"Yeah, she gets cranky."
They laughed.
"Cranky! She gets downright miserable!"
Each of them suppressed transmission over the Par, knowing Gem's moody response could carry repercussions. The smile disappeared from Aviore's face quickly. Her voice turned solemn, and eyes dwindled to the floor. "When do we start heading toward Xilo?"
"Within the next few hours, we're almost ready."
She lowered the lift, bringing it down a few inches from Ryan. "Why do you have to make that bomb run yourself, why not let someone else do it instead?"
"Aviore, are you familiar with the term Genocide?"
She nodded, "Yes, of course - the deliberate extermination of a race of people. I know what it means."
"The missile aboard the Dancing Queen – you know that's what it's capable of. I was the one elected to do this from the beginning. It's my destiny, no one else's."
"And when you get there and fulfill your role as the grim reaper, do think you're prepared to live with that action?"
"Do I have a choice? I don't see any right now. Besides, if I don't fire the missile, one of the three Nubok captains will. They’ll be positioned and waiting."
"Then let them do it." She wrapped her arms around him, squeezing him with all her strength. "Don't leave me, Ryan."
"You gotta understand, I must do this myself and I will not have you along. I'll be in the very heart of Xi-Empire controlled space. I don't want you to take that risk. It's just too dangerous."
"So what! Everything we do is dangerous!" she yelled.
"Look," Ryan said, exasperated. "The plan is tentative, anyway. You never know, things may change in the next few weeks."
Things did.
* * *
17. Legacy
T he Purist fleet approached the Xilo system from multiple vectors. They closed in on their enemy with a reckless abandonment, carrying with them trophies of past battles they had collected along the way. They were too eager, too zealous, blinded by their own overconfidence.
The Zigot fleet was ready for them, in numbers that exceeded the Purists most pessimistic estimates. Zorlog ordered the fleet to hold, but his Zuvoks saw blood and they would not stop.
Xilo, defended like no other, was in many accounts, invincible. Generations of paranoid Xi-Empire administrators had seen to that. Zigot League cruisers were positioned around the planet, each well within the cover of the planetary defenses. Any attacking cruisers that ventured too close would meet a quick end by planetary-sourced fire. Inversely, any smaller destroyer-class ships that were capable of out-maneuvering the formidable blasts were easy prey for orbiting cruisers.
Xilo’s moons were fortified with multiple defense stations, protecting not only the planet but a vast underground network of starship bays, storing tens of thousands of war vessels.
When the first wave of the Purist fleet attacked, League squadrons swept up from the planet and drilled through their formations, forcing them into the line of planetary defense cannon, which blasted volleys from the surface and systematically destroyed them with veritable ease.
As the remains of the first wave climbed desperately out of the range. Secondary sentries dispatched from Xilo’s moons, chasing down the escaping ships, bathing them in deadly streams of plasma, effectively reducing their numbers even further.
Zorlog, sick with the loss, incensed with frustration and rage, recalled his divisions repeatedly. Finally, after realizing their strategy was failing miserably, the Zuvoks heeded his orders, and the Purists retreated. Luckily for them, the Zigot League armada did not pursue. The Emperor was not about to risk his hold on the capital planet.
The fleet reassembled in a safe orbit from Xilo. Zorlog called for his Zuvoks, then proceeded to execute his rogue officers, enraged into a state of madness. The message he put forth carried throughout the fleet in the color of blood - he was in command, no other, and he expected absolute obedience.
His newly promoted Zuvoks began a detailed process of examining the Xilo’s defenses. Probes were deployed to perform reconnaissance, although not all returned successfully. The information retrieved was sufficient to expose the true gravity of the challenge. Vital facts were uncovered. With every new piece of information, a new strategy began to form. Thousands of simulations were run, each branching into thousands of permutations of scenarios. It took time, but a substantial attack plan began to take shape – one that could defeat the impressive defenses.
