by Ian Cannon
“I failed,” Sire grumbled through a voice reconstruction node, the tones flat and dark.
The sensei smiled knowingly and said, “You grew.”
“I failed … again!” he insisted.
“You have done nothing but improve, sire,” the sensei rebutted.
Sire strolled powerfully passed him and moved at speed through the corridor hissing, “Do not placate me, GuardKing. Failure is failure.”
The man named GuardKing sighed patiently and turned to follow, the manotaurs quick to mirror their movement. “And what is perfection if not navigating the inevitability of failure?”
He waved his mechanical hand at him despondently and cried, “Ridiculous!”
The two paced down the hallway, a steel mesh floor embedded in rock with long, swooping ductwork running over head. Station workers and slave droids moved out of their way, each carrying large utility packs and engineering tools. GuardKing finally observed, “I’ve noticed you’ve begun implementing the art of Kruual’aat in your training. An effective style of combat. The downloads are serving you well.”
“Mmm, yes. I enjoy the swordplay.”
“Very well.” Another pause. GuardKing said, “What is causing your hesitation?”
They moved through an open hatchway into a large room where the rock tunneling opened into an ore-mining control facility. A long viewport looked out over a subterranean grotto. Beyond the control room the steel walkway became a catwalk spanning the perimeter with railing that overlooked a deep canyon—the ore pits. A massive nuclear-driven mining pump was suspended over the pits thrumming away.
Sire answered the question with irritation, “You already know.”
GuardKing observed with a nod. “Yes, but do you?”
Burning. Searing. Melting.
Sire spun and began marching powerfully down the walkway. “Of course I do!”
Blistering. Sizzling. Incinerating.
“But can you face it?”
Sire didn’t respond. He didn’t feel the need. Or perhaps, was too afraid to divulge the truth. No, he was not yet ready to face his greatest fear.
They moved out over a high area encircling a training floor far below. Warriors dressed in black, light-weave body armor trained against one another in pairs and groups. Their chanting and battle calls reverberated through the entire chasm. The Kruual honing their combat skills, sharpening their deadly talents.
GuardKing continued, still following behind, “When we found you … the damage was tremendous. There was only one thing keeping you alive.”
“Please, not another sermon,” he said. “Grace. Hope. The demands of Wi’ahr. It’s nonsense!” They moved onto an adjoining catwalk over the training area still hearing the sounds of perfection rise to them. “Where I once believed, I no longer do.”
“It’s none of those things,” GuardKing argued.
They entered a lift, the door shut. They stood together. Sire asked, “Then what?”
GuardKing said, “Will. The will to live.”
“Ha!” he blurted through that voice reconstruction node. “It was not the will to live that preserved me.”
GuardKing nodded his agreement, said, “Perhaps not. But it was will, nonetheless.”
It was will, nonetheless …
Sire inhaled through his auto-lung. What could possibly be greater than the will to live? Yes, of course. The will to exact, “Revenge.”
GuardKing said, “There is no greater power.”
The lift thudded to a stop, the door whisked open. Sire stood for a moment without moving, GuardKing’s words still resting in his mind; and in that mind, Sire could see only two people. A Golothan male. A Raylon female. The thought of them focused his motives, even honed his intention to a killer’s edge. From this station hosted in the deep forbidden lanes of space was where he would launch his campaign of vengeance, execute the greatest power of all.
He sighed and murmured, “They will pay, GuardKing. I will tear them apart. I will destroy them, as they have done to me.”
GuardKing bowed his head subtly and promised, “I will make it so, my sire.”
Moments later they stormed into the station’s primary laboratory, a sterile white space mounted high over the foundry floor. A large machine sat in the center complete with a cerebro table on an automated track designed to shuttle a subject into the spiral tubing of the apparatus. A glowing wheel hummed, currently reading the neutron tomography of a patient. They could see his feet sticking out of the machine and hear the mindless, garbled murmuring of the person inside. A revolving 3-D render of the brain was projected over a holotable where the lab’s lead physician jerked a look at Sire and GuardKing as they entered. His eternally frenetic eyes blinked as he forced a grin.
