Chains of Destiny

by Nick Webb

  Galba winced. “Embarrassing, yes. But there’s something you should know, soldier.” He leaned forward, and dropped his voice, as if betraying a state secret. In actuality, he was.

  Ling whispered back. “What?”

  “I’m on a special mission from the Emperor himself. My work with the Commission was but a ploy. A plan to reintegrate Old Earth into the Empire, but on our terms. We fully intended to punish the Resistance. They’re all violent criminals. All of them. Terrorists. Disruptors of the peace the Empire has established.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “But there’s a way you can help get us back on track. I’ve studied your background—don’t look so shocked, soldier—after we first talked, I went and looked you up. Every soldier has a private file that only people like me can access, you know. And you know what?”

  He waited for a reply that never came. Only baited breath. Expectant, blackening eyes.

  “I liked what I saw. You’ve got balls, soldier. Fucking big balls. And integrity up the ass. I want you on my team. And I’ve got a job for you right now, if you’re interested. If we’re successful, I’ll take you back to the Emperor, and you can be his personal bodyguard.” He cocked his head at the marine, as if in hesitation. “Only if you’re interested, of course.”

  A slow grin spread over Ling’s face. “I’m in. Anything to send these fuckers to hell. What do I do?”

  Galba stood up and put out a hand. Ling grasped it, and stood himself. “Come with me.” He turned to the hallway that led to the stairwell, before pointing back to the table. “And bring the magazine.”

  ***

  Fifteen minutes later, they were in the empty quarters. A vacant room three doors down from Ayala’s. No sheets on the bunks; boxes of equipment lined the walls as if it were an annex of the storage closet nearby. Most of the quarters were empty in that hallway, but this one was special in that it now contained an auxiliary computer terminal that he’d smuggled in from one of the electronics storage rooms.

  He pointed to it, and collapsed on the bed as the deck rocked from another blast, beckoning Private Ling to sit at the terminal.

  “We need to hack in. I presume your training included basic tech? You are urban combat, after all.”

  Ling scowled at him. “Of course. In fact, I’m our squadron’s combat engineer.”

  Galba smiled. A dry, cold smile. “How convenient. Let’s get started.”

  ***

  Ben figured he’d been hanging for years. In fact, he started to have trouble remembering what came before. Had his arms always hurt? Had the tendons always felt so stretched? Had his shoulders always been out of their sockets, or was this a recent occurrence?

  He shook his head. There was no use in going crazy. Not like Six. Not like that poor shell of a man. He tried to focus on what Six had told him before. About Pritchard and the Fury.

  “Six? You still there?” Every word was agony. But it woke him up. “You awake?”

  A stirring nearby told him yes. “I’m here, Seven. We’re not to talk. Don’t you respect our Master? He’ll punish us again. Don’t you remember what he did to me? You got the knife, sure, but I got the whip. The whip is glo—“

  “Six, listen. I can get us out of here. I can—“

  “Ha! You? Look at you! You’ve been carved up like a roasted chicken. There’s a pool of blood on the floor under you. What do you think you’ll do to the Master? You’re nothing. I’m nothing. He’s everything.”

  Ben’s head swam. Six was right—he must have lost a lot of blood. He tried to lick his lips, but his tongue was as dry as felt, and it scratched against his cracked lips like burlap.

  “Tell me about the Fury, then. You were left here? How long ago?”

  A pause. “I was born h—“

  “No! Stop it! Stop your fucking crazy shit and tell me how long you’ve been here!” The yelling made Ben’s head sear with pain, but it was almost intoxicating. It cleared his head against the haze of dehydration and blood loss.

  Another pause. “I don’t know. Years, I think. Many years.”

  Ben forced his hoarse voice out of his dry throat. “The D-day celebration was only a week or so ago. The day we remember Dallas.” And my parents, he thought.

  “Dallas? Oh, yes. I remember that. Right before the coward shifted us away.”

  “It was three years ago,” Ben said. “How long after were you taken?”

  Six took a long time to answer, as if sifting through a lifetime of memory. “Months. Maybe four or five.”