Many sadii had passed before Zorlog called upon his Zuvoks again, who were by now growing impatient and irritated. They joined him on the bridge of his cruiser and watched with skepticism as the images of a virtual battle unfolded on the tactical holograph display.
Zorlog's new plan was brilliant. Every weakness exploited, nothing missed. The model played out to end with the Purists' victory. As the holograph faded into darkness, the crowd shuffled uneasily. It was not the complex movement of squadrons or the timing of simultaneous maneuvers that bothered them. It was the foundation of the plan itself. The key to victory was disabling the planetary defensive grid. Zorlog's solution called for a squadron of over 50 specially modified ships to penetrate the defenses at full acroluc and target the key offensive bases on Xilo. Such a bold attack required tricky maneuvering and decision making that would defy any standard evasive logic built into a ship's guidance system. As such, actual pilots were needed. Statistics that had been calculated to demonstrate auto-guided vessels’ success rates were at best, minimal. Piloted vessels fared better, yet even then, it was doubtful that only a lucky few would manage to infiltrate the defensive grid. It was clear that once beyond the reach of the long-range defenses, and moving at such acceleration, the attacking ship would never decelerate in time to avoid collision with their impending target. Whoever was at the helm of these ships would be on a suicide mission.
Zorlog called for volunteers.
Who would lead such a defiant attack?
None stepped forward.
The quiet, which permeated the room, was flooded with the raging growls of the Purist Commander. He tore into the group, preaching his Purist message, cursing their cowardice, insulting their character. His followers hung their heads. Others made the bold decision to leave the room, abandoning their rank - and their loyalties.
Still, none stepped forward.
Zorlog looked over each officer. His eyes fell on the one loyal officer he had left.
"Gulin!"
His Charvok stepped forward with an audible swallow that echoed in the quieted room like sharp rap on a tin can.
"Gulin, there are none here that are worthy, or brave enough, to lead such a glorious attack. None but you. I ask you now: Will you be the leader that is absent within this room? Will you bring us to victory?"
Gulin's two hearts pounded in his chest. His eyes watered from the stress on his nerves. He had to make a decision. He glanced back at his peers. They were a tough, hard lot. Many years he had tried to gain their respect, to prove he could command. They had all scoffed at him, and their jeers had leadened his spirit. Their faces carried another look before him now, not that hateful aversion. He saw in them an unfamiliar, yet pleasing emotion - fear.
Yet he was not afraid.
He hated the Txtians more than any of them, possibly more than Zorlog himself. He had watched League troopers kill and torture his family, had felt the pain of the mind-twist so often it left a persistent ringing in his ears to this day. He was, and would forever be, a Purist!
His gaze focused back upon his leader, the only Zuvok who had given him a chance. Strangely though, he did not see the face of Zorlog, what he saw was the pained image of Brock, his severed arm held tucked under his vest. Brock’s words rang in his ears, sharp, chilling, echoing again and again: "He'll be the death of us all."
"Well?" asked Zorlog impatiently.
The image vanished, metamorphosing into the sharp, threatening figure of Zorlog. The Zuvok's burning gaze inflicted within him only raw a
musement. Gulin understood clearly now, and he stood proud because he was a Purist.
"I will lead your mission," he snarled back.
"Very impressive," Zorlog announced, ever so slightly breathing out a sigh of relief. "You are indeed an exceptional Charvok."
Gulin shrugged the compliment off like water. "I am a Purist."
Zorlog's eyes seemed to dance an evil dance as they glared back at his crew. Few had the grit to face him down. He curled his lips into a satisfied grin. His amusement was fleeting, for around it ebbed the eternal flow of insecurity, and for a second, Zorlog's control deteriorated. His eyes twitched, his snarl cracked, darkness flooded into his mind as the thoughts of death exploded in a thousand painful screams.
Only Gulin noticed the change. Saw Zorlog's true self, exposed for only a brief moment. His Karvok’s sanity was no longer a question. Deceptively and masterfully Zorlog pulled himself together. His harsh, fiercely determined composure returned readily enough. He barked his orders.
