by Nick Webb
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-One
Chapter Sixty-Two
Chapter Sixty-Three
Chapter Sixty-Four
Chapter Sixty-Five
Chapter Sixty-Six
Chapter Sixty-Seven
Chapter Sixty-Eight
Chapter Sixty-Nine
Chapter Seventy
Epilogue
ebook backmatter
PROLOGUE
Savannah Sector
Zion’s Haven, surface
Frye Commune
“Your life, as you’ve known it, will change forever tonight. You’re men now. And this hunt that we now embark on will be your initiation into the higher knowledge and the higher ways of our pioneering ancestors. Tonight, we pass through the gate. We cross the veil. And on the other side—”
Orson Jedediah Martinez Frye Smith looked out at the gaggle of young men under his care, all seated cross-legged around the campfire. The dark woods around them, the hooting and braying of the wildlife, the starry skies above, the basic rations, the rudimentary lean-to tents—all details that he’d hoped would inspire a certain awe and reverence among them for this night of nights. But two of them were poking each other, giggling, and generally not taking the evening very seriously. “Deacon Orson? Deacon Frederick? Do I need to dismiss you two? Perhaps another year working with your mothers in the commune garden?”
“No, sir!”
“No, sir!”
Both boys snapped back to attention. But one still struggled to contain his grin, then his snorted laughing.
“Orson Junior, a better example to your brothers in Christ, please.”
“Yes, Father.”
“Good.” Orson Jed Smith, or, as he preferred to be called, Brother Orson, continued his brief sermon. He mentally chided himself for not remembering the brief part, as twelve-year-old boys were wont to mentally wander off after about two minutes of a sermon—even a good one. At least they didn’t suffer under the corrupting influence of technology, like their ancestors had. Before the great trek across the stars to their home.
Their Zion.
“Cast your eyes skyward. The time fast approaches when you’ll be given the first sign of the higher knowledge.”
He waited about five seconds, partly for dramatic effect, and partly to look at his watch—one of the very few pieces of technology allowed him as a brother in good standing on Zion’s Haven.
It was almost time.
“You were born and raised on our commune. It is small. No more than a hundred hectares. Most of you have been to the Cities of Joseph and The Magdalene, fifty kilometers away, more or less. Perhaps one or two have been to the capital. Five hundred sixty kilometers. But none of you know the vastness that is God’s creation. It is not just our world. There was a world, long ago, from which our pioneering ancestors came. Earth. You learn about it in the Sunday school and weekday schools both. And it is not just Earth. Worlds without number hath he made, and worlds without number shall he create. Worlds that—”
“Father?”
He sighed. The boy was incorrigible. “Yes, Orson Junior?”
His son’s brow was all furrows, his arms crossed, as if he were performing his doubt for all to see. “How did the ancestors get here?”
“Our great God brought them here.”
“Yes, but how? A boat?”
“After a fashion, yes.”
“What kind of—”
Brother Orson interrupted his son. “All good questions that have answers. All the mysteries of the kingdom lie before you, my sons, and their answers are for the worthy. The righteous men of the kingdom. Tonight, you will witness just one of God’s many miracles that he has done for our people. And as you progress further in the light and truth of God, you will witness other miracles.”
He glanced one last time at his watch. Any moment. He looked upward, toward the still twilit western horizon visible through a break in the trees. “There.” He pointed.
A tiny, very faint point of light moved low across the horizon, passing through the summer constellation of the Plow.
“Is that a shooting star? How did you know it would come right this second?” Deacon Frederick asked, amazed.
“Is this a trick?” asked Orson Junior.
“It’s not a trick. And it’s not a shooting star. Look. Does it fizzle away?”
They kept watching the small dot. “No, it’s still there. And it’s so slow!” said Orson Junior. “What is it?”
“That,” he pointed skyward, “is but a small piece of the vessel that brought us across the great deep of the firmament of heaven from Earth to Zion’s Haven. God left it there above us to remind us of his power, of his mercy, of his tenderness, and of his judgement. For if the people of Zion ever were to stray, the heavens would descend upon us like a consuming fire.”
All the boys kept watching the small star with rapt attention, some of them with their mouths half open. Only Brother Orson, and a select other few of the brethren in their commune, knew of the satellite. How it was their only link back to Earth and its corrupt government self-adoringly titled United Earth. Perhaps, if any of them prove their worthiness, one or two of the boys would attain that knowledge. Orson wished it would be his son, but his flippant behavior that night—and in general—didn’t fill him with hope.
“What’s that other light?” asked Deacon Frederick, the other boy seated next to Orson Junior.
