The Eternity War: Dominion

by Jamie Sawyer

  “Mr Secretary,” I managed. “You need to get down, and stay down. We’ll get you out of here. Jackals!”

  The Jackals were about the only squad doing anything productive. They were scrambling to the prone officers. Feng had Draven, while Lopez was trying to shield Mendelsohn. Zero was at the back of the chamber, still trying to open the exit hatch. The doors weren’t opening, which told its own story.

  The auditorium wouldn’t have looked out of place in a warzone. Bodies were strewn all over, snagged across chairs, slammed against furniture. The damage was catastrophic. I got to my feet, hauled Secretary Lopez along with me. He was very nearly a dead weight. I’d seen this in civilians too many times before. The Secretary was shell-shocked, approaching combat paralysis.

  “We’ll get that door open,” said Cambini. Her smart-glasses were smashed, her security-issue pistol unholstered. “I’ve called for back-up, and the hatch will be released in a moment. It’ll be fine.”

  “I hope so,” Secretary Lopez said. “This is turning out to be a very bad day.”

  “Just one in a long line,” I muttered back. “Stay low.”

  The warden-form’s shape was a blur. It pounced from inside the cell, launched into the briefing room. Cambini turned her face, pistol up. The gun let out a harsh snap-snap-snap as she squeezed the trigger.

  Her aim was good. Pretty damned exceptional, given how fast the warden moved. I guess that was Cambini’s enhanced physique in action; inbuilt bio-modifications, courtesy of the Secret Service. All three rounds impacted the warden’s skull, even as it propelled itself forward.

  Still, it didn’t stop the xeno.

  Like a speeding freight train, it collided with Cambini. Slammed her straight off her feet. I was close enough that I heard the gush of air from her lungs as her ribcage shattered, as the look of shock and surprise broke across her face. Her body—lifeless—crashed into the deck.

  “Go, go!” I ordered Secretary Lopez. I pulled him to his feet, put myself between him and the alien.

  Gun.

  Cambini’s pistol clattered to the ground, dropping from dead fingers. I stooped for it, trying to keep pace as the beast behind me responded to the sudden flurry of motion. My fingers clasped around the plasteel grip of the weapon, and I had it up, firing. More rounds bounced off the alien’s head.

  “Hey, asshole!” Novak shouted. He’d torn a seat from its moorings, and hurled it at the warden.

  The chair clattered off the alien’s body. It did nothing more than further irritate the alien, but that didn’t stop Novak. Without pause, he tore out another chair, and threw that one too. As tactics went, it wasn’t effective, but it did succeed in slowing the alien down.

  Maybe, I thought, the hatch will open before the alien reaches us…

  Except that Secretary Lopez stumbled ahead of me. He slipped on something wet and gross that had once been one of the commanding officers. I half turned, emptying the pistol’s clip into the alien’s body.

  “It’s going to fire the spines!” Zero yelled. “Get down!”

  The warden snarled, exposing rows of shark-like teeth, and I was quite sure that this was over. Those spines would shred a real skin. The poison that they carried would be overkill; Secretary Lopez and I would be history. I threw the empty pistol away, and collapsed over Secretary Lopez’s prone body.

  A shadow passed over us.

  “Stand back,” came an electronic voice. “We will assist.”

  Pariah smacked the enemy xeno aside with a claw. The warden was bigger, most definitely more heavily armoured, but the strength of the blow knocked it off its feet. The body hit the far bulkhead so hard that the panelling deformed.

  “Up, up,” Novak insisted.

  He had my shoulder now, and I let him drag me to my feet. Lopez was there too, grabbing her father under the arms, away from the conflict.

  “Are you okay, ma’am?” she asked me.

  “I’m alive,” was all I could say.

  P and the warden were having a throwdown like no other. The warden slashed at P. P lurched sideways, its barb-guns extended: firing volleys of living ammo. The warden screamed as it took bone-shards to the face—the ammo capable of piercing its armour—and stomped across the chamber.

  P tried to evade a blow, but the warden’s reach was long. The xeno smashed into a bulkhead with force. The watching troopers collectively gasped, wincing as alien blood smeared the walls.