“Ah,” he declared with a subservient bow.
“What have you found, Jinn-Junn?” Sire insisted dismissing any pleasantries with a flick of his wrist and looking into the holobrain.
The man named Jinn-Junn scurried around the machine to present his findings with overplayed impunity. “The subject is behaving wonderfully. We’ve been able to penetrate the intermedial layers of his psycho processing.” He picked a piece of the brain projection between his thumb and finger and lifted it as if peeling away a layer of the subject’s brain. An agonized wail came from inside the machine and Jinn-Junn layed the 3-D brain layer back down with a quick look of apology. He said, “From there, unlayering his stored knowledge has been a fascinating example of psychosis. This particular subject posseses a simpler neurotic coupling of mind and brain than most.”
Sire repeated on the edge of impatience, “What have you found, Doctor?”
Jinn-Junn smiled nervously realigning his thoughts. “Ah, yes well, he knows the target subjects. He’s worked with them in the past on multiple occasions, both in partnership as well as a professional adversary of sorts. They must have, how should I say, a tempestuous relationship. That much I’ve been able to unravel.” He stated this as if to highlight his findings.
Sire’s words came with a threat. “I’m not interested in his history with the target subjects. I’m interested in their whereabouts.”
Jinn-Junn swallowed hard and said, “As for knowing their current location … it’s … it’s difficult to ascertain. He doesn’t seem to know that information, or he has stored it in secrecy.” An angry pause flittered between them, and Jinn-Junn blurted, “But, fear not, Sire, he cannot hide a secret from our mind tableau. Even if he has implemented certain neural failsafes that would hide the mental files from himself first, you see. That would make the determination process more difficult, yes, but—”
Sire demanded, “Then tear his mind apart until you find the proper … files.”
Jinn-Junn offered an obedient nod. “Absolutely, Sire. He will never remember that his own name was Rogan when the mind tableau completes its search of his neural complex. But, uh …” he put a finger in the air and murmured, “It may require … a bit of time.”
Sire’s head moved subtly taking in Jin-Junn’s words. He said, “Time.” His head shook—no. He turned to face Jin-Junn through that cycloptic mask, continuing, “You have not seen what time can do, have not felt it. But I have, Jin-Junn. I’ve felt its teeth. It destroyed me. A lifetime spent building … gone in a blink of time.” He snapped his fingers—a remarkably complex process for his automation to carry out yet doing so perfectly. “Time will pause for no man, and nothing will stand in its way. Time—it will destroy your purpose as well. Someday in the vast future, or perhaps very soon. It is inevitable. Mark my words, Jin-Junn. Nothing takes time. But time takes everything. You would be wise to remember that.”
Jin-Junn blinked and took a step back as if in punitive understanding.
A station subordinate appeared at the lab’s entrance in ten-hut fashion and snapped to a halt. He said, “There is a hail, Sire. It is from the moon Lana.”
He and GuardKing exchanged an eager glance. The moon Lana. The seat of leadership. They both kne
w what that meant. Sire strowed from the lab leaving Jinn-Junn shrinking in GuardKing’s presence.
GuardKing stepped toward the doctor until they were face-to-face. He hissed slowly, with great threat, “Do not fail Sire, or you will have failed me.”
Jinn-Junn diverted his gaze to the floor and GuardKing turned powerfully to follow his sire from the lab.
The comm room was private, dark. A single, round podium stood center. Sire entered with GuardKing close behind. “Emit!” he called.
A column of light dropped from the ceiling to the podim, conjuring a life-sized holo-image of their caller. It was a man shimmering in waves of DPM 3-D broadcast, his sleek senatorial clothing, squared face and grim constitution unmistakable. He was a man of power amongst the Confederation war machine, a military politician of sorts. And he was someone Sire knew well. He stepped forward gaining the holo-image’s attention and sat in the chair before him. The two glared into each other.
Sire finally murmured, “Quarlidious. Havilum.” Turning his observation into two complete sentences.
