The Facilitator, Crasor Tah Ahn, deftly slid through the crowded capital plaza on Noor-5. He moved with the grace of an elegant serpent in grass, barely brushing each blade. No one thought about him or even noticed his passage. I’m a shadow.
Crasor was on Noor-5 to exact the Founder’s vengeance. I will make the Divisionists pay for their heretical idealism.
And he would do it in a way no one would connect to the Founder or the Ashamine.
What a blighthearted dump,
Crasor thought disgustedly. These people will burn in the fires of the black star.
Compared to the glory of Founder's City on Ashamine-2, it was dirty and run down, a dump ready for demolition. Once the Ashamine has finished with the buggered Enthos,
he thought with sadistic pleasure, it can focus on these small, backwater planets. Founder damn them all.
He continued towards the front of the huge crowd, everyone around him enthralled to the preaching Divisionist. The speaker's rhetoric sounded like the same cliche garbage every one of them spewed. Crasor wasn't paying attention to what the man was saying. His attention was focused on his surroundings, on remaining an invisible entity inside the crowd.
The situation between the Divisionists and the Ashamine
continued degrading. The Founder's public proclamation was clear: “Those who choose to follow the Divisionist teachings shall serve five standard years hard labor on the newly established colony worlds. This is education, so they might see the justification of our war against the Enthos. For those who lead the Divisionists and cause a rift amongst the Ashamine, we must enact a harsher punishment. They know the truth about our foe, and yet continue spreading falsehoods. Therefore, all will be sent to prison worlds to live the remainder of their lives.” Crasor didn't think these punishments were nearly strong enough, but the heretical movement was gaining more popularity by the day. The Founder knows best and must handle the situation carefully.
The real problem, however, lay in the fact that governing officials on certain planets, like Noor-5, were ignoring the Divisionists, allowing additional strongholds to spring up. Crasor was happy to obliterate the enclave here. I will bring this situation back under control.
“Up until now,” the Founder had told him, “we have tried peaceful tactics. It isn't working, and they continue to stage disruptive protests and dissension. It is creating morale loss amongst the Ashamine Forces. With the final Entho offensive occurring soon, we cannot afford these types of setbacks.
“I've come up with a plan you are perfectly suited to execute. We will fabricate a patriotic organization to strike the Divisionists. The Ashamine itself cannot be associated with terrorism, but a group of concerned citizens certainly can. Travel to the worlds with the highest concentration of dissension and devastate them. Make it look like our group of patriots is at fault. You must be extremely careful. Let no ties be traced to the Ashamine. If all goes as I believe it will, the sentiment amongst the masses will swing back towards us and the Divisionists will wither.” Crasor, after compiling intel, had decided Noor-5 would be the best starting point for his
retribution.
As he made his way through the clueless multitude, Crasor broke into an empty pocket. A young woman stood in the center of the void, a massive, wolfish dog at her side. The animal turned to look at Crasor and their eyes met. Crasor could see malevolence in the pale blue eyes, malevolence directed at him. The dog bared his teeth in a snarl, but emitted no sound. The girl didn't look at Crasor, didn't even notice her animal's behavior. She was entirely focused on the Divisionist and his heretical diatribe.
Crasor quickly slid back into the crowd, hoping the dog didn't follow. He would find a different path, one that didn't involve the strange pair. The girl was definitely an oddity. Her clothing, hair style, and most of all, her pet, set her apart. Maybe she is one of those
back-world, para-political religious types.
So many new groups had sprung up lately, but none were as successful as the Divisionists. Crasor put thoughts of the girl out of his mind. More important things to think about.
It took Crasor a considerable amount of time to get to the front of the assemblage, but he expected that. Stealth required caution. He reached into one of his pockets and pulled out a compact respirator, thinking about his appearance as he did so. His disguise was impeccable and would keep him from being identified by any survivors. Any security devices recording his image would come up empty when they tried to match him in the civil or criminal databases. I’m a non-person.
Crasor would rather have been in the center of the huge crowd, right where the strange girl had been standing. His weapon would be most potent there, but the Founder had been very specific. “Your primary targets are Divisionist preachers and their immediate contingent. The death of participatory crowds is encouraged, but they are a secondary concern. We want survivors left to recount the horror.”
The Divisionists will feel the wrath of the Ashamine,
Crasor thought. This is only the beginning.
Those who practiced heresy would be punished, and perhaps citizens who heard of this event would think twice before listening to seditious speech. The governments of every planet allowing the verbal insurrection to continue would feel pain. Crasor’s next step was assassinating officials who didn't punish Divisionist adherents.
“I have already begun writing a speech for after your first strike,” the Founder had said. “It begins: 'The citizens of the Ashamine are upset with the unlawful, traitorous acts of the Divisionists. They seek justice and an end to the divide growing amongst our population.' I should add a line about how these patriotic citizens are heroes. That will help shift public opinion. And also something about how innocents that perished were martyrs on the altar of justice.” The Founder was a genius. Crasor was glad he served him.
Placing the respirator over his mouth and nose, Crasor breathed through it. Immediately, the air had a sterile, stale smell. He reached into his pocket and grasped the weapon’s triggering mechanism, but didn't engage.
This is it,
he thought, mind running through a final check of all his preparations and plans. He knew his equipment and tactics would work flawlessly. The small pump and tank concealed under his jacket, the respirator, the decontamination pod on his waiting starship, the packed crowd, the Divisionist scum—all were where they should be, just waiting for him to trip the switch. He was calm, at peace, and ready to serve his Founder.
As he began to pull the trigger, a high-pitched shriek assaulted his ears. The ground shook beneath him. What is this?
Crasor wondered as the assault intensified. The sound made his head feel like it was imploding. His hands left the trigger, and he tried to cover his ears, but this did little to keep the sound from penetrating. He stumbled a few steps, trying to
remain standing.
Fighting through the pain, Crasor could see the surrounding mass react to the acoustic assault. First, disorientation, then panic grew as people started to scream and flee wildly. Those who didn't keep up with the herd were knocked to the ground and trampled.
The rumbling worsened as seconds passed. The square started shaking violently and many of those fleeing fell. Crasor watched as thousands tried to crawl to a non-existent safety. They're disgusting,
he thought, his well-trained body maintaining balance. His composure had returned, and he calmly assessed the situation. The longer I wait, the less effective the
weapon will
be.
He removed his hands from his ears and went for the trigger. Once it was firmly in his grasp, he tripped the switch.