Colt: The Cosmic Prayer (Hidria Book 1)

by Williams, Joseph

  It is a sin to treat them this way, he thought.

  Those who do not honor Creator God live in anguish, his Duri Master countered. They must not be mourned.

  For a few moments, Nuri stood on the wet ground, digesting the view of the imposing skyscrapers. The ubiquitous signs of abandonment and vandalism at the base of each structures were particularly alarming.

  This is a godless place, he thought. His presence has been forced away by the Evil One and these poor souls aren’t even aware of it.

  The image of his Duri Master in mid-rhetorical ecstasy suddenly appeared to him. The scars along his cheeks stretched and shimmered in the flickering candlelight as he denounced the sinners of Juriaq and the government that had forced them into the hands of the Evil One, who preyed upon the disheartened and downtrodden.

  Am I to save these people then? he wondered.

  He couldn’t imagine that such a fundamental shift in the culture of Maberrya could occur during the trials. Even assuming it was possible, that sort of large-scale conversion took a lot of time and even more politicking, sometimes even at the end of a laser sword. It also didn’t strike him as an occupation that would bring him any closer to Prime no matter how well he convinced his Duri Master they needn’t purge the entire planet in the name of God.

  A beat-up hover car approached through the street, leaning drunkenly to one side as its undercarriage scraped against the ground. Three blue-skinned aliens sat in the passenger compartment of the self-flying vessel. Each watched him closely.

  Fronovs, he thought.

  A smooth-talking species by reputation. On Juriaq, the Fronovs in the West Quarter usually ran the local gangs. They capitalized on the lawlessness and desperation of the fishing slums for profit. It was peculiar to see them in such beat-up transportation, but Nuri decided such a vehicle was likely to allay any suspicions of the sparse local law enforcement. Any Fronov seen riding in one of the higher-end models in the West Quarter would likely be pegged as a drug-dealer or arms-supplier right away and be taken in for questioning. Juriaq may have been a corrupt city, but there was only so much the government could overlook in plain sight.

  Nuri approached the vehicle slowly as it dragged towards him on its busted repulsor-lifts.

  Your hands must be swift and steady, Colt told him.

  He reached instinctively for the holster on his back, then decided a blaster would be far too conspicuous before he had ascertained their intentions. Instead, he gripped the hilt of his laser sword and watched the vehicle gracelessly screech to a halt in front of him.

  Distractions, he frowned, glancing toward the docks and noticing that the few workers who’d been hauling crates of fish into loading floaters had made themselves scarce at the sight of the Fronov hovercar. It was a startling indication of just how heavy-handed and audacious the Fronov gangs had grown in the West Quarter. The fishermen themselves were nothing to mess with by the looks of them, yet they’d fled before they’d even gotten a look at the passengers.

  A moment later, the doors on either side of the cab gasped open and the blue aliens climbed out. Their long, black cloaks skimmed the ground as they approached. The alien at the front—presumably their leader—straightened his black gloves and reached into his shoulder holster for his blaster.

  “Stranger,” the alien called, letting the blaster swing carelessly in his hand.

  He doesn’t understand the weapon, Nuri realized. It is not a part of him.

  He gleaned much about the nature of the Fronov’s stature then, and it didn’t involve getting his hands dirty. He didn’t know how to fire a blaster properly which meant the two others with him were the muscle of his operation. Bodyguards, Nuri wagered, although it was possible the leader was just a low-rung crime-lord. The type who shook the locals for money they didn’t have and pushed drugs they couldn’t afford.

  “Hello,” Nuri said as they approached. He focused on the blaster as much as he could while still maintaining eye contact with the Fronov gang leader. His grip tightened on the hilt of his laser-blade with each footstep. “What can I do for you?”

  The Fronov flashed a charming, mischievous grin and glanced back at his two bodyguards. Evidently, they found Nuri’s lack of fear amusing.

