Shadows of the Son

by E L Strife

  Before Bennett could ask, Miskaht cut in. “Nempicreen, home to the Picree, was the first planet to be consumed by Suanoa, which had developed space travel capability. The survivors made a pact, Iylaera, to be the ones to end the Suanoa’s reign.

  Klézia rested a comforting hand on Mavene’s slender shoulder. A typically quiet member of Command, with a permanent cross-me -and-I’ll-murder-you look on her face, Klézia had chosen to expose her Xahu’ré stripes. She sat more confident today than Bennett remembered, rigid backed, her charcoal hair done up in baby dreads—an express Code violation. They suited her.

  Bennett laced his hands together and leaned forward onto the table. “Maybe as a method of retreat, yes. We need to consider the possibility Kyras will follow, that we won’t stop them in time. Agutra has limited thrust with the imperial restrictions placed on it. If we manage to move the ship, I think they will destroy it. Semilath has a few crops intact, yes. But I wager this is a mission to return order to the Empire. Recover the useable materials and workers. Them.” He gestured to Paramor and the growing crowd. “Kill whoever took over before their time. Us.” He circled a finger in the air. “Then destroy Semilath Agutra to prevent anyone from stealing tech or parts.”

  A stillness overcame the room, exposing peeps of data feeds on screens, and the whir of a metal .556 bullet the red-headed Dequan spun on the glass table between his fingers.

  Bennett didn’t want to be blunt. It wasn’t in his nature. But time was too short for formalities and sugar-coating.

  “I agree.” Paramor ignored the objections around him. “We must remember Suanoan motivations, not what we wish or hope will happen. There is no negotiating with them. They will come to take back what is theirs, and they will not care who or what they destroy. The sectors and the workers here are still at risk.”

  “Then we will fight!” someone shouted, making Paramor turn around. Other voices joined in with their agreement.

  “Has anyone got the shields back up?” Atana asked over the com feed. Thunderous clacks of a pneumatic ratchet filled the background until her mic clicked off.

  “No,” Paramor said. “They are still realigning some parts from the explosion. It takes many workers to move the columns. Few are left to do the labor.”

  Bennett rubbed a hand over his mouth, not wanting to ask what was on his mind. But it could be important. “How many empty sectors does Agutra have?”

  Paramor adjusted the robes over his shoulders, a twitch of remorse crossing face. “Twenty-one, plus the ones in Siphon Status on your planet. I cannot say how many are suitable to return. They have been dispatched longer than normal.”

  As Command checked on the status of the workers and any need for other supplies, Bennett tossed around ideas with Slashgates, halfheartedly jotting notes on his wristband. He wasn’t involved in support logistics. At a break in the conversation, he asked, “Does anyone know how many Slashgates are within the vicinity of Earth? Is it just the one?”

  “There are six that are stable,” Krett offered with calm authority. “Two unstable. I do not recommend them.”

  Several members of Command leaned back in their seats, looking about as stunned as Bennett felt. Krett talked about them like they were familiar as a Standard Issue weapon.

  “Why do you look at him that way?” Balie asked, sounding irritated. “Primvera members are required on this council for a reason.”

  Jorjan fingered the bony back of his neck as he glared down the table at Krett.

  Swiveling in his seat, Krett threw him a dirty look. The tension passing between the two was enough to make every member pause.

  Except Dequan. He stared apathetically at the bullet he spun. Whir.

  Bennett squirmed against a growing headache. He couldn’t handle in-fighting anymore. “Is there any way to take a Slashgate, not designated for incoming Suanoa, and loop back to Earth from another?”

  “It’s possible,” Krett replied, prying his glare off of Jorjan. “But to circle back to 269-01, they’d require a few jumps because they all lead away in different directions.”

  Bennett noted Krett’s reference to Earth in numerical terms. The man knew more about their situation than he admitted. Bennett wondered if it was a willing iron curtain or Command-enforced.

  “It’d be best if we could catch them from behind,” Hyras stated.

