While he tried to locate who it was, the screen starting playing. It displayed a view of one of Ceres’s famous arenas, only this one made the one buried beneath Talon’s home district seem meager. It was the largest on the entire asteroid, where only champion brawlers were permitted. There were unmoving bodies lying throughout its floor and a man strolling out into the center. Talon immediately recognized him to be Zaimur Morastus. Behind him, being dragged along by a host of armed men, was none other than Cassius Vale.
There was a discussion between Vale and Zaimur but the arena was too loud to hear it. When they were done Zaimur pulled out his pistol, pressed it against Cassius’s head and pulled the trigger. There was no spectacle—no sense of showmanship which seemed intrinsic to everything Zaimur typically did. Just the cold, straightforward execution of a man who deserved it more than most.
Talon’s jaw dropped before he had a chance to stop it. It’s not possible, he thought. But as the blood leaked out of Cassius’s ruptured skull there was no denying that it was true. Cassius Vale is dead.
“We’ve been given a gift before the coming storm men!” Captain Hadris hollered over the Lutetia’s speakers. “The Tribune’s greatest weapon is lost! Cassis Vale is dead by our hands!”
The galley erupted. Lakura soldiers chanted “Vale is dead,” to some sort of cryptic tune, as if they’d rehearsed. Once the initial shock wore off all of the other Ceresians cheered as well. Even Tarsis couldn’t fight the grin pulling at his lips. Everyone smiled but Talon, who imagined he’d be happier to know that the man responsible for so many Ceresian deaths was gone. Under the present circumstances, however, he’d heard enough about death.
Members of the Lutetia’s crew wasted no time ordering the service androids behind every service station to pop open iceboxes filled with the ships stores of Synthrol. They poured it by the gallon, and nobody cared how much spilled or if any got in their hair. While Tarsis was thrilled to join in, likely not having enjoyed a celebration in many years, Talon was happy just to drink and clear his head. Together they guzzled the bitter liquid and joined their new comrades in one last Ceresian celebration before bloodshed.
Hours later, everybody on the Lutetia was so drunk that they’d fallen asleep on the floor right where they were. Everybody except for Talon. No matter how much he put down he couldn’t seem to get as drunk as he wanted to. There was just too much on his mind.
He helped the Vergent back to his bunk, laid him down, and then pulled himself up onto his own. The Synthrol in his system was at least enough to help him ignore the soreness in his shoulder from having to hold Tarsis’s metal-backed body up for an hour. It didn’t take long for him to realize that he wasn’t going to fall asleep either. He went to pick up his rifle to take it apart once again, when he noticed the HOLO-Pad. With Synthrol crippling his resolve, he grabbed it and switched on the recording of Elisha.
At some point Talon finally dozed off and was awakened by the clamor of soldiers and wailing alarms. The Lutetia was bearing down on its target, 5261 Eureka, a Tribunal asteroid colony on the edge of Ceresian Space. It also happened to house a sizeable shipyard. It had once belonged to the united Ceresian Pact, but early on in the Reclaimer War it was captured by the Tribune who used it as a major staging point for their campaigns into Ceresian space. Talon wasn’t surprised that it was the first place the Lakura thought to target. They were fixated on vengeance.
“Get up, Tarsis,” Talon said after he got down from his bunk. The Vergent was still snoring, and Talon said it a few more times before deciding to shake him.
“We’re going down!” Tarsis shouted as his eyes sprung open. His forehead was dripping with sweat.
“Bad dream this time?” Talon asked.
“Bad memory more like.” Tarsis took a deep breath and used his arms to pry himself up from the hard mattress. His suit squeaked as he did, and Talon imagined that after sitting around on the Monarch and then the Lutetia for so long that it could use a good greasing. “Is it starting?”
A Lakura officer made his way through the bunks. “Aye, Blue’ins. Hurry up. You’re in the first wave!”
