Codex Basileia

by Alsvid Wotansdottir

  Contents

  Dedication

  Preface:

  The Liason Officer and the Queen

  O CLOUDS UNFOLD!

  THE FIRST MILITARY CONSUL

  Albion’s Call

  Book One of the Basileia Cycle

  by ALSVID

  Dedicated to the great man George Lucas, who introduced me to Space Opera,

  The Online Hotep Community, who planted this seed within my mind (even if I only heeded their words with great irony),

  Kimmy, Scoots2, Burst, and many others, who inspired,

  And, of course, my mother, who made this work possible, the true genesis of it all.

  -Alsvid

  Preface:

  A long time ago...well, actually recently, in this galaxy, there were a group of Online Black Folks who are often called Hoteps. At best they try to instill a sort of Black Nationalism within other Black Folks. At worst they are paternalistic fascists given to homophobia, internalized anti-Blackness, transphobia, misogynoir, and other societal ills.

  Basically Nazis, but with Egyptian overtones, given to saying things like “Overstand M’eye Words, Sistar! We Ruled Egypt for years like Kings and Queens! Hotep!”

  This makes them targets of ridicule amongst many nonblacks, the most popular form of ridicule being the tired old “we wuz kings and kweens” meme common to racist Online People.

  They also make themselves figures of ridicule by espousing ridiculous ideas, such as how all Black Folks are secretly Demigods with Three Eyes, who can use Magical Egyptian Powers of the Holy Ancestors to reshape reality. They talk of Yakub, the genius scientist from Space, who invented White People to do his bidding but lost control over them in a Frankensteinian fashion.

  As a Black person and a huge Sci-Fi/Fantasy buff, I love Hoteps(ironically). Their ideas make for awesome power fantasies. Who would not like to be an invulnerable Demigod/dess like Theseus or Atalanta or Brynhildr? I don’t like their hateful attitude towards women and LGBTQIA Black people,, but Hotep Lore is very fun and Star Wars-y enough for me to be amused by.

  It is also reminiscent of Games Workshop’s Warhammer 40K, if you switch the Orks and Human Empire out for an Intergalactic Neo-Egypto-Roman-Grecian Empire manned entirely by black people, and a bunch of cavedwelling barbarian white folk.

  Needless to say, having studied Black History as a layperson, we are quite important and nice enough without making up absurd stories about how we descended from Godhood in Space to muck about on this planet.

  The Roman Empire, for example, boasted no less than two Emperors hailing from Africa, as well as a very influential Black Lady who lived in Britannia, whose grave was recently unearthed.

  A Black man was found to have been in the court of the Japanese Shogun Tokugawa Iyeyasu, named Yasuke, who enjoyed great popularity with the courtiers (because of course he did, you all saw that coming.)

  We are pioneers and adventurers and scholars and that’s quite enough for me. However, it’s fun to pretend to be a God/dess, isn’t it? Pretending and theater and myth-telling is always fun. We should be cautious of the stories we tell, however, because as the late K. Vonnegut remarked, we often become what we pretend to be.

  I hope you enjoy this tale of Spacefaring Fleets and Chivalrous Warfare, of swords and sorcery, of magic and great power. It is a wholesome mythopoeic legend that I intended for everyone, especially Black kids, to enjoy as much as I did Lucas’s Star Wars as a youngin, or the Redwall series by Brian Jacques. They should find good role models here. Maybe. I’ve never been a role model, so I can’t be sure.

  I especially hope that nonblack people read this, even if as just a curiosity, a weird little bagatelle that they will point and laugh it. If you were amused, I’ve done my job.

  If you want to learn more about Hoteps, please check out Just Hotep Things, a community of Black Folks who love making fun of nonsensical hoteps, but in a gentle, non-racist manner, as I did here with this Totally Not Star Wars With Black People In It tale.

  -Alsvid

  The LIASON OFFICER and the Queen

  “...To Her Most Serene Imperial Highness Basilissa Octavia Augustina, the tears and cries of the People of Albion...the Drakengard Reich and the Iceni Queen, Voadicea, drive us into Space...and the Space drives us back to the Reich and the Queen. We are either killed by the Reich, by the Queen, or by the unforgiving, airless void of Space.”

  -Queen Arthoria of Albion

  Extract from the letter addressed to Octavia, Basilissa of the Basileia Ton Griffona

  “They should be here any minute now, Your Majesty.”

  The Queen gazed skyward. “I like not these skies. Sir Ector, are you certain?”

  “I would never doubt the word of the Basilissa, Your Majesty. She promised an audience; her envoys shall make themselves present.”

  A single raindrop fell, striking Queen Arthoria upon her pale white cheek. She trembled, becoming for a moment but a small girl, almost lost under her heavy varisteel armor, her elegant fur cloak, her bright golden crown. Her rosy pink lips trembled, and tears stood in her eyes.

