by Richard Fox
Two of the Minotaur’s diamond segments exploded, hurling shards of the hull into the void. The ship slid to the right, crushing a pair of escort cruisers. The battleship lumbered forward and into an asteroid. The rock rolled up the shields, then a spiked outcrop pierced the shields and ripped across the prow of the ship.
The Minotaur’s engines flickered and died.
Wyman cheered and punched a fist up and into the canopy. The strained glass cracked and he jerked his hand back down.
“Not to ruin your mood,” Ivor said, “but can you mag-lock to our destroyer?”
Ivor’s question did indeed drive away his elation as he checked his control panel. His mag locks, even the auxiliary docking claw, read as off-line or destroyed.
Just ahead, the destroyer Epee slowed to a stop. The plan was for the Typhoons to latch on to the destroyer’s hulls for the slip transit away from Sanctuary—a plan that his damaged fighter couldn’t fulfill.
“Epee, this is Freak Show in Cobra One-Niner. Can you take on an EVA?” Wyman asked.
“Negative,” replied the captain of the destroyer. “We’re buttoned up for combat conditions. Enemy escorts are closing fast. We’ve got a two-minute window to boost out of here before they reach weapons’ range. Figure something out, Freak Show.”
Wyman caught the underlying message that the captain wouldn’t doom her entire crew and her ship for his sake.
“I’ve got it,” Ivor said. She banked next to the Epee and locked her fighter against the hull, then raised her canopy and waved to Wyman. “Get in here!”
The Epee accelerated and Wyman’s damaged fighter trembled as it fought to keep up.
“Bad idea’s better than anything I can think of,” he said as he pulled the emergency release on his canopy and it ripped away. He maneuvered his fighter onto one side, facing his cockpit toward Ivor’s, and edged his throttle forward, trying to eye the Epee’s speed as he unsnapped his seat belts with his other hand.
“Thirty seconds to afterburners,” came from the Epee.
Wyman pushed his fighter just ahead of Ivor and stood up on his seat. He knelt slightly, then jumped toward the destroyer. That he’d mistimed the jump became apparent halfway across the gap. He hit just ahead of Ivor’s cockpit, doubling over the nose, the ship and the fighter’s joined momentum sending him tumbling up the fighter. He bounced off its hull and crashed into Ivor and against her open canopy.
The Epee accelerated forward, and Wyman slid away from the canopy. He bent at the waist, reached for the edge of the glass…and missed by a half inch.
Ivor grabbed him by the wrist and heaved back, pulling her wingman into her cockpit.
The canopy closed over them both, a tangle of limbs in a space that was barely big enough for Wyman on his own.
“You…big…dumb…animal,” Ivor said as she struggled to extricate herself from Wyman.
“Sorry. And thank you,” Wyman said, trying to wiggle around and making slow progress. “Briar, where’s your left hand right now?”
“We will never speak of this again!”
****
Flames licked at the edges of Tiberian’s bridge as he knelt beside an unconscious Gustavus. Half the man’s face was blackened, seeping blood, his armor dented and scorched, but he lived.
Tiberian pressed a thumb against Gustavus’ neck and extended a razor-tipped nail. One deft motion would end his nephew and free him to continue his hunt. Tiberian could recount this battle in more favorable light; the truth of this defeat would be his alone. If Gustavus lived, the Baroness would know what transpired in this nebula. She could lose the last of her faith in him, exile him to the lower castes forever. Eubulus, his brother, could be told some fantastic tale of his son’s final brave moments…
He retracted the claw.
No, the bonds of family still meant something to him, even in the midst of the Daegon’s ultimate purpose—their grand crusade to unite all of humanity beneath their rule. The authority to rule came from birthright, and from just action.
“Sire,” one of his sub-lieutenants called to him from a control station, “the Albians are nearly to the nexus point. Shall the escorts give chase?”
“No.” Tiberian stood and looked to the flickering holo wall. “Bring us about and get us out of this nebula. I know where the Albians are running to.” He looked at Barlow’s corpse. “They’ll find no escape there. Then this hunt will end.”