"Charvok Gulin, I hereby pronounce you the station of Zuvok. Collect your squadron pilots. If none volunteer, then you will choose them."
Gulin nodded, appreciating the promotion, however briefly it would last.
“Then it is time to prepare, I call on my Zuvoks to perform this plan. Begin coordinating your vessels, position your ships and prepare your teams. We will initiate our attack once all is prepared.”
The gathering broke up. Each Zuvok left for his command, and each division began to prepare for the final attack. It took almost two sadii to modify the smallest of the fleet's ships for the Xilo runs. Zorlog allowed Gulin complete control over the mission and maintained his distance.
Gulin enjoyed his newfound authority, but still supervised the ship modifications personally. They were loaded with the extra missiles necessary to do the intended damage. Each vessel was stripped of all extra weight, including the life support systems, leaving only enough air for a few radii.
When the time came to draft the volunteers, more than the required stepped forward to be at his side. Gulin was surprised at this.
Why so many? Do they all wish to die so readily for the Purist cause?
As he walked the line, he came to the decision that his understanding why was not important. He felt relieved that he did not have to choose reluctant volunteers. He reviewed each trooper critically. They all carried the same look of determination. It made him proud to stand there with them all, each a Xilozak brother.
The ship's colors were painted red and yellow, the hues of fire, and the name of each pilot was distinctively painted along the fuselage in bright gold letters.
As the day of launch arrived, Avoks and Zuvoks alike filled the bay as the line of pilots marched out. They were all holding a crisp salute as a sign of silent respect. Gulin kept the line tight, and they returned the salute with sharp precision. They maintained that line of precision as each ship taxied out of the bay, the pilots demonstrating their best skills. Gulin’s chest was full of pride as he brought the last ship out into formation.
Zorlog stood on the bridge of the mighty cruiser Kirbetz He scanned the bridge, acknowledging the intense, excited features of his Avoks, and gave a short, curt nod to each of the Zuvok’s projected image.
They were all ready, waiting for his signal.
He grabbed his disrupter bar and activated it. Blue currents of electricity danced off onto the floor and bulkheads in blue sinewy webs. He raised it high and swung it down in a chopping motion, accompanying a growl thick with emotion, "ATTACK!"
* * *
The Galactic Alliance, which included the Freedom and a growing division of fleet ships, had followed the Purists fleet’s steady devastation as they fought through to the heart of the Xilo system. They stayed behind enough as to not raise suspicion, out of range of the Purists’ deep tracing scans. More than once they had passed by a destroyed Xi-base or through the regions of drifting remnants of warships. More than once they had met up with a fleeing Zigot vessel or a small Purist patrol, and each time, with the help of the Nubok scouts, they tracked and incinerated them before they could communicate back.
The Commander insisted all the crew remain at full alert and ensured they all stayed sharp during the long quiet times of drudgery through constant drills and exercises. The crew did not complain as it helped counter the mounting tension. The war was now centered at the Xilo system and the Alliance divisions were closing the envelope on any Xi-Empire remnants.
Ryan was inspecting training certifications for new trainee's when the notification came down of the impending Purists attack. He was on the bridge in minutes. The Nubok relays revealed the undeniable truth. Zorlog’s forces were moving into position.
Xilo was now completely surrounded by thousands of warships. Each specifically positioned for a planned attack objective. Xilo defense ships were scurrying to adjust. But they were waiting for something. The fireworks had not started yet.
Ryan was not going to wait, as they had to move to final preparedness. He gave the order. They all knew what to do. All hands to battle stations. All ships systems switched over to energy conservation mode. Fusion generator fuel supplies were carefully adjusted.
McClary, Captain of a divisional command ship, signaled the first ‘ready’ over the com channel. The others followed through just as quickly.
Ryan quietly watched the Xi-Empire battle progress on the tactical. Aviore arrived shortly, laying a gentle hand upon his shoulder.