  Her horse, a bright silver as thin and gracious as she, yet strong of limb and fast-seeming, snuffled nervously.

  “Don’t cry any more, Your Majesty. We are here.”

  Sir Ector unsheathed his greatsword. “Show yourselves!” he bellowed, only to find a slim black woman at his side. She was wearing a silken purple hijab. Despite himself, Sir Ector could not help but gaze at the generous swells of the woman’s breast and hip under the skin-tight black battlesuit she wore.

  She caught his gaze, and her green eyes sparkled maliciously. She turned slightly, just enough to expose the long, dun-grey battle rifle slung over her shoulder. It was a finely wrought piece of machinery, all hard edges and blocky barrel, with a chunky foldable stock and blue hologram sights, with a telescopic attachment.

  The knight’s horse, a huge charger as grey and old and lined as he, yet just as heavyset and irritable-looking, snorted and stamped angrily, mirroring its master’s discontent.

  “Shhhh…” the black woman murmured, placing a hand upon the knight’s armored thigh.

  “Who are you?” Queen Arthoria whimpered, her heart pounding in her chest. The black woman’s smile grew a tad wider.

  “A liasion officer of the Basileia. These are my cohorts...Leo, a mercenary captain from the Mixtec Tripartite Treaty Alliance. Messalina, a battle droid. Kimmy, one of Leo’s mercenaries.”

  Like magic three more people materialized as though from thin air.

  “What sorcery!” the Queen gasped.

  “Impossible,” Sir Ector growled, furrowing his craggy white brows, though a note of uncertainty crept into his voice. His horse shied away from the newcomers, snorting and tugging at his reins, forcing him to tug back and mutter a low invective into its ear.

  Leo, an average-height, bronze-skinned youth, regarded him with steely, hooded grey eyes impassably. Athletic, his physique showing the hard, sharply defined lines of well-developed musculature, he has black hair and darkly handsome facial features; an aquiline, sharp nose, a flat brow, even little white teeth, firm, expressive lips, a solid chin.

  He is wearing a leather jacket, thrown open to expose his rippling abdominals, and stonewashed blue jeans, with black combat boots.

  He insinuated himself next to Sir Ector casually, folding his arms over his chest. “So, you’re a knight. Do you put curtains on your horse and run at people with a bit of stick?”

  “You must mean jousting,” Sir Ector said, not seeming to be troubled by the youth’s barb. “I have won the day at not a few tourneys, good man. However, since the onslaught of the Drakengard Reich, the days of chivalry and romance seem to have drawn to a close. Now there is
only suffering and crying and death in a muddy battlefield in the rain with little honor, torn apart by the guns of the accursed Reich soldiers. It seems all I do these days as a knight is send good people to their deaths, eat but little, sleep but little, endure the horrors of dreams where I relieve the sight of my soldiers meeting their final rest, and carry wounded, screaming, wailing girls and boys over my shoulder back to the castle, where, if I am lucky, I can watch them slowly recuperate into broken shells of humans, armless, legless, unable to bear children or till a field or stand watch.”

  Leo nodded. “Something like that happened to me, actually. I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “It’s not your fault, good man. It’s the Chancellor of the Reich who bears the souls of those goodhearted, valiant children of Albion upon her head.”

  Kimmy is almost a head or two higher than him, with a similarly well-muscled, tough, dynamic body, her shoulders broad, her flat stomach showing the soft curves of her biceps, yet there is an enticingly soft quality to her body. Her white tank top looks in grave danger of splitting under the weight of her gigantic breasts. Her ivory-white skin contrasts with her red lips and red eyes, her hair a bright gold mane. Her plump, pillowy yet heavily muscled thighs are contained within a small black miniskirt. She, too, wears combat boots.

  A formidably huge double-headed axe that seems capable of sundering a fully-grown beech tree in as few as ten swipes hangs off her back.

  “I’ve never met a real queen before, Your Majesty.” She brings her huge form down in an awkward curtsey.

  Queen Arthoria encouragingly gives her a small pat on the shoulder. “My goodness, you’re big. Are you from Germanoi?”

  “No, Austresia. Why?”

  “All the Germanoi are very tall.”

  “I’m sorry I’m not a Germanoi, Your Majesty.”

  Kimmy looked so despairing that Queen Arthoria had to smile. “No, no, I’m not disappointed. It’s just that you reminded me of one, is all.”

  “And they are all big people?”

  “Yes. Tall, muscular, fertile...I’ve never seen one up close. There is little time to travel when one’s home is being destroyed by the enemy,” the Queen said, her eyes sad once again.

  “She has horns! Spirits of grace defend us!” Sir Ector recoiled from Kimmy, pale with fear. “I had heard Outlanders consort with demons, but never had I laid eyes upon one until now! Stand back, my Queen.”

  “Kimmy is no such thing,” Alsvid said, gently. “Unless you fear dairy products, for they are creamy and will upset nervous tummies.”