  But P was very far from out. It squirmed beneath the warden’s bulk, and slashed at the alien’s torso with its claws. Being of the same species, P knew exactly where there would be weaknesses in the creature’s armour. The warden’s body was opened up, ichor weeping from a dozen wounds. The enemy xeno roared, its spines rising up again.

  “Down!” Zero warned.

  I caught a flash of activity as P rose up with both barb-guns, twisting to dodge the incoming fire—

  This time, it was too slow. Like a volley of arrows, dozens of spines launched from the alien’s torso and extended head-crest. They filled the chamber. Embedded in the walls and the ceiling.

  And caught P full-on.

  “Pariah!” I yelled, unable to contain my reaction.

  P stumbled back. Its own armour was pierced, bits of bio-plating hanging loose, exposing shredded flesh beneath.

  The warden-form was up, taking advantage of the sudden lapse in P’s attack. It rose over the smaller xeno—our xeno—and drew back a pair of claws.

  The briefing room hatch hissed open. A tide of soldiers poured out, and more figures piled in. The warden-form twisted its head, eyes widening—enraged that its kill had been disturbed.

  A Sim Ops containment team in full combat-suits were braced in the hatch. Plasma rifles up, covering P.

  “Weapons free,” the lead trooper ordered.

  The warden-form almost disintegrated in the hail of plasma fire that followed. Its smoking corpse slumped against the deck with a dull thump.

  “Are you hurt?” Feng asked the Secretary, roughly patting down his body to check for injuries. “Respond, sir.”

  “I’m not hurt,” Secretary Lopez said. “But—but my agents.” He swallowed. “They served with me for years. Years.”

  “They’re dead,” said Lopez, bluntly.

  Her father nodded. He turned to me. “And I’m not. Thank you, Lieutenant.”

  I didn’t answer him. Novak and Zero were gathered around P’s collapsed body. Their expressions were grim. Dr Saito fought his way through the crowd as well, shouting orders for an emergency medical team. Pariah lay still and bleeding on the deck, the broken ends of several spines protruding from its body.

  “Forget about the fish,” Captain Ving said. “It’s the least of our worries.”

  “How can you say that?” Lopez protested, fire rising in her eyes.

  But Ving’s face was set, his expression chiselled from stone.

  “Sanctuary wasn’t the only place that got hit,” he said. “The Spiral has attacked everywhere.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  AFTERMATH

  The assault on Sanctuary Base was one of several terrorist attacks across the length and breadth of the Alliance. There had been a single unifying feature of the Black Spiral’s plan: each target, no matter how varied, had some strategic relevance to Operation Perfect Storm. Simulant farms, automated munition factories, monitoring outposts, dry docks: nowhere was safe. The Spiral overloaded the atmosphere-processing station at the Navy docks on Vega III, causing on best estimates upwards of a thousand deaths. On Pesca V, the life-support systems had been disabled, leaving the troopers there without heat, water or air. Not for them a fast death. Overnight, the base had become a tomb.

  Every view-screen on Sanctuary Base had the newscasts on repeat. Harried broadcasters broke the news as it was received; updates carried through quantum-space at almost real-time speeds.

  For the Jackals, the source of our grief was closer to home. From Briefing Room 93, P had been transported straight to the m
edical wing. A veritable army of sci-techs and medics had descended on the alien, doing everything they could to save it. Not because they particularly cared—Command had made it perfectly clear what it thought of P—but because P was a valued asset. There was still much to be learnt from the alien, and that could only be done with a live specimen.

  Then there was the question of how to actually treat P. Science Division’s understanding of the Krell had come on a long way in the last few years, but research had mostly been directed into killing the fishes, not saving them. There was a big difference. Dr Saito pioneered the efforts to save Pariah, but even his knowledge had limits.

  So we waited outside the operating theatre, by turns raging against the universe, then falling into sullen quiet. The hurt ran deep. It didn’t matter about the species; one of the Jackals had been cut down.

  “This isn’t real,” Zero said, her head in her hands.

  “You better believe it,” I ordered. “Because if you don’t, you can’t put it right.”

