Chains of Mist

by T. C. Metivier

  Every instinct screamed at him to flee. But he could not so much as blink.

  From the ruins, a…presence…emerged.

  In the fading light, shadows loomed large everywhere, but this new creature stood out among them. It was somehow darker than the night, and it seemed to absorb everything around it, stripping the world bare as it moved. Smaller shadows swirled around it, probing tendrils constantly searching for new prey.

  Wraithlike and as silent as death, the creature slipped through the night. Roger found himself unable to turn away. His gaze was held affixed to the phantom. His hand was in agony, the pain surging from the onyx ring and coursing through his body greater than it had ever been before, but he could barely breathe, let alone cry out. Unbreakable bonds grasped his limbs and pressed against his chest.

  The demonic specter moved on. Flames sputtered out as it passed them, and rubble crumbled into dust before the creature’s advance. The questing tentacles coiled outward in an expanding web, stretching ever nearer to Roger’s immobile form. But the creature seemed ignorant of Roger’s presence, though it seemed impossible that it had not sensed him.

  The behemoth reached the edge of the ruins, moving away from Roger. It began to contract into itself, sinking and dissipating into the ground as if retreating into some subterranean lair. Roger felt the pressure on his body relax the tiniest fraction.

  A whistle of air escaped his lungs.

  In that instant, the swirling mass of shadows froze.

  Oh, stek…

  Like a predator tracking upwind prey, knowing that its quarry is near but unable to locate it, the creature was still. It seemed to sniff the air, though Roger doubted that it was using its sense of smell; it had far more powerful methods of detection at its disposal. The shadows surrounding where its head should be swirled and rippled.

  Twin spots of yellow fire erupted from the depths of the shadow, points of unholy light that blazed like primordial suns.

  The dread gaze fixed squarely on Roger, who had time for one thought—

  Oh, stek—

  An explosion of shadow and fire engulfed him.

  -3-

  Drogni Ortega sat at his desk in his office at Leiran Sarrek Naval Base. Datacards were strewn across the desk’s thin metal surface like fallen leaves. Their flickering screens displayed information on troop numbers, fleet deployments, resource ledgers, and much more. Everything that a military commander could ever hope to need was gathered here at his disposal.

  Drogni could focus on none of it. He fidgeted in his chair, beset with a bizarre sense of claustrophobia. The office was large, befitting the Supreme Commander of the Tellarian Fleet, and two high windows behind him let broad beams of bright sunlight play across the room. But that did nothing to dispel the feeling that he was trapped in a cage. The walls seemed to weigh on him like a shroud, squeezing out the air and pressing down around him.

  It was a very peculiar feeling, to say the least, especially since he’d had the office for over a decade and never felt anything like this before. But something had changed, and he knew what it was. He had grown comfortable in his command role, giving orders from behind the lines, organizing ships like pieces on a game board. But then Leva and Hilthak had thrown him suddenly back into the field. For the first time in over a decade, he had felt the rush of action, the surge of adrenaline that could not be duplicated sitting behind a desk in a command center. He had gotten to stretch his legs, so to speak, and now it was no wonder that his previously spacious office should suddenly feel so confining.

  Drogni suspected that the feeling would pass, given time. But at the same time, some small part of his mind could not help but pose the question: Do I want it to?

  Drogni wasn’t sure of the answer. He enjoyed being Supreme Allied Fleet Commander. The responsibility, the challenges. He did the job and he did it well. Reaching the pinnacle of the naval hierarchy was a goal that he had worked towards for his entire life. Yet he had to admit that this was not the first time he had felt that his lofty rank was more of a prison than an achievement. On Leva, and even more so on Hilthak, he had felt the rightness of being back on the front lines, back in the thick of the action. That was where he truly belonged.

  Of course, in his first foray back onto the field he had surrendered his mind to Rokan Sellas’s dark sorcery, brutalized enemy combatants like some rabid beast, and gotten nearly his entire team killed. Hardly anything to be proud of.