  “So, you’ve been here for two and a half years.” Ben tried to push his shoulders down and lift his torso up against the sagging weight of his body, but his strength had long since left. “I’m sorry. That’s a long time to live like this.”

  “Oh, no. I didn’t come here at first. I went to the mines. Four months. 116 days. I counted. Every one, I counted. They worked me until I’d lost fifty pounds, then the Master saw me, and desired me, and bought me. But before he bought me, I met another prisoner. Another crew member from the Fury.”

  “Another one?” Ben was having trouble keeping the man’s story straight. Had Six come down alone? He couldn’t remember.

  “Yes, another. He was new. He told me Pritchard was dead, and the Fury destroyed. That’s when I lost hope. That’s when I felt privileged when the Master came for me. He rescued me. He saved me from that pit of rock and hunger. Now I have another hunger. A better one. A hunger for him.”

  The man’s meaning was clear, and it sickened Ben. How could another man descend to such a state? Even if it was probably induced by those bots the man had been injected with. How could he give up, and hand over his mind to the Master?

  He caught himself. No, not master. But what other name did he have? None, as far as he knew. But calling him master, even in his head, would never do. Something else. A name that would give him something to hold onto in defiance, even if only in his own mind.

  Dickwad.

  Yeah, that’ll do. He smirked, in spite of himself.

  But what had Six said? Pritchard dead? The Fury destroyed? Impossible. It was not true. He decided it was not true.

  “Six. Can you come over here? Just for a moment?”

  “I’m not to move. If I do, he’ll know. I must not disobey.”

  “Just for a moment. You can go right back. I promise. Just real quick.”

  Six hesitated, and Ben opened his eyes and craned his neck around to look at him, in spite of his protesting joints and muscles. The man sat in a cage, whose door sat slightly ajar. No shackle or restraint bound Six’s arms or feet, unlike Ben, who hung by shackles at the wrists and whose legs were spread wide by shackles holding his ankles down taut.

  “Please. Just for a moment.”

  Six stirred, and crawled out of the cage. “Ok, but just for a few seconds. What do you want?” He stood up and crept over to Ben, tentatively avoiding the clotted blood on the floor.

  “Can you reach up and release my arms? I think you can do it without a key, if you just—“

  “No!” Six looked up at him wide-eyed. “We can’t! He’ll kill us. He will. He’ll kill us if we behave like that.”

  “But I can get us out of here. I just need my arms, and I promise, I’ll get you out of here.”

  The man backed away, and started to crouch back down towards his cage.

  “No, wait!” Ben closed his eyes. “Just … fine. Don’t release my arms. Fine. I won’t ask you that. Just come back. Please.”

  He opened his eyes, and saw Six looking at him with his head cocked. “Then what? What do you want? Don’t ask me to let you go. I won’t do that. It’s madness.”

  Ben shook his head. “Don’t release me. Just, if you could, the chains holding my legs down are stretching my shoulders and arms. It really hurts. Bad. I think it’s damaging my shoulders. Could you, maybe, just loosen them? A little? I can’t escape with them loose.”

  Six thought about it for a moment. “Fine. But just the legs. Don’t ask me about
your arms. I won’t do it.”

  “Fine.” Ben sighed. Just the legs. Look, just flip those latches. That’ll relieve the pressure on my arms. And I’ll thank you kindly.”

  Six moved towards the restraints holding his ankles pointing taut towards the floor. Ben licked his lips again, in spite of their dryness, hoping against hope that the man would actually do it. With those latches flipped, he’d be able to lift his legs. The chain would slip right through the restraint on the ground without the latches.

  Six stooped, and fingered the latch on his right ankle.

  He shook his head, and flipped it. He reached for the other and flipped it too.

  “Better?” Six looked up.

  “Yeah, Six. Much better. Much better. Go back to your place now. The master might come back any second. Thank you.”

  As he watched Six crawl back into the cage he lifted up one leg, letting the chain slip through the floor restraint. He raised his foot all the way up to waist-height. Then the other, before lowering them back down. The strain was murder on his shoulders, but it was worth it.