  “Well, for starters, we’re curious how you managed to survive a fall from the upper atmosphere without a suit.”

  Both Nuri and the Fronov stopped walking a dozen paces from each other.

  “I don’t know what you mean,” Nuri replied.

  “Our scanners detected a meteor strike on the surface of the ocean at over a thousand kromospheres. An impact like that would crush anything organic, and yet we watched you climb out of the ocean with hardly a scratch and no armor to speak of.” The blue alien leaned closer and eyed him up and down like he was taking inventory of Nuri’s injuries, though it was clearly just for show. Gang leaders weren’t physicians and anyone scanning him as he climbed onto the docks would have already completed their analysis of his physical condition. “That wasn’t you that fell, was it?”

  Nuri shrugged noncommittally, wanting to avoid a confrontation if possible, though it was clear the Fronov boss would not have drawn his weapon if he expected a friendly exchange. He wouldn’t have brought the extra muscle, either.

  That won’t work, Colt warned. You need to answer him or things will get ugly in a hurry.

  Nuri was a killing machine with knowledge of all systems in the known galaxy and many cultural complexities archived in his catacombs of memory, but he’d never dealt with a delicate situation like this before. His training only told him to use his weapon before the conversation progressed any further. At the very least, it would buy him some time to find the next doorway and the next stage of the trials.

  But what if I’m supposed to talk to them? he wondered. What if learning to negotiate this situation is part of the test of my worthiness to be Hidria?

  It didn’t fit exactly with what he knew of the trials and the primary focus of uncovering the true nature of God, but there was enough nagging doubt within him that he decided to wait it out a while longer and explore all possible alternatives before resorting to violence. It would likely come to that eventually—he was almost certain of it—but he might be able to glean some information from the Fronovs in the meantime. They might even provide some profound, hidden message from the Divine that would steer him toward the correct path.

  Unlikely, his Duri Master said. They are nothing but distractions placed in your way by the Evil One to prevent you from reaching Prime and gazing upon the face of God.

  The Fronov grinned and glanced back at his companions again, although neither of the stoic muscle-men offered any show of emotion or support.

  “It would be better for you if you answered me,” the Fronov said, raising the blaster. It was a gaudy threat from a man who clearly didn’t understand the nature of a weapon or the intimidation of a superior foe, even if he didn’t realize Nuri was his superior just yet. He would know it soon enough. “Then I won’t have to use this.” He waved the blaster again.

  Nuri released his grip on the laser blade. He wouldn’t need it to deal with this one, he wagered, and it didn’t seem right to kill the man for being an ignorant fool even if his Duri training told him otherwise.

  “I did fall into the water,” he said, walking toward an abandoned hovercar dealership across the way. He knew the answer wouldn’t end the conversation but he needed to at least look like he thought it would while he sought better footing for combat. He didn’t want to be backed against the dock despite his confidence that he could handle the three Fronov buffoons, who’d likely never seen battle outside Juriaq gang wars. The two bodyguards, however, quickly moved to intercept him before he reached the open area.

  “I didn’t say you could leave,” the leader said firmly. He didn’t move. It was clear he expected Nuri to return to a conversational distance, a subtle and childish power play that likely worked on many of the downtrodden souls he bullied in the
West Quarter. Nuri may have been spiritually downtrodden the way that the Duri Masters claimed all creatures are spiritually downtrodden so long as they are separated from God’s Holy Presence on Prime, but he wasn’t susceptible to the intimidation of mere men. The Called were taught to fear two beings and two beings only: God and the Evil One, being one and the same as well as polar opposites. If Nuri had conquered his fear of the Watchmen and their supernatural evils, he wasn’t worried about dispatching a few opportunistic thugs.

  “Why does it matter?” Nuri asked the Fronov, stepping close enough to make the leader visibly uncomfortable. To his credit, though, he didn’t flinch. Someone who hadn’t been trained to mark physiological reactions in alien species likely wouldn’t have even noticed the twitch beneath the Fronov’s taut skin. “My misfortune is no burden to you.”