Brother Orson glanced up at the western horizon. Sure enough, another light, somewhat brighter than the first, moved across the sky.
Odd.
“I—I’m not sure. Perhaps that is a shooting star.”
Orson Junior scoffed, �
��But it doesn’t fizzle, Father.”
Brother Orson watched it with growing nervousness, ignoring his son’s obvious disrespectful tone. “Indeed it doesn’t.”
It not only grew in brightness, but it was joined by another that arrived with a brief flash. Then a third.
And in a flurry of flashes, it seemed the whole western horizon lit up like a June evening’s firefly show. Except these were clearly lights in space. Ships. Above Zion’s Haven. Brother Orson’s worst fear was perhaps coming true.
United Earth was back. It had changed its mind about their arrangement. Their slice of Zion was at risk of contamination.
“Quickly my sons, leave your things. We’re going back to the commune at once. Get your shoes back on. We leave in one minute.”
The journey back to the commune would take at least twenty minutes, assuming the boys could make it without stopping to rest, which Brother Orson doubted. After they’d hiked for only five minutes, they heard the first sounds of the thunder of heaven.
The sound distracted Orson Junior and his foot caught on a root, sending him sprawling to the ground. Deacon Frederick reached down to pull him up, and brushed off the debris from his clothing, patting him reassuringly on the back. But Orson Junior was frantic.
“Father? What . . . what was that? There’s no clouds in the sky. Why is there thunder?”
Brother Orson quickened his pace and beckoned them to hurry. “I don’t know, Son. Perhaps God is merely testing us. Perhaps He is angry.”
Or perhaps United Earth was angry. Or maybe some new tyrannical government had taken over humanity’s homes amongst the stars and decided to come subjugate them as well. To end their paradise.
They had finally crested the hill overlooking the commune when they saw the flashes of light that matched the sounds of the thunder. Far away, to the north. From their vantage point on the hill overlooking the entire sprawling valley from end to end, they watched in horror.
They watched the City of Joseph burn. And a few miles to its east, the City of the Magdalene. Both were criss-crossed by giant jagged scars, with huge plumes of smoke and ash rising above them toward heaven.
One of the boys screamed—Brother Orson didn’t know which one. All he could focus on was the commune below, his home. His wife would most likely be in bed by then, having tucked away the four girls in their room. “Come. We must hurry.”
What he planned to do when he got home, he had no idea. How do you fight the flying war machines of distant tyrants with shovels and rakes and hoes?
Only God could fight their battles, just as he had in ages past. The ancient patriarchs, then the children of Israel, then the early Christians suffering under Rome, then his pioneering ancestors in the American West, and finally his ancestors defying the wishes of the powerful and wicked multi-planet government of United Earth by setting out on their own into the galactic wilderness with nothing but faith to guide them.
With God on their side, they could not lose. In this, Brother Orson found some comfort, and pressed on toward home.
His house was less than a hundred meters away when the sky lit up with a consuming fire. Bright shafts of celestial light smashed down from the heavens, and for a brief moment, Brother Orson thought that God’s holy arm was finally revealed against the aggressors. His righteous wrath had come.
But when one of the beams struck his house, incinerating it in the blink of an eye, the hope turned to horror. To unfathomable pain.
His wife. Orson Junior’s four younger sisters. All . . . gone.
“No! Great God of Heaven! No!”
He collapsed to his knees and slumped backward onto his rear. His strength evaporated. Even as he saw the ship descend from heaven and land near the smoldering wreck of his home, he didn’t have the strength or the will to even stand.
Figures sprang from the ship. Strange figures dashed from the ship, clad in fantastic suits of armor, their faces completely obscured behind some kind of mask or shielding, raising objects that he vaguely remembered descriptions of. Something his grandfather had told him about when he was young.
Guns.
And from those guns, blazing beams of intense purple light. A neighbor from down the street ran toward them, wielding a sledgehammer, and one of the invaders aimed the gun at him. The purple beam punctured straight through the man’s head, blasting it clean off.
The headless body of his neighbor collapsed in the dirt.
The boys were screaming.
“Father! Father! What do we do?”
He had no words. His girls were dead. His wife was dead. The commune was destroyed. The beautiful cities of Joseph and The Magdalene were hellish craters.
Before he could respond, one of the terrifying figures ran toward them, its gun blazing. The purple beam lanced out and sliced right through little Deacon Jonathan, who fell to the earth in two pieces. The other boys similarly fell, their screams cut short, some with gurgling cries for their mothers as they lay dying. Deacon Frederick tackled Orson Junior at the last moment before a beam struck him, and the pair rolled off into the bushes. For a moment, Brother Orson thought they might be spared.
