Balance of Power: The Blackened Prophecy Book 2

by Oganalp Canatan

  Ga’an’s eyes grew wide with sudden realization, reaching for his comm badge. “Mr. Jong, check the radar!”

  Lieutenant Commander Jong replied a second later. “Nothing on the screen, Commander. Too much interference from the debris.”

  “Check for heat signatures.”

  “There is n— Hey, who are you?” Lieutenant Commander Jong’s voice cut, followed by muffled sounds of struggle and gunshots.

  “Mr. Jong?” Ga’an yelled. “Mr. Jong!”

  A raspy voice answered instead of Lieutenant Commander Jong a few seconds later. “Mr. Jong’s unavailable at the moment. I’ll be your guide. Now, please throw down your weapons and surrender before I start shooting people here, starting with your admiral.”

  “Who are you!”

  “Really?” the raspy voice sighed. “I took over your bridge, I’ve got your people hostage, and that’s your concern?”

  “You shall pay for your treachery.”

  “Yeah, whatever.” The man paused, and tussling sounds filled the comm channel for a moment before the familiar yet irritated voice of Admiral Conway spoke.

  “Mr. Ga’an, stand down. They have won this round.”

  THE WILD CARD

  Ray fiddled with his spoon, trying to figure out what was inside the bowl. “When did you become the head of Cosmon Brotherhood?”

  “It is vegetable soup, Lohil. Nothing gross, I assure you.” Archibald Cosmon chewed a piece of wheat bread one of the servants brought to the table. “Your companion seems to be enjoying it.” He pointed at Brother Cavil at the other end of the rectangular table, near Elaine and Sarah, neck-deep in a discussion of their own. Archibald passed the bread to Ray and Captain Samir, sitting opposite Sim’Ra. Archibald himself sat at the head of the table as the host. “I arrived shortly after my brother did as ordered. Years and years ago.”

  Sim’Ra’s face was a stone wall. Ray thought he would tear his muscles open from tension if he sneered. “If not for our father’s order to you, you would be sitting on the laps of the Architects.”

  Unlike his brother, Archibald Cosmon—or Dalant’has, as his father named him—didn’t break his suave tone. “It is politics, Sim’Ra.” He took a sip of his soup, lapping his lips. “My, my. The cook is perfect, I must say.”

  “I could not care less about the soup, brother. Politics?”

  Archibald smiled, gently wiping his mouth with the satin napkin. “You thought fighting our way through unknown odds for the sake of disappearing from the Architects’ radar was a sound course. I begged to differ.” He reached for the wine, gulping half the goblet. “You see, I prefer to make friends from my enemies. Power is a valuable commodity, and our enemy was simply more powerful than us. Why not have that power for ourselves?”

  “Be careful, Dalant’has. There is a very thin line between making friends and treason.”

  “And who will judge me with treason? You, the defeated prince? Our father, who is probably rotting in some Architect prison, if not worse?” Archibald leaned back, watching the tip of his goblet. “You had your chance, Sim’Ra. Your actions not only doomed this campaign, you probably doomed our race as well. What were you thinking, bringing the last hive ship to the battle?”

  Sim’Ra didn’t say a thing.

  “Hive ship?” Brother Cavil asked over his bowl with a half-full mouth.

  “I believe you referred to it as‘Worm,’ if my agents informed me correctly.” Archibald waved at the nearest servant, “More wine.”

  “What’s it about the hive ship?” Samir asked. If they hadn’t known they were in the company of two Baeal, one in disguise as a notorious terrorist leader, this would even seem like a pleasant family reunion dinner, Sim’Ra and Dalant’has as the two elders and themselves the kids.

  “The hive ship, Worm, is not a battleship. Was not a battleship,” Archibald corrected himself with the slightest hint of annoyance in his voice. “It carried families. Baeal females and children. Our elders and priests. Animals from our own habitat.” Archibald set his goblet on the table, not breaking his stare from Sim’Ra’s. “Civilians.”

  “Wait,” Ray suddenly felt an ashen taste in his mouth, “you’re telling me I destroyed a ship full of children?”

  Archibald turned slowly to look at Ray, smiling, although there was nothing real about that smile. “Yes.”

