Alien Honor (A Fenris Novel)
Page 1
Also by Vaughn Heppner
Fenris series:
Alien Honor
Doom Star series:
Star Soldier
Bio-Weapon
Battle Pod
Cyborg Assault
Planet Wrecker
Star Fortress
Invasion America series:
Invasion: Alaska
Invasion: California
Invasion: Colorado
Ark Chronicles:
People of the Ark
People of the Flood
People of Babel
People of the Tower
Lost Civilizations series:
Giants
Leviathan
Tree of Life
Gog
Behemoth
The Lod Saga
The Oracle of Gog (novella)
Other novels:
Accelerated
I, Weapon
Strontium-90
Dark Crusade
Assassin of the Damned
The Dragon Horn
Elves and Dragons
The Dragon of Carthage
The Great Pagan Army
The Sword of Carthage
The Rogue Knight
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Text copyright © 2013 by Vaughn Heppner
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by 47North, Seattle
www.apub.com
ISBN-13: 9781477808825
ISBN-10: 1477808825
Library of Congress Number: 2013940225
Cover illustration: Maciej Rebisz
To John and Margret Heppner, my father and mother, the greatest parents in the world.
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
PART I: PREPARATION
1
2
3
4
5
6
PART II: VOYAGE
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
PART III: ARRIVAL
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
PART IV: BONDAGE
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
PROLOGUE
FENRIS SYSTEM
(230 LIGHT YEARS FROM EARTH)
A boy and old man crawled over sharp rocks the color of lead.
They were near the top of a towering mountain in the greatest range of an Earth-like planet. Ice lay in patches around them, mixed with purple lichen. A freezing wind shrieked, tearing at the boy’s fur jacket and buffeting his pale features. He was gaunt and white-skinned and had fierce, sky-colored eyes.
At times, the wind threatened to lift him off the rocks and hurl him like a doll onto jagged boulders a thousand feet below. He clung to stony protrusions then, with his teeth clenched like a predator gripping a choice piece of meat. He wanted to see the Valley of the Demons and the Mountain that was a Machine. Both were on the other side of the peak.
Beside him, the old man panted, his foggy breath blown away like stray thoughts. He had dark, leathery skin. He was the clan seeker, the ancient man of wisdom. Twice, as the wind shrieked madly, his entire body lifted so no part of him touched the mountain.
He should have flown in the air to land cruelly thousands of feet below. Instead, his dark eyes shone with a metallic color and sweat appeared on his face. He stopped lifting and remained frozen for an infinitesimal amount of time. Then he sank back onto the stone, as if in some fashion he had gained weight or pulled himself down.
The boy witnessed this each time. He also felt the seeker’s inner strength. It was like standing too close to a bonfire, and it singed his mind. Oh, but he marveled at the seeker’s power. Why didn’t the old man lead the clan? Then they could raid the demons in the valley and make their blood run red on the stones.
“It’s more dangerous at the top,” the seeker shouted, his words coming in wind-whipped fragments.
The boy nodded, and he eased upward another foot. His hands ached from gripping rocks so tightly. Fear like a snake writhed through him, but he wanted to see, had begged many weeks for this chance. Now that he was so close, he wasn’t going to turn around and slink back to the others in defeat.
He looked up. The great moon with its many bands of color dwarfed the sun. The moon filled half the sky. It seemed so near that he felt he could reach out and scratch its surface.
“Don’t be distracted!” the seeker shouted.
The boy—Klane—barely heard the admonishment in time. He pressed his frail body against stone and the wind howled across him, trying to tear him away. He endured as the invisible force plucked at him, seeking to gain a purchase. It was just like wrestling in camp against stronger, bigger boys. But none of the others, despite their strength, had ever been up here. They always sneered at him for his smooth skin, for his weakness, but he was braver than any four of them. This proved it.
As the wind lessened, Klane dragged himself upward another foot, and then another. He reached the top of the mountain at the same time as the seeker.
Klane glanced at the smiling old face. Then he looked over the topmost rock. The Valley of the Demons spread out before him, a glorious wonder. He’d never envisioned anything like this. The valley was massive, hundreds of miles long so it faded into the horizon. There were two towering mountain ranges on either side of the vale. The mountains loomed miles above the lowest point of the valley. Down in the distant bottom Klane could see greenery and a snaking river.
“The air is much thicker down there,” the seeker shouted in his ear. Klane could smell the old man’s onion breath.
Then Klane spied the Mountain that was a Machine. The seeker had described it before, many times, but he’d never expected it would be like this. The mountain didn’t seem natural but looked like a titanic box. The box or building was many miles long. It had huge, smooth tubes sticking out of it. White vapors like clouds billowed from the tubes or stacks. Beside the Great Machine was the last of an iceberg. Ropy vines snaked from the machine onto the ice. They must be huge ropes for Klane to see them from so far away.
