CHAPTER 3
A hundred meters away in the apartments of Bureel, the condemned member of the Chem Assemblage watched his Human adversary with distinct malice. He weathered the last ten decurns under virtual house arrest by his wife, but he was not idle. Bureel was scheming heartily. His political future and his very life depended on drastically changing the status quo, and quickly. To let events continue as they were was to invite certain death in a duel with Alexander. So during his incarceration he probed and prodded; thinking and searching for a way out of his predicament. There were ways of finding out things and spreading news, even in his confined position. Nazeera could not go so far as to completely isolate him, which was fortunate, as he had much to do and very little time to accomplish it. Ironically it was Nazeera who unknowingly offered Bureel the answers to his dilemma, and the treason he hatched within his suite suited the malice of his personality. Secretly, Bureel drew together all the webs of his influence throughout the Empire. With desperate promises of power and advancement he gained listeners, and in their ears he poured whisperings of fear and innuendo. The integrity of Nazeera was a high barrier to overcome, but ambition and pride sprinkled with the psychotic fear of Alexander gained Bureel many more audiences than his abilities could warrant. The poison of his tongue seeped amongst the Assemblage, and seeped effectively throughout the military. He raised the specter of revolution, and though the lack of commitment to his cause was frustrating he was still able to press home his points and his prophecy. His contacts listened to him grudgingly, but they listened.
The message of Bureel was not comforting, and it dwelt on Nazeera’s infatuation with Alexander of Terra. She would avoid combat with Alexander at whatever the cost, and when Nazeera one day ascended to the seat of the Elder it would be Alexander, and the Terran Empire, that were the true masters of Chem. Dishonor and betrayal were the rotten kernel of his fruit, and Bureel pandered it about freely. Those who listened did not do so lightly, and few did it with the earnest desire for advancement that was Bureel’s motive. Bureel knew this, and he also knew that to associate such treason with Nazeera was all but unthinkable. He admitted as much, but he reminded his audience that such considerations were small when the future of the Empire and the honor of Chem were at stake. Bureel’s contacts gave him no promises and much scorn, but in the end they agreed to wait upon his predictions. His plans came together to perfection when the Armada of Chem and Fleet of Terra met, and the glorious battle of the ages never occurred. With a malignant glee he watched as none other than Alexander himself parleyed with Nazeera. No scenario could better have acted out his vision. When the fleets drew apart and Alexander returned with Nazeera to Chem, Bureel found himself flooded with vows of allegiance and support. The reality of the peace disappeared in Bureel’s venom. The Chem Empire slipped into a sudden tense fit of waiting.
Nervously Bureel shifted the heavy ceremonial cloak about his shoulders. It accented his attire, which was more formal than his confinement warranted. He glanced over his shoulder to Gurthur and the three Chem warriors standing behind his lieutenant. “It is time,” he snarled. “It is at last our moment and our duty to strike. We will act before the Conqueror arrives to surreptitiously govern our empire from our own capital, without a drop of Chem blood spilt in defiance! Our honor is at stake, as is that of the Chem Empire. Those who stand in our way are cowards and traitors to Chem and to the glory of our ancestors! Let us begin!”
There were assenting oaths from the attending Chem warriors. Gurthur perched over his master’s shoulder and said, “Victory my lord! All is prepared. I can guarantee you one hundredth of a decurn over the Chem communications grid. Your speech will be the warning signal which awakens our forces. All of Chem awaits your call!”
“Excellent, Gurthur, we will not fail to fuel the anger of our deserving multitude.” Bureel smiled. Then he turned to the other Chem, telling them, “To you, I give a tasking most honorable. You know what to do. All of Chem shall remember your deeds this night. May fortune go with you!”
“You have our devotion, my lord,” they said. Bureel dismissed them with a wave of the hand, and they left the chambers.
“Now, to awaken the Empire,” Bureel said with a smile.