  Ray felt the hairs on his neck rise, his eyes twitching. “How many were on board that ship?” He stared at Sim’Ra.

  The Baeal didn’t blink. “Too many.”

  “Is that regret I hear in your voice, brother?”

  Sim’Ra leaned back in his chair, dwarfing the other residents with his towering build. “My only regret is that you could not see the flaw in your plan. I took my chances for our race and tried to build them a new home. You wanted to sell them to the enemy as slaves. Do you believe their fate would be any better in the hands of our enemy? When did you change sides?”

  “Somewhere along the line.”

  Ray wished he could reach the stones now and smash these two against the nearest wall until they were nothing but paste. “You sacrificed your whole race and almost destroyed another one while you were at it,” he nodded at Sim’Ra. “And you,” he turned to Archibald, “you sold them for power and became a terrorist cult leader.” Ray suddenly felt cramps in his stomach and a strong urge to puke. “What kind of sick people are you?”

  “You are human. You should know better, Lohil. Tell me,” Sim’Ra said without the slightest hint of shame, “how many wars have your race waged against each other over the history of your kind? How many died by your own hands? How many of those deaths were of a reason other than self-defense? How many of those wars created their own atrocities?”

  “What’s that have to do with you throwing children on the battlefield?”

  “We Baeal never fought between ourselves. We did not kill any of our children on our own in primitive internal conflicts. Hypocrisy is a powerful virtue in your kind, and yet, you are eager to criticize a culture about which you did not scratch the surface.” Sim’Ra’s chest thrust out with a gleam in his eyes. “I did what I had to do to ensure the survival of my race. It was a necessary risk to take, and failure was always a possibility. Our reasons may be of our own, but they were just.”

  “Well, I have to give you credit on that one,” Archibald said, putting his napkin on as the servants brought the main dish; rosemary and garlic lamb chops served with couscous and carrots. “If not for the Lohil, you were about to succeed in your ambitious endeavor.”

  “I did not expect you to praise my strategy.”

  Archibald laughed. “Sim’Ra, you are so drowned in pride, you expect everything to be a challenge to your authority. Your plan was bold, but it was too risky. I am not happy to be proved right. In the end, it failed, regardless of how well it was planned.”

  Sim’Ra looked at Ray. “You were not a part of the plan, Lohil, tipping off the scales.”

  Ray shrugged, trying to look uninterested, but he knew he was lying to himself as much as to these aliens. Civilians. “You didn’t consider the possibility of me appearing. Not that great of a strategist if you ask me, leaving possibilities out.”

  Sim’Ra smiled, and it was sincere. “True. Tell me this; would you consider me evil from an objective perspective if I succeeded and saved my race from extinction? Would they consider me a failure or a savior? Reckless, yes. But in the end, all that matters is the result, not the path.”

  “How you do things is a big deal, buddy.”

  “Is it?” Sim’Ra smirked. “They always say that, but they never mean it, Lohil. When victory is at hand, deaths become statistics, and atrocities become a necessary evil—an evil everyone chooses to bury and forget regardless of their species. The sentimental look of an individual is very much different from the perception of masses.” Sim’Ra leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table and clasping his hands under his chin. “Tell me, is it not intriguing to see one person look at a de
ad body in disgust, in terror and shock, while as part of a mob gathered at a town hall that the same person cheers watching dozens decapitated or hanged? Social psychology and individual behavior are two different things, Mr. Harris. It is no different in Baeal society than for humans. Although I hate to admit, our societies are not completely different.”

  “I don’t understand one thing,” Captain Samir scratched his ear, addressing Sim’Ra. “Why Earth? There must be thousands of other planets suitable for you to colonize within this galaxy alone.”

  Archibald answered instead, “Earth is a holy symbol for our race. An anchor point, if you will. We are planar creatures, and our existence is quite different than humans. You breed, consume, and expand. We, Baeal, are stationary. We do not increase our numbers unless necessary and our home, Earth, is the one constant derivation point in our planar travels.”

  Captain Samir blinked, and both Baeal laughed in their layered voices. “It is not an easy concept to teach a non-planar species, Captain Samir,” Sim’Ra said. For an instant, Ray glimpsed the family and friendship between the two brothers, hidden behind veils and walls of politics and power games.

