by Jack Hanson
None of them noticed how many stars the sky had that night.
Chapter Twenty Two—From Beyond the Black
The candidates for Project Regenesis have been identified. We will begin the application of neurotropic chemicals through the usual routes—vaccinations, vitamin shots, and subverted medical personnel. This stage is to begin immediately. Harvester Teams will be deployed to watch the primary and secondary candidates and make sure they are kept safe. The first and second generation FOSsils remain on Elysium, with the exception of Reaver One, currently assigned to SHARD Haven. He may be convinced to aid the Project, according to reports received by Arch Strategos Fletcher, and bears further watching.
—Progress report on Project Regenesis, author unknown
Paris woke up to sirens off in the distance, emergency lighting stammering on as soft whumps punctured the night. He walked out into the common area about the same time the others did, looking at each other in shock. Salem was the first to speak up.
“Is this some sort of drill?” she asked as Sand made his way to the window.
“Guys,” Sand said, “I don’t think this is a drill.” He was pale as the others looked over his shoulders, to see fires in Alarius, with anti-aircraft rounds streaking up into the sky.
“It can’t be the Peace Federation… can it?” asked Jane, looking around for confirmation.
“Who else could it be?” responded Paris.
Jane began to answer, but her response was cut off as the flat screen monitor on their wall flickered into life, with streaming text running over the screen along with an audio recording: “All staff and cadets, this is not a drill. Say again, this is not a drill. Activate Protocol One-Bravo. All combat staff report to your posts, all first and second years report to the shelters, and all third and fourth years report to the armories. This is not a drill,” it said again, then looped back to the start of the speech.
Sand had not moved from the window, and now he could see figures running across the grounds. Some were cadets, others were janissaries in full combat armor, giving orders and taking charge of random groups of students before leading them away.
“Should we… find Clay?” asked Salem, right before the door rattled hard enough to jar it in its frame. The team jumped, each reaching for weapons they didn’t have.
“Epsilon! It’s Black a voice shouted. “Are you in there?”
Not saying anything, Paris cautiously opened the door. Sand saw Clay standing there wearing a headset, his dreamblade over his back, blood soaking his white undershirt. His shotgun was cradled in his hands, and the light from his strange pistol made the room seem like it was underwater.
“Is that blood yours?” Paris asked as Clay walked into the room.
“No, not mine,” the FOSsil admitted before shifting gears. “You’ve got a minute to grab whatever you can’t bear to leave behind and can carry in a satchel. We’ve got to bug out, right now.”
A chorus of voices greeted him. “What? Who’s attacking us? Why aren’t we fighting?”
“Pack and I’ll tell you,” he ordered, going to the fridge and helping himself to some sweets, stoking his body like a wolf before winter. The four watched him go before heading to their rooms, stuffing a change of uniform and civilian clothes into their satchels. Paris was strapping on his thrombium knife as he walked back out to where Clay was distributing the last of the small prepackaged cakes.
“Good,” he said, looking at Paris and his knife, and then brought his shotgun up to his shoulder. “I’ve got a Rhino waiting outside, we’ll talk and walk,” he said.
“I’m guessing they’re after you four,” Clay began as they moved at a jog towards the stairs.
“Who are they?” asked Jane, right behind Clay.
“The Illurians,” he said as they entered the fire escape, Clay clearing the top and bottom landing before they made their way down.
“The Illurians have turned on us?” said Jane, almost stumbling.
“No, not the Armada, though that might be questionable in the future,” he responded.
“Then who?” Jane asked as she kept to his heels.
“You’re a clever girl,” Clay said. “Who were the Illurians that didn’t side with us?”
They made the last landing and he kicked the door open, scanning for any threats. As promised, a Rhino waited. The four-wheeled all-purpose infantry vehicle was about the size of a truck. In the back, a belt-fed heavy machinegun glistened dimly.
“The royalty is attacking us?” Jane said, disbelieving.
“Paris, get on that gun,” Clay ordered before responding to Jane. “Top of your class, Harper. I’m about as shocked as you are, and more shocked that Fletcher didn’t know it was them.”
As Clay turned the engine over, Paris clambered into the back and readied the weapon.
“But there weren’t that many of them, I thought,” said Salem. “I mean, the Illurians needed us to fight to begin with.”
“This isn’t Illurian blood,” said Clay as he raced over the grass. “There were humans that sided with the Illurian Dominion, and it seems they’ve been busy breeding those humans, or just as likely cloning them.”
“How do you know that?” asked Jane.
“The platoon or so I killed all looked the same,” Clay responded, taking a hard right. “They’ve been gone for thirty plus years now, so you figure that gives them some time to grow two generations of soldiers,” he growled, shaking his head at the implications.
Jane made the connection. “They have an army of drones?”
“They brought back the Old Bloods and gave them intelligence, so I’d figure growing an army is well within their abilities,” he said, nodding.
In the aftermath of this revelation, Sand noticed that they were heading away from the armory.
“Clay, are we going to the Cave?” he asked.
“We’ve got to get you four out of here,” Clay responded gruffly. “Especially if you’re the reason they came.”