  “Or in front, if we can anticipate the gate’s activity,” Nephma added. She was the only other unskinned member of Command; her typical cropped, red hair and pink skin had stiffened into quills—shorter near her hands, longer on her head.

  “We can’t do full-on frontal assaults. We don’t have the numbers,” Bennett countered. “But we have a chance with the distortion created in the debris field. There are a lot of metal fragments and glass. And bodies. I’m sure their sparks wouldn’t mind a little after-life revenge.”

  “We, Sergeant Bennett?” a voice asked from the screen.

  Bennett and Command turned to scan the gathered members of Agutra, searching for the source of the question.

  “Aren’t we in this together?” Bennett asked.

  “There are some who doubt—” An orange female with scaly skin and oil-black hair said through the crowd. Her dark fingers knotted together.

  “Tell them.” Paramor urged her forward.

  “Xieco of Eiran, third born of Mezreth, Queen of the city of Dubri.” The young woman bowed slightly.

  “We are honored by your presence,” Miskaht said, the members of command dipping their heads in respect.

  “Thank you. I am from the crop science lab. Some workers fear because your planet is healing, you want to steal our fields to start on a new planet yourselves. They think you break apart mates because you do not understand our Agutra family. Like Azure and Sahara. Many long cycles ago, you took her from us and left him. Then you matched her to another, the shepherd who burns like fire.”

  Hot embarrassment spread through Bennett’s chest.

  Command fidgeted in their seats, only Krett daring to look his direction. It wasn’t disapproval Bennett saw in his gaze, but something of pity.

  Krett was a Primvera; Miskaht, Mirramor; and Paramor, an Orionate. All Elites.

  “We assure you, Xieco, that is not our intent.” The Coordinator’s words were calm but firm.

  Whir. Whir. Dequan slouched sideways, resting his chin in a palm, looking bored.

  Bennett scratched the stubble growing on his jaw—a nervous habit. “There are always exceptions. We are not perfect, Coordinator. We must be honest, so they do not blame us for the actions of the few.”

  Meeting Xieco’s eyes on the screen, Bennett swallowed the aching lump in his throat. “I am her guard, though she doesn’t need one. But I understand your concerns. I think some of the Earthlings feel the same way: scared you will take from them. Most have not seen your land or your suffering. They know only that a ship came and took their people.”

  Many of the workers straightened in surprise, Xieco included.

  “Our main concern,” he continued, aiming to get the meeting back on track, “is preventing any Linoan Fighters or Suanoa from landing on Earth or taking Semilath back.”

  Whir. Whir. Whir.

  Libesh stroked the white braid over her shoulder. “Does Agutra have a plan for their internal protection during the fight?”

  “We will have guards at the airlocks to stop incoming Suanoa. We want Azure back to lead if it is possible,” Paramor said.

  Miskaht set her pencil down. “His place is with you. We will make certain of it.”

  Bennett opened a private folder on his display in the table before him. “I’m compiling a list of offensive and defensive positions we can pull from as the situation changes. Any information or updates any of you have, however minimal, would help us assess our capabilities.

  “We know we are outnumbered and likely outgunned, which feels like an understatement.” Bennett hesitated as he rehashed his idea. “I think our best chance is to 'play possum
' and pretend we are all dead.”

  “Agreed.” Paramor waved the crowd behind him back to work. “We must continue with preparations.” The screen darkened. A double tone signaled the end of the call.

  Omut’s stubby fingers reached over the table, slamming Dequan’s hand to the glass and stopping the bullet beneath. She cocked her head as if straining to get away from pain. Small white squares of light reflected in her ebony eyes.

  The man pulled his hand free, slowly set the bullet on its tip, and grinned.

  “Don’t—” Omut warned.

  Dequan snapped his fingers and sent the bullet spinning like a top.

  Omut retreated to cover the cowlicks on the sides of her head and whine.

  “Enough!” Evami snatched up the bullet.

  Dequan’s green eyes blazed as they darted to Bennett. The man had a cold demeanor about him with only the subtle twitch of an eye to imply a wink. He drew another bullet out of his pocket and set it on the table. “Always more where that came from.”

