Deep within the Sun Islands archipelago, a group of ten light combat ships cleaved the cool waters as the first fingers of dawn began to reach over the eastern horizon. With tactical maneuvers coordinated by their command ship, the Albani expeditionary force closed in on Varga, hidden stronghold of the eastern pirate lords. From Varga, the seafaring traffic of more than a score of nations had been prey to the unpredictable methods the outlaws had developed across nearly two centuries of activity.

The pirates of Tarakk had grown from operating in small groups looting small civilian vessels for whatever random valuables they had aboard, to acting as ordered fleets of small, swift attack boats under an organized command structure. The pirate fleets had become capable of harassing, boarding and capturing non-military vessels of any size.

The uncivilized men and women who had dedicated themselves to lives of crime on the open ocean gradually became technologically obsessed to the point of modifying their bodies with cybernetic additions and mechanical prosthetics to achieve greater efficiency in their endeavors. Their observed process was believed to involve holding captive vessels, their passengers and materials for sale, use or ransom. Profits were largely believed to fund continued operations and illicit surgeries.

The Albani military action, converging ships on Varga, was the latest and most significant move against the pirate forces in the last two decades. Years of undermining the fearsome reputations the cyborg pirates had established was seen by most as owing to the efforts of one man. It was at his command that missiles carrying payloads of irritant gas were unleashed upon Varga’s interior.

Though the gas-laden missiles appeared to be the first stage of the Albani surprise attack, it was actually the second. Before the sun’s first light, the expeditionary force’s command ship had engaged what the crew had come to call the Voice of Doom, a low frequency sound resonator that induced powerful disorientation and nausea in its targets. As a result, the pirate community’s response to the gas attack was minor.

The pirates of Varga woke to bursting gas bombs and stumbled toward their haven’s sheltered harbor. At the docks, their light attack craft, each capable of carrying twelve to twenty action-ready raiders, were blockaded by military vessels up to five times their size. With many of their attack craft captured over the past month, the seven caught in port were unquestionably outgunned.

Squads of riflemen and infantry in powered armor leaped over the side of the Albani frigate Hammer of Justice to race across the decks of the pirate boats Hell’s Rage, The Scream of Demons and Goddess of War. Ready for action, the soldiers took up position on the boats and established a firing line on the dock. The pirates who had managed to gather at the docks, a majority of them still queasy and shaking, began to lower their swords and guns, though they kept their sonic imaging and targeting devices active.

“Soldiers,” a somber officer with a dragon skull helmet cloaked in gray, called out from Hammer of Justice’s deck, “hold fire and stand ready.”

“You’ve come to talk then?” one of the pirates called out.

“You are among the leadership of this rabble?” the bearded officer responded, spreading his cloak enough to display his ornate dark armor.

“Vopho Varin Sala,” the brown-haired man said, standing tall within his armored coat, his cybernetic eye glowing green. “Rorian Broadax to my left. You must be the Lost Prince.”

Within the beard, beneath the dragon skull helmet, there was a smile. The veteran commander tightened his grip on his long, bladed lance and lifted it skyward. As eyes turned to the clouds, the dirigible command ship Destiny appeared, moving toward the ground slowly. Approaching faster, a hover platform descended from the larger craft. A white-haired man in black and gold armor stood flanked by two soldiers. A black cloak hung from his shoulders, flowing in the breeze as they flew.

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