by M. R. Forbes
Something hit her from behind, knocking her to the ground. A weight landed on her back, one of the soldiers pressing down on her with an augmented knee. She cursed as the felt the pain of her bones bending to the pressure, and she pushed back, using the Gift to give her strength, throwing the soldier off with a grunt. He toppled back, replaced with more gunfire that tore through the shardsuit and into her shoulder, knocking her back to the side.
She hit the ground, growing angry. The nature of the Shard’s Gift was making her weak. If she still had the Nephilim’s Gift, she wouldn’t be getting her ass kicked.
She growled as she forced herself back up, charging the nearest soldier, his return assault going wide. She hit him hard, extending the shardsuit into claws and slashing into the grooves of the battlesuit, cutting into flesh. She sliced one of the soldiers, and then grabbed another, throwing him with extra force into the side of a container. It dented at the impact, and he hit the ground and didn’t move.
Abbey turned, searching for another target.
She froze when she saw him, a cold chill running from the brand on her shoulder. He was tall and lean and clothed in a white lightsuit with the flaming sword emblem on the chest. He had a Uin in each hand, and he flipped them nonchalantly as she turned to face him.
“You’re a Seraphim,” she said.
“If you mean a descendant of a dying race, then yes.”
“You have the Gift.”
“Also, yes. As do you.” He cocked his head to the side. “Yours is different. I’m not sure how.”
“You’re helping Thraven build the Elysium Gate. You’re helping him destroy your people.”
“My people were destroyed thousands of years ago,” he replied. “What’s left is a shadow of that. There’s no profit in shadows.”
“You’re a mercenary, then?”
“I prefer the term soldier-for-hire.”
“Oh, yeah. That’s much better.” Abbey rolled her eyes. “I’m not letting Thraven finish the Gate. I’m not letting him use it.”
“Then you’ll be disappointed to know,” the Seraphim said. “The Gate is already finished.”
“What?”
“This delivery was payment for services rendered. The Gate is complete. You’re too late. It isn’t even here anymore. Not that it’s a bad thing. Why try to stop the inevitable? It’ll be easier for everyone if you simply let the Gloritant keep the Promise and herald the Great Return.”
Abbey eyed the other soldiers, still trying to position themselves around her. Phlenel had disappeared, likely trying to get the drop on them getting the drop on her.
“You believe that bullshit?” she asked, trying to stall a little. The Gate was gone? It had been here, but now it wasn’t? Fragging hell. But if the Gate wasn’t here, why was Thraven on his way?
“I don’t care one way or another. I do a job; I get paid. That’s all this is to me. Let the universe crumble around me. I’ll take care of my own. If you were smart, you would do the same.”
Abbey’s thoughts turned to Hayley. She hoped her daughter was okay. She wanted to tear Thraven’s heart out, but she knew she couldn’t. Not yet. Not like this. She would die if she confronted him, and then where would Hayley be?
“I am taking care of my own. I didn’t ask for this.”
“I think your situation would be better if you had never tried to fight it.”
“What the frag do you know?”
He smiled. “I’m five thousand years old. I know quite a lot.”
He had been given the Blood of the Shard to regenerate himself? “So you haven’t always been an asshole.”
“As much as I’m enjoying our back and forth, I have other things to do with my time.”
The soldiers had reached their positions, nearly surrounding her, but they had lost track of Phlenel, the Hurshin having vanished in the chaos.
“Come on then,” Abbey said, waving him forward with her Uin. “Cherub will probably thank me for killing you.”
“Queenie!”
Bastion’s voice interrupted the moment, a desperate call out that took her by surprise.
“Queenie, we’re here. Where are you? Frag. Thraven’s here. We’re too late. He’s headed for the factory. Oh, shit.”
Something hit the factory.
Something large and powerful.
Abbey was knocked off her feet, the ground shaking violently beneath her. She landed on her hands and knees, looking up as the area behind them began to buckle and fold, the station coming apart in reaction to the torpedo that had struck it.
This was bad.
Very bad.
23
Gloritant Thraven stood on the bridge of the Promise.
He watched as the torpedo launched from the bow of the ship, streaking toward the Tridium factory, slamming it near the outer edge and causing a massive eruption of burning gas and sudden debris.
“Hit it again,” he said calmly.
“Yes, Gloritant,” Honorant Bashir said, passing the order to his subordinate.
A second projectile streaked away from the ship, hitting the other side of the factory and causing a similar detonation.
Thraven was calm now, but he hadn’t been hours earlier. First, he had watched as the bitch Lorenti turned on him, choosing loyalty to the Republic over his promise of glory and a greater future, and the certainty that her dirty secret would never become known. In one moment, with one word, she had ruined his plans for the Council. She had destroyed years of influence, of back-channel deals and deceptions, of carefully orchestrated lies.