But a brief burst of purple light from the invader’s gun punched a hole through Frederick’s chest, and he fell still.
The invader turned and stood over Brother Orson. It aimed the gun straight at his face.
Something came in between them.
“You . . . you . . . get the hell away from my father! You . . . you shit-stained demon from Hell’s asshole!”
Brother Orson reached up and pulled at his son’s shirt. “Orson, no. Run! Get away, as fast as you can!”
The invader hadn’t moved, but still aimed the gun at his son, who stood as a shield over him.
It spoke.
It was the voice of evil. The voice of Satan himself, channeled through an alien puppet.
“Where is he? Your hero?”
Brother Orson spat at the being’s feet. “Hero? Our God is more than a hero. He is the Lord God Almighty, the Holy One of Israel, and He will cast you out to the depths of Hell for what you’ve done!”
The invader laughed. “God? Is he a God now? Tell me, human,” he spoke the word like an epithet, “where is the Hero of Earth? The traitor. Where is Granger?”
“Granger? Who . . . ?”
“Tell me, or the small one dies.” The being said it so matter-of-factly, so business-like, that it sent a chill down his spine. Brother Orson couldn’t see its face through the helmet. But he imagined some red-faced horned demon.
“I don’t know who Granger is. I’ve never been to Earth.”
The invader lowered his gun, just a hair. “You’ve . . . never been to Earth?” The being seemed to consider this, then touched a spot on the metallic gauntlet covering his wrist. “Director Talus. One of the vermin here claims to never have been to Earth. There is a chance none of these humans have been sullied by Granger and his corrupting influence. Shall we spare them?”
A long pause, then a voice came out of nowhere. A voice more satanic than the first.
“Of course not, Adjutant Varus. If we let them live, Granger will be forewarned.”
“But Director Talus, I thought we wanted Granger to be forewarned. We wanted him running and scared and making mistakes that we can exploit. How will killing all of them accomplish that?”
Another pause. “Fine, Adjutant Varus. Leave one alive. But do not question me further. I am the Hegemon of the Findiri, and you just a lowly adjutant.”
“For this iteration, perhaps, Director. In the next iteration, it may be I that is the Hegemon.”
The voice laughed. “Such bold words for a soldier! Perhaps the rate of deterioration of our genetic replicators is accelerating. Which makes finding Granger even more urgent. But no matter. If we accomplish our final mission, Adjutant, there may be no more need for further iterations. Do what you must. End transmission.”
The invader tapped his wrist gauntlet again, and raised his gun. “Rescuer
s will come. And when they do, tell them . . . tell them that this is all for Granger. Because of Granger. We will pursue him. We will find him. And when we do . . . all his treacherous works will end. Finally.”
Orson Junior stood in between them. The invader reached out and with one arm thrust the boy to the ground. The gun swung from father, to son, back to father, to son, as if the being couldn’t decide whom to kill and whom to spare.
The gun pointed at Brother Orson, and remained pointed at him. The being had made its choice. “Your race is weak. The time of humanity is at its end. The time of the Findiri is beginning.”
The words were haunting. In that final moment Brother Orson wondered how, if this being was not human, he could even understand it in the first place. And that was the final thing Brother Orson thought, the glowing barrel of the gun the last sight he saw, and the sound of his son screaming the last sound he heard.
CHAPTER ONE
Savannah Sector
Nova Nairobi, High Orbit
ISS Independence
Bridge
“Status report, Ensign.”
Admiral Shelby Proctor was tense. She could see it in how her hand gripped her armrest, the bony white knuckles almost shining through her ever-thinning skin. Aging is such a bitch, she thought, and forced it to relax.
She shouldn’t be this tense. It was all going to be okay, she thought. It would turn out to be a misunderstanding. An incoming fleet of merchant freighters in a caravan. A passing fleet of Dolmasi on their way back to Verdra Dol for their annual fight-to-the-death to choose a new leader. Or maybe the Chinese Intersolar Democratic Republic was doing war exerises in the sector and hadn’t bothered to tell IDF. The CIDR was known for such communication faux pas. Same for the Russian Confederation fleet, or the Caliphate’s. There were any number of possible explanations.
It had to be a mistake. Long-range sensors on Nova Nairobi had detected an incoming fleet.
A big one.
It couldn’t be the Findiri.
Please not them. We’re not ready.
Would they ever be ready? They’d faced the Swarm, twice over the last thirty years, both times only surviving by the seat of their pants. Only by last minute strokes of extreme luck and extraordinary heroism and sacrifice had human civilization managed not to be consigned to the dustbin of galactic history.