“There!” the seeker shouted. “Now you should look up. You will see a thing to boggle your senses.”
Klane squinted upward into the heavens. His chest constricted and his breath caught in his throat. From the old man’s descriptions before, he saw… he saw. They were long tongues of fire, flames. That meant rockets came down from space. Yes, yes, he remembered his lessons. These rockets must be high up in the atmosphere. Thunder began to boom. The noise grew louder and louder until it shook his bones. Klane kept staring at the rockets. He could see them now, mighty vessels of metal belching tongues of fire. Between the various rockets swayed a great iceberg. The rockets lowered the ice toward the Machine Mountain.
“This is a miracle!” Klane shouted.
Klane stared at the seeker who knew so much. The old man used words of High Speech, the words of magic and ancient wisdom.
“The demons lower the ice from space!” the seeker shouted. “They use the ice to fuel the Great Machine.”
“What does the machine do?”
“There are many such machines on our world, Klane. The demons terraform the planet to suit their evil nature. They like the thicker atmosphere in the valley. That is why they stay down there and why they leave us alone here in the uplands.”
“What do the demons look like?” Klane shouted.
The seeker studied him, the dark eyes seemingly boring into Klane’s soul. “One day, you will tell me.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I would be amazed if you did.”
Frowning, Klane asked, “Why do you always speak in riddles?”
The old man smiled. He was missing teeth. “After we return to camp, you will begin to fashion your first junction-stone.”
Klane stared at the Mountain that was a Machine. He wanted a junction-stone, but he’d doubted now for months that he could ever fashion one. The seeker had told him several weeks ago that seeing the Valley of the Demons would help him make one. Now that he saw all this…
“Let us go to the Mountain that was a Machine,” Klane pleaded. He wanted to go inside it and see the ancient marvels.
“Why do you wish this?” the seeker asked. “Tell me truly.”
Klane debated what he should say. “I would know more about this terraforming.”
“No! Pray that you never do know, Klane.”
“Why do you say this? I don’t understand.”
The seeker studied him, finally saying, “Greater knowledge only brings greater sorrow.”
Klane’s frown deepened. “Why do you always hound me then to learn more and to do it faster?”
The seeker turned away, for once at a loss for words.
Klane watched the rockets land near the Great Machine. The tongues of fire blew dust and grit in billowing clouds. The roar increased and Klane clamped his hands over his ears. Finally, with a thunderous sound that shook the mountain, the rockets landed the iceberg, the ice that once was an asteroid.
Oh, the demons wielded great power indeed. They were worthy of fear. Fear…
Klane snarled. He was tired of being scared all the time, of enduring the endless beatings from the bigger boys. If he had a junction-stone to wield…
“Why am I different from the others?” Klane shouted.
“It is time to go.”
As the old man turned away, Klane grabbed one of the seeker’s frail wrists.
“Why am I different?” he repeated. “You know, don’t you?”
The seeker turned back to study him. With a deft twist, the old man freed his stick-like wrist. Then he pointed up at the monstrous, banded moon. “You came down from there, Klane. The demons brought you as they brought the iceberg. They gave you to me.”
Moisture fled from Klane’s mouth. The boys mocked him about his difference. But he’d never believed it was this bad. Was he a demon then? Was he one of their imps?
“Why would the demons do such a thing?” Klane shouted.
“Yes. That is what I would like to know. It is a penetrating question.” After a moment, the old man shook his head, and he began to crawl backward down the mountain.
The shock was too great. Klane almost stood up to let the wind take him. Instead, he craned his neck and peered up into the sky.
His thoughts took time coalescing. He had come from up there. His eyes narrowed. The seeker had just told him another riddle. He hated riddles and he hated being different. Most of all, he hated how the bigger, older boys picked on him day and night. It was time to return to camp, to fashion a junction-stone and teach the others the price of mocking one who came from the sky.
PART I:
PREPARATION
1
24 OCTOBER 2452 A.D.
In another time and place, Cyrus Gant might have been a gawky teenager, all elbows and knees and ill-coordinated, skinny limbs. Here, he was gaunt like a starved rat, with the cunning of a junkyard dog. He’d need that cunning to escape the Dust hunters.
Here was Level 40 Milan, Italia Sector, end-of-the-line for everyone living a kilometer underground. At the bottom of Milan, tons of algae-slime ran through the vast processing plants. Every hour of every year, the slime pits seeped noxious fumes that could drop a trank freak.
Several mega-blocks away was the deep-core mine that supplied the city’s power. The main shaft ran down to the Earth’s mantle, and usually the magnetic shields held. When they didn’t, they bled excess heat. Bottom Milan temperatures could soar into the one-hundred and twenties and even thirties. During one disaster seventeen years ago, everyone in Levels 40 and 39 died. Taken all together—the fumes, heat, and squalor—many said Level 40 was an Earthly version of Dante’s Hell.
