Across from him, Octo and Winchester continued to debate with the representatives nearest to them. Seeing that part of the room was still arguing on favor of whatever notion they had, the rest of room didn’t wait to figure out who was supposed to have the floor and went back to bickering as well.
53
Lamt-Minor was a purple and gray planet, devoid of water on its surface but with vast underground seas. The air was toxic to every known species of alien except the winged Trimothians, who also couldn’t live there because of the extreme cold that blew across the planet’s surface. A continuous giant white cyclone could be seen from space and covered six percent of Lamt-Minor’s surface, pushing near-freezing winds across every part of the planet. Two or three times a year, the cyclone engulfed the lone colony on the planet. When this happened, the colony, protected by its containment field, was blotted out and became invisible until the storm passed.
The colony of Lamt-Minor had managed to escape every battle of the last millennium. During the Tragic Wars between Emperor Kerkenm and the Three Corners Kingdoms, which had been waged entirely in space around the planets and moons near Lamt-Minor, it had been the one planet to escape being carpet bombed with dark matter explosives. During the Shang Rebellion two centuries later, it was the only planet with a colony in that solar system not to be decimated by solar rockets.
No one would ever know if it was pure chance that Arc-Mi-Die selected that site for his first demonstration or if it satisfied his dark sense of humor to destroy a place that had managed to stay out of harm’s way through every other galactic conflict.
The giant ship that lumbered toward Lamt-Minor didn’t set off any sensors as it entered the sector. If it had, a squadron of Llyushin fighters, Thunderbolts, or Havoc spacejets could have been dispatched to intercept it. The only reason anyone on Lamt-Minor knew it was approaching was that it finally got so close to entering the planet’s atmosphere that it became visible to the naked eye.
Even then, however, people on the peaceful colony assumed it was an approaching transport delivering goods from another part of the galaxy. It was only when the vessel was halfway through the planet’s skyline on its way to the colony that the few people who were paying attention to it realized what kind of ship it was.
It wasn’t a transport ship. It wasn’t a cargo carrier. It wasn’t even a flagship of the Round Table. It was one of the legendary Excalibur Armada vessels.
Moments later, the Excalibur ship flew through the nearly transparent containment field that acted as a protective shell for everyone living inside it. A few seconds after that, the Excalibur ship detonated, destroying every building, home, and life on Lamt-Minor.
Art 4
Lamt-Minor, by Tim Barton, digital art
54
The third time Julian awoke in Lancelot’s chamber and heard the familiar hum of the medical bots, he groaned. One bot was at his right wrist. The other two were at his left wrist.
Lancelot’s voice came from behind him. “They were able to repair your right hand with no problem. The left had too much damage, I’m afraid.”
Remembering how the Carthagen had sliced off both of his hands, Julian looked down to see what Lancelot was talking about. A visible line of pale scar tissue ran all the way around his right wrist where his hand had been reattached. Other than that, it seemed normal. Even though Julian could move his fingers, the bot continued to run scans of the wrist and palm.
At first glance, his left hand appeared the same. But upon closer inspection, it wasn’t his hand at all. It was a bio-replacement. The flesh looked rubbery, like a wax recreation with a faint blue tinge. It smelled of chemicals, although Julian wasn’t sure if it was the material that the hand was made of or some substance the bots had used.
Other than that, it seemed like a normal human hand. If he ever did get out of the tunnels and return home, he was at least thankful he wouldn’t have a large-knuckled, four-fingered prosthetic Carthagen hand. The doctors would have to take it off and repeat everything the medical bots were doing so he could have a regular human hand.
“They took a scan of your other hand to make the replacement,” Lancelot said, sounding uninterested. “It will probably be a more advanced replacement than what your own doctors would be capable of.” Then, as if noticing something unpleasant, added, “Fret not, the odor will dissipate.”
Julian looked down once more at his left hand. The scars that he had gotten when he was sixteen and fulfilling a stupid childhood dare with some friends were gone. Instead, the outside of his hand had a round scar, the size of a coin, from a disease he had been afflicted with as a baby. It was there because that same scar was on his right hand, where it had been since the age of two, and the bots had made a perfect mirror-image copy of it.
The fingers of his right hand twitched even as the medical bot finished working on it. The fingers on his left hand, though, were dead even when he tried to make them move.
Lancelot saw the look of strained concentration on his face. “If you moved your hand now, you could cause more damage. To prevent that from happening, the medical bots do not connect the neural leads until the very end. Then you will be able to use the hand as before.”
“Then we can do battle again,” Julian said, no enthusiasm in his voice, not bothering to turn his head to look at Lancelot.
“I gave you a shot at redeeming yourself. It was...” Lancelot paused, trying to come up with the appropriate word. “Disappointing.”
“If I was younger, if I was my son’s age, I’d make quick work of you.”
“No you wouldn’t,” Lancelot said quietly, and Julian could only frown, knowing it was probably true.
“If I had four arms and four weapons,” he said. “Two of which were Meursault blades.”
Lancelot gave a soft chuckle. “Maybe, old man. Maybe. That is a lot of ifs, though.”
