Merillian: 2 (Locus Origin)

by Christian Matari

  “Zokava rokutti yne-kaäsi totsubunu,” the voice resounded once more.

  Marcus felt almost half as heavy as normal, and the effect was still intensifying. What with all the gear he was carrying, including his cumbersome armor, it was beginning to take its toll.

  “What the hell’s going on?” shouted Taz hysterically.

  “Gravity increase,” Mitchell bellowed. “They must be messing with the artificial gravity!”

  “Zokava rokutti kuro-kaäsi totsubunu,” the voice reverberated throughout the outpost.

  With his bad leg, Captain Mitchell collapsed, falling to the floor in exhaustion. Seconds later, Taz’s knees gave in, sending him crashing to the ground. Beside them, the towering giant Jago still stood, clutching the rim of the wheeled cart for support, his teeth gritted in determination.

  “Zokava rokutti kachi-kaäsi totsubunu,” the voice boomed, sending Marcus to the floor, completely overpowered and writhing on the ground, clutching his knees in pain.

  With the entire assault team disabled and on the ground – apart from Jago, who was biting down hard to keep from suffering the same fate – the Hrūll behind the improvised barricade began firing relentlessly. They began leaving cover, circling around for a clearer shot at their prone targets, seemingly less affected by the gravity increase than the Terrans were.

  Jago was frothing at the mouth, furious that his own bodyweight would be his downfall. He refused to give in, roaring like a cornered animal, but too proud and defiant to admit it.

  With his seemingly unending supply of strength, he slowly managed to heave his machinegun up to the edge of the cart, its barrel just scraping against the rim. His entire body convulsed. His hands were unable to do more than aim the weapon in the general direction of his assailants, who were slowly bearing down upon the cart.

  As bolts of energy flew past him, one connecting with his left shoulder pad, Jago unleashed the awesome power of the drum-fed Voss Viking KRS-56 upon them. The machinegun roared as it spewed forth round after round in rapid succession, most of which slammed into a distant wall. The head of the nearest Hrūll exploded into a mist of fleshy goo and fragmented bone as one of the rounds hit home.

  A bolt of energy slammed into the inner rim of the wheeled cart as another guard raised his weapon, firing blindly in hopes of shooting over the container. Jago screamed in agony as he turned his weapon, creating an arc of pure death and mayhem. The second Hrūll flew backwards as several rounds blew through his chest, leaving several fist-sized holes.

  Before he knew it, the Hrūll leader in the black helmet was the only one left alive. With a roar, he unclasped an oddly-shaped cleaver from his back, similar to the ones the first guards had carried. He raised it high over his head and sent it sailing through the air towards Jago. It spun twice, full circle, as it arched its way over the wheeled cart before digging itself deep into Jago’s left shoulder between his armor and his neck. Jago wailed, but refused to let go of his weapon, despite his crippling injury.

  “Zokava rokutti hyusati totsubunu,” the intercom boomed again.

  Not one to let a blow go unpunished, Jago managed to direct his blazing machinegun to the guard leader before finally giving in to the increasing pressure. The last thing he saw before he hit the floor was his opponent’s right arm come clean off his body.

  “Turn it off!” Marcus shouted at the top of his lungs from where he lay on the ground, clumsily aiming his carbine at the Hrūll leader, who was now clutching the stump where his arm used to be.

  The wounded alien responded by throwing his helmet to the ground and staring at him with cold lifeless eyes, his face completely devoid of emotion.

  “Turn it off now!” Marcus yelled once more, shaking his carbine in his direction.

  The Hrūll slowly raised his good arm and spoke into his wrist device, all the while keeping his eyes locked on Marcus. As the gravity slowly returned to normal, Marcus got back to his feet and began securing their captive while the others saw to the wounded Jago. A moment later Doc Taylor came strolling up from behind them, holding his helmet in one hand and a lit cigarette in the other.

  * * * * *

  With the entire base thrown into turmoil, no one noticed the small Sheshen craft approaching the refinery. It had drifted in space for the majority of its journey, its systems powered down to assure it would slip past the station’s sensors undetected.