"Kanook, you have the bridge." The Indian nodded acknowledgment, uttering not a word, eyes focused on the tactical.
The door to the officer's briefing room slid shut with a deafening silence. Aviore moved into his arms. They held each other for a long time.
"Seems like we've been here before," he said. "A long time ago, in a slavership. Only this time it's my turn to go."
There were tears in her eyes when he looked down into them.
"Don't," she asked him softly, "please, give this to someone else."
The scar on his forehead throbbed, as it often did when he was worried or nervous. It brought back the memories and the pain. He remembered the death of Xeronia and the promise he made to Tsaurau's child.
"I'm sorry, Aviore. I have no choice." He kissed her passionately, pulled her close. Her arms wrapped around him tightly, body trembling.
Then he pulled away. In a moment he was moving toward the shuttle entrance, away from her. He turned for one last look as he passed through the open doors. She was standing there, in the soft light. Her hair was long and glistening, her cheeks wet from tears. He held his hand on the edge of the door, to stop it from closing.
"I love you," he said.
He dropped his hand and the door closed with a hiss. Once again, he closed his eyes and committed her image to memory.
As the turbo-lift rushed down through the core of the ship, he noticed the weight on his chest did not cease with the surge of acceleration. His heart beat an erratic rhythm with the little shuttle as it flew along. The pain helped clear his mind. He closed his eyes, mentally pulling his body back under command. His heart rate slowed and its rhythm resumed a normal beat. The anguish inside him subsided.
But then, a cold fire began to burn through his veins, starting from his closed fists, migrating up into his chest and back through to his extremities. The strength surged as molten iron, encompassing his body and his memories to feed on the fire of hate.
Today Zorlog was going to die.
He gave little more than passing attention to the group of trainees saluting him as he marched out to his ship. At the top of the ramp, he returned the salute with mechanical indifference, then stepped into the Dancing Queen. She was waiting for him, her systems linked with his mind in a flood of intimate connections. He eased back into the pilot's seat and closed his eyes. He could feel the ship close up around him. He acquired a second heartbeat, felt the humid air of the bay outside, sensed the warmth of the burners softly glowing.
In an i
nstant, he reviewed the ship's systems as he began taxiing the Queen out of the docking area.
"Gem, is the missile ready?"
"Standing ready in the launch tube. All its systems have been checked."
The Dancing Queen departed from the bay and left the Freedom behind. McClary's division fell into his wake as he pointed the ship on course and accelerated towards Xilo. They would not be alone when they arrived. The other five divisions of the Galactic Alliance were converging. They were hours away from reaching the capital planet. It should be enough time for the victor to claim his prize, be it either Purist or Zigot.
Ryan continued to monitor the battle on his tactical by tapping into the Freedom's relay. With Xilo in sight, he saw a small squadron detach and position themselves out of range from the skirmish. Ryan was intrigued, ran through a mental investigation of what their purpose was. When realization settled in, he knew Zorlog was going to win.
A message was passed back from YushTar's and Gor's fleet: They were in position and ready. Ryan ordered them to maintain their distance and wait. They could not get too close, but when they did strike, they all had to coordinate as one. He could only hope they wouldn't arrive too late.
* * *
Every division was engaging, firing an unending staccato of plasma against the main defenses. He watched his plan unfurl with detailed precision, and laughed when a destroyer took out a primary Xilo communications relay.
The League responded by dispatching squadrons of fighters from the moon bases, swarming in to dissuade the Purist attackers, but Zorlog had multiple divisions at play and had predicted this countermove. As the fighters closed in to intercept, divisions swept in from the rear, drawing the battle back to the surface of Xilo’s moons, and back into the vast underground networks.
A smile curled on Zorlog’s lips exposing his fangs.
“Advance the destroyers,” he ordered.
Hundreds of heavy destroyers moved in under the blanket of fire, their shields pummeled incessantly from below. Knowing they could not take this punishment for long, they quickly unloaded their missiles, depleting their ordinance in minutes.
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