Anyone with the credits or connections moved up. Cyrus was one of the unlucky 40ers—a lifer as they said—although he was a survivor. He’d been on his own ever since he escaped the orphanage.
As he slunk past massive, gurgling pipes, casting a wary eye to the right and left, his right hand dropped to his belt. It was a piece of rope with a knot. It kept the castoff pants tight against his sunken waist. Thrust through the belt was the object of his grope and his prized possession: a working vibrio-knife. He wore paper-thin boots and a shirt two sizes too large for his scrawny frame.
He ducked under a tube, careful to keep his head or back from touching it. Heat radiated from the rusty thing.
The upper ceiling lights flickered. Cyrus looked up fifty meters. High up there in the ceiling shined sunlamps. One of them had just blown, and the giant lamp went dark.
Too many sunlamps in Level 40 were the same way, giving the bottom a twilight quality.
Sucking in his lips, Cyrus scanned the terrain one more time. He felt something wrong, an oppression of his spirit, an evil thing. The terrain was a vast maze of tubes and pipes crisscrossing for kilometers in a bewildering array. Some of the pipes were scalding hot. Others had icicles on the bottom. This was part of Algae Plant Twelve. The mutated sludge gurgling through the tubes was a particularly vigorous form of slime that helped to feed Earth’s billions.
Cyrus had chosen the place for a reason. He carried ten grams of pure Dust, the prized and most expensive illegal drug in the solar system. He belonged to the Latin Kings, one of the hundreds of mules or carriers used to transport Dust and other black market goods. His goal was to become a foot soldier, a gunman next, and finally a chief in one of the sub-gangs. He would protect himself from the evils of life by being the toughest, smartest, and highest-ranked person around.
Right now, he needed to get his ten grams of Dust to the other side of Level 40 near Number Seven Lift. The guards there had been bribed to look the other way. His contact waited there.
The constant gurgling sludge as it pulsed through the pipes, the heat, and the ill odors should have disguised the approach of the three hunters. They should have, but Cyrus kept scowling in frustration.
He had the gaunt features of the eternally hungry and a sharp nose. His eyes, there was something strange about them. They were deep-set, blue like ink and wise about the street. His gut told him trouble came. He trusted the feeling, hesitating to make his move through an open area.
He kept turning his head, rubbernecking as he looked around. A BAD THING was out there. He hadn’t felt something like this since the time in the orphanage when the sex fiends had exchanged credits with the housemaster. He’d always had a knack for keeping his ears open. Trust no one but yourself. It was the earliest law of life he’d learned on the street. Cyrus had fled from the orphanage that night before the predators could take him down to the basement and abuse him. Since then, he’d looked ou
t for himself. He’d joined the Latin Kings because the street had taught him you needed allies to beat the nastiest evils.
Out here in the pipes, his fingers curled around the hilt of his vibrio-knife. Why did he feel—?
Cyrus saw a hunter. It was the man’s feral movement more than the red jacket that gave him away. The thick-necked thug ducked under a tube, straightened, and turned around. A big sword image on the back of the jacket marked him as a Red Blade. They were another gang, the blood-foes to the Latin Kings.
Cyrus’s heart began to pound. The man held a gun, a slugthrower, a big one. Cyrus didn’t wonder what the Red Blade was doing here. It was obvious. The thug hunted him because the man wanted Dust. Who didn’t want ten pure grams? The Red Blade wouldn’t just rob him either. The man would kill him.
Instead of sobbing at the unfairness of life, instead of making a face or shaking in fright, young Cyrus’s eyes narrowed. The man must have twice his weight and age and the hunter gripped a gun.
A junkyard dog in this situation would have bolted for a better place. The eyes gave Cyrus away: that he was more than just another slum-dweller, a punk with a knife and an errand. He was a dinosaur, a small one to be sure, but a throwback to a different era when humanity lived in caves, battling giant bears for the right of its home. To run blindly now would be to die.
Cyrus had no intention of dying.
The Red Blade out there acted as if there were others with him. Cyrus hadn’t moved a muscle since spying the man. Slowly, Cyrus swiveled his head, scanning the area once again. Ah, yes indeed. He spied another… and a third hunter, too. He’d expected that. Red Blades liked to work in triads.
By studying their positions, Cyrus realized they had him blocked. They must have studied his habits or they had pinpointed the route through the pipes.
I’ll have to use the ducts now. I’ll have to go into the dark. That was dangerous. Sometimes they flushed waste through the ducts. If you were caught in them during that time, you drowned in boiling sludge.
He turned away slowly and began easing in that direction. He didn’t notice the drip in the pipe over him. It must have hissed, because steam blew out of the crack. But he’d never have heard it with all the gurgling around him. Black slime dripped a slow drop at a time out of the crack and into a shadowed area.