Chapter 27
Seaver, still trapped in silence and blindness by the odd hood over his head, felt one of his guards press down on his shoulder. He went to his knees and the cuffs locking his wrists together pulled his forearms down and locked against a metal plate, pinning him into a submissive posture.
A guard pulled the hood away, and Seaver turned his face away from lights glaring from the ceiling. It had been hours since the inquisitor had spoken with him. Hours spent waiting in darkness before he walked up a ramp and felt the acceleration of a shuttle leaving orbit.
He looked around and found that he was one of ten individuals arrayed in a circle, all in the remnants of Albion uniforms and all with their wrists locked to a metal plate near the center of a round room. Several tiers of seats surrounded them, like they were in the middle of an arena. Dark chambers blocked off by metal bars were at the four compass points of the arena floor.
“Hey, Seaver,” a man hissed. Inez and Powell were in the circle with him. “Who do you think sold us out? Smith or the navy guy?”
“Had to be O’Reilly,” Powell said.
“Shut up!” someone hissed from across the circle.
The bars on one of the chambers slid open, half going up and the other going down, mimicking a mouth. A man in cut-down Daegon armor walked into the arena. He had a shaved head, his skin a light tan. A spiked truncheon hung from his belt. On his face, just below his right eye, was a black symbol a few inches tall in the shape of an hourglass.
“Oss,” he intoned as he walked into the circle. “Inquisition sends Lord Erebus thralls for his themata. Lord Erebus tells me he no trust. He say…Albion fight, but not fight well. He say inquisition no know if thralls can fight. He say…take half for themata. So I take half. I take half that fight.”
The man pointed to the middle of the circle and a hatch slid aside. A round weapons rack rose out of the floor, bearing blunt and chipped short swords, spears with slightly bent shafts, and maces missing several spikes.
“Figure out which half I take. Quick quick. Or the wolves choose.” He turned and walked back to the open chamber and disappeared into the darkness.
The manacles around Seaver’s wrists released from the metal plate and he stood up, rubbing his sore knees. He looked at the pile of weapons, then to the equally confused others around the room.
“He can’t be serious,” Powell said. “Does he…want us to kill each other?”
“What did he mean by ‘wolves’?” someone asked.
Inez hurried toward Seaver. Seaver brought his hands up, ready to fight.
“No, no way, man,” Inez said. “I know you, Powell. None of these others.”
“Little early to form a prison gang, don’t you think?” Powell half whispered as she joined Seaver and Inez. The others coalesced into two groups, leaving two standing all by themselves.
“Look,” Seaver eyed the pile of weapons, “there’s got to be a way out of here. We can get a weapon now.”
“We are on a Daegon spaceship,” Powell said. “Have to be. You think we’re going to break out of here, fight through them when they’re in armor, and then we’ll just magically find a shuttle?”
“They got my sister,” Inez said. “They said if I don’t fight for them she’ll be killed.” He looked at a sword and his hands opened and closed several times.
“My mother,” Powell added. “She’s in a home for disabled vets. They pull her life support and…”
Inez sprinted for the weapons rack, and two from other groups ran in.
One of the prisoners snatch
ed up a war hammer and made a quick swipe at Inez, more to scare him off than to try and hurt him. Inez side-stepped the blow, then grabbed a sword and swung it at the man with the hammer, missing by a mile. He jabbed the sword at the third man, warding him away from the pile of weapons.
Inez grabbed a short spear and tossed it at Seaver. He picked it up. The wood was rough and splintered to his touch, the metal tip rusted, but sharp at the edges. Inez grabbed a second sword and backed away toward Seaver and Powell. He handed the weapon off to her and the three stood shoulder to shoulder.
“Okay, now what?” Seaver asked.
One of the lone prisoners thrust his arm into the rack, reaching for a metal glove tipped with a wide punching dagger. The man with the hammer attacked and hit the other in the shoulder. There was a crunch of bone and the lone prisoner fell back, clutching his arm.