  But still…

  A sharp rapping sound caught Drogni’s attention and sent his troubled thoughts scattering. He looked up to see a man standing at the door. He stood slightly taller than Drogni, with short hair that was more than halfway through a transition from sandy blond to slate gray. His Tellarian Fleet uniform—pure white save for the five midnight blue stripes stitched at the cuffs—was so clean it practically gleamed. He did not have Drogni’s commanding physical presence; instead, his was the lithe grace and swift power of a jungle cat. His face was smooth and had an ageless quality to it—he could have been thirty years old or sixty or anywhere in between.

  The man glanced down at the quagmire covering Drogni’s desk. A small smile pulled at his lips. “I believe that’s a code violation,” he said, his tenor voice deadpan. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to bring you up on charges.”

  “It’s my desk,” Drogni said. “I can do what I want with it. And if that means that I want to pile it with every single piece of junk that I can lay my hands on, then I damn well will.”

  The newcomer raised an eyebrow. “Don’t get snippy with me, Ortega,” he said. “I didn’t write the rulebook. I just enforce it.”

  “Yeah?” Drogni stood and gestured towards the open door. “And if I were to take a stroll down to your office, what would I find? No—don’t answer that. I think I’ll go check right now, in fact.”

  “Go right ahead.” The other man spread his arms wide, as if daring Drogni to make good on his threat. “My desk is absolutely spotless. My entire office, in fact. Pristine. Immaculate. Not a loose datacard or compjack in sight.”

  “I’m sure it is. And if I were to check your storage closet…?”

  “No regulations about that.” The other man broke into a wide smile. “I checked. Twice.”

  In spite of his own troubles, Drogni felt himself smiling as well at the other man’s expression, which was like that of a child who had just gotten away with eating candy for dinner. “Come on in.” Drogni gestured at an empty chair, then extended a hand. “Good to see you, Jonny. How’ve you been?”

  Jonathon Laslo, Supreme Allied Wing Commander of the Tellarian Navy and Senior Commanding Admiral of the Home Defense Fleet, shook Drogni’s hand with a grip like a wreckyard crusher. “Not so bad, Ortega. A little busy, of course—you know, with the impending galactic crisis and all.” He settled himself into the chair and fixed Drogni with a steady, inquisitive gaze. “Even busier, since my commanding officer decided to drop completely off the map for a couple of days. I’m glad to see that you have returned in one piece.”

  The other Admiral sounded curious rather than angry, though there was a hint of sharpness behind that curiosity. Drogni and Laslo had known each other since their early days in the Academy, and had come up through the ranks together. The shared experiences of over three decades of service had forged deep bonds of trust and friendship between them. “What do you know?”

  Laslo leaned back in his chair, his keen gaze still locked on Drogni. “Let’s see here.” He began to count off on his fingers. “I know that five days ago you left Tellaria for what official records say was a fleet inspection at our base in the Dassan system. I know that one of our new Bailik-class cutters mysteriously vanished from Docking Bay 1134BK5 at KorPat Airbase at about the same time that you did—and then mysteriously reappeared at the same time that you did. Emergency maintenance, the reports say, which seems unlikely for a ship that had yet to make its maiden voyage. And I know that the stations monitoring the K6857 u-space departure point
went inexplicably off-line for a period of seven and a half minutes while all of this was happening. Not long enough to seem suspicious…but just long enough for a ship moving at a speed comparable to a Bailik-class cutter to travel from the aforementioned airbase to the departure point and zip through it to parts unknown.”

  “Just long enough,” Drogni admitted. “Not that I’m saying that such a thing happened, of course.”

  “Of course not. The whole idea is utterly preposterous.” Laslo cleared a small space on Drogni’s desk and began tapping a fingernail against the metal. “But, just for the hell of it, let’s play this scenario out and see where it leads. Now, there are several routes that our mystery ship might have taken through that particular departure point. Most head down into the Stenrac. But that seems like a lot of trouble for our mystery ship just to hop through a bunch of nothing systems and supply depots deep in Federation territory. However, if you take K6857 down to B1995, and then wind through the Upper Kree’Hal for a little while, you wind up in the Iridion Sector. And there’s only one planet of any galactic interest out that way.”

