Constant

by Lexi Ander

  His private comm-link beeped. “Azaes, I—”

  “I am not your brother, who sees nothing wrong with you traipsing through a Terren battlecruiser when you should be manning Ares Command Center.” Mestor’s scales tightened painfully upon hearing Meme’s voice. Everyone knew to be extremely wary when Empress Ashari spoke in a light and airy tone, as if she did not have a problem in all the oceans.

  “Meme!” On the other hand, Mestor sounded as if he were merely ten summers old. He cleared his throat. “How fares Medusa’s battle?”

  “The Feteine have already joined us, which you would know if you were where you were supposed to be. The last battlecruiser is dead in the water. The boarding parties report the ships are swarming with V’Saar. Imagine my surprise when I reached out to Ares Command Center with this intel and spoke to Warlord Aspasia instead of my son.”

  “I am not impulsive like Zeus,” Mestor replied with more heat in his voice than he intended. “I can coordinate my team without being in the thick of battle myself.”

  “My youngest learned his habit of leading from his older brothers. He has looked up to you two since before he learned to walk,” she admonished, but he heard the soft affection in her voice.

  Mestor smiled fondly remembering Zeus at five mimicking everything he and Azaes did. “Go splash water in Azaes’ direction. I have always been the most sensible bull in the palace.” His meme hissed. “Other than Father,” he quickly added.

  “As much as I wish, I cannot linger. We are readying to meet the Feteine leaders on this downed battlecruiser. Together we will question the captured V’Saar.”

  “And you wonder where Azaes gets his—”

  “Say again?” Her hiss-click of anger had him scrambling to cover his snark.

  “Be safe, Meme. Azaes and I look forward to seeing you planet-side.”

  “I expect you to attend me, youngling of mine, after we rendezvous with your father.” Mestor squeezed his eyes shut. His meme was going to hand him his tail later. So much for asking for forgiveness.

  Resigned to his fate, but secretly hoping one of his brothers drew her wrath before he arrived, distracting her from his choices, he bid her farewell in the old tongue. “May the tears of sorrow be that of your enemies.”

  As soon as he signed off, he relayed the intel about the V’Saar. The scout team Zian accompanied checked in. “Warlord Mestor. We have found something you will want to see. We have located the humans. Possibly all of them.”

  After contacting the other scout teams and commanding them to hold their positions, he relayed the information to Team Deimos and Ares Command Center. Gathering what remained of his cohort, they carefully traversed the stark metal corridors in tight formation. Mestor was surprised at how far the scout team had gotten without meeting any kind of resistance. The lack of activity made him itch with tension, the muscles along his spine and tail aching.

  Zian and the scouts waited in the middle of the corridor. At the far end, two lookouts were setup where the corridor ended at a T intersection. When Zian noticed Mestor, he raised his hand. “Warlord Mestor.”

  Stopping next to Zian, he took in the large terminal on the wall. The vidscreen was filled with humans on their knees, fingers laced behind their heads, waiting.

  “They have not moved since we have been watching them,” Zian said. Mestor could not gauge Zian’s emotions, if he felt any, toward the humans.

  “Where are they?” Mestor asked, wondering if this was a trap.

  “Behind these blast doors.” Zian indicated the panels next to the terminal.

  As Mestor contemplated whether to confront the humans or lock them in the room for the time being, Warlord Zachaios came over the comm. “Ares Command, this is Team Deimos. Our scouts in three directions are retreating ahead of V’Saar. The enemy head count is unknown. I am moving my squads to a more defensible location.”

  “Deimos, this is Ares Command Center. Proceed with extreme caution. We are sending backup teams Enyo and Aita to you and Team Phobos.”

  “Copy that,” Mestor replied after Warlord Zachaios.

  “Warlord Mestor,” called the lookouts at the end of the corridor. “Forward scouts have sighted V’Saar on these routes in both directions. What are your orders?”

  He relayed the information to Ares Command Center, then set his team in defensive positions as he waited for confirmation that the V’Saar were not advancing. It almost seemed as if the bugs waited for orders.

