To The Strongest

by C. J. Carella

  “Why didn’t anyone pass on that information?”

  “They didn’t put the pieces together. They figured that the second force had seized enough loot to satisfy their needs and returned to wherever it’d come from on its own. You only see a correlation if you run a close timeline analysis and collate the records from three different polities, which as you know isn’t easy across interstellar distances. Nobody saw a reason to do so; they were happy the raiders were gone.”

  “That’s a bit thin.”

  “I can produce dozens of similar events. Then there is this incident from the last incursion.”

  “The Horde War of 112 AFC.”

  “Yes. That wave of attacks was much larger; the largest in over ten thousand years, as a matter of fact. Several US systems were attacked in the course of a six-month period. Elements from Fourth and Fifth Fleets dealt with the raids, culminating in two major space actions, both involving over a hundred ships on each side. Other Starfarers fought off similarly-sized forces. All in all, two thousand Horde warships were involved, not counting frigate equivalents or smaller vessels.”

  “My father fought at Webb System with Fourth Fleet,” the DCI said. “He was a petty officer. Said it was nasty.”

  “Yes. That battle destroyed the Horde’s combined forces in American space. What we didn’t know until we gained access to Lhan Arkh records – spoils of war – was that, within twenty-four hours of that battle, four equally-large Horde fleets halted inside Lamprey space – dozens of warp jumps away from said battle – and left the way they’d come. The fleet movement appears to coincide exactly with that defeat. Just as if they’d learned about the defeat, decided resistance in this corner of the galaxy was too stiff, and moved on to greener pastures.”

  “Those are only the two most recent examples,” Professor Morrison added. “We have unearthed evidence of many similar coordinated movements from conflicts far in the past.”

  “Okay, this seems worth passing on to ONI and other interested parties,” Hamilton conceded. “Is there anything else?”

  “Yes. The fact that the Horde is pressing us again in large numbers goes against the profile we’ve developed based on nearly a hundred millennia of data. Normally, if they encounter too much resistance, they go away for at least a few centuries, often much longer, besides sending the occasional small raiding party. This time, however, they’ve kept sending incursions – Admiral Kerensky destroyed one of them during the Great Galactic War – and they seem to be on the increase yet again.”

  “What do you think that means?”

  “We haven’t reached a definite conclusion,” Morrison said.

  Heather sighed and offered her own analysis: “I believe that whatever prompts the Horde’s migratory patterns has provided enough incentive to keep pushing us. The Horde’s moves into our region of the galaxy follows some external pressure. It is possible that said pressure has increased. Their previous migratory circuit has been disrupted.”

  “Nomads,” the DCI said. “If they are anything like the ones in Earth’s history, that sort of move usually means other nomads or a rising kingdom pushed them out of their regular hunting or herding grounds.”

  “Exactly. And there is a good chance we’re about to find ourselves on the wrong end of a bigger migration than anything in the historic record.”

  “Let’s hope that’s all this is,” Hamilton added.

  “What do you mean?” Morrison asked.

  “Let’s hope we only have to deal with the Horde and not whatever is chasing them. Because they are almost certainly going to be worse.”

  Star System Claw, 199 AFC

  Warlord Fann of the Crimson Sun Clan watched the looming Home of the Witch-King with awe and growing fear.

  The Great Home of the new Lord of Warlords was the largest Fann had ever beheld. Two hundred kilometers long and half as wide: its interior must have been thoroughly hardened with sophisticated nanite treatment to avoid breaking apart when thrust was applied to its incredible mass. None of Fann’s Makers could guess how the monstrous thing could remain in one piece, let alone venture into Chaos.

  The arts of the Endless Void Clan are beyond anything I have seen. Where did they learn them? They must have plundered the wealthiest dirt-huggers ever encountered by the Host!