  Setting the brass down, this time on its side, rendered a light plink. Dequan left it there to shove his hands in his pockets as if presenting an ancient artifact that spoke for itself.

  Bennett studied the resting bullet. Always more in the shadows.

  Dequan gave him his best idea yet.

  Chapter 8

  THERE WAS NOTHING LEFT of Ocean Base Thirty-five except twisted metal and rock. Waves crashed through the skeleton of what was once Cutter’s second home—a carefree power which thudded and punched heavy as his heart. No one had survived but him. Suanoan Plasma pulses had destroyed a lot of Earth during the mutiny.

  He’d flown several loops around the remains letting the images sink in, fueling his purpose, before he left to deliver a package for Command. Typically Assistant Shepherds fulfilled courier tasks, but this one required a Sergeant with history in the area and an undercover vehicle.

  Cutter couldn’t help but wonder if Miskaht had sent him for another reason. The buzzing. He heard it, felt it, from every electronic device, from the potential of things not even turned on. From the softer throbbing hum of his wristband to the high-pitched whine of collector engines as they launched out of the hangars, the noise was driving him crazy. He needed to escape for a breath, yes, but hated the implied presumption he was losing his mind.

  “It’s just another thing to manage,” he told himself. Like keeping this mission a secret from Bennett. Cutter had argued with Miskaht about contacting his Team Leader to let him know he was going off station. But she’d made a valid point; Bennett had enough to worry about.

  The V8 rumbled to life, and Sergeant Cutter shut the hood of his 1969 Chevelle. He’d stashed his shepherd’s gear in a locker of the storage unit, where he’d concealed his transport pod. Cutter had changed into a pair of jeans and a long-sleeve Henley to hide the wristband he couldn’t take off.

  Climbing into the black leather front seat, Cutter pushed the dispiriting memories of O.B. Thirty-five away. Serum subdued the anger.

  He pulled out onto the starlit road, tossing Command’s manila envelope to the seat beside him.

  The rural highway was empty, and Cutter jammed the pedal to the floor, sending the 454 growling. His tires left stripes on the asphalt and a puff of smoke behind him. He loved old-fashioned things. Simple things. Things that rumbled at low frequencies.

  His sensitivity to vibrations had grown since the mutiny. Alternating current electronics. Electromagnetic fields. Sounds. Even the ballasts in fluorescent lights. He didn’t understand how the Ari, his long-lost ancestors, survived such over-stimulation.

  Half an hour later, the familiar glow of a topless neon girl lit up the ocean of night. Pulling off onto the gravel, far from the entrance to Klay’s Bar and Play House—a dingy, shuttered rectangle that popped up like a zit in the desert—Cutter parked in the shadows and climbed out. Bass-weighted electronic music rattled the tinted windows. Broken glass crunched under his boots.

  Despite the parking lot between them, two men in studded leather paused their conversation to glare at him. They leaned against a solar car of the 2100s, a geometric beast with sharp points and flat grids of glinting panels. An ugly thing, in Cutter’s mind. He preferred the smooth curves of retro and post-war era styles. After he’d felt Esmerella in his arms, he’d understood why.

  Tucking the envelope inside his jacket, Cutter shut his door, ignoring their greeting. He stalked along the side of the building, eager to get away from the fizzling of the transformer on the only streetlight pole. As he trudged past Klay’s toward a barn at the back, the side door opened to a cook tossing a bag in the dumpster. Scents of cheap french fries and perfume gushed out, mixed with distant laughter and nearby cigarette smoke.

  He hated the concoction. His father had turned to drugs and slosh pits like this when the money ran dry.

  Three silhouettes watched Cutter, their menacing angles against the building more an indicator of their demeanor than their threat. Cutter ignored them. One flicked a glowing butt in his direction, the cherry shattering to swirling embers when it skittered across the hot gravel.

  Cutter kept moving. Ten paces later, he felt the three follow.

  Nearing an old madrone tree beside the barn doors, Cutter stopped and glanced at the figures encircling him. They took their usual positions at three, six, and nine o’clock. The man to his left wore an ancient wrist-watch that ticked loud in Cutter's mind. To his right was a hum similar to a shepherd’s primed SI.