  “Pri—Warlord Mestor,” Zian called his attention back to the vidscreen. A human in a uniform different from the kneeling soldiers stood before the camera, his hands clasped behind his back. His short, salt and pepper hair was mostly covered by a cap bearing four silver stars.

  Over the course of the last moon, Mestor had reviewed many pictures of Terrens but this was the first time he had seen one this close. The foolish people who thought Zeus human would rethink their stance if ever confront with a real Terren. When compared, Zeus’s appearance was extraordinary, from his flawless alabaster skin to his silver eyes to the iridescent blue streaks in his black hair. In contrast, this man was dull. The officer’s skin was not only pale but pasty, as if he was missing a nutrient in his diet. His hair seemed to bristle with coarseness, and his eyes were an earthy brown. What Mestor saw only affirmed he would bloody any who claimed Zeus was anything other than Mar’Sani. Fools.

  He pulled away from those particular thoughts. “Is there a way for me to speak to him?” he asked.

  Zian nodded. “I have routed their comms to Ares Command Center.”

  Grimly, he reached out to Warlord Aspasia. “Ares Command Center, patch the Terrens through to me please.”

  “Phobos, you have access in three… two… one…”

  “This is Warlord Mestor Vondorian of the Atlaintician starship The Gorgon.” The officer startled but quickly reclaimed his rigid stance. “Your vessel has been boarded and claimed by Prince Azaes Vondorian until the arrival of the Galactic Imperial Patrol. Will you surrender to us?”

  When he paused, the officer gestured to something offscreen. “I’m General Ross Peters of the battlecruiser Dynasty. We voluntarily surrender and request asylum with the Atlaintician people.”

  Well. That was unexpected.

  “Ares Command Center, I need Prince Azaes.”

  As if Azaes was manning the Center himself, the reply was immediate. “Warlord Mestor, can you confirm the sincerity of General Ross Peters?”

  Mestor addressed the general. “And the Commander of your fleet. Where is he?”

  General Peters’ features twisted in disdain. From behind him another officer, gagged with his hands and feet tied behind his back, was brought before the camera. “Warlord Mestor, I will not only make Commander Ji Huang-Fu give the order for the fleet to surrender, I will persuade him to tell you anything you want as long as you protect my men from those fucking V’Saar.”

  No sooner had Azaes agreed, than the General ripped the tape from the Commander’s mouth. “I will have your rank for this, General Peters. I will see your whole family working in the camps!”

  “Issue the surrender!” General Peters said with steely calm, accepting a pair of metal snips from another soldier.

  The commander’s eyes were riveted to the tool. “You would not dare!”

  “I would dare much to save my men from becoming part of a V’Saar buffet. Now, you can either give the order or I can remove each one of your fingers until you do.” General Peters expression was cold, and Mestor wondered if the man would truly harm his superior to get what he wanted.

  Commander Ji Huang-Fu struggled against his bonds as the general moved to his side. The commander made wounded noises even though the general had yet to do anything. The Monticore looking on bared their teeth, amazed at the show of weakness from a supposed leader.

  “All right! I’ll do it! Just do not touch me with those.” When Commander Ji Huang-Fu gave the order to surrender, he did not sound as if he was under any dures
s. Ares Command took the recording and broadcast it over the Terrens’ military comms.

  “What do you know of the V’Saar on this vessel?” Mestor asked General Peters through the comms. “They seem to be reluctant to attack us.”

  Upon hearing that the general grinned evilly. “Before we locked ourselves in the barracks, a few of my men gave their lives to eliminate the V’Saar leader. We learned that once the V’Saar’s chain of command is broken, it takes time for them to establish a new leader since they have to fight each other for the honor, which they are doing now.” The general snorted and then spat a gelatinous wad of green goop onto the floor. Was he sick or perhaps that was a gesture of disgust? No matter, Mestor would have the medical run additional tests on him. “The main V’Saar force will not take individual action until their new commander gives them orders.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Mestor

  * * *

  While Azaes questioned the general over the comms about the V’Saar numbers, Team Deimos reported that the V’Saar simply followed them, not attacking as anticipated. At the same time, the sentries posted at the intersection sighted V’Saar. The Monticore opened a path for Mestor as he headed for the T-section. Sure enough, the V’Saar were hovering just outside weapon’s range in both directions.