  Clans fought each other on occasion and formed temporary alliances more rarely still, but they preferred to go their own way, meeting briefly to trade knowledge, loot and genetic material, either via frozen biomatter or through quickly-arranged marriages. His third wife had been born of the White Dwarf Clan before one such swap had brought her to him. According to the ancient tales, there had been fifteen clans when the great chase had begun, each belonging to a sub-realm of a star empire that had spanned forty-seven worlds, back in the forgone era when the Host had been dirt-huggers little different than those they preyed upon. Back in the glorious days before the Nemeses had come.

  Of those fifteen, only nine had crossed the path of the Crimson Sun in Fann’s memory. The Endless Void had not been one of them. In fact, for thousands of years nothing had been known of its whereabouts. Some clans had perished, their fate known by faint messages carried through Chaos and heard dimly by the wisest Oracles. The last Fann’s people had heard of the Endless Void Clan was a distant call a quarter of a million years ago; the clan was about to attempt an impossibly-long leap that would lead it deeper into the galactic core than anyone had ever attempted before. That had been the end of it.

  Until now.

  Thousands of vessels now crowded the empty star system Fann had reached. Two hundred battle mountains and over fifty Great Homes, representing eight clans, drifted through space in a long orbit around the star known as the Claw. They had arrived in three waves, each larger than the last. The Endless Void and two subject clans had been the last to arrive, and they had outnumbered everyone else. A curt demand for fealty had been made, and it was a sign of the desperation besetting the Host that no clan had refused it. Such grand alliances were rare, but they had happened before.

  The new Lord of Warlords styled himself the Witch-King. That was something new. Something to bring a growing disquiet to Fann’s heart.

  “The ship is ready, Warlord.”

  Fann dismissed his misgivings with a wave of his hand and led the way to the Battle Carrack that would convey him to the impossible monolith where the Witch-King held court. This would be the first face-to-face meeting between the Lord of Warlords and the five Clan rulers– Fann included – who had yet to swear their personal fealty to him.

  Another first. I have already acknowledged him. Requiring us to leave our Homes to abase ourselves in person is unheard of. So much so I am unsure whether it is an honor or an insult. Or perhaps a ploy to murder us all. He shrugged, knowing he would find out the truth soon enough.

  The trip to the gargantuan Home took several minutes. Fann entertained himself by going over the order of battle of the assembled forces of the Host. The Endless Void and the subject clans that followed it accounted for half the fleet arrayed in the system. Fann’s own ships made up a fifth of the combined force, making him the strongest among the non-sworn clans. That did not comfort him in the slightest. Being large enough to present a challenge without having the power to win that challenge was the worst position to be in.

  The rocky surface of the great asteroid was studded with docking stations and other facilities, including weapon emplacement as big as battleships. Fann’s vessel made contact with a brief shudder that matched his hidden apprehension. Tales of Warlords invited into another’s home only to be murdered abounded in the Host’s history. Guest rights were highly regarded but never considered fully sacrosanct. A warlord’s first duty was to his clan; even betrayal would serve, if the stakes were high enough.

  Death comes for us all, he thought. If today was his day to fall, so be it.

  A team of warriors waited for him at the other end of the airlock. Their gear was suspiciously uniform; they were all c
lad in the same black armor suits and wielded heavy plasma projectors. Most Host fighters valued individuality, picking and choosing their gear and only making allowances for logistics and tactics. Slavish sameness was something best left to dirt-huggers. And apparently, also to the Clan of the Endless Void. The black-clad warriors were led by a herald who greeted Fann with all the proper courtesies. This mollified the Warlord somewhat.

  A short trip through a comfortingly-ordinary rail car led Fann and his entourage to a cavernous meeting hall with a two-hundred-meter ceiling and half again its diameter. Thousands of members of the high castes – warriors, pilots, makers, heralds, technicians and oracles – were gathered at the bottom of the great chamber, singing the praises of the Witch-King. Fann looked at the crowd from a balcony near the top of the chamber. Three other Warlords shared the space with him, the leaders of the Nine Comets and Falling Star clans. They greeted each other as equals but said nothing else as they waited for their host to show up. Fann was grateful for the quiet; he needed to collect his thoughts and in any case had no desire to speak his mind in a place where he could be easily overheard. None of the other clan leaders looked happy to be there; their impassive faces betrayed tiny but telling signs of anger, fear and worry that matched Fann’s own. Whatever transpired here, they all knew they would lose power and status.