#
Alexander’s dreams were troubled and confused. Perhaps it was the demon of responsibility; perhaps it was the uncertainty of the future. Whatever it was it prevented him from resting fitfully. He awoke to the ringing of an enormous gong. For a split second it enmeshed itself in his dream, and then everything dissolved into frightening actuality. The huge shark-shaped battleship shook from hammer-blows to the hull. It rang like some mournful bell from Hell’s own castle, tolling the arrival of doom. The room shook so violently that he could not focus. He was thrown this way and that, sprawling away from his bed and onto the hard surface of the deck. Suddenly the floor pulled away and he slammed into the ceiling. He spun through the air, cart wheeling across the room, but he failed to fall. The ship’s artificial gravity had failed. The lights dimmed and flickered.
A guttural shout attracted his attention. His flight took him away from the sound, but he twisted to see three Chem warriors entering his chambers. Two men and a women floated by the door, watching him with feral grins. The long knives in their hands made their intent obvious. The assassins were all too well prepared for the zero gravity. They approached him by fanning out, their control provided by small jets on their boots. A flash of panic hit Alexander. He was floating, helpless—a sitting duck.
Luck didn’t wholly desert him though. The room wasn’t all that large and his momentum carried Alexander the wall. There wasn’t anything for him to grab onto or steady himself, but he wasn’t thinking of standing and fighting; the only possible solution was exactly the opposite, and he took it with the resolve of fatal determination and the one thing in his character he could always count on—his short temper.
Gathering himself up like a swimmer at a turn, Alexander did not wait steady himself, but exploded from the wall with every shred of force his powerful legs could muster. Although slightly off balance, he caught the Chem assassins completely off guard. He shot like a torpedo at one of them, intending to draw his own blade and strike, but Alexander’s trajectory was faster than even he expected and he had no time to draw his weapon. Instead he rammed the Chem with his shoulder. The assassin grunted in surprise and pain at the assault and even his lightning quick Chem reflexes were no match for the violence of Alexander’s attack. In zero-G it was velocity and mass that counted; Alexander had both.
Alexander hardly felt the collision. It barely slowed him down. The Chem assassin was not so lucky. The impact sent him flying into the wall, where he hit with an audible crunch of bone and broken armor. He floated away, dazed, trailing a string of blood and spittle from his broken mouth.
The opposite wall rushed up. Tucking into a ball, Alexander got his feet beneath him, hitting the smooth surface with his boots. He steadied himself with his left hand while drawing his wicked blade with his right. Although slightly askew, he kicked off, aiming for the adjoining wall instead of trying to aim himself perfectly. He had to keep moving, to stop was to die. Regardless of his physical powers, the Chem assassins had jet boots—they had the advantage—so move he did, trusting that in the confines of the small room opportunities to damage his assailants would come on their own.
They did. He bounded from one wall to another, to the ceiling, the floor and across open space with the Chem assassins becoming increasingly frustrated with try to get a bead on him. A Chem slashed clumsily at him, trying to turn in mid air as he changed directions. Alexander blocked the cut with his armored forearm and dragged the edge of his knife across the man’s groin and leg as he flew past. A howl of pain greeted his ears. The drag of the Chem on his blade caused his momentum to change, turning him in the air, but he was ready for it. He timed the turn with a tuck to land squarely on the wall, and just as quickly he shot off again. Another Chem flashed by and he slashed.
A long arc of blood erupted through the dim light as the blade dragged across the soft flesh of the female’s throat. A horrible gurgling cough filled the chamber.
Alexander shot himself off the walls, ceiling and floor. He was as a ricocheting projectile amidst the slow controlled movements of the Chem. The Chem warriors, devoid of one of their number already, had no plan to combat Alexander’s desperate tactics. In the zero gravity they expected to have the advantage, but the speed at which he adapted to the environment surprised them. Their jet boots gave them some measure of control, but it was slow and clumsy compared to the spider like manner with which the Human propelled himself about the room. They shouted between each other, frantically trying to find a way to combat the Human. Unfortunately for them Alexander was quickly gaining a deadly proficiency in this manner of warfare. Both the remaining Chem were already wounded, and there was no relief for them in sight. Fortune finally looked their way, however, when the room became too crowded. Alexander blundered into the still twitching corpse of the female. The collision sent him whirling into one of his remaining antagonists and they locked, knife to knife, upside down to each other. Alexander and the Chem struggled ferociously, while the other assassin maneuvered carefully behind the Human. Sensing the danger the man frantically kicked and twisted, throwing himself and his immediate adversary tumbling about the room. The other Chem tried to gain a clear stroke at Alexander’s back, and he succeeded in slipping his blade beneath Alexander’s cuirass and gashing him low in the kidneys. Before the Chem could follow up his attack, however, the ship’s gravity suddenly returned.