As soon as they boarded the warship on Ceres they’d been selected to take part in the initial assault. “You’re dying anyway,” whoever was designating assignments had said. Ceresians didn’t have the same reverence for Keepers as the people of the Verge, although they probably just figured Talon and Tarsis were refugees with the Blue Death who’d been hiding out in the lower regions of Ceres Prime.
Talon didn’t mind the front line. He didn’t want to miss a chance at any Tribunals.
“Well that answers that,” Tarsis said. He grabbed his weapon and allowed Talon to help him to his feet. They’d provided him with a heavy machine gun because his ability to move was so hampered. He had trouble lifting it, but once it was at his hip all he’d have to do was pivot and fire. “You ready?”
Talon blinked and stared at the pulse-rifle in his hand—at the reflection in the metal he’d spent so much time polishing. At first all he saw were his own tired eyes and the dark circles swooping beneath them, but as he continued to stare eventually he pictured Elisha looking back, smiling.
He swallowed the lump forming in his throat. “I spent a great deal of my life being asked to hurt people,” he said. “I think I’ll actually enjoy it this time. If the Spirit you talk about does exist, I hope it can forgive me for that.”
“Just worry about yourself,” Tarsis replied. He slapped Talon playfully on the back and they started walking toward the Lutetia’s main hangar, following the direction of all the Lakura officers posted along the route.
They look too calm, Talon thought. He imagined it had less to do with proper training and more to do with the fact that they didn’t truly comprehend what they were about to do. They and the rest of their clan were used to attacking from the shadows, but now they were about to take the first public swipe against the mighty Tribune since the war, not even knowing if the other Ceresian clans would ever join in. It was a bold move, and Talon was so focused on vengeance that even he hadn’t grasped just how bold it was.
Other than just considering whom they were attacking, clashing over asteroid colonies was a tricky proposition. Especially if both parties wanted to leave it usable afterwards. Mostly there was just solid rock, so in the few areas where the exterior could be breached by typical weaponry it was important to maintain seals. The heaviest fighting would take place in areas where there were only inches between an Earthlike environment and the vacuum. One misfired missile meant both parties would be yanked out into space. Every suit of armor the Lakura provided was supposedly space-friendly and had a small store of oxygen, but many of them were so old that Talon wondered how much they could be trusted if it came to that.
“Gunner, head to troop transport Z-156,” a Lakura agent addressed Tarsis.
Tarsis stopped and looked at Talon. This was where they were going to have to split up. Talon had the suicidal task of quickly blowing through the asteroid’s ports with the initial raiding party, gaining control of the airlocks, and disabling the anti-air weaponry. All to pave the way for the full invasion force. Tarsis was set to provide suppressive fire from a transport ship in the first wave. It was a safer position, which made Talon happy. No more of his friends were going to wind up dead on his watch. Tarsis would probably kill more Tribunals that way too.
Talon wasn’t jealous. He wanted to be face to face with his enemies. He wanted to look them in the eyes before he squeezed the trigger.
“See you on the other side,” Tarsis said, grinning.
“If I don’t—” Talon was cut off by Tarsis shaking his head.
“Stop,” he said. “Just don’t go getting yourself killed too quickly. There’ll be plenty of war to fight.”
They exchanged a solemn nod and then headed in opposite directions. Talon didn’t speak with anyone on his way to the launchers. He didn’t know anybody else on the entire ship except for the Vergent anyway, but there w
ere no more words to be said.
He had to climb down a tall ladder into a narrow space nestled into the side of the hangar. A line of at least fifty splinter chambers were embedded into the wall, their translucent lids popped open and waiting to be filled. A few of the other raiding party members were being instructed on how to load into them properly as well as what would happen once it was launched.
Asteroid defenses were usually denser than a ship’s, so the chambers were a little more sizeable than what Talon was used to. They’d bust through the port airlocks, and then expand to preserve the pressure seal before peeling open enough of a hole for him to be launched through. In the old war it was easier. His people would send androids in first to absorb the brunt of the first defense, but there were too few of them left for that to be possible. Now that task would be left up to humans.