Not that it was her fault. The blame for the failure sat with Evolent Ruche, who had not only failed to contain Captain Mann but who had mishandled every one of his interests on Earth. After Olus had managed to steal data from Tridium, Ruche should have taken greater pains to protect the Councilwoman, to keep her out of Killshot's hands. He also should have also done a better job with Hayley Cage. While Thraven had ordered him to take her, he should have led Mann into the trap and removed her from the equation. Instead, he had lingered with her, giving Olus the chance to set her free.
He felt the anger rising within him, and he clenched his hand into a fist. The Watchers were proving more of a problem than he had expected, the so-called Servants of the Ophanim more numerous than he had guessed. He had always been disgusted by the Plixians, as had Lucifer. There was a reason there were no Nephilim who shared that genetic code, that seed of life. They were barely more than mindless drones. The were barely intelligent at all.
He looked back to the viewport. The factory was slowly breaking apart, secondary explosions running through various parts of the structure. At least the Gate was complete, his need to deal with Ismael and his mercenaries finished. The Seraphim traitor was a fool to believe that he would be permitted to survive with the knowledge he held. It would cost him a few hundred of loyal servants, but they were Lessers, and hugely expendable.
He intended to go and see the Gate for himself, right after he finished here. Ruche’s failure had made a mess of his original plan for the Republic, but he would have been a fool not to be prepared for the possibility. Lessers always failed in the end. It was the constant that separated them from their superiors. Evolve or die. That was what he had learned all of those years ago. He had evolved from slave to master. Those that couldn’t deserved the fate that befell them.
The war had started. He had shut down the Republic’s Milnet. He had triggered the overrides built into the Tridium warships and activated the backup communication channels integrated with the most innocuous hardware.
He had called in his orders to those loyal to him. Across the galaxy, soldiers were fighting their former brothers in arms, from fleet against fleet skirmishes to violent conflicts within crews that had been friends and compatriots only hours before. That was the way of war. That was the way it had been for the Nephilim when they had turned on their brothers and sisters who refused to see the One for the false god that he claimed to be.
Let the One be responsible for even more death and chaos and destruction.
“Gloritant, we’re picking up a craft to starboard,” Honorant Bashir said. “It came out of FTL only moments after we did.”
Thraven raised his eyebrow. Interesting. “Project it.”
The area at the head of the bridge lit up as the projectors turned on, showing the smallest of star hoppers angling toward the factory. He recognized the ship immediately, even if the identifier displayed with it didn’t match the truth.
Cage?
There had been no word from his Immolent on Avalon, who had been sent to handle the loose ends there. Now he understood why.
She was here.
He laughed out loud, a rarity which drew the attention of the bridge crew, causing them all to turn and look at him.
“Your Eminence?” Bashir said.
“She came to destroy the factory,” Thraven said. “She came to stop the Gate from being completed. And now she’s trapped here.”
It was perfect.
“Gloritant, two of the mercenary ships have managed to get away from the factory.”
“Target them and fire at will. Honorant, I want that star hopper destroyed.”
“Yes, Gloritant.”
The Promise began to come about, turning to line up better with the Faust. The station was still crumbling beyond, a slow death that would leave nothing but space junk in its wake.
“They look like they’re heading for the station, your Eminence,” Bashir said.
He had noticed that already. The station was doomed. Why would they be going that way? Did Cage think she could escape from him by hiding in the debris field?
“Fire,” Thraven said, the smile remaining on his face.
He didn’t normally let himself feel such pleasure, but this occasion was too serendipitous to ignore. The Father had seen to it that he would have the revenge he sought.
A flash of light signaled the launch of the torpedo. It streaked toward the Faust, nearly invisible to the eye.
A secondary flash appeared from the station, a bright flare of light that intercepted the missile, detonating it well short of the target.
What?
“Is there a ship hiding there?” he asked, the smile slowly fading.
“Sensors aren’t reading a vessel, your Eminence.”
“What about the escaping mercenary ships?”
“Both are reported destroyed, Gloritant.”
The Faust was nearing the broken station, sweeping across near a large portion of the debris. A cargo hauler was hanging connected to a docking arm and loading dock against the separated platform, which was spinning away from the central spire.
“Target the debris,” Thraven said.
“Yes, Gloritant,” Bashir replied.
Lasers began lancing out toward the platform, digging into the cargo ship and turning it to slag. The Faust angled through the assault, swinging around toward the rear of the structure and trying to match its spin.
“They look like they’re trying to dock with it, your Eminence,” Bashir said.
Was Cage already on the station? The Gift would protect her in the vacuum of space, but not indefinitely.
“Place a mark on the target,” Thraven said.
“Mark placed, Gloritant.”
“Order all ships to fire on my mark,” Thraven said.
“Yes, Gloritant. All ships, fire on the mark.”
With the combined firepower of the remaining Nephilim ships, there was no chance that Cage would escape. There was no chance that she would survive.
Except they never had the chance to fire. The area in front of them flared suddenly, in a bright, piercing light that caused warning tones to sound on the bridge as sensors were thrown offline and eyes were rendered blind.