  They didn’t have to wait long. A floating platform glided into the center of the room as giant screens lining the walls of the great chamber came to life to display its lone occupant. Fann barely noticed the crowd’s roaring approval through the thrumming of his twin hearts. Rage and terror rushed through him when he understood what he was seeing, what the Witch-King had done.

  The Lord of Warlords wore not the armor of a warrior, the vac-suit of a pilot or the ornate robes of an oracle. His garments were alive, grotesque constructs of black chitin and bone that surrounded his torso and limbs, with spines and tentacles that protruded from his back and moved aimlessly as the Witch-King raised his arms to quiet the crowd. The face that appeared on every screen looked normal enough, except for a dark tube that sneaked from the central nostril down into his living garments.

  The other Warlords were surprised by the Witch-King’s appearance but seemed to take it in stride, assuming the bizarre outfit was a creation of biotech or cybernetics. Fann, who was more attuned to the ways of Chaos than most clan chiefs, knew better. The tingling that ran from the base of his skull to his forehead told him all he needed to know. The things crawling on the Witch-King skin were incarnations of Chaos Dwellers. Since such entities needed a living host to exist in this reality, the garments must have been fashioned from the living tissues of animals, or perhaps slaves or even members of the Host. Their new Lord of Warlords was a witch indeed, a dabbler in the madness of Chaos.

  His clan travelled further into Chaos than any other. They survived, but did not so unscathed.

  “Clanspeople!” the Witch-King shouted. His voice was reedy, wheezing and sickly-sounding, but it was magnified to overwhelm all other sounds. The crowd fell silent. “Clanspeople! Let us welcome our brethren, separated from us by many star-cycles! As we bring them into our fold, the Host becomes stronger!”

  More cheering and acclamation followed. Fann used those seconds to consider the situation. He wished he could consult his wives, or speak to his Chief Oracle, but that would not be possible. The decision to hail the Witch-King or defy him rested with him; he would not be allowed to leave this place until he made it.

  The Lord of Warlords spoke again, simple platitudes that meant nothing. To follow this abomination, to pledge Fann’s clan to him… It was madness, but there were no other choices. The enemy blocking the way was as powerful as anything the Crimson Sun had encountered before. Only the massed strength of the Host would prevail. Fann would have to submit.

  The decision was made. Now all he had to do was pretend to be happy about it.

  Ten

  Starbase Malta, 199 AFC

  The holographic display showed pure devastation: the fiery remains of a passenger shuttle and burning buildings around it. Jason gritted his teeth and forced himself to watch.

  “Gorgidas System,” the briefing officer said as the panoramic view lingered over fleeing survivors, some of them still on fire. “The bomb was meant for Senator Janice Dowling. It got her, her staff, and over three hundred civilians when the shuttle crashed into a residential neighborhood.”

  The display shifted to another scene: dozens of body bags, followed by images of hundreds of people in hospital beds. The visuals shifted to one of the still-living victims, who shivered and struggled feebly against the medical restraints holding him – or her; it was hard to tell the victim’s gender – on the bed. Black and purple boils covered most of the patient’s skin; many of them were seeping blood and pus.

  “New Texas System. A tailored virus outbreak that afflicted over five hundred people, killing ninety of them, was traced to a shipment of edible fabber material donated to a Salvation Army kitchen. Most implanted humans would not be affected by bio weapons, so the terrorists targeted low-income people without imps. The intention was to cause terror and sow discontent.”

  More attacks were described. None of them were as devastating as the Gorgidas System incident, but each had resulted in several casualties. From a military point of view, they were pinpricks, and the press made it a point to downplay the incidents, but they added up over time. The first attack had happened seven years ago; the briefing noted a total of twenty-two attacks since then.

