by Dan O'Brien
His was a leadership that could never be questioned.
The deeper the hallways carried them into the facility, the more likely it was that they would discover something. Nabul had been the last staging point for resistance in the final days of the State, and the power source to the entire installation was a plutonium extract with immeasurable storage life. It was estimated that it could supply minimal power for close to seven centuries, and that was more than long enough to harbor fugitives of the resistance.
The hall jutted slightly and opened into a stasis chamber, which had once – more than likely – acted as a medical station for the crusaders of the State. Ceiling luminators buzzed rhythmically, their bulbs coursing with energy.
Along the back wall were three faded, cylindrical units, but the luminators there had long since failed, and shadows danced across the crystalline surfaces. The soldiers glanced around hurriedly, expecting some demon to emerge from the shadows or for a ghost to materialize from the floor beneath them.
Screeech.
The soldiers whipped around quickly, eyes roaming for the target. Something dragged itself along the dusty ground and let loose a faint howl, sending shivers of fear throughout the company. Their eyes darted back and forth and their eyes grew twice their normal size, but what they found neither heightened nor repressed their fear. A dislodged piece of machinery was swinging back and forth, the rusted metal screeching loudly. The men lowered their weapons and sighed in unison, believing death had skipped over them in that moment.
Suddenly, the luminators exploded, each in succession. Before the squadron could redraw their weapons, the light was drained from the room. Their fears were plunged into darkness. Carlson was the first to activate the infrared option on his face visor, the room becoming bathed in an eerie red glow. His mind raced in search of meaning, his thoughts falling on childhood fantasies and terrors of monsters devouring him in the night.
His mind, however, would not relent. It knew no boundaries for horror had conjured forth demons of all shapes and sizes, all hell-bent on killing the boy within. His hands started to tremble as he heard his companions cry out. As if on cue, the containment cylinders burst, and the sloshing of fluid and the sick, slick smell of decay permeated their senses, driving their primal instincts into overdrive.
Carlson fired wildly into the darkness, not knowing or caring what he hit. His mind wanted to be free, to be away from the terrors that awaited him. The pale flashes of plasma revealed a dark form leaping from soldier to soldier as if riding entirely on darkness.
It had no need for human motion.
The form slithered through the darkness to grasp the corners of his mind, and Carlson had to bring a hand to his mouth to stifle the scream that had been rising in his throat. The luminator at his side began to flicker, and he slapped his hand hard against the bulb, not wanting to be stranded entirely without light.
Muffled screams echoed in his mind, and he realized that one by one his men were being ripped apart, the fleshy tearing sounds rose above everything like the beat of a drum. The solid thump of bodies hitting the ground meant that his squadron mates were no more.
The darkness stirred beneath the clammy grip of his luminator, and in the deepest recesses of his mind he knew he had no choice but to run. His feet slipped on the slick floor beneath him. Knowing that the floor was flooded with the blood of his comrades, he fell to his hands and crawled through the battle lines.
His body smeared with the lost lives of his soldiers, the men he had led into this place of death; he kicked and squirmed in both the rivers that had flooded his mind and the steel beneath him. He cried out into the darkness and finally regained his balance when he rounded a corridor and leaned against the wall opposite the medical room.
He brought his hands to his face, only remembering the cruel patterns of blood that now stained them and pulled them away. Running his hands along the wall, he tried to steady himself as he crawled down the hallway into the hangar bay from which they had emerged. He stumbled, his legs tangling as he approached the cross-section.
A familiar frame – Commander Warren Schone – stood ahead of him. He raced forward almost gleefully, and when he laid his hand upon the other man’s shoulder, he realized the grim truth. The slack figure of Schone shifted and the corpse slid down the wall, a face of contorted horror turned toward Carlson.
He screamed and pushed the body away. It hit the ground with a thick, moist snap. He kicked away from the wall with renewed force and barreled down the remaining meters that separated him and the sandy exterior of the installation.
The air hissed as he saw the crack revealed in the double doors to sanctuary, and with a cruel, crunching noise he felt something enter his back and lodge into his sinewy spine. He twisted in the air and fell to the ground, writhing in pain, his voice no longer audible.
His mind was stunned by terror.
He twisted his neck and tried to face the rising darkness, but his body would not react; it merely ignored his pleas as if they were separate entities. The form shimmered into view, its face partially hidden by the darkness, but the blood of Carlson’s fallen comrades dripped from its clenched fists, the black suit mirrored the hideousness of the monster that haunted these ruins.
“Who are you?” The words were small and panicked, the wound in his spine had started to dull and Carlson could feel his senses fading. In no time, he would drift into unconsciousness.
The form crept farther out of the darkness so that he could be seen in the prey’s last moments. Instead of the horrific features Carlson had anticipated, he saw the set jaw of a human, his glare as hard as elusium, and his dark hair cropped sharply against his skull. His face was one of turmoil, as if the very essence of his life defined his torture.
“Please, I didn’t mean to trespass on your resting grounds.” Carlson’s voice was a shrill pitch now.
The stoic figure of death stood unmasked and menacing against the darkness. “This shall be your final resting ground.” The words were simple and flat, almost inaudible compared to the shrieks of the fallen lieutenant.