Talon shrugged off the instructor, put on his helmet and laid within the gelatinous interior. It quickly formed to his body. Talon knew what he was doing and he knew the risks. They were being shot out in bulk and a number of them would be shot down before they ever even made it to battle, but he would. He had to. And he’d see Tarsis afterward so they could move on to the next battle—together.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX—CASSIUS
Age is a Harsh Mistress
Zargo Morastus’s face watched through the display of a HOLO-Screen as his henchman stripped Cassius of everything he had, down to the boiler suit he wore under his robes. They made no attempt to be gentle. On occasion Cassius could feel nails digging into his skin or them spitting on his back. It took all of his discipline to keep quiet. The cuffs on his wrists didn’t help in that regard. Zaimur was there in person observing, though he was forced to try and hold back a snicker.
Zargo coughed and then his lips creased into a frail smile. “Bot, fetch me something to drink. I’m empty. Wouldn’t want to watch this without something celebrate with.” He raised an empty glass at the screen and said, “May the Circuit rejoice in your death, Cassius Vale.”
The feed cut out and then the same henchman took a punch at Cassius’s stomach. This time at least he was able to brace for it, but his old muscles weren’t as sturdy as they once were. He keeled over, gasping, before being quickly yanked back straight. Then a group of guards dragged him down a long tunnel. Zaimur shot him a subtle nod as he passed.
If only they knew how lucky they are, Cassius thought as he was pulled along. He couldn’t remember how long it had been since he experienced the coldness of rock against his bare feet. Without his clothing, his bracer, pistol, and the com-link in his ear, he couldn’t help but feel a sense of release. As an Executor he never needed anything but his hands. It’d been almost a lifetime since he could return to his roots.
The muddled chants of a tremendous crowd grew louder the farther they progressed into the tunnel. Dust sprinkled from the ceiling, stirred by the feet pounding though fifty feet of solid rock above. The Tribune was happy to just eject their enemies out into space and erase them forever, but the Ceresians liked to make a show of their executions. Cassius planned on giving them one. Even if Zaimur Morastus wasn’t able to uphold his promise, Cassius had no intentions of dying in some depraved arena on Ceres Prime.
A hatch opened and the henchman shoved Cassius out so hard that he almost tripped on the frame. It took a few steps for his vision to adjust to the blaring lights so that he could see the roaring crowd wrapping around the lip of the sunken arena. He’d never seen a place so bright in any Ceresian settlement. Globs of spit and other liquids rained down on him. Luckily solid foods were scarce in the asteroid belt, otherwise he might’ve been knocked unconscious before the battle even started.
He looked around at them, at all the pale, grimy faces hollering for him to meet his end. A part of him was envious of them. Under the fist of the Tribune, people were forbidden from such revelry. They were taught to merely survive, whereas Ceresians were given the chance to really live. Fighting arenas, gambling dens, brothels—these things were all commonplace in a Ceresian colony. They would be far more difficult to rule than others, but the years had taught him that it’s better to lead jackals than sheep.
Presently, they would get what they wanted. They would watch him die, but when they learned that it was all a ruse his legend would be further cemented. Zaimur hadn’t looked far enough to see that.
The hatch across the way opened up and ten men in crude suits of metal armor came walking out. They raised their arms like triumphant heroes, all of them wielding batons. Cassius wasn’t sure if they were criminals set loose or professional fighters, but judging by the definition of their muscles he assumed the latter. The floor beneath him shook as the crowd roared.
Cassius closed his eyes and sank to his knees. Then he held his palms open toward the lofty ceiling and steadied his breathing. It had been a long time since he had to fight against overwhelming odds without ADIM at his side, but he could never forget his Executor training. Even if Zaimur had come through, it was doubtful he could’ve bribed the lot of them. He wouldn’t take any chances.
He exhaled slowly as he waited until their footsteps were near enough for him to identify over the cheering. Then his eyes snapped open, focused entirely on his enemies. The crowd become a muted buzzing noise in the background. They were a blur of color.
“You gonna stand up, old man?” one of the combatants sneered.