Thraven drew back at the light, putting his hand up in front of his face and falling into his seat, a chill racing down his spine. It couldn’t be possible. How could it be possible?
The light faded seconds later. It took him longer than that to recover, blinking as the Gift worked to bring his senses back. The warning tones continued, and the bridge crew remained stunned as he got back to his feet, stepping forward and looking out the viewport.
The debris was still there, flying away from them as it had before.
Thraven didn’t need the ship’s sensors to know that the star hopper and Cage were gone.
He remained still and silent as the warning tones faded, the Promise’s systems returning to normal. He continued staring out in the black beyond, trying to come to terms with what he had witnessed. He knew that Cage had seen the Light of the Shard. She had told him as much back on Anvil.
Now?
Now she had control over it. The Shard had come to her. He had saved her life. He had stopped the change. Thousands of individuals over thousands of years had born witness to the Light, and none had ever been chosen.
That she had was no coincidence. When he considered it, he wasn’t even surprised. The Father had always said the path to freedom was not a path easily crossed. There would always be barriers. There would always be challenges.
Besides, the Gift of the Shard was nothing compared to the Gift of the Father. She had been more capable of defeating him before she had accepted the lies of the One and allowed the Light in.
The factory was destroyed. The Gate was complete. The Great Return was underway. The first worlds would begin to fall, and the first souls would be collected. Soon enough, he would control the entire galaxy. Soon enough, he would be able to power the Elysium Gate and open the portal back to the origin. He would make a war machine unlike anything the universe had ever known, and then he would lead the Nephilim through it to victory and glory.
It was all as the Father had promised. Cage couldn’t stop it. The Shard couldn’t stop it. She had escaped, but that was no true cause for concern. He was angry with himself for his fear. The Father would be disappointed in the momentary lapse of faith.
“Take me to the Elysium Gate,” he said. “I want to see it.”
“What about Cage, your Eminence?” Bashir asked.
“She is nothing,” he replied.
24
Three months ago, Olus would have never thought he would live to see the day that the center of the Republic, the planet Earth, would be moved to chaos.
Now, he found himself riding in a dropship en route to who the frag knew where, with the daughter of the one person in the universe who could stop it all from going to total hell beside him. A girl who was only eleven years old, who had already killed at least one Nephilim, and who seemed more than comfortable with the thought of killing a few more.
The reports were coming in almost too fast for him to manage, sent from the main pipeline of the Servants of the Ophanim, a command and control center buried deep beneath New York City. Deeper even than he had ever been, in tunnels that were kept secret from the outside world, tunnels where most people assumed Earth’s Plixian Queen created her brood.
The Milnet was down. Republic forces had turned against one another. Outworld ships had been seen in Republic space near the Fringe, joining in some of the battles and helping turn the tide over to Gloritant Thraven’s side. Planetside, the Council chambers had been put on lockdown, the building defended by those loyal to the Nephilim, holding a good portion of the government hostage. The Prime was safe, taken away and sent off-world to a location only a handful of people would know about, people who were vetted to be beyond reproach.
At least, Olus hoped they were beyond reproach. It seemed these days that nobody was incorruptible. He glanced over at Hayley, who was staring out the window with a tired, angry look on her face. Well, almost nobody.
The RAS forces on the planet were taking sides, and already there had been word of massive attacks in Switzerland and Germany, with the death toll constantly rising and the fear of the citizens of the world steadil
y growing. Most had been ordered to stay inside. Curfews were being put into place. But was the Law Enforcement enacting those rules for or against Thraven and his goals? It was impossible to know.
Olus could imagine the same scene playing out across the galaxy. It was chaos. Pure chaos, on a scale that boggled his mind. How could anyone orchestrate something like this? How could so many individuals buy into the bullshit that the Gloritant was selling? What had he shown them? What had he promised them?
There was no turning back from this. Even if Abbey managed to destroy Thraven, this was damage that couldn’t be immediately undone. It would be a start, but only a start. The galaxy had changed, right now for the worse. He reminded himself that all of this was going to happen one way or another. The Nephilim had been waiting to return for thousands of years. It was just his shitty luck that he had to be alive when they made their move. It was just his shitty luck that he had to be one of the individuals trying to stop it.
There was nothing to do but the best he could. To him, that meant getting Hayley to safety and letting Abbey know that her daughter was alive, well, and with him. Then, he would see what he could do to help the Republic recover from Thraven’s assault and start fighting back. With the Milnet down, the Republic was running deaf. Could he help give them back their ears? If anyone were able to solve that problem, it would be Gant. He knew the Gant’s history, even if the Republic Research Division had done their best to bury what had been going on. As the Director of the OSI, it had been his job to know as much as he could about everything, and that was no exception. That they had locked him up in Hell was as much of an injustice as he could think of. They had created him and then punished him for being what he was. Gants were loyal to an extreme. They should have never let him bond if they didn’t want to risk the consequences.
Olus let that thought slip away, a fresh one coming to the foreground.