by Grey Bard
If you see him, soldier, turn away. Close your mind to his smiles, close your ears to his voice.
If you see one of ours, of any rank high or low, with dark hair and quick blue eyes, and a face that seems to say everything but tells nothing true, be alert. If you realize a moment too late that you have never heard his mission or seen his unit, be aware. If he lies as easily as he breathes, do not hesitate or linger, it is he.
He is Crichton, the deceiver, the one of a thousand masks, the seducer of minds. He who deals in guile and deception, whose very laughter is a weapon. He has turned a loyal pilot in under forty arns. He has incited insurrection on previously loyal server worlds. He entices clergy, criminals, even our own techs to rise against us. The very leaders that pursue him go rogue.
No place is remote or unlikely enough, no base is populated or guarded enough to be truly safe. He walks among us and he goes unseen. He is the destroyer unwitnessed, the terror unknown. Tech, warrior, spy, bandit, ambassador, and innocent. A hundred witnesses have seen him wear as many faces and none of them were his own. Marauders full of the finest commandos vanish mysteriously, only to have their ident chips turn up in his hands. He is taken, tortured, broken or so it seemed and within several arns he vanishes leaving behind only a trail of dead and a burning moon. His deepest secrets still only hinted at despite time with the finest torturer ever born.
What can you do to such a one? It would be better if we knew, for he is the seed of rebellion, a knife to the threat of our people. While he lives, we shall know no rest.