The man in the image offered the subtlest of grins and said, “And you. As our newest and most lethal captain of the New Frontier, I hope our history is exactly that—history.”
“I have died, Senator, and have been born again. I have no history.”
“Might I ask, who have you become?”
Sire straightened and said proudly, “I am … Specter.”
Quarlidious offered him another subtle notion, one of fascination, even affect. He said, “Then it’s true. You have joined our ranks.”
Specter nodded once, assuredly. “May the New Frontier rise in reign with me as a player in your mighty fist.” And then with cutting sincerity, he added, “But I will have my vengeance first.”
Quarlidious said, “I understand. To that end, has there been progress?”
Specter merely pointed out, “I have resources.” And it was true. He commanded an entire platoon of Kruual warriors. He had his base of operations tucked secretly in the backwater space lanes of the solar twins. His staff was in place including the sinister GuardKing. His future as a system leader was secured.
And yet, he still had not found what he searched for. He’d scoured the solar twin system, but to no avail. His search was about to have to become more creative. Even crueler.
Nevertheless, Quarlidious said, “Very well. I trust you will leverage them accordingly.”
“Of course.”
“The sooner the better.”
Specter nodded again. “Agreed.”
Quarlidious gave him permission with a flick of his wrist and said, “Now, go become the Specter.” The image disappeared in a blink.
GuardKing chanced stepping forward and placing his hands on his master’s shoulders, one a man, the other a monster. GuardKing said, “You are here for reasons much larger than you can possibly imagine, Sire. I have seen the New Frontier. I have seen their mission. Your true purpose has not yet begun to unveil itself. And when it does, it will be your will that the worlds of our system will yield to. You will have a power you’ve not yet begun to understand.”
“Psst!”
The sound got caught in his big, drooping ears and snaked into his brain. It was barely more than a phantom swimming around in that world up there—the world of consciousness where everything hurt. He wanted to stay here in the cold, cool dark where all was numb. The world of dreamless sleep. But that stupid sound …
“Psst, you there!”
… kept invading his head, pulling him back. Damn his big Iotian ears. They were like radar dishes, even if they were currently drooped down to his shoulders. They caught every sound, every whisper, every drip in the place. He grunted in annoyance and jerked his head away.
“You there, Iotian, would you please come to, good sir!”
That did it! His eyes fluttered open, blinked, brought him back fully, and he lifted his head feeling the cramping in his neck. He shook his head regathering his surroundings and fell despondent. His arms were still energy bonded in their cuffs and anchored to the wall above his head, his feet still tethered below. His body was wracked with pain—muscles stiff, joints pulled taught, surfaces bruised. Even his neck had suffered a deep crick having slumped over in his vertical position and fallen asleep.
Oh yeah. This terrible, hot, dark, wet, ugly, noisy, painful place again …
Yep, Sympto was back in the conscious world again. He looked over. The Zyndo-Paxi male that had been brought in a day after he had, looked at him. The man’s even features and silvery skin glinted lowly in the dim light of the prisoner bay … not that this was much of a bay. It was more like a dungeon. It had hard, stone walls and iron brackets jutting out over head. The place was probably a hundred feet long and twenty feet wide. On this side of the dungeon Sympto had been plasma anchored to the wall along with a few dozen other prisoners like detainees locked up in one big jail cell. On the other side were more people, all secured with energy cuffs. At least it was a shared dungeon. He wasn’t alone.
The Paxi male’s white hair hung down in his face revealing a wonderfully sculpted jaw line and angular, pointed chin. The males of Zyndo-Paxis were a fantastic looking specie, hailed across the solar twins for their genealogy. Their female counterparts were no different—long ivory-haired, sleek-featured women with perfectly balanced features and wonderful, large eyes. The only difference was that they came from the sister planet Zyndo-Lexim. How the two sexes came to inhabit different planets, both planets sharing the same orbit and distance from Wi’ahr, was a mystery that their cosmological histories wasn’t telling.
Sympto flapped his jowls up and down. He was thirsty. He scowled at the Paxi and said, “You want what?”