“Where did you get them?” Julian asked, nodding to the Meursault handles sticking out from their guards behind Lancelot’s back. “There aren’t many in the galaxy.”
“Seven to be exact,” Lancelot said. “The top two Carthagen warriors each used to have one. My very first challenge was to the second highest warrior. Even with his Meursault and three other weapons, I defeated him in seconds.”
Lancelot glanced at the opposite side of his chamber, nodded as if acknowledging someone, then looked back at Julian. Something about this triggered Julian’s memory. While sedated, he had experienced the same dreams as before. The only difference was that he had a better memory of them this time. They weren’t nightmares at all. Someone was trying to tell him something important. The feeling that had come over him during the episode gave him the impression that it wasn’t even a dream, but some kind of conversation that had occurred in another time and place.
Lancelot paused, noticing something in Julian’s expression. Instead of acknowledging it, the Carthagen said, “That was the only time one of the other warriors had a real shot of beating me. I had trained for combat but there is a big difference between sparring and an actual fight. After I won, I was given his Meursault and also took his spot as the second-ranked Carthagen warrior. Of course, during the next challenge I went against the best fighter. It did not last ten seconds. Still, the Dauphin would not award me his Meursault because the tradition was that the top two fighters each carried one. I challenged the fighter again even though I was now the top-ranked, and I beat him worse than the previous time. After that, I could no longer beat him any faster, so I began to inflict greater and more severe injuries each time we dueled. Finally, he offered to give me the second Meursault if I would only stop thrashing him. I have been in possession of both ever since.”
Lancelot turned to his side and nodded again, then added, “I have also been the Carthagen’s top warrior since then. I do not remember the last time a bout lasted longer than thirty seconds.”
Beside him, the medical bots beeped to each other, then began running a series of scans on Julian’s forearm
.
“Where did they come from originally?”
“I think one was part of the Carthagen civilization from even before the plague. The other, I believe, they got from a traveler who did not heed their warnings to keep out of Orleans.”
“You think? You don’t know?”
Lancelot shrugged. “Every part of the Carthagen warrior’s life is compartmentalized. The only other Carthagens I see are the ones I fight with, as well as the three Dauphin.”
“Tell me about the Dauphin,” Julian said a little too eagerly, which made Lancelot laugh.
“You still think you’ll get out of here? You still think you can either convert the Carthagens or kill them? How easily you forget, or just willfully ignore, the situation you are in.” Then, as an afterthought, Lancelot added, “And the situation your soldiers are in as well.”
“Are they alive?”
“Some of them.”
“And the others?” He hated himself for letting the enemy know how important it was that he know.
Lancelot chuckled. “And the others are not.”
“My son...” Julian said, letting his head fall back down on the blanket underneath him.
“Why would you ever think it was a good idea to bring your son across the galaxy while you conquer everything in your path?”
“I told you, we aren’t conquerors, we just—”
“Yes, yes,” Lancelot said, waving a hand dismissively. “You told me. You aren’t conquering, you are simply forcing every colony, planet, and civilization in your path to join you, or else.”
Julian lifted his head off the blanket and opened his mouth to say something. Then, without uttering a word, he frowned and let his head rest on the blanket again. In a way, he was glad Lancelot had interrupted because only after he was a prisoner of the Carthagens—some of his forces dead and others lost—did he realize he had no idea why he had ever thought it would be a good idea to bring Talbot with him.
He had wanted Talbot to follow in his footsteps and for the two of them to develop a bond that could never be broken. What he now realized was that it was his fault, as the boy’s father, for not having developed that relationship earlier. Where was he when Talbot was a child? Why hadn’t they formed memories that could never be forgotten back when he was a new parent and Talbot was curious and active? The only answer, which he hated to accept but knew was true, was that it had been because he was away so much. Away on missions in different sectors. Away defending a colony from space pirates. Away helping to rebuild a planet after a warlord’s defeat.
That was when he should have been a part of Talbot’s life, not once his son was already a young man who had graduated from the academy. If he didn’t realize that and he had missed that time, that was his burden to bear. But instead he had forced it upon Talbot for no good reason. Margaret seemed to have managed fine without her husband. It was now painfully obvious his son would have done much better without him as well. Bringing him along on the largest campaign in recent galactic history now seemed utterly foolish.
Without realizing he had even done so, he groaned once more. With his eyes closed, he forced his breathing to slow. He would never convince Lancelot to let him go if he lost control of his emotions. But the calmer Julian became, the more clearly he recalled his latest dream. He heard the voices warning him of… something. But what? His eyes opened and the voices immediately faded to nothing.
For the third time, Lancelot had turned to look at an empty part of the room. Someone was there. Someone Lancelot could see but Julian could not.
“Another Carthagen trick?” he asked.
There was an audible smile in Lancelot’s voice when he said, “Not quite. We make asteroids appear and disappear, not people.”
“Is there someone else here?”
A light blinked above Lancelot’s door. The four-legged warrior ignored Julian’s question, got to his feet, then flexed all of his arms.