“All of you listen to me!” the hammer bearer shouted. “I am Staff Sergeant Rollins, Albion Marine Corps. This is how it’s going to be…”
There was a whine of machinery and the four chambers opened. Seaver swung to one side, forming a triangle with the other two. Sets of three red dots appeared in the darkness. High-pitched growls sounded across the arena.
Powell began sobbing.
“Come on,” Seaver said. “Stay strong.”
From the darkness, an animal leapt into the arena. It resembled a wolf, but hairless from snout to hind quarters. A cybernetic crown covered the wolf’s eyes and top of its head. Its shoulder came up to Seaver’s chest, ivory teeth glistening with saliva.
The wolf jumped onto a woman and bit down on her shoulder. It shook her back and forth, snapping her neck from side to side, then ran back into a chamber, carrying the body in its jaws.
A second wolf stalked out of the darkness. It snarled and lowered its head almost to the ground, ready to pounce.
Rollins put a boot to the back of one of the people in his initial group and kicked him towards the wolf. The man’s screams ended abruptly as the wolf ripped his head away with a single bite.
Snarls rose from the other two chambers. Seaver and his two friends inched back towards the middle of the arena.
“Three more.” Rollins brought his hammer back and swung at another prisoner. His target dove away and scrambled for the weapon rack, where he picked up a mace.
A scream broke out behind Seaver as a wolf dragged another into the darkness.
One of the wolves loped towards the center, and Seaver felt a sense of atavistic dread as the predator closed on him. The wolf suddenly stopped, as if hitting an invisible wall, diodes on the cyborg crown flashing. It retreated to a chamber, tail tucked between its legs.
“What gives?” Inez asked.
“I think…they want us to do the rest,” Powell said.
Two prisoners armed with hand-held axes charged at Seaver. Powell backed away, her sword held high, chopping at the air to ward off the rushers.
Seaver backpedaled, then stopped when he heard the growl of a wolf behind him. He tightened his grip on his spear, then lunged forward and thrust it at the nearest attacker. The spear ripped across the man’s flank, drawing blood and a cry of pain. Seaver swiped the spear at the other man just as he swung. The haft hit his arm, the impact knocking the spear out of Seaver’s grip and sending it clattering to the floor.
The axe man’s weapon sliced down, narrowly missing Seaver’s face. The attacker was so focused on his next strike that he didn’t see Inez as the man plowed into him with a shoulder bash.
The attacker stumbled to the side and fell into a roll. Seaver picked up his spear and found the man he’d injured. He lay on the ground, head at an ugly angle, with Rollins standing over the body.
“Good.” Rollins nodded emphatically and lifted his bloody hammer up next to his face. “One more.” He pointed to Seaver’s side.
The other attacker with the axe lay in a pool of spreading blood, half of his weapon sticking out from beneath his body, the blade of his own weapon buried in his chest.
“Just one more.” Rollins’ eyes were wide, his mouth half open.
The first person the Marine attacked, the one with the broken shoulder, crept up behind Rollins, a dagger in his hand.
“We kill the weak ones.” Rollins pointed at Powell.
Seaver kept his mouth shut as the man with the knife raised the weapon up and plunged it into the base of Rollins’ neck. Rollins barely managed a grunt as the other man wrenched the knife out. A spurt of blood spilled down Rollins’ chest and he fell on his face.
The cuffs around Seaver’s wrists hummed and a shock went through the back of his hands, forcing them to open and drop the spear. The clatter of fallen weapons echoed through the arena as the prisoners all suffered at the same time.
He felt a pull on his arms like there was a rope dragging him by the wrists towards one of the plates in the floor. Seaver tried to pull back, but the pull grew so strong, it took him off his feet. He slid across the floor until his wrists locked against a plate.
The other four prisoners were all locked in to his immediate left and right. The dead lay where they fell.
From a dark chamber, a tall, straight-backed woman in Daegon armor marched towards them, the bald man from earlier two steps behind her. She stopped in front of Inez and touched him gently just below the chin, lifting it up to look at her. Her helmet visor lifted up and shifted to the top of her hair. She had deep blue skin and sapphire colored eyes.