  Drogni was only a little surprised that Laslo had pieced together the truth. His friend was sharp and determined, and more importantly knew all the telltale signs of a clandestine military operation. Drogni should have known that Laslo would realize that something was amiss, and would have figured out what was going on.

  He also should have known that the King—or, more precisely, the Vizier—would not deign to inform the Senior Admiralty of Rokan Sellas’s return, or of the task force that had been formed to take him out, thus creating the need for Laslo to go sleuthing for the truth on his own. Anger surged within him, bringing a bitter taste to his mouth. Over the years, he had grown used to the Vizier’s mannerisms, and had tolerated them through clenched teeth. But this was something he was not certain that he could simply ignore. It would be hard enough to defeat the Coalition as it was; it would be harder if the Vizier insisted on shrouding everything in secrecy, keeping key players in the dark about the true nature of the danger they faced. He doesn’t care about what’s best for Tellaria. All he thinks about is what’s best for him, and avoiding some damned mystical apocalypse that only he can see—

  With an effort, Drogni forced down his anger. He would never get anywhere if he had to pause every few seconds to confront some new source of annoyance towards the Vizier and his lapdog King. Regardless of the circumstances, it made things a lot simpler if Laslo was already mostly up to speed. “Nothing gets past you, does it, Jonny?”

  Laslo shrugged. “I try not to let it. Happens anyways, sometimes. So tell me, how’s the weather on Leva these days?”

  “Cold and dry. A little bit on the heavy side. Not much to see, unless you like looking at a bunch of windowless buildings scattered randomly around. All in all, not exactly my first choice for a vacation spot.”

  “Well, that’s your fault for going sightseeing on an Erigion planet,” said Laslo. “You knew what you were getting yourself into.” He looked down his nose at Drogni, and his tone turned serious. “So, what’s so important that you had to sneak all the way to the Coalition capital? Not to admire the scenery, I expect.”

  Time was of the essence, and there was nothing to be gained from dancing around the truth. So instead Drogni said simply, “It’s Telmar.”

  “Telmar?” Laslo raised an eyebrow. “You mean Malik Telmar? The figurehead the Coalition is rallying around?”

  “Yeah, him,” said Drogni. “Only he’s not just some puppet leader—he’s the one pulling the strings, every one of ‘em. And his real name isn’t Telmar.” Drogni took a deep breath, and looked Laslo straight in the eyes. “It’s Sellas.”

  Laslo’s reaction was immediate. He looked like he’d just taken a punch to the gut; his eyes widened, and his jaw sagged. “No. That’s impossible. He died—”

  “Yeah, that’s what I thought. Hell, I was there, remember?” Images of that night in the control tower on Proth fifteen years ago flashed in Drogni’s memory. He felt that raw, blinding rage coursing through him. He smelled sweat and blood and burning flesh. He saw a man with eyes like violet fire standing beside a shattered window, proclaiming the end of all things. “I was the one who saw him fall. That’s the kind of fall nobody walks away from. But it’s true. I’ve seen him with my own eyes. He’s alive, Jon. Believe it.”

  Laslo was silent. Drogni could see his fellow admiral going through the same range of emotions that he had when he had first learned that Rokan Sellas was alive. First came shock, then disbelief—then that raw, consuming anger. Laslo had the same connection to Rokan Sellas as Drogni. He had been on the bridge of the TF Vanguard at Denlar fifteen years ago. He had watched as over one hundred thousand lives had been extinguished by the treachery of one man.

  Drogni heard all of those warring emotions in Laslo’s taut, quiet reply. “But…but how?”

  Oh, Jon, you have no idea how impossible that question is. Drogni wanted to tell Laslo the truth. The full truth—about the Fireblade and the Chalas Peruvas, about the things he had seen on Hilthak. The horrors that mere days ago he would have considered something out of myth but which he now knew were all too real. He knew that his fellow Admiral would believe him, no matter how farfetched his tale sounded. But he also knew that mere words could not do the matter justice; it was something that needed to be seen to be understood. So instead he said, “I can’t get into that right now. Ask me some other time, and I’ll do my best, but we don’t have the time for it now. You’ll just have to trust me on that. Besides, it doesn’t really matter, does it? He’s alive, and he’s running the show over on Leva.”