On his way out of the room, Lancelot said over his shoulder, “In a sense, yes. In another sense, no.”
Then he was gone and the rock wall slid shut again behind him.
55
Having been summoned to the Dauphin’s chamber again, Lancelot could still feel Mortimous’ presence as he made his way through the tunnels. The robed visitor had been appearing more often, and each time he did, Lancelot found himself unable to answer the questions that were posed of him.
“What do you want?” the Carthagen warrior snapped—silently, of course, so as to not alert anyone else who might be watching or listening.
“What do you want?” Mortimous had replied, and once again Lancelot found himself regretting having spoken, just as he regretted the muted conversation a minute earlier while Julian was being attended to.
Following a series of dark stone tunnels, Lancelot appeared at the door to the elders. The stone slab slid aside and Lancelot stepped forward into the Dauphin’s chamber. The three elders stood in the same place as always, each facing their best warrior as he passed through the doorway. The rock door slid closed behind him.
When Lancelot had taken his place in the middle of the chamber, the third Dauphin began to speak. “Tell us, why are the invaders still alive?”
“Tell me how this will end,” the warrior replied.
The elders gave a low hiss even though they must have grown accustomed to Lancelot’s increasing displays of insubordination. All three Dauphin stared back, refusing to speak.
“I told you before,” Lancelot said, “If we kill them, more will arrive. I can kill legions of invaders funneling into the caves, but my lances won’t reach all the way out to space and destroy their great vessels.”
“If you don’t kill the invaders in the tunnels, then what?”
“I don’t know. That’s what I need you to tell me.” There was no sarcasm or defiance in his voice. His tone was one of dejection, and he had no doubt Mortimous would point this out the next time they spoke.
“Lancelot,” the middle Dauphin said, composed and no longer seeming upset. “Our entire species was nearly wiped out by invading outsiders. You are right that more will arrive if we defeat these. But it is also true that we must fight for our very survival. Each day, on each asteroid we move to, we must continue to struggle. That is the existence the galaxy has determined for us.”
So that was it. The Dauphin wanted him to kill these people and all the ones who would arrive after that. And any subsequent ones after those, of which there would be many. All of them, Lancelot and the Dauphin, understood they were defying the united forces of what had been dozens of kingdoms. The Round Table would never run out of ships to send. No matter how great a warrior Lancelot was, the Carthagens would eventually lose. If they didn’t fight, they would likely also die.
From behind him, on the opposite side of the room from where the Dauphin stood, a human voice asked, “What will you do, Lancelot?”
The warrior ignored it and remained focused on the elders.
“I will deal with the invaders when I’m ready,” Lancelot told them.
The three Dauphin stared at their best warrior for a few seconds, focusing on Lancelot’s helmet as if trying to see something that would help them understand him. Their throats moved in and out even though they didn’t speak.
The first Dauphin said, “We have turned the task over to Swordnew. He is dealing with them now.”
A variety of ideas came to Lancelot at that moment. He knew he had earned the right to be in command of the other Carthagen warriors. He considered telling them that he had the invaders’ leader and might somehow be able to negotiate an end to all of this. He thought about dashing out of the chamber and finding Swordnew and teaching him the ultimate lesson—of life and death. Although the thought repulsed him, he even imagined crossing the chamber and killing all three Dauphin where they stood. It would be quick and painless. The Carthagen people could finally think for themselves rather than have the three elders make every decision for them.
Ins
tead, he turned in silence and left the room.
On his way out, he heard Mortimous ask again, “What will you do, Lancelot?”
Again, he had no answer.
56
CAB suits were incredible feats of military engineering. They were able to isolate both of the extreme temperature weapon casings within feet of each other without either reacting to the other and causing a catastrophic failure of the suit. The result was that Lieutenant Theta was able to point the right arm of his CAB down one direction of tunnel and launch a solar missile, then point his left arm in the other direction of the tunnel and launch a sub-zero grenade.
These thermal weapons went well beyond any obsolete notion of extreme heat or cold. The heat expelled from a solar missile wasn’t a flame and a sub-zero grenade didn’t discharge some kind of weaponized ice—they were both much more sophisticated than that.
A small burst of fire did erupt from the end of Lieutenant Theta’s arm, but it was nothing like old-fashioned flamethrowers. Instead, the flash merely signaled that the missile had been launched. The real destruction came when the projectile hit its target and erupted. Rather than engulf something in mere fire, which all space armor was resistant to, the solar missile caused an explosion roughly twenty feet in diameter. The blast released a split-second burst of heat equal to the temperature at the outer edge of many suns—millions of degrees Fahrenheit. Almost anything near the explosion was vaporized.
Likewise, the sub-zero grenade didn’t spray ice across its explosive radius. Space armor, after all, was designed to withstand temperatures below minus 300 degrees Fahrenheit because they had to be able to function in outer space. Ordinary ice weapons would have little effect. Rather, the sub-zero grenades expelled a gelatinous substance that was minus 458 degrees, almost equal to absolute zero. The blasts caused most electronics to fail and even the most hardened suit of armor to crack and crumble.
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