  The medical wing was on high alert, filled with activity. Secretary Lopez hadn’t been injured in the attack, which was something of a result, but several senior officers were among the dead. Bodies were rushed past us on grav-stretchers, into overworked emergency rooms. The walking wounded, expressions shocked, stumbled by. Black bodybags were stacked against one wall. Most of those casualties had come from the attack on Briefing Room 93, but there had been other attacks across Sanctuary as well.

  “How did it come to this?” Feng asked.

  “No one knows yet, Feng,” said Lopez, parroting back the official line.

  “They’ll find exactly who did this, soon enough,” Zero said.

  “And make them pay,” said Novak.

  “That’s not what I mean,” said Feng. He threw his hands up in the air, exasperated. “The Black Spiral are everywhere. They’re just fucking terrorists, right?”

  I nodded, repeated, “Fucking terrorists.”

  “Then how have they found so many supporters out here? And what do these bastards want?”

  I shrugged. “Maybe it’s like Warlord said. They don’t want anything, except to bring it all down.”

  Feng breathed out. Bit his lip. “But why?”

  Lopez glared up at a view-screen set into the wall-panel. The viewer repeated what was known about the attacks. Words scrolled across the bottom of the holo: CULT OF THE SINGULARITY, IRON FIST, FRONTIER INDEPENDENCE FRONT—ALL DECLARE WAR ON ALLIANCE. Those names had been known before the Spiral’s appearance on the galactic stage, but now they had a fresh purpose. A disparate collection of criminal organisations, of gangs, of insurgent bodies—all unified under a single banner.

  “Isn’t it obvious?” Lopez said. “The Spiral are sweeping up the disaffected, the underclass, anyone who has a problem with the Alliance. With Proximan control, with the universe in general. Veterans, washed up from the last Krell War.” She laughed, and the noise was hollow, disappointed. “From where I’m sitting, there are more than enough assholes who fall into those categories. Warlord just has to offer them a new start.”

  “A new start that involves bringing the Shard back to our galaxy?” Feng challenged. “No one will benefit from that.”

  “These people don’t care,” said Lopez, still staring up at the viewer. “I doubt many of them even know what they’re really fighting. They’ll overthrow local government, burn it down. Get what they want, in the short term. The Shard—Warlord’s Dominion—will be an unfortunate consequence.”

  “Nice speech,” I said, more caustically than I’d intended. “You’ll make a good politician someday.”

  Lopez’s lips formed into a tight smile. “It’s in my blood. But what do these people have to live for? They don’t have anything left. Not after the last Krell War. And every time an infected fleet crashes into the Alliance border, and brings down another planet, the cycle repeats. More disaffected, more dissidents. More anger, more hurt. Everyone’s lost someone in this mess.” Unconsciously, she glanced over at Zero. She’d probably lost more than all of us put together, in the last Krell War. “In another universe, some of us would’ve been on the other side of the line—fighting for Warlord, rather than against him.”

  Warlord had said as much to me when I’d first met him on North Star Station. At the time, his suggestion that we were the same had seemed absurd. But maybe there was more to it than I appreciated.

  “Like Riggs…” Zero said, the words spoken under her breath.

  Novak snorted, dismissing the point. Rubbed his big hands together. “I need something to break,” he said. “I wish that Riggs was here right now.”

  Lopez formed a gun out of her index finger and thumb. “You and me both, Big Man.”

  The hatch at the end of the corridor whirred open, and, as one, the Jackals started. Dr Saito appeared there. His smock was torn at the chest, and a nasty laceration on his forehead was stapled shut. I jumped to my feet as he approached.

  “What’s the news, Doc?”

  “P is doing fine,” Dr Saito answered, not seeking to draw out the report in any way. “It’s… it’s more resilient than we can truly understand.”

  Lopez breathed out in relief. Novak grunted.

  “Thank Gaia that P made it,” said Zero.

  “P took three spines to the chest. We’ve removed them, and the prognosis is good. The specimen has unprecedented regenerative capabilities. It also has an excellent antibody response to toxins generated by other members of its species.”

  “So P’s going to be okay?”