  He could move his legs. And that was all he needed.

  ***

  Megan Po sucked in her breath as the Phoenix rocked under the bombardment from the Caligula. Another blast announced the impact of a torpedo, and the shock rattled yet another light fixture loose from the ceiling—still damaged from the battle at Liberty Station.

  She gripped the edge of the command console to maintain her balance. “Ayala, status of railguns. How much is left?”

  “Down to ten percent, sir. After that, all we’ve got are the ion beam cannons and gigawatt lasers. And the quantum field torpedoes, of course.”

  The torpedoes. If only they could get one through. One would be enough to take out the entire ship, but the Caligula would be sure to shoot it down before it got anywhere near close enough to cause any damage. It was far more likely to damage their own fighters than their adversary.

  “Engineering! I want my gravitic thrusters back,” she said into her comm.

  “Sorry, sir,” a voice answered. She couldn’t tell if it was Chief Simmons, or one of the other engineers. “It’s still out. That blast underwater just killed us. We won’t have it back up for a day at least. And that’s without any more damage, sir.”

  “Right,” she said, wincing as another blast rocked the ship. Looking up at the viewscreen, she watched as the fighter battle unfolded as a flurry of red and blue streaks, punctuated every now and then by an explosion marking the passing of one of the ships—hopefully Imperial, she thought. They’d lost far too many pilots to afford losing any more in this needless battle.

  “Commander,” said Ensign Falstaff, “I’m getting reports that the strike force has engaged the slavers on the surface.”

  “Keep me apprised of their progress, Ensign.” Finally, a bit of good news. The sooner their team was back on board, the sooner they could get out of there.

  But how? That question was still unanswered. Perhaps the only way out of there was crashing into the Caligula again. But something told her Trajan wouldn’t allow that to happen this time. They’d be ready.

  Po scowled. There was no way out of this one. They had to get one of those torpedoes through. Somehow.

  A flicker on the screen announced the end of her hopes.

  Another ship. Just as large as the Caligula.

  “Ayala?” she turned questioningly towards the tactical octagon.

  Ensign Ayala shook her head. “It’s the Sphinx, sir. They’re bearing down on our position.”

  Po sank back into her chair, and sighed.

  “Well, shit.”

  Ayala continued. “One minute until intercept.” She glanced up at Po, a questioning look in her eye. “Commander? Orders?”

  “Redirect all available power to the ion beam cannons. Hit ‘em with all we’ve got,” said Po.

  And a moment later, as if in defiant answer to her order, a blast sent half the bridge crew to the floor and the other half clutching onto whatever they could reach. Po gripped her armrest. “What the hell was that?”

  Ayala pulled herself up from the floor, shaking her head, and studied her board. “Power overload, sir. All forward and starboard ion beam cannons are out!”

  Great. Po grit her teeth. Don’t give up. There’s plenty left to do. Don’t give up.

  “Conventional thrusters. Keep the Caligula between us and the Sphinx.” She pointed wildly at Ensign Roshenko at the helm, and indicated the Admiral’s ship looming on the viewscreen, just a klick away. “Take us in nice and close, Ensign. Tactical? When we get up close and personal, blast them with all the juice we got in the gigawatt laser turrets.”

  “Sir,” began an Ensign at the tactical octagon, “the Caligula’s refractive shielding is still up.”

  “Yes, but at that proximity, we just might hit them. And if we don’t, we might get lucky and the beams will refract towards the Sphinx.” She hit the comm button to sound a general alert. “All hands, prepare for conventional thrusters. Hold on to something folks.” She turned back to Roshenko. “Now, Ensign.”

  Po grabbed onto her armrests, and her back pressed back into her chair as the ship began to move forward under the conventional thrusters. She far preferred the gravitic thrusters, as they produced no sensation of moving.

  “Distance?”

  Ayala called back from tactical. “600 meters.”

  “Take us to one hundred meters.”

  The rumbling grew louder as more and more railgun slugs from the Caligula made it through the defensive screen that flared out from their hull, crisscrossing the space between the two ships, intersecting with the vectors of the railgun fire, with explosive results. With less distance, more of the slugs managed to impact the hull, and it showed in the faces of the bridge crew, as Po looked around and saw that their looks of concentration had turned to fright.