  Small maneuvering thrusters on the nose of the dark sleek craft fired off in sequence, flipping the ship over in a matter of seconds. It slowly closed the distance to one of the station’s gas silos, and as soon as it made contact, the ship polarized its hull plating, magnetically attaching itself to the surface.

  A moment later the ship came loose once more, firing a short controlled burst from its primary engine. As it drifted back into space, it left behind its payload – a tightly packed container of explosives – attached to the enormous gas silo.

  Chapter 27

  Streaks of light pierced the fragmented glass of the domed roof, its amber and sapphire hues tinting the gossamer rays as they formed a halo of light on the shimmering floor twenty meters below. On many occasions, Rodan had marveled at dome’s artistry. He stood opposite Ambassador Janosh, both men dressed in plain black robes, gripping their ceremonial blades.

  Rodan had received his only a few years prior, at the culmination of his training. It was a straight blade, as sharp as any he had ever seen, and perfectly balanced. Its hilt was made from the bones of a Nerokan randler, a creature notorious for its ferocity, and highly sought after by poachers, much to the displeasure of the Nerokan noble houses. The bones were engraved with Gaia’s blessings and wrapped with crimson ribbons.

  “Your sword is an extension of your mind,” Ambassador Janosh counseled. “Through its form you can channel your energy, focus it upon your enemy, and release it.”

  With those words, the ambassador began to channel his essence into his own blade, which began to crackle as waves of energy began to caress its edge, its intensity magnifying with each passing second until finally he released it in a jet of light, cutting through the dimness of the wide circular hall and heading straight for Rodan.

  Rodan swiftly swirled his blade in a wide arc, creating a barrier which deflected the beam just as it was about to strike home, hurling it to the edge of the chamber, where it quickly dissipated.

  “Well done,” the ambassador commended him. “Your skill with the blade has vastly improved since last we sparred.”

  “Thank you, Master,” Rodan said, bowing his head in a sign of respect.

  “You have been on several missions for the Triumvirate now,” Ambassador Janosh proclaimed. “Your instincts have advanced beyond those of most men of your age, and you have proven your morals to be unquestionable.”

  “Your words do me great honor, Master,” Rodan muttered, blushing at the undeserved praise.

  “Tell me, what do you think should be done regarding the Terran threat?”

  “I would hardly call them a threat, Master,” Rodan countered quickly. “They are only one ship, one crew, and a poor one at that.”

  “It is not their numbers, or their strength, which concern me,” the ambassador confessed. “It is their morality, and how their being here may corrupt the good work we have accomplished.”

  Rodan pondered the ambassador’s words. “What would Gaia do?” he asked rhetorically.

  “Our beloved Gaia would indeed know what to do,” Ambassador Janosh concurred. “There is not a day that goes by that I do not wonder what happened to her. She was the greatest of us all. I cannot imagine what fate had in store for her. There are many among us who believe that she will one day return to us, though I must admit, I often fear that she is lost to us forever.”

  Rodan did not answer. The mere thought brought him nothing but sorrow.

  “Come now, young one,” Janosh smiled encouragingly. “Let us not dwell too much on the past.”

  He gripped his sword steadily with both
hands and took up a defensive stance.

  “Your move, Rodan.”

  Rodan smiled, pleased to have his mind pulled back from the depths of melancholy to more exciting matters. He bent both his knees, lowering his center of gravity, holding his sword off to one side in both hands, twisting his body to hide his intensions. Without warning, he pushed off from the ground, jumping an inhumanly-high five meters into the air, simultaneously whirling his blade into a downward spiral.

  Ambassador Janosh grinned, deftly spinning his sword with a quick flick of his wrist so that it was raised parallel with his head. As the two weapons met, a shower of sparks lit up the room. It was as if time had frozen momentarily as Rodan hung in the air, the two blades grinding against one another.

  The ambassador let go of his weapon with one hand, clenching each of his free fingers except his index finger. With one swift gesture, Rodan was sent flying backwards through the air, crashing into the shimmering force field that shielded the chamber some twenty meters away.