  Sir Ector looked quite confused. “I don’t see what milk and yogurt have to do with this unseelie woman, good lady.”

  He rubbed his chin and studied Kimmy's rather buoyant chest more closely as she protested, stamping her feet in a most becoming and cute manner, clenching her fists.

  “I’m not a demon! Honestly! I’m-”

  “A very good and brave little girl,” Alsvid cut in, preventing her from further detail. “I’m sure you and the good sir will get along just fine.”

  “Clearly,” Leo said, stifling a chuckle as he watched Sir Ector’s straying gaze.

  “What’s so funny?” Kimmy rounded on him.

  “Nothing.”

  The last woman is a white, slender, pale figure with long dirty blonde hair and pitiless, inhuman, icy blue eyes, blood red, soft lips, and a seductive figure with wide hips, pert, high, round breasts, a thin waist, and narrow thighs. She is wearing a black catsuit and black high-heels.

  She says nothing. Queen Arthoria and Sir Ector look at her expectantly.

  “Don’t you want to speak to the Queen?” Sir Ector says, at length.

  The woman says nothing.

  “What’s wrong?” Queen Arthoria said, uncertainly, looking at her guests.

  “That’s a combat droid, Your Majesty,” Leo says. He plants a boot on a nearby stone, and grins.

  “What does that mean?” thundered Sir Ector.

  “Well, she was built in a factory.”

  “You mean she’s a machine?” Sir Ector said, disbelief stamped all over his lined face. “But...she looks so alive!”

  “Yet if you opened her belly with a knife you would see machinery in her organs. We won’t do that, though. Ask her about her designation.”

  Queen Arthoria came forwards. “What...what is your designation?”

  “Unmanned Weapons System. Type: Thunder Heaven Factory. Model: Express Infiltrator. Name: Messalina,” the blonde woman said, evenly. She did not move, did not look at them, staring straight ahead. “I am on your side,” Messalina declared.

  “I don’t trust her,” Sir Ector muttered. “She sounds like a witch.”

  “Oh, she can be, but only to your enemies.”

  Alsvid sat down cross-legged on the grassy sward next to Leo’s legs, leaning against him and staring at the verdant green countryside, the charmingly rustic dirt road leading into the castle town, and the peaceful blue span of the river Temeraire, winding its way through the gentle curves of the hills. Far away she could perceive the tiny forms of people, animals, and wayns wending their way to and fro, the lights of fires and lamps, and the glitter of armor.

  “It’s very pretty.”

  “Land of Hope and Glory, eh?” Leo smiled, and reached down to place a gentle hand on Alsvid’s brow.

  “Yes.” Queen Arthoria’s smile was as radiant as the dawn. She raised herself a little straighter, guiding her horse forwards a little, the faint cloud-veiled sunlight glinting upon her armor.

  “This is our home. For over hundreds of thousands of years my forebears and their people have inhabited this realm, tilling its soil, hewing its stone, husbanding animals, spinning, cooking, reaping, raising children, creating beautiful and priceless objects, and sleeping their final sleep in its soil. It is all we have ever known and all we wish for. My dream has always been that of a quiet and happy rule, with a contented folk and bountiful harvests.”

  “Now the Reich has come, suddenly, abruptly, tearing across our planets like a knife in our flesh, devastating our land, destroying the things we have made with our hands and wasting our cattle. This we cannot forgive. No, we will not forget this trespass of the Reich. We will never give in to the Reich. Nor will we accept the rule of the doomed pretenders over the gentle people of Albion; their madness, their tyranny, their unceasing lust for battle and bloodshed, and their foolish, hard-headed self-important pridefulness.”

  “Even if my flesh is torn asunder, until my last drop of blood pours from my veins, and the last breath of life escapes my lungs, we will heed the voices of our folk calling for us to serve them, and we shall not abandon the duties imparted to us by the Basilissa herself. She entrusted us to care for Albion and her children, and we will not bring dishonor upon the Crown by cowering from it. Albion is not ours; we belong to Albion, and we are the servants of Albion’s good and loyal people, here to do their bidding and heal their myriad hurts. So we swore to the land and those who live upon its blessed ground. The enemy’s vile hands cannot touch them.”

  Queen Arthoria clenched one armored fist, resolutely narrowing her bright green eyes. They stared at her silently.

  “Is this what it’s like when a real Queen speaks?” Kimmy said, wonderingly. “I almost want to stay and join her Royal Army.”

  She rubbed her upper arms and shivered, her spine tingling, her heart beating faster.

  “No one else can be Queen of Albion,” Leo said, folding his arms over his powerful chest. “I see now why she was chosen. She belongs to the realm, not the other way around.”

  “We cannot let the Reich break the back of the people of Albion,” Alsvid declared. “If Albion falls, the sword of the Reichkanzlerin will be pointed at the the heart of the Basileia.”