Sand was about to ask Clay if he thought the other FOSsils had sold them out, but Salem shot forwards.
“Stop this thing. I’m getting off,” she demanded.
“What?” asked Clay, still driving.
“Sir, if you don’t stop this thing I’ll leap from it,” Salem said flatly. Clay drove for another second, and then slowed down slightly.
“Okay, why would you do that?” he asked.
“I am not fleeing and letting my friends die,” Salem told Clay.
“Who said anything about letting your friends die?” asked Clay.
“There’s probably a lot better chance of them dying if we leave. I’m not going to leave them behind,” said Salem.
Jane nodded, looking at Clay.
“I’m with Salem,” Jane said. “If we cut and run, what’s the point in having these abilities?”
“You think you guys can turn the tide of this battle, against a foe we don’t know the capabilities of? I’ve told you, you’re not ready yet,” Clay said. “Sand, Paris, help me out here?” he asked.
“Sir… I don’t think I can,” said Sand. “They’re right. If we’re as special as you say, then maybe we can do something. If this is so important to these two, I’m going to have to side with them.”
“They’re right,” Paris said with a slow nod. “Tell me, sir, will Fletcher be more likely to throw everything in his hat at this problem if we stay behind, or are we leaving our friends to die?”
Clay exhaled slowly, unable to meet the steady gaze of the Rillik. There was a moment of silence, punctuated by the explosions off in the distance and the whine of aircraft getting closer. “I’ve been honest with you so far, so I won’t start lying now. Fletcher is a survivor, and he will have no problem writing this off as a loss if you aren’t here and the planet falls,” he admitted.
“If you wa
nt me to go,” said Salem in a low, angry voice, “you’re going to have to drag me on that ship.”
“And me,” said Jane.
“I’m staying with them,” said Sand.
“I’m not one to run,” said Paris.
There was only silence from their mentor, who stared past the steering wheel at nothing in particular. To be honest, none of them were sure what to expect from him, with the possibility of being tied up and dragged onto a waiting shuttle a very distinct possibility. Instead, he was mute, listening to a voice in his head. “Sir?” asked Sand, wondering what was going on in that head.
Clay shook his head, returning to the present. “You want to die for your friends?” he asked.
He received nods in response.
“Then I will grant you your wish,” he said, tapping the headset. “Archer?”
There was a hiss as Fletcher came onto the net, apparently maintaining their cover. “Black? Do you have the package?”
“Yes and no. We’ve got too many troops between us and the airfield,” he lied. “I’m activating the second option.”
“You can’t be serious,” Fletcher told him. “This is an Illurian main battle force. They’re already proving that they’re just as nasty as they were before their exile, and they’ve got the numbers they need. I’m also receiving reports that the beasts you saw moving with their units are modified humans and Bhae Chaw. What do you think they’re going to do when they get a hold of those four?”
“Well, you’ll just have to make sure that doesn’t happen. I know you have a trump card. You always have since I’ve known you,” Clay said as he turned the Rhino around. “Better dig it out.”
“Clay, don’t do this. I can’t be sure that I can save you this time,” Fletcher responded.
“You’re lying, old man,” Clay said, smirking as he did. There was a resigned sigh over the net.
“If something happens, their blood is on your hands,” Fletcher said, closing the connection.
The team had looked at him throughout this conversation.
“Is he going to be mad?” asked Jane.
Clay shrugged. “He’ll get over it,” he responded before tapping his headset again. “Old Bloods, can you hear me?”
Ripper’s voice rumbled onto the closed net only Black and the others could hear. “I’m here with Brokehorn at the Cave. Are you getting them to the shuttle?”
“Negative. I’m bringing them to your position. You should see me any second now,” Clay said as he turned a corner, speeding for the large dark hulks in the distance.
They dismounted as he pulled up. Ripper was shaking his great head. “They’ve infiltrated the Cave; we sought to go in there and arm for war, but they’ve lined the place with snipers,” he growled.
Brokehorn was outwardly furious, stomping his foot and snorting at the ground. “They’re in my lair,” he intoned before turning his great head to look at the five humans. “Bring them to me alive, I’m going to impale them on my horn and wear them into battle as a warning.”
Paris looked at the dark hole in the earth, shaking his head.
Sand knew going in there would be a guaranteed death sentence for somebody, and he was about to state as much to Clay when he heard a musical piping that was out of place for the surroundings.
The nostrils on the Old Bloods flared as they sniffed.
“Fresh blood,” said Ripper before corpses came tumbling out of the blackness, allowing the team their first look at the enemy. The armor they wore was technically similar to the same kit they bore, yet stylistically it was quite different. As opposed to the flat grey visors and armor that made up the staple of a janissary kit, this armor was much more stylish. Over each visor was a stylized face with eyes that seemed to weep. The armor had been formed to resemble hands covering the body. Together, the two simple bits of iconography were disturbing for reasons that the cadets couldn’t place.
“What’s that writing mean over the forehead?” asked Sand, reaching over to grab one helmet. Clay bent down, looking at the fluid script.
“It’s Illurian. It says ‘We Remember,’” Clay told him before lifting the mask, revealing a human face slack with death. The blue eyes were sightless, staring at nothing in particular. “Check the other bodies; see if they look the same.”