  The old man twirled his blade a full circle before sending it back smoothly into its sheath. Rodan Reluctantly stood up from the floor, sword in one hand and the other rubbing his bruised lower back.

  “How did you know?” he demanded.

  Ambassador Janosh simply smiled as he paced slowly over to his disciple.

  “When you fight, you must guard not only your physical self, but your thoughts as well,” he chuckled. “You may think the conflict to be that of the body, yet the mind will always reveal your intentions if you do not keep it guarded.”

  “You read my thoughts?” Rodan was outraged. “Is that not dishonorable?”

  “Honor is a double-edged sword. You must be prepared to fight your opponent on all fronts. Just because you have honor that does not mean that your opponent does as well. A life of honor is one of the highest ideals laid out before us by our beloved Gaia. Honor can prevent battles, but once you are on the field, honor is the rope around your neck by which you can hang.”

  “Yes Master,” Rodan consented reluctantly.

  He understood the meaning behind the ambassador’s words, but he couldn’t help but feel as if the older man had taken certain liberties with his interpretation of Gaia’s wisdom. To Rodan, honor was the highest ideal anyone could strive for. Be it in life or on the field of battle, he would rather die pursuing honor than live a life of shame.

  “Leave me to my thoughts now,” the ambassador ordered. “I must prepare myself for the meeting with the Council.”

  “May Gaia be with you,” Rodan offered, bowing once more in respect before quietly exciting the chamber.

  * * * * *

  The Council Hall of the Etheran Alliance resembled a gargantuan cathedral spire, its walls tapering steeply upwards in stages until they joined at the top, forming a steeple some eighty meters above its rectangular floor. Its narrow front and back walls consisted of polished black stone blocks, pierced by clear blue crystalline windows. The tapering roof of the chamber above was made of a shimmering white alloy, supported by broad curving metal girders, each of which was emblazoned with a tapestry of ornate runes.

  It was built atop a towering square onyx structure, with cylindrical towers perched at every corner. The whole spire was over a kilometer in height, and was the heart of Etheran bureaucracy. Hundreds of drones swarmed its perimeter, monitoring everything that transpired. The top of the tower contained a plethora of landing bays for the hovercraft of visiting diplomats, squares and gardens for leisurely walks ideal for private political discussion, and regiments of statues and fountains in honor of the Etherium’s most revered and historic members. The Council Hall was the centre of the tower, and the pinnacle of Semeh’yone’s political scene.

  Three tall, arching windows towered over the raised platform near the far end of the Hall, the central window slightly taller than the others. Three sets of steps led up to a perfectly plain but flawless throne of solid granite, the back of which rose over a dozen meters into the air. On each side of the throne hung three sets of white banners, which draped all the way from the ceiling to the floor, bearing the emblem of the Etherium alliance: the insignia of the Hiodan formed its base, the mirrored ‘k’s joined at the bottom and encircled by twin rings and a circle of stars. Hovering over the center of the chamber’s polished stone floor was a chaotic grouping of glowing crystals, which bathed the hall in brilliant azure hues.

  On each side of the path leading from the chamber’s grand entrance, all the way to the steps before the throne, over two hundred broad-chested, long-limbed Etheran Guard stood watch. The elite Hiodan soldiers all stood over two meters tall, as was common for their race, and wore ornate silver armor, segmented to resemble muscle tissue, which seemed to bend and reshape itself as it adjusted with their movements. An arrow shaped from a vibrantly-glowing crystal hung on a silver necklace around each of their necks. The low-slung visor on their gleaming helmets tilted up and around the side to form horns which stood up at the back of their heads. A red cape flowed from one shoulder, connected to the waist on the other side. Each held a ceremonial spear more than twice their own height, which they tilted forward, towards the opposing line of troops.