The entire writhing mass of Chem and Human crashed to the floor, with Alexander on the bottom of the pile. He landed on his shoulders, but one of the Chem fell upon his legs, twisting his back up. He felt something pop, and the searing flash of pain in his spine caused him to cry out. Alexander threw his head back, an unconscious reaction to the pain, but it saved him. The knife meant to stab him in the hollow at the juncture of his spine and skull instead skipped off the crown of his head and sliced through his cheek. Alexander struck blindly with the back of his elbow, feeling it connect soundly with one of the assassins. The other leapt upon his back like a parasite; his dagger plunging again and again into Alexander’s back only to be blunted by the tough cuirass. Before he could alter his attach, Alexander heaved himself up, lifting the Chem off the ground. He flung himself back, landing with all of his weight on the assassin—the Chem let go with a spasmodic cry of anguish as all of Alexander’s weight squeezed the air out of his lungs.
Alexander rolled off the stunned Chem, bringing his blade down hard in a terrible overhand arc. The Chem saw death in that moment and his vivid blue eyes went stark white. The blade splashed through the Chem’s neck and spine, only stopping when it rang against the deck. The assassin’s head rolled drunkenly across the metal floor, stopping at the feet of the remaining assassin. The Chem looked down at his comrade with a stunned expression, but his eyes glowed red with fury as he watched Alexander lurch up knife in hand.
“Now it’s just you and me,” Alexander growled, but then he froze. The Chem laughed and pulled out a blaster. Alexander’s blasters hung next to his bed on the other side of the room.
“Your death will have to be glory enough,” the assassin laughed.
Whoomph! The blaster discharged, but it went awry and the bolt of seething energy lunged past him and burned into the wall.
Alexander cringed at the sound, wondering how the assassin could possibly miss at such close range. To his surprise, the assassin dropped his weapon and stood looking down at his chest. There were three long thin blades protruding from his breastplate. They were bathed in his own blood. Without another word he pitched forward on his face—stone dead.
Alexander looked beyond the corpse. His door was open and several Chem warriors stood in the doorway, gore dripping from their swords. They looked down at the dead assassin and then up to Alexander. He waited, not knowing whether they sought the glory of his death for themselves or if they were from Nazeera.
#
Seven hundred thousand kilometers away, in his captured shuttle, Bureel watched the last of his assassins die. “So close to victory,” he whispered to himself, knowing, fearing that with a few more seconds he would have been rid of Alexander—knowing those few seconds might seal his fate.
“Well I have this to say for the brute, he has a flair for the dramatic!” His bravado was intended for his crew of mutineers. They joined his laughter nervously, at once impressed at their lord’s calmness in the face of such an adversary, but also concerned that same adversary was now their enemy as well.
Bureel’s attempt to assassinate Alexander was but a part of an all encompassing act of rebellion. The entire Chem Empire was at this moment divided, and even now the first battles of the civil war were under way. Bureel’s timetable was exact. He’d escaped Nazeera’s flagship less than a Terran hour past, and was already pulling into the landing bay of his rebel flagship, which he had renamed Toa Riche: Honor and Glory Renewed. In a few moments, he was on the bridge. The main screens showed a mass of ships already tangled in battle. There was, at this moment, no sharply defined conflict. Bureel’s rebel armada came from defections within Nazeera’s own loyalist armada, and they sorted themselves out slowly. At the moment there was more posturing over the communication channels than there was fighting, but there was mounting evidence that would soon change.