  These V’Saar were similar to the ambassadors who accompanied the Feteine from Qestaire but were not the same. The ambassadors were larger, their segmented bodies shaped differently, and the ambassadors called themselves S’aae—leaders—and identified the main fighters as T’yrdo.

  The T’yrdo had a thick, armored carapace covering most of their body and a scorpion-like tail that arched over their backs. A rather large head sat on a deceptively spindly neck. The oblong faces had three pairs of unblinking eyes that stared back at Mestor. Rubbery lips pulled back, showcasing the razor-sharp teeth of their extendable lower jaw. The four arm-like appendages clacked together, and four thick legs tapped on the floor, both actions telegraphing their agitation. The movements quickened to a cacophony when Mestor stepped into the middle of the hallway.

  If they could not make a decision without a leader, a S’aae, to guide them, would they defend themselves? How many S’aae were on board and how long would it take them to sort out a new hierarchy of command?

  “What are your thoughts?” Zian asked coming to stand next to him.

  Mestor would have replied, but he was not sure what languages the V’Saar could understand. The ambassadors had spoken Galactic Standard, so Mestor was suspicious. How did a being that had recently passed through the grid become proficient in a language they had not encountered before?

  His guard moved to follow him, but he shot them a look that pinned them in place. Their tails swished with agitation. He signed to the Monticore, then silently bid Zian to wait before he strode to the milling V’Saar. He clenched his teeth on a hiss when his guard followed him despite his order to stay. He forced himself to concentrate on the V’Saar.

  “Do you surrender to me?” He drew his sonic sword, never taking his gaze from the enemy. There were some twenty he could see before the corridor turned left sharply. He would never understand the humans’ use of hard angles, giving their enemies easy places to hide and defend.

  “Never,” said the V’Saar directly before him. The grating clacking of its voice causing him to want to rub his earhole.

  Without another word, Mestor used the sonic sword to cut off its head. His guard swarmed around him. Those who had watched silently from the intersection erupted in exclamations of concern. He ignored the disruption, carefully watching the remaining V’Saar clogging the corridor. Their hard-shelled feet tapped out agitated beats, but they did not attack. Excitement rushed through him, and he retreated to the intersection. Activating the comm-link, he relayed the information to Warlord Zachaios as well as Ares Commander Center.

  “Split into two companies,” he ordered his team leads. “One come with me down the right-hand corridor. Zian, go with the second company down the opposite tunnel.”

  The teams were quick to comply. Mestor signaled his team to move out, and they engaged the milling V’Saar. Their inaction was extremely strange, putting him more on edge than if they had attacked. With every strike of his sonic sword he expected a switch to be flipped and the V’Saar would swarm. The red haze of battle lust that lingered at the edge of his vision remained constant, matching the tension he carried.

  His personal comm-link signaled. “Mestor!” Azaes’ strident, worried voice echoed in his earhole.

  Briefly, he thought about dropping the line but knew better. He sensed his brother’s agitation and worry through their link. If he ignored his twin, Azaes would come after him.

  “Brother,” he pleaded. “This is our opportunity to overcome the V’Saar with very little injury to our warriors. Who knows how long this window will be open to us?”

  Azaes cursed and snarled while Mestor plowed into the writhing mass, lopping off heads, picking up speed as he went, sensing that they raced against time.

  “Slow down, you are leaving your guard behind,” Azaes snapped. His brother had to be at Ares Command Center where they tracked the location of the battlemechs. “Keep them with you at all times, and that is an order!”

  He glanced over his shoulder to see the Monticore were dispatching the V’Saar that had escaped his blade. Captain Hesperos’s grim expression was one Mestor did not see often on the leader of the guard. He snapped orders at the others before they caught up to Mestor. The snarling was quite impressive. He wanted to remind both his brother and his warriors he was the acting Chief Warlord, the best of the best, an elite fighter. But knowing Azaes, he would come back with some sacred saying about overconfidence and twists of fate.