  Ray didn’t care. “The Temple of Amasshan, where’s it?”

  “It hangs between planes,” Archibald cut a piece of meat to eat. “It acts as a bind, a bridge between worlds.”

  “Did the Architects build it?” Samir asked.

  “I do not believe so,” Sim’Ra joined in. “But it is obvious they have mastered the ways of the stones and are using it for eons.”

  “They are the rulers of it, now. I cannot speculate about history,” Archibald added.

  Ray waited for the servant to refresh his wine. “Back on board Deviator, at the final battle, you called them the creators. Are they some kind of deity?”

  “They have the power of creation, yes,” Archibald said, but Sim’Ra was shaking his head already.

  “No,” the elder brother refused. “They are of flesh and blood. A very ancient race, millions of years older than us in your understanding of time, but they were not the only ones. They like to be addressed as Creators, but that does not give them the right to be called gods. They manipulate other lives in their schemes. Hence, we call them ‘Architects.’ I refuse to see them as any sort of holy creators.”

  “How can you be so sure, brother?”

  “Because if they were our gods, they would have unmade us with ease. Not with wars, not with sinister genetic alterations and creations like Her. No,” Sim’Ra poured a drink for himself, ignoring the servant trying to do it for him, “they are simply more advanced, that is all.”

  “So,” Ray scratched his beard, “all this nonsense is a laboratory of one race?”

  Archibald did not answer, but Sim’Ra nodded. “All of our races are in this game because one superior creation wanted it so. How they evolved to this, I cannot say. It is of interest to historians.”

  “You’re a tool in a grand design, just like I am,” Ray murmured.

  “What is that?”

  “Nothing,” Ray shook his head. “Just something someone said.” He reached for the wine pitcher, but a servant grabbed it with lightning reflexes, serving his drink as if offended by others doing his holy work. Lost in thought, Ray took a sip. “What about the Temple of Amasshan. How will we reach there?”

  “The temple is built as a conduit between planes. A transportation hub, if you will.” Archibald shrugged. “It connects different planes, creating an access point for the Architects.”

  “Yes, yes,” Ray’s eyebrows slanted inward, waving his hand dismissively. “How do we get there?”

  “Only planar creatures can move between different planes without the need for a Waystone. The Devourer, Baeal, and Architects are all planar beings. There are other creatures with the ability, but you do not require a course in interdimensional creatures at this time. Moving between planes is like breathing for us. Humans, on the other hand, need these stones to be able to touch other planes.”

  “So,” Ray cut a slice from his meat, a bit faster and fiercer than he intended, earning a raising brow from Archibald Cosmon, “it’s an Arinar.”

  “It is like Sshi, yes,” Archibald finished the last pieces of chops sitting on his plate. “It will help you find a tear in your plane, and through that tear, it will connect to other planes. You have the Arinar as the Lohil. They will allow you to pass through planes without harm.”

  “Where will we find such a tear?” Brother Cavil reached for a piece of bread.

  Archibald Cosmon looked at Brother Cavil, almost apologetically. “I know of one place near to this part of space. It is on Tarra.”

  The old priest gasped, causing his bite to go down the wrong way. His coughing splashed pretty much the whole menu—somewhat chewed—on the table. “Tarra,” he shrieked between his ragged breaths, causing even more chaos.

  “Relax, old man,” Ray whacked him on the back. “Stop trying to talk and breathe. Samir, pass him some water, will you?”

  Captain Samir poured water into the priest’s goblet in haste, splashing half of it in his panic.

  Brother Cavil’s face was pale. “I do not want to be jailed on that smuggler den again, Raymond,” he said finally, managing to stabilize his breathing. “Although seeing home would be nice,” he said to himself, nodding. “I miss my forest… But not that stinking den of evil!”

  Archibald Cosmon watched the exchange in silence, patiently waiting for the old man to calm down. “Humans found this tear on Tarra, not really knowing what it was. Your Consortium sent military scientists to research and exploit it. The spot on Tarra was connected to another planet in another plane. Humans lost control over the tear over time because they did not understand what they were toying with. Typical.”

  “Lost their control?”

  “The fog, Lohil,” Sim’Ra answered instead. “It does not belong to Tarra. It leaked from that tear to your world before the military could shut down the operation and seal the laboratory.”

