and even as crude anti-aircraft batteries armed with repeater firelances. Nyx and her Force-bonded hawk successors, now numbering in the dozens and specially bred for endurance and psychic acuity, formed an unparalleled biological reconnaissance network, their senses linked directly to Vorhax and his chosen commanders.
Vorhax himself devised the planetary defense strategy – a layered, flexible system designed to bleed any invader and deny them easy conquest. "Fortress Westeros" would be the heart of the Empire, its western and eastern shores bristling with defenses. Essos, with its vast landmass, would be a brutal killing ground, its major cities transformed into fortified citadels, its hinterlands prepared for scorched-earth tactics and guerrilla warfare by auxiliary legions raised from the subjugated populations. Hidden bases were established in the polar ice caps and beneath the deepest oceans, utilizing Vorhax's knowledge of geothermal energy and pressure-resistant structures. He anticipated the aliens would likely target major population and industrial centers first; these were turned into death traps, honeycombed with hidden batteries, kill-zones, and subterranean shelters for essential personnel.
The Force became Vorhax's most crucial weapon. He spent increasingly long periods in deep meditation within his sanctum at the Apex Tower, Red Rain his focal point, seeking prescient glimpses of the aliens' technology, their tactics, their physiology, their very nature. Were they biological? Machine? Energy beings? What were their weaknesses? His visions were often fragmented, chaotic, filled with images of starships like obsidian mountains, beams of coherent light that vaporized steel, and entities whose forms defied sane comprehension. But amidst the horror, he gleaned vital clues.
His secret Sith Academy, hidden on a storm-lashed island off the coast of Old Wyk, now held nearly two dozen young apprentices, children and young adults culled from across the globe who had shown undeniable Force-sensitivity. Their training was accelerated to a brutal, almost inhuman pace. Vorhax cared little for their well-being, only their utility. He sought to forge them into weapons – telekinetic saboteurs, precognitive analysts, perhaps even crude battle meditaters capable of bolstering Imperial morale or shattering enemy cohesion. He knew most would break or die, but even a few successful adepts would be invaluable.
The elite of the Obsidian Guard, his Praetorian legions, underwent further, terrifying augmentations. Alchemical serums developed in his Stonefang laboratories enhanced their strength, speed, and resilience to near-superhuman levels. Psychological conditioning, bordering on outright mental enslavement through the Dark Side, rendered them fanatically loyal, utterly fearless, and immune to pain or terror. They were becoming true Sith super-soldiers, more machine than man, their hawk-helms now concealing faces few ever saw.
Crown Prince Edric, his features aged beyond his sixty-odd years by the immense pressure, commanded the defenses of Westeros with grim competence, his loyalty to his Emperor-father absolute and unquestioning. Princess Lyra, her intellect as sharp and cold as a shard of ice, oversaw the vast global intelligence and counter-intelligence network, ruthlessly purging any hint of dissent or defeatism, while simultaneously directing the Empire's relentless propaganda machine. The "Great Unification" was now solely framed as the "Sacred War for Planetary Survival." The Emperor was no longer just a bringer of order, but the sole protector of humanity against an unimaginable cosmic horror.
The final year before the aliens' revised arrival time was a blur of frantic, planet-wide effort. Every continent, every city, every village was a cog in Vorhax's global war machine. The skies above major industrial centers were perpetually hazed with the smoke of countless forges. The ground trembled with the construction of massive fortifications and the ceaseless movement of legions. The common people toiled in fields and factories, their lives a cycle of hard labor, meager rations, and fervent, Emperor-mandated prayers for victory. Fear was their constant companion, but it was a focused fear, channeled by Vorhax's will into a grim determination to survive.
Then, the day came. The Imperial Deep Watch Observatories, from the frozen peaks of the Northern Westerosi ranges to the fire mountains of distant Yi Ti, simultaneously registered a massive, coordinated energy spike at the edge of the solar system. The star-callers had arrived.
Vorhax stood in the central command nexus deep beneath the Obsidian Spire in Vorantgrad. The chamber was a marvel of his forced-march technology: holographic displays (primitive, flickering, but functional) showed the solar system and the incoming hostile icons; encrypted vox-casters crackled with reports from planetary defense commands; adepts from his Sith academy, their faces pale with concentration, sat in meditative trances, trying to glean precognitive warnings or sense weaknesses in the approaching foe.
Red Rain was belted at his waist. His black Imperial battle armor, a masterpiece of Stonefang's most advanced alloys and imbued with his own Dark Side energies, felt like a second skin. He was ageless, timeless, a figure of absolute, terrible power.
"Report," his voice was calm, a sliver of ice in the super-heated tension of the war room.
Princess Lyra, her face impassive, stepped forward. "Majestic Father, their fleet numbers in the thousands by initial estimates. Energy signatures indicate advanced shielding and weaponry far exceeding our own theoretical limits. They are currently holding position beyond the orbit of the outermost gas giant, but scout vessels, smaller and incredibly fast, are already detaching, their trajectory… direct for this planet."
Vorhax looked at the main holographic display. Thousands of hostile icons. His own planetary defenses, for all their desperate advancement, seemed pitifully inadequate. But there was no fear in his eyes, only the cold, burning resolve of a Sith Lord facing a worthy challenge. He had forged this world into his personal weapon. Now, he would wield it.
"Let them come," Emperor Vorhax said, his voice a deathly whisper that promised annihilation. "They seek to claim my world. They will find only their graves."
The first wave of alien scout ships, impossibly sleek, dark, and fast, appeared as crimson streaks in the upper atmosphere, picked up by the earliest warning systems. The planetary defense cannons, silent for decades of peace, now roared to life across a hundred fortified mountain ranges, their iron hearts spitting fire and death towards the heavens.
The galactic war for Planetos had begun.
(Word Count: Approx. 4400 words)