  “Be at ease, Captain Hesperos.” Mestor turned and continued down the corridor, continuing to slice his way through the V’Saar. “These creatures are harmless.”

  “Momentarily,” the captain said sarcastically. Mestor grinned and Azaes snorted.

  Azaes did not disconnect the comm-link, and Mestor found comfort in this connection to his twin. They were rarely separated for long and it was strange not having Azaes fighting next to him.

  Some V’Saar fled while others tap-danced with indecisiveness. Mestor had reviewed the records they had on hand of the Arthro War and questioned Alpha about the V’Saar horde. He felt absolutely no remorse when he raised his sonic sword time and again. The vile species ate beings they deemed worthless. Those they captured, they used to gain knowledge and once their usefulness came to an end, the V’Saar consumed them as well. When a planet had been stripped of the materials they wanted, the V’Saar moved to the next one. They were sentient beings capable of learning and evolving but lacking any vestige of empathy.

  Captain Hesperos blew through his teeth. “You see an easy battle. I see a baited trap.”

  Mestor’s thoughts ran along those same lines of logic. But he could not back away while the bugs offered no resistance. Each kill was one less enemy his warriors faced once the bugs resettled their hierarchy.

  If Alpha had not shown Mestor his memories of battling the V’Saar, of how they sadistically played with the people they killed or ate alive, he might have considered taking these T’yrdo into custody. When Alpha had fought them, he had not held back, and neither would Mestor as he and his Monticore steadily eliminated the chittering mass.

  Turning the corner, the corridor ended at a pair of blast doors that stood open. He slowed. The milling mass filled what appeared to have once been the mess hall. He smelled seared meat and blood along with a peculiar stench that burned his nostrils even though the air was filtered by the exoskeleton’s systems.

  He halted in the doorway taking in the overturned tables and benches piled haphazardly against the walls. Lifeless human bodies were draped over the counters in the food prep area, as if laid out buffet style. There were two other doorways on the left and right walls. Zian and more Monticore stood in the passageway to the left,
watching the same harrowing spectacle that played out in the middle of the room.

  The T’yrdo fighters trampled over the larger S’aae carcasses scattered around the commissary. As the general had said, the V’Saar were fighting to establish a new hierarchy of command and the S’aae carcasses showed they had expired from extensive wounds. Surrounded by the carnage were two battling S’aae, identifiable by the colorful bands around their abdomen. The victorious S’aae would be the one to lead the T’yrdo. The question of who would soon be decided as the last two standing combatants viciously rained down devastating blows on each other.

  “Kill as many T’yrdo as you can before one of those S’aae comes out the winner,” Mestor commanded his teams before relaying the same message to Warlord Zachaios.

  Over Mestor’s personal comm, Azaes’ cursing turned more vulgar and he tuned out his twin. Monticore and soldiers surged through the doorways behind him as well as through the other entryways. Zian fought just as ruthlessly as the Mar’Sani, pushing his way through the crowd of T’yrdo, his only weapons were his hands. The exoskeletons with Deimos’s colors came through the opposite doorway, letting him know that Warlord Zachaios was close by. Every second that passed was like a toll reverberating through Mestor. Since boarding the Dynasty, the steady heat of battle lust turned into a pulsing red haze that hovered at the edge of his vision. As the intensity of a real fight loomed, Mestor gave himself over, embracing the primal hunter within himself. His mouth watered for blood he would not be tasting. He cut off stingers and beheaded as many T’yrdo as he could reach. The floor became slick with the slime of V’Saar liquids. Many times, Mestor used his tail for balance, catching himself when one of his feet slipped in the viscus goo.

  An ear-piercing scream filled the air. The remaining T’yrdo surged as if coming out of a daze, awakening as the S’aae in the center of the room did a victory dance before chittering something Mestor could only guess was the equivalent of a command to attack.