  A mutter from behind the splintered-wood doors summoned his attention. “Password.”

  Cutter stifled an annoyed sigh. “Fuck the police.”

  Metal hinges squeaked and groaned. A door cracked open.

  Cutter slipped through. In the center of the dirt floor was a bulldog-of-a-woman with satiny walnut skin overseeing work on an engine salvaged from a Linoan collector. Several men conversed as one withdrew a transparent citrine panel from the side.

  Whispers rushed around Cutter.

  The woman’s amber eyes lifted to him above a white smile. “Long time, Silverwolf.”

  “Minx.” He nodded. “Been busy, I see.”

  She chortled and flicked her thick, platinum-gray braid back over a shoulder. “Putting it mildly. What do you have for me?”

  The closer Cutter moved to the engine, the louder the humming grew in his bones. Fighting the urge to cringe, Cutter reached into his jacket and drew out the envelope, handing it over.

  Someone to his left gasped. Soft chartreuse light painted the weathered wall behind the man. “Look at his eyes.”

  Cutter scanned the others and saw Xahu’ré stripes, red Kriit spikes, and several life forms on four legs. “Are you all—unskinned?”

  “Those who want to be.” Minx focused on a packet she withdrew from the envelope. “Many want me to return them to their human form after the initial transformation.”

  “They can still break out of it with trauma; you know that, right?”

  Minx flipped through the pages, her eyes narrowing. “Yes. We are aware. We are doing the best we can to educate those willing. It is our hope, someday; the royal bloodlines will not have to hide any longer beneath the shield of human faces.”

  Cutter glanced around the others in the room. “Humans are fewer in numbers. Why expose your ancestry then hide in a barn?”

  “Because the people of Earth are not ready,” Minx responded distantly. “They are violent when outnumbered and out-skilled.”

  Cutter shoved his hands in his pockets to keep from fidgeting. “Understandable, but humans have willpower far greater than most species.”

  “They do not see it as power. It is invisible. You have forgotten the strength of fear.” Closing the packet, Minx tossed it onto a workbench filled with oily tools and looked intently at him. “Consider your message delivered. We will be ready at Miskaht’s command.”

  He turned to leave.

  “Adleigha Roan Ukoa—”

  Cutter stopped but di
dn’t turn around.

  “Esmerella often spoke of you. Always said you had your mother’s smile.”

  He closed his eyes, not believing what he was hearing.

  “You do not know your place. It is much more than you act,” Minx added.

  “Without her, my duty to the shepherds is my only purpose.” Cutter reached for the door. “And you are mistaken. I am no prince.”

  “You are,” Minx countered. The room fell into silence—no clicks and clacks of tools on the engine, no murmurs, only the dreadful humming. “Ukoa is your mother’s name, not your father’s.”

  Cutter snarled with distaste under his breath. He knew little about his people and their history except what Command had typed on his H.Co. card and his last violent experience with his family. The memory of the bullet tearing through the side of his mother’s head as she knelt before him at only five years old, telling him she loved him with tear-stained cheeks, broke his last stronghold.

  Cutter whirled on his toes, body tense. He thrust a finger at Minx. “Don’t ever talk about my mother!”

  Minx leaned back against a tool cabinet, face stoic but eyes shimmering with private triumph. “Is the ringing getting worse?”

  He grew more uncomfortable with every passing moment. Thirty-two life-forms were in that room. Cutter could count the ticking SA nodes in their hearts. He felt them like Bennett had expressed, in confidence, he could see sparks.

  “When did you last see Esmerella?” he asked, trying to escape the replays of his mother’s death.

  Minx exhaled painfully slow. She snatched a grease rag from the workbench and wiped her hands on it. “Four years ago, in the summer. Then she stopped coming, and you started.”

  He glared at the dirt floor, footsteps of all shapes cluttering its surface. A lump swelled in his throat. The delusion Esmerella was still alive had to stop. Cutter grabbed the metal latch on the door.