“Report Captain,” Bureel commanded as he stepped out of the lift.
“Our forces are roughly equal, my lord, as far as we can tell,” the Chem reported. “The engagement has yet to take shape. Neither side has, as of yet, fully ascertained just who is who.”
“Well then let us force this fray into a shape of our choosing,” Bureel ordered. “Send an open signal for all ships loyal to me to concentrate their firepower on the Kuntok, the loyalist flagship.”
“But my lord, your wife, Nazeera of the Triumvirate, is aboard her,” the Captain protested.
“I am aware of that, Captain. Carry out my orders. She must pay the price for her treason.” Bureel said without a hint of regret. Then he turned to Gurthur. He asked irritably, “what news in the Empire?”
Gurthur smiled, “One member of the Triumvirate and thirty-seven seats of the Assemblage have rallied behind you my lord. That is approximately forty-two percent. Puriezia of the Triumvirate has sworn loyalty to you. What is more important we have won the allegiance of nearly sixty-five percent of the Armada, and even now we have control of the Guardian Armada. The Empire of Chem is at your feet my lord!”
“Then let us take it by the throat, Gurthur!” Bureel exclaimed. “Captain, broadcast my order throughout the Armada. To all of Chem loyal to our ancestor’s glory and to Bureel: no mercy for the traitors to Chem! Take hold your ancient honor and glory. Destroy those who would place the honor of Chem upon an alien doorstep. Take hold of your empire, and then we shall expand into the arenas of glory that beckon us!”
CHAPTER 4
The Kuntok shuddered again. A blinding sheet of pain struck Alexander in his spine and he sunk to his knees with a groan. Immediately his brain railed at him, “Get up, the Chem are watching!” He tried, but nothing greeted his efforts except waves and waves of pain—humiliating, humbling pain. His lower back was on fire, his legs shook; he simply could not get up. With the life and death crisis over, all the strength of the battle fled. It was as if his inner reserves decided they were no longer needed. They took away their extra strength and left him wracked with spasms. He knew the feeling all too well. Alexander left the NFL for just this reason. He might have gutted out another three years with his battered knees, but it was his back that finally humbled him.
The Chem rushed in. They grasped him by either arm and pulled him up to his feet. Alexander stifled a grunt of pain, but they held him steady. The pain was severe. It took his breath away. After a moment, it subsided to a manageable level and Alexander was able to stand. He nodded g
rimly, “Thank you for your rescue,” he said, adding some false bravado, “I didn’t expect the curs to lower themselves to using blasters! Have they forgotten they are Chem warriors?”
“The traitors!” exclaimed one. “They dishonor the Chem with assassins! Alexander of Terra, are you much hurt?”
Alexander stifled a groan of pain. A sharp spasm coursed through his spine, but he forced his legs to bear his weight. It was uncomfortable at best but at least his legs worked. He freed himself from their grasp and growled in mock irritation, saying, “I am in tolerable condition, though I didn’t plan on an exercise session at this hour.”
“You speak bravely Alexander of Terra, but you have a serious wound in your back!” another Chem told him, concerned.
“Not as serious as whatever is going on with this ship,” Alexander replied. “Certainly the Terran Fleet has not dishonored me and engaged the Chem?”
“No Alexander, they have not, but we are in the midst of a battle,” said the second.
“To our shame we are attacked by our own people,” the other added. “The traitorous forces of Bureel have broken away from the Empire. They claim we abandoned the old ways when we made peace with the Terran Empire.”
“Peace without the glory of victory takes a strong and confident heart to accept,” Alexander said. “It is always easier to make war than peace.”
Another shock jarred the ship. It hurried the Chem. “We dally here beyond our right,” the first Chem told him. “The Armada Commander sent us to escort you to the bridge. She wishes an audience with you, but circumstances prevent any other recourse.”
“Obviously,” Alexander agreed. “Lead me to her then.”
Alexander Galaxus: The Complete Alexander Galaxus Trilogy Page 35