  “A joint task force using CIA, ONI and NSA assets have linked all the attacks to a group of Denn terrorists. They call themselves the Sleeping Imperium; at their core is a group of former Gal-Imp intelligence officers, noblemen and soldiers, working alongside a variety of human and non-human agents. Most of the humans are mercenaries or criminals, but they also include self-genocide fanatics.”

  Jason grunted in disbelief. He’d heard there were people like that. They mostly came from the big core worlds: Earth, Wolf 1061 and the like. People who’d grown up in the lap of luxury as far as colonials like Jason were concerned. Those pampered bastards had decided at some point that humans were a plague on the universe and they deserved whatever aliens had done to them on First Contact and afterwards. Fortunately, they were a few in number and most of their groups were thoroughly infiltrated by the FBI and Homeland Security. The truly dangerous ones hid their true feelings and waited for their chance to act, though, and it looked like the Sleeping Imperium had recruited some of them.

  “After the Great Galactic War, the Imperium broke apart into three main blocks and a handful of minor civilizations,” the officer said. “That collapse was due to the destruction of most of their war fleets, the fall of Princeps Boma, who instigated the Imperium’s entry in the war, and the economic crisis that followed the conflict. Besides those reasons, there appears to have been a great deal of tension between the member species involved before the war. The central government’s near collapse allowed many of them to go their own way.

  “Two of three elder races of the Imperium, the Obans and the Scarabs, formed the Galactic Alliance, which ended up in control of about a third of the systems the Gal-Imps used to own. The so-called Denn Plutocracy kept a fourth of the total, including the former capital. The Star Federation was set up by other Imperium client species, who formed a loose alliance of about twenty systems. The remainder ended up being snapped up by the Imperium’s neighbors.”

  Jason leaned back on his chair. That was the sort of stuff he’d learned in school; history mostly bored him, especially E.T. history. Aliens hated humans and they would try to stomp on anyone weaker than themselves, including other aliens. As far as he was concerned, that was all he needed to know.

  “Those new polities aren’t particularly hostile towards the US. They do not love us, but the war allowed them to forge their own destiny. Support for the Sleeping Imperium appears to come from a number of private individuals and organizations w
ho believe we humans are demonically-influenced monsters and must be exterminated. All Gal-Imp successor states have outlawed such initiatives and prosecuted anybody they’ve caught pursuing them. Despite their efforts, the leadership of the Secret Imperium has survived through secrecy and the efforts of a small but dedicated network of sympathizers. No alien or American intelligence agency has been able to identify or locate them.”

  The officer smiled before continuing:

  “Until now, that is. We have a target, people: the leader and chief architect of the Sleeping Imperium. And your unit has been tasked with the job of prosecuting that target. With extreme prejudice.”

  Jason started grinning as well, a feral smile he saw reflected in the face of every other Marine in the room.

  Hoone-Two, Star System Hoone, 199 AFC

  Noro Tan, once a Giga-Proxy of the fallen Galactic Imperium, turned his twin proboscis up in the air and sniffed in open contempt at the bio-engineer.

  “These demands are not acceptable, Darpa. You should know better than to ask for such extravagances.”

  “Those are not demands, Proxy,” Darpa Enn said. “They are cost estimates based on the best available data. To develop a toxin that can both bypass normal security sensors and overcome medical nanite treatments was next to impossible, but we have succeeded. To manufacture it in quantity is merely expensive.”

  Noro glanced at the figures once again, fighting off a surge of anger. It was maddening, to come so close to actually doing a meaningful injury to the damned Americans only to be thwarted by mere monetary concerns. Only a few decades ago, the amounts involved would have been nothing to him; even if he did not care to dip into his own massive accounts, there were hundreds of wealthy Voters who’d fall over themselves to lend him money at negligible rates just for the chance to curry favor with one of leading figures of the Imperium. Things had changed, however, and Noro’s accounts were a tiny fraction of what they’d been. Even worse, as an outcast with no political power, his credit was no longer good.