  On the throne itself sat the Shitoru, the highest figure in the Hiodan hierarchy, clad from head to toe in a suit of ceremonial armor that glowed so brightly that a petitioner couldn’t help but avert their gaze in his presence. Like most Hiodan headgear, the helmet’s faceplate completely obscured the Shitoru’s features, but was surrounded by a crescent of metal that swept up from beneath the wearer’s chin to tower into delicate points on either side of the helmet’s domed crown. A long flowing red cape cascaded down the sides of the throne and rose sharply as if suspended in thin air, forming a pair of enormous draconic wings which writhed faintly without visible cause, the immense power of the Hiodan so supreme that his mere presence distorted the very air surrounding him.

  Four tiers of balconies overlooked the central floor of the hall, separated into segregated booths for each of the councilors and their emissaries. There were hundreds of them, completely covering the full height and length of each of the hall’s long walls, each one housing the representatives of a race in the Etheran alliance.

  His back straight as he stood at the balustrade of the Gaian box, Ambassador Janosh was the picture of defiance as he bore his case before the council.

  “We, the Children of Gaia, demand the immediate classification of the Terrans as a separate people, subject to their own hearings, their own pleas,” he contested, his holographic representation towering over the central hall and his booming voice echoing throughout the chamber. “The privileges afforded to the Children of Gaia have been earned through years of honourable abidance by the spirit and the letter of the law of the Etherium, as well as outright service in the cause of this alliance. To suggest that these benefits should apply also to the Terrans is ludicrous. They must earn their own place in the Etherium, not inherit ours.”

  The hologram shifted abruptly to that of Councilor Noga Zhad, the representative of the Eremaran race. His slithering tail section flopped back and forth as he shifted his gaze around the hall.

  “The Eremara find it disturbing that you, of all people, would shun those who so obviously belong to you,” came the interpretation from the speakers in Ambassador Janosh’s booth.

  Noga Zhad’s visage evaporated in a cloud of smoke as it was replaced with that of councilor Yusol Sulomo, a cephalopod with long flowing tentacles and eyes that took up nearly a fifth of its entire body.

  “The Gelvein find this preposterous,” its thundering voice shaking the ambassador’s stall. “With the Moloukan Empire knocking on our doorsteps, you squabble over internal matters which are of little or no consequence. The Etherium needs to focus on reinforcing the front lines.”

  The image shifted once more, this time to Councilor Rasha Ke Nahn, a muscular reptilian humanoid with a wide, gaping maw lined with sharp teeth. A nasty scar cut clear through his upper and lo
wer lips on one side of his face, causing his mouth to sag partially open.

  “The Nerokan houses agree. We must send more ships to the line. The war with the Moloukan Empire has gone on long enough! It is time we crush our enemies once and for all.”

  Ambassador Janosh cringed at this turn of events. It was all he could do not to let his rage burst out. After a moment he reined in his anger and rose from his seat, causing the hologram to once more change to his image.

  “The war is not the topic of discussion,” he snapped. “We may not have been a part of this Council for as long as some of you, but the Children of Gaia have served this alliance with grace, honor and dignity. We deserve to be heard.”

  His statement resulted in a cacophony of murmurs from all over the chamber, drawing wide-eyed looks from most of the other races. The holographic image faded to that of Councilor Noss Def, a long-faced, slender humanoid with a flat, conical head and large black reflective eyes, cold and inhuman.

  “The Zillari agree with the Representative of Gaia. Matters of war are not on the current agenda.”

  Somewhere in the distance, a fist slammed onto a hard surface, calling forth the holographic image of Councilor Rasha Ke Nahn once more.

  “I find it humorous that you, of all of us, would shy away from discussion of the war, what with Zentilla so close to the Moloukan territories! But then, it is well known that your people cater to both the Moloukan Empire and the Mor’row Legion. You cower in fear like herds of Lonwippi, waiting to be culled!”

  “That accusation is an outrage!” Noss Def shrieked, throwing up a long-fingered hand to point at the distant Nerokan. “Zentilla merely offers a neutral ground for the Moloukans and the Mor’rowians to settle their disputes without bloodshed. To insinuate that we owe our allegiance to anyone other than the Etherium is a grave insult!”