  The bodyguards crowded in around him, blocking his exits on either side of the gang leader.

  “On the contrary,” the Fronov said. “Your presence is a burden to us. We don’t like surprises dropping out of the sky in our territory, especially ones with a lot of weaponry and very little armor. It makes us wonder if you were sent by the Duchitaw to sabotage our operation.” Comfortable in his protection now that the bodyguards were close enough to touch, he leaned forward and grinned in Nuri’s face, exposing dazzling white teeth and a blood-red tongue. “We like to take care of problems before they become too big to handle. So what problems have you brought to the West Q? How do you plan to pay for protection if we even decide to tolerate your presence?”

  Nuri took a deep breath. The whole introduction by the Fronov was so rehearsed and well-worn that he wondered how many unfortunate travelers had been accosted the same way when they were shipwrecked or wandered into the wrong part of town.

  Pitiful creature, the Duri Master’s voice growled. Do not suffer this thing to live. Slit its throat so he may spend eternity in Tscharia with the Clown King.

  Calmly, Nuri reached for the hilt of his laser blade and spat at the ground. In this issue, at least, he agreed with the Duri Master’s assessment of the trials and would enjoy carrying out the Divine Sacrifice. The Fronov may only have been one small crime-lord in a practically abandoned section of the West Quarter, but thousands would be spared his tyranny when Nuri ended his insufferable life.

  Another will rise in his place, Colt said.

  It was true enough, he supposed, but maybe the next one would be better, and maybe he or she would reflect a little more profoundly on the nature of mortality. Maybe Nuri’s shadow would live as a constant warning to them. A living nightmare. But only if someone was still around to spread word of his deeds.

  For that reason alone, he decided to allow one of the bodyguards to live. While the Fronov droned through the next paragraph of his speech, Nuri glanced back and forth between the aliens, deciding which one seemed a worthier survivor.

  “You don’t have an answer?” the Fronov continued, daring another step towards Nuri that was clearly for show. His legs were still taut like springs, ready to explode backward at the first sign of movement from Nuri’s concealed right fist. “Why don’t you come along for a ride, then, and we’ll see if you remember once you have a chance to warm up from the ocean? I’ll even buy you a drink.”

  There were probably some hapless wanderers who trusted the Fronov at his word and allowed the bodyguards to lead them into the vehicle, where they were more likely than not driven to a warehouse far removed from life in the West Q and tortured until they revealed whatever insignificant information they had to offer or paid for release. It wouldn’t be much if anything at all, Nuri knew, because no formidable crime boss capable of challenging the established gangs of the West Q would be stupid enough to send a lone man into the city section via the ocean. At the very least, he or she would have found their way in through the more affluent quarters of the city. Nuri suspected the Fronov knew as much but enjoyed torturing the innocents anyway, maybe because it made the citizens of the West Quarter more docile but also probably because it made him feel big.

  Still, Nuri started walking away, willing to give the trio one final chance to move off on their own.

  “That wasn’t a request,” the Fronov snapped when Nuri tried to push around one of the bodyguards.

  “I don’t care,” he responded truthfully, shrugging out of the nearest alien’s grip. The one he’d decided would live. “I don’t have any currency and I don’t work for anyone you know. I’m not here to cause any trouble unless you make me.”

  This time, the bodyguards joined their leader in snide laughter.

  This won’t happen once you wear the armor of the Hidria, Colt told him. Everyone in the galaxy knows the sigil of the Hidria. They would be pissing their boots right now if they knew who you were.

  He wasn’t Hidria yet, though, and he knew even the greatest of the Called were susceptible to underestimating their opponents in battle. Anything could happen once blasters were drawn.

  “Hold him,” the Fronov said with a scowl.