  Laslo took another moment to process that. Then understanding dawned on his face. “So that’s what you were up to on Leva. You and that strike team you put together. You were trying to take him out.”

  Drogni nodded. “That’s right.”

  Laslo’s expression went grim. “Based on the fact that we haven’t heard anything from the Coalition about an assassination—or even an assassination attempt—I’m guessing it didn’t go well.”

  The image of five soldiers bleeding out their life essence leapt up again in Drogni’s mind, and he banished it angrily. His voice was level, controlled. “You might say that.”

  “I see.” Laslo eyed Drogni carefully. “And the rest of the team?”

  Drogni opened his mouth to reply, but there were no words to describe what he had seen. Everything that came to mind seemed hopelessly inadequate. Instead he simply shook his head.

  Laslo swore under his breath. “Damn. Damn.” He seemed about to say more, but then he suddenly turned away, reaching out one arm to steady himself against Drogni’s desk. His other hand was balled into a fist, and his head was turned down. When he looked back, his face was tight with anger. “They went down fighting, though?”

  “That they did,” Drogni said softly.

  The two men stood there for a moment without speaking, silently honoring their fallen brothers and sisters. Then Laslo blew out a deep breath. His voice was crisp, with no sign of the anger that surely was still coursing through him. “So Rokan Sellas is back from the dead, with a hundred fleets at his fingertips and the whole damn Coalition in his thrall. All we’re missing is the rivers of blood and a couple of exploding stars for this to be a good old-fashioned apocalypse. Who else knows?”

  “Only a few of us.” Drogni ticked off the names on his fingers. “The King and the Vizier. Two Federation Ambassadors. And the Black General—he was the only other one of ours to make it off Hilthak in one piece.”

  Laslo raised an eyebrow. “Hilthak?” he asked, his voice quiet but pointed.

  “Yeah.” Again, Drogni wanted to tell Laslo the full truth, but knew that he wasn’t up to the task. He had already relived it once with the Vizier earlier today, and saw the gruesome aftermath of Rokan Sellas’s sorcery every time he closed his eyes. “It’s…kind of a long story. No time for it now.”

  “I see.” Laslo’s
expression softened at the edges, and Drogni got the feeling that his fellow Admiral could guess the reason behind Drogni’s silence. “I look forward to hearing it someday. If you’ve got the time.”

  Drogni forced a smile. “Appreciate it, Jonny. I’ll hold you to it.”

  “Don’t mention it.” Laslo thought for a moment. “We need to get the word out about Telmar. Tell Mina, have her bring it up in front of the Senate. Let the Coalition know what kind of monster they’re allied with—”

  Drogni brought up a hand, and Laslo fell silent immediately. “Wouldn’t help,” Drogni said, his voice heavy with bitterness. “We’d never be able to prove it. He looks different now than he did fifteen years ago—hell, even I didn’t recognize him when the Coalition first started throwing his picture up on the holonewscasts. But that’s just the start. If he’s smart—and he is, damn him—he’ll have done a full biometric overhaul. Fingerprints, retinas, you name it—it’ll all be different. If we bring a full investigation against him, and by some miracle the Coalition agrees to let their Supreme Leader be treated like a common criminal, the only thing we’ll prove is that he can’t be Rokan Sellas, because his scans don’t match what we’ve got in our records. We’ll look like fools, and have nothing to show for it.”

  Anger clouded Laslo’s expression, but by the time Drogni finished he was nodding along. “You’re right. Damn, but you’re right.”

  “And that’s not the worst of it.” The words tasted like ash in Drogni’s mouth, but he forced himself to say them. “There’s one more possibility we need to consider.”

  “Yeah,” said Laslo, his voice quiet. “That the Coalition knows he’s Rokan Sellas…and they don’t care.”