The Daegon turned her head to speak with the other man, who answered with a nod.
She moved to Powell next. Tears had cut through some of the grime smeared to her face. The Daegon put two fingers next to Powell’s’ throat and inch-long blades snapped from the tip of her gloves. Powell closed her eyes.
“You there, spear,” the other man said to Seaver. “You want this one fight beside you? She worth the trouble?”
“Yes! Yes, you said you wanted five. You got your five. Leave her alone.” Seaver tugged at his restraints.
The blades snapped back into the Daegon’s gloves and she came to Seaver. He looked up at her, taking in her strange appearance and a thin scar that ran below one eye, branching along its path like a lightning bolt.
She reached across her waist, then backhanded Seaver so hard he saw stars.
“Head down, mouth shut when you’re around the masters,” the other man said. “They lift your chin only if they think you serve well.”
Blood dripped from a split lip and fell onto his restraints.
She grabbed Seaver by the back of the head and pressed her other palm against the Albian’s face. There was an instant of excruciating pain on his face and the smell of burnt meat.
Seaver pulled back, his eyes twitching with pain.
The Daegon moved away. He sat with his chin against his chest, the pain in his face receding slowly. He heard muffled screams from the others, then his restraints unlocked from the floor.
The woman was gone, the man remained. The other prisoners all had brands on their face, an angular hourglass, the same as the man’s.
“I am your legio. Name Keoni. Don’t say so before culling, bad luck for a ghost to have your name on their lips,” he said. “I no master. I thrall like you, but still a legio.” He gave the truncheon hanging from his belt a touch.
“Can talk to me. Can ask question. You get the whip for failure, I get the whip too,” Keoni said. “Centurion Juliae hard, but she fair. We lucky. Some centurions use thralls to stop bullets, then just get more thralls. Our Centurion won’t get us killed for nothing.”
“You’re not…one of them?” Seaver asked.
Keoni rubbed his face, then looked at his fingers. “Not blue, eh? I born on Papa’apoho. Then masters come lead us. I join themata and be thrall like you. Come. You need armor. Weapon.” He sniffed the air. “Bath.”
Seaver stood up and touched the brand on his face. The raw nerves still stung.
“So what’re we going to do in this…themata?” he asked.
&nb
sp; “Fight.” Keoni pounded a fist into his palm twice. “I no fight on Albion, bad if we take in new thralls. You no fight here either. Masters not stupid. Come. Stay with me. You get lost, other legio find you.” He tapped his truncheon.
Seaver spat out a glob of blood.
Keoni motioned to a chamber with a jerk of his head, then walked towards it. The other two Albion thralls followed, one cradling a broken shoulder. Powell hurried after them. Inez shrugged at Seaver.
Seaver’s cheek spasmed as he was the last to join the procession out of the arena.
“My father is alive,” he whispered. “Prince Aidan lives. Albion…her light still burns through me.”
Chapter 28
Eubulus walked across the wide bridge of his dreadnought, the Medusa, the holo emitters in the deck giving him a semi-opaque view of the desert world beneath his feet. Malout was a fringe Indus world, its strategic value lying in the nexus connections to other systems, not in the population eking out a miserable existence. Black smoke carried away from burning cities. Streaks of fire from dying starships cut across the sky. Tiny pinpricks of explosions marked the edge of the world’s last organized resistance.
A sphere appeared next to his head and a text message spun across the surface. In the distance, Daegon ships emerged from slip space.
“Well, well. Look who’s back.” Eubulus snapped his fingers and the sphere expanded and reformed into a holo of Tiberian.
“Where are the rest of my ships, brother?” Eubulus asked.
“Lost to the crusade. Their skills were found wanting,” Tiberian said.
“I have more faith in their training and discipline than your leadership,” Eubulus said, looking up from the destruction below and eyeing his fellow commander. “And my son?”
Gustavus stepped into the holo, the left half of his face a mess of fresh scar tissue.