  “I’m certain that it’ll pull through,” Dr Saito said.

  That wasn’t quite news to me. I had strongly felt—even if I hadn’t known—that P had survived the attack, but something also didn’t feel right. It was almost impossible to explain.

  “When can we see P?” I asked.

  Dr Saito went to answer, but he was cut off by the arrival of another figure. A Military Police officer, wearing full flak-suit and carrying an armed plasma carbine, rushed into the corridor.

  “Jenkins’ Jackals are required on the Command Deck,” the officer said. “The Secretary and General Draven need to see you.”

  Dr Saito’s expression was sympathetic. “I’ll tend to the Pariah, and keep you posted.”

  The MP showed the Jackals to a compartment where several officers were crowded around a tactical-display. Army, Navy, Military Intelligence: this was the remainder of General Draven’s war council. From splatters of gore across uniforms, to minor cuts, to medpacks taped over more serious wounds, they all bore scars from the attack.

  Secretary Lopez was deep in discussion with General Draven. He looked up as we approached.

  “Reporting as required, sir,” I said.

  The Jackals jumped to attention, and General Draven returned the salute. The MP escort took up a post behind the Secretary, his eyes scanning the Command Deck with brittle caution.

  “That was quite something, in the briefing room,” Draven said.

  “It was incredible,” Secretary Lopez added. Despite his words, he looked intensely agitated. Maybe he was riding the comedown of an adrenaline high. “I owe you my life.”

  “It’s all part of the job. You should thank Pariah. It did most of the work.”

  “You have my sincere thanks, Lieutenant. Once again, you’ve surprised me.”

  “What’s the situation?” I asked, pressing my hands on the edge of the display and looking over the data-feeds. The Jackals moved in around me, doing the same.

  “As of now,” Draven said with about as much solemnity as he could muster, “all thirteen Alliance territories are at DEFCON one. The Alliance is facing a terrorist threat of unparalleled scale.”

  “We’ve seen the broadcasts,” Feng said.

  General Draven exhaled slowly. “We can’t allow Operation Perfect Storm to be derailed.” There were general murmurs around the display. “We have to focus on the war effort, and the localised damage to Sanctuary Base.”
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  “How did they get onto Sanctuary?” Zero asked.

  “They used a starship: the Svetlana. She’s a Russian warship, 1st Kronstadt battlegroup.”

  That revelation hit Novak like a bullet. “Kronstadt?”

  Draven nodded. “That’s right.”

  The holo showed a battered battle cruiser, war-weary and space-scarred from decades in the void. The ship was old, her armoured flanks grey and featureless save for Cyrillic text, and an identifier code in Standard. The Russian and Alliance flags on her prow were almost completely faded with age.

  “Svetlana…” Novak whispered. His hands were shaking, his bruised face draining of colour.

  General Draven continued. “She was using old military codes, part of the 5th expeditionary fleet from Shangri VI. She arrived two days ago, without incident, and docked here.” Another image of the ship in dock. Completely unexceptional, nothing out of the ordinary. “Several unregistered personnel were allowed access to Sanctuary. How this was possible is currently unclear.”

  “I guess Mili-Pol has some questions to answer,” Feng said.

  General Draven stared at the display. “Base security seems to have let us down on this occasion. The same personnel infiltrated the warden-form’s holding facility.”

  Images from security cameras and spy-eyes flickered across the display. None of the faces meant anything to me; they were anonymous. The last image was a vid-clip of the infiltrators moving through Sanctuary, firing plasma and assault rifles, their cover now blown.

  “The uniforms were stolen,” General Draven said. “Navy, Army, Science Division… This was very well planned.” He magnified the faces on the screen, and Novak audibly gasped. “They weren’t Spiral,” Draven added. “They are members of a prohibited criminal organisation.” His eyes bored into Novak. “The Sons of Balash.”

  An old woman’s face filled the holo. Wizened, ancient-looking. Skin like leather, with a mane of plaited dirty silver hair over one shoulder of her exo-suit. Despite her age, the woman was agile, her aim true as she fired on advancing Alliance security troops. MAJOR MISH VASNEV, said the display.