  “Easy, people. We’ll get through this. Just give them all we got.” She looked back at the tactical octagon, with a grim, half-hearted smile, “and if we lose, let’s make them pay dearly for it.”

  “Sir,” began Ayala, “the Sphinx is here, but we’re shielded by the Caligula. They’re moving to flank us.”

  “Match their vector. Keep the Caligula between us. Fire all lasers.”

  How much longer could they keep this up? Minutes, perhaps. Eventually, the Sphinx would wise up, and outflank them simply by positioning herself orthogonal to the Phoenix’s axis of rotation around the Caligula.

  An idea struck her.

  “Science? How far away do we have to safely be from a target to detonate a quantum field torpedo?”

  “At least three klicks, sir. And even that is cutting it close. I recommend five.”

  5000 meters. And they were at one hundred meters from the Caligula. Under conventional thrusters they’d only be able to accelerate at about one g, which means by the time they fired the torpedo at point-blank range at the Caligula, they’d only have a second or two to get away. And they couldn’t just shift a torpedo over with gravitics—the Sphinx had demonstrated that much during their first encounter a few days ago.

  Unless….

  She slapped the comm. “Torpedo control, this is the bridge. I want two quantum field torpedoes carried down to the flight deck, stat.” Stat? What the hell was she, a doctor? She shook her head and focused. “Copy?”

  A harried voice answered. “This is Ensign Peak, sir. Commander? These things emit lots of radiation. We’re not suited up, and it’ll take time to—“

  “I’m sorry, Ensign Peak, we don’t have time for that. It’s either this, or we’re dead. You decide.”

  A moment’s silence answered her. “Yes, sir. We’re on our way.”

  God help her. She put her head in her hand. Those torpedoes emitted so much radiation, each worker would likely receive several lifetimes worth the highest recommended limit in just a few minutes.

  “Godspeed, Ensign. Bridge out.”

  Ayala barked out f
rom across the bridge. “Sir, the Sphinx is flanking. They’re moving towards—“

  “Yes, I see it Ensign.” She watched the front viewscreen as the third ship moved to a point that gave them a clear shot. The Caligula still pounded their undercarriage—at least that part of the hull was the most heavily shielded. “Move us in closer, Roshenko. Make them kiss our ass.”

  As the thrusters fired, she felt lighter in her seat, indicating the acceleration vector had shifted downward. She gulped. Flying with gravitics always thrilled her. Flying with conventional thrusters? Not so much.

  Jake, where the hell are you?

  ***

  Dammit, where the hell am I?

  Jake hadn’t expected the explosion to be quite so violent, but it threw him and everyone else to the ground as the shock wave hit. For several moments he couldn’t hear, or think, as if his head was stuffed under a giant pillow and squeezed by someone sitting on top—like his older sister used to do to him. Back in their house on Whidbey Island. Strange that that memory came back to him then. He’d run across their property, hiding in the trees from the calls of his mother. He wondered what she was doing right then, on Earth. Was she safe? Was Earth safe?

  But when he stood up he gathered his senses. “Run!” he said, pointing across the compound towards a building that looked like a hangar, where, he supposed, Velar would keep whatever shuttle or other craft she owned. The sprawling compound was a confused mess of people—guards, slaves, traders, all pulling themselves off the ground and shaking the dust off their clothes. Many people had sustained mild injuries, which, Jake realized, was his fault, but he had no time to think about it. No time to care.

  He pulled Jeremiah along towards the hangar when he noticed some people pointing upward before starting to run themselves, scattering to dash behind buildings or piles of rock.

  Jake glanced upward, then yanked Jeremiah to the ground just in time. A shuttle—one of their own—came careening through the air and slammed into the ground before sliding several hundred meters into a section of the compound’s brick wall. On the other side of the courtyard, two other shuttles—smoke streaming from their hulls—similarly streaked through the air and slammed into the ground, skidding a ways before coming to rest.