“Sir,” said Paris as he lifted a mask, revealing a face that was exactly the same as the first, “who did this? Who killed these people?”
“Didn’t you hear,” Jane responded, looking into a female variant of the first face. “That was Canon in D.”
The others shivered, wondering what the Harvesters could be doing here.
“What do the Suicide Commandos want with us?” Paris asked.
“I believe they were here to kill anyone trying to stop these two from arming themselves. That we’re able to get in is a happy circumstance,” Clay said, heading into the darkness. “Will you two need help getting your rigs on?” he asked the Old Bloods.
“It is mostly automated here, I believe,” Ripper responded.
“You two are going to war?” Sand asked the Tyrannosaurus as he ran after Clay, not able to keep the excitement out of his voice.
“The Dominion returns the same night that the FOSsils go to war once more. It seems like a night for heroes,” Ripper responded.
“The last night for heroes I fought through had us rescuing Young,” said Brokehorn. “If this night proves half as fruitful, I shall die happy.”
“Fruitful?” asked Salem as she looked up at Ripper.
“He means for killing,” said Ripper as he stepped between a series of columns. He rumbled low in his throat, and machinery began to activate. “Go now, we’ll be ready when you return.”
As the five reached the service elevator, explosions rocked Ganymede Academy itself. They could see something outside the Cave had been bombed, and the first orange glow of fire was starting as they descended.
“Wait,” said Paris. “Where’s Pairna?”
“Probably out on the frontlines. He is staff, after all, and Khajali. I doubt he’d miss a fight,” Clay said.
“So you think he’s safe?” asked Paris.
Clay snorted. “It’d take a lot more than air to ground bombing to kill that Khajali,” he said.
Paris seemed mollified by that, and they landed at the base of the shaft soon after. Running to their lockers, began putting on their armor. The separate pieces opened at a touch, detaching and extending outwards for easier entry. The boots went on first, then the greaves, followed by the torso piece. The arms and gauntlets were next, and the head was last. Each suit gave a soft hiss as it pressurized and locked together, the heads up display inside activating and coming to life, giving them the same feeds as a regular janissary helmet.
“One second,” said Clay as he opened the panel on each wrist and typed a code in. They didn’t know what he was doing until they looked at each other, and saw for the first time their armor bore the raptor’s skull insignia over their hearts, and each pauldron, the shoulder and upper arm section, bore a legend in the same stark white. K-3, H-3, N-3, and R-3 for Jane, Paris, Salem, and Sand respectively. “Battlefield promotion,” said Clay. “You’re the real deal now.”
“And what exactly does that mean?” asked Jane, her voice mechanized like Rick’s had been.
“Not as much now as it used to,” admitted Clay. “There used to be special orders that we could utilize that most of the troops knew across janissary and Star Command that would allow us to pull rank or make unorthodox decisions. Now? Maybe there will be one or two old veterans out there who remember, but mostly it means you’ll get as much authority as you can take.”
Clay unlocked the gun locker as the team strapped on their dreamblades. He handed everyone but Paris an assault rifle and a bandolier of magazines that attached to their armor. Paris received his battle rifl
e, and two drums of ammo to go with the one he was attaching to the weapon.
“We’ll wait for you,” Paris said as Clay finished the handoff.
“Huh?” asked Clay as he shouldered his shotgun.
“For you to get on your armor,” Paris said.
Clay shook his head. “I haven’t worn it in a decade, don’t see a need to do so now,” he said gruffly, cutting off argument with a swift motion of his hand and heading to the elevator. “You guys wanted to save your friends, here’s your chance,” he said as they loaded up and the lift began to ascend.
Chapter Twenty Three—Trump Card
This is Battle Station Vigilant above Odin II. This an emergency broadcast. We are under attack from an unconfirmed force. Attackers appear to be the Illurian Dominion. Planetary defenses are down, and ground assault is underway. We will sell our lives dearly. Two-twenty-six Signals Company was true to the end and may our comrades in arms avenge us, cry havoc…
This is Battle Station Vigilant…”
—Repeating message received from Battle Station Vigilant above the destroyed colony planet of Odin III, believed jammed by the Illurian Dominion, recently recovered by the League of Silence
The sight that greeted them when they came up from the depths of the Cave took their breath away. The Old Bloods had indeed armed themselves for war. It was a stirring vision. Their heads were covered by helmets that connected on a hinge at the lower jaw. Heavy machine guns were bound over Ripper’s shoulders, and a rocket pod was slung over one hip. Armored plates draped over his body, all the way down to his tail, and came up to protect his underbelly and thighs as well. Two armored claws had been placed over his forearms, extending his reach as well as being weapons in their own right. Most significantly, a rail gun ran along his spine, the tip level with his head.
The Lancer had an attachment fitted over the stump of his sheared horn, and his body was heavily armored as well. He bore twin missile pods on either side as well as some sort of EMP device that crackled and sparked in its long, transparent barrel. There was an energy weapon on the other side of him, raised on his back so it didn’t hit his crest. It was a long thin lance of some sort, with a spark that surged occasionally on the end.