The shadow raised his sword and the crimson brilliance reflected in the eyes of his stricken prey. A silent prayer crept across the man’s lips.
The blade sang true and Carlson’s head rolled free.
The blood did not splatter, the wound sealing itself from the sheer speed and friction of the sword. The figure sheathed his sword against his back, and black goggles fell across his eyes, resting on the crown of his nose. His footsteps echoed in the sanctuary of death behind him, and as dusk filled the hangar bay his face contorted into sadness.
He knew that now was an even darker time.
More than ever, a hero was needed. Jonathon Wei walked out into the sandstorm, and his dark visage was a portent for a justice that needed to be reborn.
“Justice, much like everything of man, is both in the eye of the beholder as well as a matter of timing and circumstance. If evil were to win today, then what was once good would be evil and what we consider evil would be the righteous.”
-Musings of Napoleon Bel’tara
She could feel the rush of air through her armor, the oppressive force of wind slamming against her speeding frame. Vaughn was motionless against her, his eyes squinted closed – lips dry and drawn from the streaming winds that assaulted him.
They flew by buildings and trees.
“Computer, engage field analysis and thermal scans. Deploy position matrix and homing scans.” The veins of Mela’s neck protruded, her voice pushed to its limit.
“Acknowledged. Deploying scans and position matrix. Impact imminent at twenty-five meters,” rattled off the female, computerized voice.
A pristine building screamed into view, the fluorescent colors of the elegant sign and the lights pulsing. Mela rolled as her internal scanners flashed bright red and felt her shoulder slam into the cornerstone of the building, sending her trajectory off tilt into a violent spiral, the ground a swirling mass st
eadily coming into view. She fired her posterior thrusters and gravity pulled on their mortal frames, their hearts being squeezed by the pressure of the maneuver.
“Several thermal units approaching from the south, closing in at approximately sixty kilometers per second. Estimated time of attack less than three seconds.”
“Activate arm cannon and multiple target array. Bring shields to maximum capacity and lower internal temperature.” Mela could hear the computer networking and attempting to facilitate her request.
In the distance, the steady hum of the pursuing crafts shook the earth and spiked the thermal tracker situated along her visor. “Commander Vaughn, you will be best suited to sit this particular engagement out, the risk of your being killed in this volley of fire is quite high.”
She lowered her thrusters and landed atop one of the smaller buildings, the afterburner charring the metal and flashing sparks all about the landing. The mists of heat in the distance grew, and the shaky visages of the approaching enemy crafts emerged along the horizon. “Wait here. I will retrieve you once I have dispatched the ships.”
“Proximity warning. Attack imminent.” The visor rolled from a light bluish screen to red; a green matrix marked off the incoming vessels, their approach approximated in meters until impact. “Attacker has breached final defenses, attack is now unavoidable.”
“I’m not blind you know,” barked Starhawk at the computer, knowing full well that it was devoid of both emotion and sarcasm.
“I am merely attempting to convey the state of your situation,” replied the automated tone without inflection.
“Never mind. Disengage response protocol. The last thing I need is you in my ear,” Mela muttered.
“Understood. Response protocol disengaged.”
The computer’s voice went silent. The humming of the approaching engines grew exponentially, and their silvery hulls became recognizable within Mela’s natural range of vision.
“Activate plasma blades, dual-edged, both arms.” The computer responded with a series of whirs, and deep-blue blades erupted from each arm, one along the palm and the other along the top of the hand.
The crafts split past Starhawk, three to the left and four to the right, their crystalline cockpit ports showing amateur pilots, their eyes still wide with the anticipation of battle. They were small fighters, second-generation storms, manufactured by the Baldorian government to squander the remaining threat posed by the outland factions.
Their twin lasers flew forward, tracing distinct lines beside Starhawk. She could feel the heat from the bright purple lines from the pulse cannons. Leaping up, she met the closest ship head-on, the electromagnetic field of her suit searing the nose of the fighter. She smashed the entirety of the blade through the exhaust port, sending the smoldering craft into a death spiral.
Starhawk fired her rear thrusters and flew straight down the two lines of remaining crafts, her energy trail blazing a divider between the separated squadrons. She spun to a stop; her body flipped the wrong way, her head to the ground and her feet extended far up into the heavens. Raising her forearms to shoulder level, she angled her line of sight at the bellies of the fighters.
“Computer, activate thermomagnetic cannons.”
The blue blades dispersed along her left arm and scores of metallic wires crawled from her shoulder across her hands, ending in a barrel several centimeters from the tips of her fingers.
The cylindrical cannon boasted twin ports and a linear firing sight; the pre-modern sight cross-fixed at the closest vessels. The gray blast oozed across the skies and settled over the squadron, the smoke-like substance absorbed into the hulls of the ships and dampened their sensor arrays.
“Lower internal temperature and reduce thrusters to low pulse.” Her armor responded, and the bright yellow of the full thrusters dimmed to a pale blue.
Mela floated in the mist.