“Your name is Sympto, is it not?” the guy asked with a quiet voice, almost a whisper.
A shot of apprehension shot through Sympto. He didn’t know this guy. He didn’t know this place. He didn’t know nuthin’! So how did this guy know his name? He blurted. “No! Who me? No.”
The Paxi puffed his bangs up out of his face to get a clearer look and smiled showing perfect teeth. “Oh, but you are. I knew that was you.” His finger pointed at him from its cuffed position over his head. “I recognized you upon my arrival, in deed. You would be a liaison, correct?”
Sympto hissed, “What do you want?”
The Paxi gazed up at his own wrists bound against rock. “I would say, the same as you.”
Sympto brightened. “You do?”
“Appearances being what they are, I would say of course.”
Sympto nodded. “Oh, I see, yes.” He squinted curiously and asked, “How is it my name you know, eh?”
“You don’t recall me,” the Paxi said. “We’ve met. It was long ago.”
Sympto looked hard, shook his head. He didn’t recognize him.
The Paxi continued, “The names Nefrix of Zyndo-Paxis.”
Sympto stared at him reaching for recognition. There was none.
Nefrix leaned toward him as best he could in his shackled state and whispered, “I would be a fellow Guilder, old boy. I pilot the Banitrox.”
“Guilder?” Sympto asked. He still didn’t recognize the man, had they actually met. He knew everyone at Guilder’s Mix. He said, “You operate not from Oficium?”
Nefrix said, “No, though I’ve had the occasion to visit a time or two. I’m out of Petram.”
Sympto squinted at him in question.
Nefrix said, “Xyiang’Sut?”
Sympto flashed slack-jawed recognition. Nefrix operated out of the Oficium’s counter station way out by Xyiang’Sut—the wonder planet, a sphere of dark carbon gasses and white liquid clouds turning the planet’s lifeless surface into a kaleidoscope of shades and shadows. It was actually quite pretty for its lack of vibrancy. Nevertheless, it was one of the Guild’s strongholds amongst the solar twins. And now this Nefrix was here, imprisoned just like him.
Sympto said, “And this happened there, too, yes?”
; Nefrix nodded. “Oh, in deed. We were unfortunately attacked. And you?”
“Yes, the same.”
Nefrix looked out at the dungeon. Sympto followed his gaze. The place was dim making it difficult to make out any details across the prisoner bay. There were only shapes of other prisoners lined up against the far wall with their energy shackles glowing. But there were others over there. Dozens of others.
Nefrix said, “Do you happen to notice anything strange?”
Sympto looked over at him. “What?”
“Why the Guild?”
“I—I not know,” Sympto gasped.
“Did you recognize anybody?” Nefrix asked. “Who else might they have brought in?”
Sympto’s eyes bulged with sudden hope. Nefrix was on to something. Maybe everyone he knew was here. Before he could call out, he heard someone across the way say, “I did.”
Sympto pierced through the dimness with his eyes. Who said that? Who was that over there?
The voice said in its cool, collected timber, “Name’s Vekter. Vekter Ramm.”
“Vekter!” Sympto screamed, overplayed happiness bloating the word.
“Yeah, Sympto, you green bean, it’s me. Who else is here?”
A voice from down the line called out, “Toggin!”
Yes, Sympto knew Toggin as well—a Denubrian blue-collar, mean and loud, a disreputable sort, hot-blooded and downright deadly. Thank the gods! Toggin was here.
Another voice, “Sindra here!”
Oh, Sindra Klaire, the Zyndo-Lexi beauty with her escape artist’s mind was here!
A deep, endless voice boomed out low and slow, “Oonta!”
Oonta, thank the gods! The big, ugly Prax-Noossian, a powerful ally in any fight.
Another voice, “Rennick the shark, from Nevin Major.”
Rennick—could do without him.
Then others: “Tiffa Nora, here!”—Rennick’s wife ... or whatever she was.
“ZebX!”—sounding more computer than alive from the Sarzi production fields.
“Shogun Star”—that voice was a seasoned balance of killer-calm as he emerged from the deep serenity of his Nid meditation.