  Deep breaths, Nuri told himself as the burly blue aliens gripped his arms. He didn’t resist. His eyes were focused on the glint of the midday sun off the skyscrapers. There was a familiar symbol reflected in the glass across from him, formed by the busted-out windows of a building the Fronov gangs had usurped for their drug trade.

  What is that? he wondered, momentarily so distracted by the circular image with markings in its center that he forgot all about the Fronovs. He was jolted back to reality in short order, however, when the leader stabbed him in the stomach with a small device packing a powerful electric charge.

  “AAAGGGHHHH!” he screamed as the end of the weapon buried in his gut where his armor had been torn by the Jhrupa.

  Bright blue snakes of electricity scorched his veins and rattled his teeth. His stomach started belching blood immediately. Whatever the Fronov had used to break through the tears in his armor, it had broken through his skin just as easily.

  Distractions, Colt scolded him.

  He couldn’t afford to divide his attention in the middle of the battle, even if the sigil of God’s Holy Protectorate was evident on the building across from him.

  The Fronov laughed. “Does that make you a little more agreeable, friend?”

  Nuri stifled a scream as the leader pressed the button on the side of the small, black square and electricity flowed through him again. He forced himself to draw deep breaths, even when he bit down on his tongue hard enough to draw blood and his bones began to ache.

  Pain is human pain is human pain is human, he fought the words into his consciousness, using them to ward off the mortal agony of his earthly body. Control returned to him by degrees even as the device continued beating waves of pain through every molecule of his being. Even as his skin began to stink like cooked flesh.

  Pain is human.

  He opened his eyes and glared at the Fronov. “I am not human,” he said.

  The alien’s expression changed for an instant from triumph to confusion, then morphed into an agonized howl when Nuri kicked him in the chest hard enough to crack his multi-layered ribcage. The device fell to the ground. Nuri swept the leg out from the left bodyguard and rolled in that direction in one smooth motion, hurling the other bodyguard a few meters down the street where he skidded to a halt beside an overturned vending machine which had somehow wandered into traffic.

  Before any of the Fronovs could react, Nuri drew his rifle and fired three quick shots into the nearest bodyguard, blasting through the leathery protective armor the alien wore over his chest and burning a hole in his head. The small-minded brute hadn’t thought to add any protection there, of course. Muscle rarely cared for brains. It was a swift death and not at all like the damnation he had in mind for the Fronov leader, who not only lacked morality as a creature purporting to safeguard his community from outside threats but who also lacked skill and honor as a warrior. As far as the Duri—and therefore, the Hidria—were concerned, those were two unforgivable sins.


  Calmly, Nuri rose and stepped toward the Fronov leader, who was gasping for breath and writhing in pain on the littered street. “You are a sinner,” he said, shifting the rifle so that the gang leader was reminded of its presence. “It is the will of God that we must not suffer a sinner to live so long as his actions conflict with the best interests of those around him and prevent any man or woman from reaching the Divine Truth.” As he spoke, Nuri felt the world flexing. The symbol of God Infinite on the first and last planet glowed white-yellow within the building across the way. Beckoning him.

  The sight was invigorating. It sharpened his focus and strengthened his resolve.

  “It is the will of God that I kill you now as a symbol of His first sacrifice that saved all mankind from Tscharia.”

  These were the ritual utterances each Called recited prior to taking a life and offering it to the All God, but Nuri knew he wouldn’t need to remember them much longer. Those who failed the trials were not bound to such pompous recitation, and the Hidria did not speak at all. Not with their lips. They were silent killers and purveyors of justice, for theirs was the voice of God.

  “Stop,” the Fronov wheezed. He crawled away from the docks, possibly trying to make it back to the hover car before Nuri made good on his threat and ended the despicable creature’s life. But Nuri was patient. He knew that he had time before the crime boss reached the door, and he didn’t intend on letting the machine run ever again. He would cut it to pieces with the laser blade himself rather than see it used by the lone survivor of the Fronov trio, who was currently unconscious and crumpled against the wandering vending machine.