She leaned her body forward and the suit followed, the bewildered ships flying in sluggish patterns until they began to fall from the sky, their descent marked by swerving trails of bright amber thrusters. She landed atop the small building again, and Vaughn sat waiting, his legs crossed beneath him and his eyelids closed; the eyeballs beneath searching.
“We can leave now, Commander Vaughn. The hour grows short, and it would be best if I were on my way.”
Vaughn nodded solemnly and allowed himself to be picked up by Starhawk once again, the electric field her armor produced shocking Vaughn momentarily and making his hair stand on end all across his body. The thrusters glowed deep yellow once more before they shot off into the distance, a blur against the landscape. The sun lowered in the distance and shadows began to crawl across the land, long, spindly fingers caressing the remaining light and turning it all to darkness.
* * * * *
Hector Delgado fancied himself immortal because he served the most powerful being in the universe. His master sent him to the desolate world of Fasen Major for a single purpose, to take care of the mysterious bounty hunter, Starhawk.
The woman had lately targeted many of Xzin’s supporters and systematically ended the intricate smuggling rings of the addictive spice castion. On this night, however, he saw something he had not expected. Starhawk came to the aid of a washed-up State commander.
It was widely believed that Starhawk was Mela Alvarez; Delgado was certain that Starhawk was Alvarez. The idea of a ghost walking through the galaxy seeking vengeance for events that had transpired over a decade ago was absurd, but viable.
Delgado boarded his personal vessel, and the pilot silently acknowledged his presence. The chrome frame lifted into the atmosphere and the pilot set coordinates for the Baldor system.
Eye contact was strictly forbidden with members of the high council. Because Delgado was the highest-ranking official, it seemed a good time to adhere to the obstinate structure of their society. Delgado seated himself at the rear of the craft and crossed his legs. He raised his hands to his shoulder height and closed his eyes, drifting into a state of meditation. The subtle turbulence did not sway the slumbering master from his trance.
Fasen Major was an important asset to Xzin’s empire. After what had transpired today, it seemed as though their controlling interests had been compromised. Nevertheless, Xzin would take over the decaying planet and then, inevitably, the drug trade. Riken Falcone was scum with ties to some of the worst criminals in the known galaxies, but he was undyingly loyal to Xzin.
Meditating, the course to Baldor seemed to take no time at all. The ship landed with a hiss on the platform at Gajying. Delgado strode down the ramp, his robes flowing in the brisk night air, his pale eyes glowing in the darkness.
Xzin’s palace climbed high into the sky as though tempting the gods to enter his home and challenge him. A guard fell into his path and opened the main doors to Xzin’s personal residence. The personal bodyguards of Xzin, warrior women trained by Xzin himself in the mystical arts of Xeon, were marked by yellow robes and embroidered hoods.
There were scores of them throughout the compound, and it was rumored that there were well over a hundred scattered throughout the city at any given time. Their job was to seek out scandals and thieves who would defy their master.
Delgado’s gaunt frame careened through the halls, his head bowed to the ground, oblivious of his surroundings. The grand doors of Xzin’s personal office were propped wide open, and Delgado slowed and eased into the room, not wanting to alarm his sullen master. Xzin sat staring out the window, his back to Delgado.
“What news do you bring me, Delgado?”
“Starhawk made an appearance just as you foresaw, my lord,” replied Delgado, his head bowed in reverence.
Xzin stood for a moment, pondering the appearance of Starhawk. She disturbed him. She was a kink in his rather smooth coil, and he wondered why he had not gone to greater lengths in the first place to deal with her.
“Delgado, alert the Intergalactic Authority to be looking for any suspicious ships within the vicinity of
the Fasen system. We will clip the wings of Starhawk once and for all.”
Xzin turned to meet Delgado’s wary figure and lifted himself from the chair with the ease of a much smaller person. Delgado stood before his master without fear, but gazed at the common floor beneath his feet. Delgado bowed simply and left the room. Any voiced opinion would be foolish to a man as great and powerful as Lord Xzin.
* * * * *
The city of Garefe, the shining capital of the long since squandered State, was once the meeting place of forgotten leaders and slain warriors. The perfect image had forever been altered, the scattered cobblestone and ruined buildings just a reminder of the fall of democracy, the removal of justice, and the unfairness of the cosmic scales.
She could remember the distant, brilliant emerald hills and the cascading mountains that framed the horizon, but now the air was thick and coarse, filled with noxious chemicals and debris of structures long since removed.
Her footsteps seemed loud upon the tattered earth, the slick black boots so distinct in the graveyard of politics. There were no survivors here, only memories; hardened, terrible memories of people who had once been symbols of strength and pillars of justice to the oppressed.
She wistfully remembered the State, once a unity between beings, a council to resolve the issues that plagued all people, all worlds. Her final moments here on Verdule were of little consequence now.
The ancient symbols and decals of the State still adorned her jumpsuit, the UFPS insignia brandished across her right arm. Her muscles coiled beneath the suit and hard lines showed in her face. Thoughts of this fallen place put a great weight upon her heart.
She had been an outcast, a fugitive across the galaxy, yet here she had found someone she wanted to be with. Her life could have been complete here; no more running, and no more hiding.