Cassius didn’t respond, but he put on his most genuine smile and got to his feet. He didn’t even bother to drop into a battle stance. Instead he spread his arms open and waited.
The fighter didn’t hesitate to accept the invitation. He charged forward and took a wild swing at Cassius, who easily evaded the attack. The fighter stumbled over an outcrop of rock, but somehow kept his footing. When he turned around his cheeks were blazing red.
“Come on!” he barked and again closed in.
This time another one of the fighters tried to concurrently flank Cassius. Cassius ducked out of the way and used one of his hands to redirect the blows so that they would strike each other. Afterwards, more Ceresians came running at him, their batons whistling through the air.
Too easy, Cassius thought as he easily evaded the flurry of incoming attacks. Sending so many fighters at him all at once was a foolish mistake. Not only did they have to worry about hitting each other, but there was also the fraction of them who may’ve been taking it easy for Zaimur. Cassius danced his way through them, landing a few well-placed blows in pressure points as he did.
A baton slashed toward his head and he spun out of the way. As he did another swiped at his knees and forced him to jump and tuck into a roll. Muscles he thought he’d never use again stretched and tightened. After so many years it felt like the stone was crumbling off of his body and he was returning to life. He was even having fun.
Then his foot caught a piece of loose rock and he lost his balance. A baton smashed into his ribs and he could hear the bone crunch. In an instant the crowd was as loud as it would be standing directly next to a ship’s engines as they powered on. Cassius howled just before another metal bar cracked across his shoulder. That was enough to send him sprawling onto his hands and knees.
He stayed there, panting. From what he could see, three of the fighters were incapacitated but the others were bearing down on him. C’mon you old man, he thought. On your feet! The words of all the men who’d trained him when he was young echoed through his head. His fists tightened. Rage dulled the pain pulling at his side.
A baton rushed toward him and he growled as he caught the arm guiding it. With one smooth motion he tore the weapon from the man’s grasp and then smashed him in the head with it, splitting the man’s face from his upper lip to his nose.
That caused the others to move into full assault. They came at Cassius, who now, with a weapon in his hand, was even more eager to let them attack first. Parrying had always been his greatest ally, for growing up amongst Titan’s wealthy elite had left him physically weak when he was young. He deflect
ed blow after blow, using each of the fighters’ strength against them. He was able to knock two more of them out before a shooting pain in his side caused him to freeze halfway through a move.
He was struck in the leg, luckily just below his knee so that it didn’t snap. It was enough to knock him off his feet, however, and he had to roll out of the way of another blow before it smashed his head against the rock. He tumbled and moved into a crouch where he blocked another swing, but as he did he noticed in his peripherals that a baton was about to crack him in the jaw.
There was no time to dodge it, but right before the attack hit home the fighter pulled back and missed on purpose. The air from the movement blew across his nose, and he was in such shock that he actually paused for a fraction of a second. The other fighters must’ve thought he was about to be put down as well because they also stopped moving. Cassius snapped out of it first and was quickly able to take out two more before the others came to.
He didn’t have a chance to see which of the fighters it was that held back, but he knew he had Zaimur to thank. And seeing Cassius escape death seemed to take the air out of his opponents. They never came close to hitting him again. After a few brief minutes of heavy fighting he was standing alone amongst ten Ceresians who were either writhing on the ground groaning in pain or completely unconscious.
The crowd was drowned in silence.
If Cassius vision wasn’t blurred from exertion he imagined he would’ve seen thousands of mouths hanging open. He took a single step and nearly fell. With his adrenaline no longer pumping he couldn’t ignore the stinging sensation in his rib. He hadn’t felt anything so painful in years. He kept his footing. All the years wearing his Executor Implant helped him tolerate it. Its numbing effects had never left him entirely.
He gazed at the incapacitated fighters, as speechless as the crowd for his own reasons. All he could think about was how years of plotting and waiting had made him soft. In his prime those ten worthless fighters would have all been dead before they even had a chance to sniff him. Now he had to thank Zaimur for his life just as much as they did.
Progeny of Vale Page 18