  “How will we pass through it if it’s sealed?” Captain Samir asked.

  Sim’Ra smirked. “Only human ignorance can think of sealing a tear with mere explosives or by shutting down a power generator. The tear is there, waiting to be opened. It should not be a problem for the Lohil.” There, that sly grin again.

  Archibald Cosmon spoke before Sim’Ra could say anything else. “My brother told me of your adventurous escape from this safe haven of yours.”

  “Adventurous wouldn’t be the word I would pick. Terrifying, maybe, avoiding a monster. The one in league with you, blowing up ships and assassinating people. She devours and infests.”

  Archibald Cosmon waved for the servants to serve desserts and fruits, wiping his mouth with his napkin. “A conflict is tragic, and causing the death of another being is disdainful.” He stood and motioned to one of the banners hanging on the stone wall. “This is the banner of Algh’ham Marak, a Baeal tribe famous for their traditional ways, always respectful of nature and life. They avoided political conflict with other tribes. They avoided conflict with other species and even nature itself. A true, proud tribe.” He walked past the flag and stood before a glass showcase holding an ornamented black spear. He gently opened the casing and pulled out the weapon, weighing it in his hands. “This is an Aram, one of the most powerful weapons in ancient Baeal history.” With a strong move, Archibald threw the spear like a javelin at the nearest stone column. It whistled through the air at a blinding speed and penetrated the column to the end of its shaft, tiny sparks glowing on its tip. “The Algh’ham Marak also made the strongest, deadliest, and most desired weapons.” He returned to his seat, leaving the weapon embedded.

  Ray eyed the weapon in disbelief. “Your point being?”

  “You can be as humane as you want, but if a conflict becomes unavoidable, you have to be fierce. The Devourer is your reflection in battle—your equal. A simulacrum. She is as fierce as the nature of her creation dictates.”

  “We
have nothing in common. She killed thousands on that planet.”

  “True and sad.” Archibald looked at the spear. “But why did she come there? To kill those people? To sacrifice her own creations against a resilient enemy? Why did you kill thousands on board those Baeal ships?” He turned back to Ray. “The reasoning can be varied, but it is rarely as brutal and sadistic as to just wanting to see dead bodies. Actions of my followers, as much as mine, are no different in that matter.” Archibald sighed, “Are they a blot to haunt us through the writings of history? Probably yes. But were they acts of mindless violence?” Archibald looked at the weapon again. “Of that, I am not so sure.”

  Ray didn’t say anything. He very well knew he was the sole reason for that creature’s appearance. No matter how much he wanted to hate her or Baeal, it was not them but the Architects he found himself cursing at. Ray hated Sim’Ra but not his race. Whenever he mustered his hate and used Ijjok to find Her, Ijjok had shown times and civilizations beyond his comprehension instead. We are tools. He didn’t hate Baeal; he didn’t hate the Devourer—although his interaction with the two had turned out to be deadlier than anything humans had faced in history. He was just doing what he had to, like Her, like Baeal, like the Algh’ham Marak.

  “What happened to that tribe?” Brother Cavil asked.

  “They resisted change. They did not want to understand the shape of things to come, the scream for help by other tribes in unity and for that, they were crushed by the Emperor.”

  “You said Baeal didn’t kill one another,” Ray smirked.

  “It is true, with one exception.”

  “The Emperor?” Captain Samir asked.

  “Our father,” Sim’Ra broke his silence. “He destroyed every one of those tribes.”

  Ray snorted. “So, it runs in the family.”

  ***

  “This is delicious, Elaine said, tucking into her lamb chops. “Every food they have here is so delicious, it makes me sick.”

  Sarah played with the meat with her fork, inspecting the carvings on the thing absently. “The whole air of safety here feels like an illusion.” She pointed at the other end of the table with her fork. “Look at them, discussing intergalactic politics, wars, and history like scribes at an evening meal. That one tried to wipe us out; the other ordered people to blow themselves up for religious propaganda. Your father killed almost their whole race, that alien’s right-hand assassin killed that priest’s father, and Samir’s commander died on the field, defending against Sim’Ra’s soldiers. That’s one hell of a sick gathering.”