The Golan berserker bellowed in rage. Frothy white bubbles clung to his cracked lips and a long sliver of drool hung from the corner of his mouth. The team had scattered as the blow sent cracks running through the stone underfoot. The long metal club was bent at an odd angle a third of the way from its heavy tip, which was stained red and green from whatever the huge alien had killed on its warpath through the battlefield. On the chain hanging from his neck was an unrecognizable bloody pulp, all that was left of the Golan’s former master.
Jumping away from the roaring beast, Marcus had thrown himself out of the blinding spotlights cast by a pair of camera drones. He could see that instinct had kicked in throughout the squad, and most of the clones had run for cover immediately, all except for Jago. The towering clone stood poised in front of Serena, who had frozen in place, her body shaking in fear, clearly too terrified to move. Jago was shielding her with one arm while staring down the snarling beast.
The Golan swung its club back with another mindless roar, reaching forward with its free arm to grab Jago around the midsection. Jago didn’t budge, refusing to dodge or dive aside. Instead, he hefted his machine gun and brought the butt end down right onto the beast’s knuckles. There was a horrible crack and a sudden wail from the Golan as it reared back, squealing in pain.
“Ape!” Captain Mitchell shouted from the rear, “get her the hell out of there!”
Jago didn’t even flinch. Marcus had never seen such an unwavering display of courage. He suddenly became very aware that none of them were reacting to the threat. They were all just staring blindly at Jago, too stunned to move.
Overcoming his initial panic and forcing himself to act, Marcus finally pulled himself to his feet and dived back out into the open space in front of the collapsed bridge, grabbing hold of Serena and pulling her to safety, just as the roaring berserker swept the ground with its club. Jago tried to jump back, but he reacted too late. The tip of the club hit him square in the shoulder, tossing him violently aside, his arms flailing as his machinegun fired an uncontrolled burst, some slugs slamming into the large metal beam Taz was using for cover, hitting a little too close to home.
Marcus snapped off a few rounds as he pushed Serena into cover behind the scorched remains of an abandoned vehicle. His aim was good, but the small-caliber ammunition did little damage as they struck the beast’s thick skin. Mitchell and Doc Taylor sprayed the area with enough rounds to take down an entire squad, but the beast merely bellowed in rage, swinging its club wildly as it looked for its next victim.
“Reid, take that monster down, now!” the captain barked, trying to keep it at bay with his carbine.
Reid propped his rifle on a nearby slab of concrete, crouching behind it to steady his aim.
Somewhere amidst the chaos Jago moaned as he attempted to get back on his feet. His body was aching from the tremendous blow. His ribcage felt like it was fractured in several places, and his right arm stuck out at an odd angle, his shoulder dislocated. He slumped back to the ground, fumbling clumsily for his weapon which was nowhere in sight.
* * * * *
Hanan Aru reached the top of one of the three towering pillars. He grabbed the edge as he knelt down to survey the scene. His armor shimmered slightly before adjusting to his surroundings.
A lone Vreen tracker was approaching from the west, its thick braids bobbing from the back of its head as it followed a pair of trained Narrkin, picking up the scent of the Golan berserker. Hanan Aru had encountered the creatures before. Although their vicious bite was strong enough to snap the bones of most species clean in half, they were cowardly beasts when confronted alone, foul tempered and twice as smelly.
The Terrans had their hands full, that much was certain. Their tactics were like those of the Yon Ton beetle, backing away from a threat and waiting when they should be pushing. Their sniper fired off a round, piercing the Golan’s shoulder. Hanan Aru knew that would only make the huge berserker angry.
There was time still. This fight was nowhere near over, and he was growing tired of sitting on the sidelines. A lone Vreen and a pair of Narrkin were just the diversion he needed to take his mind off the wait.
He grabbed the small pistol-like weapon hanging from the side of his belt and drew it out before him, its outlines barely visible under the camouflage field. With a flick of his wrist, its barrel extended threefold, the body folding outwards to twice its former size. What had looked like a pistol now took on the shape of a formidable carbine.
Under his mirrored helm, an elusive grin made its way across his lips as he took in a deep breath of anticipation. For all its intellectual interests, it had been an uneventful mission so far, and it was high time he got a piece of the action.
Below, the Terrans fought to keep the raging Golan at bay with suppressive fire, while their sniper took aim. Hanan Aru leapt from the pillar, his shadowy form gliding effortlessly through the air towards his unsuspecting prey.
* * * * *
Jago stumbled to his feet, sweat breaking out on his brow and his right arm still protruding at an awkward angle. Disoriented from the blow, he wobbled over to the base of the closest pillar and bit his lip to keep himself from crying out as he rammed his shoulder into the wall. There was a loud crack as it jammed back into its socket.
Meanwhile, the raging Golan was growing tired of ineffectually smashing its club around and was getting ready to charge in to grab them one at a time.
Ducking down behind the fallen masonry, Captain Mitchell made a desperate attempt to try and connect with the beast’s mind telepathically, bombarding him with images from his homeworld in an effort to try and confuse him and buy them some time. Mitchell reached out, and found that its mind was much more alien than anything he’d touched before. Breaking through was not difficult, as was often the case with simpler minds, but he soon found that all of his efforts to try and sway the beast were met with fierce resistance by its cybernetic implant, a device specifically tailored to induce psychotic rage. Mitchell could sense only a faint measure of the gentle being itself. He could feel its suffering.
The fearsome beast labored to regain its senses, shaking off the captain’s attempts at telepathic manipulation. It raised its mace high in the air and stormed forward, legs the size of tree trunks thumping at the trembling ground.
Reid fired again, this time piercing the Golan through the hip. The beast buckled as its leg gave way, crashing forward with, its massive club swinging in a wide arc straight for the sniper. Reid just barely ducked away as the mace nearly shattered the cement slab, a hair’s breadth away from his head, showering him in fragments of near-pulverized stone.
Marcus jumped up, emptying his clip into the prone beast as it lay writhing on the ground, thrashing its limbs in pain and panic. As he snatched the empty magazine out of weapon and went to swap it out for a fresh one, he was astonished to see Jago come charging in, jumping feet-first right on top of the exhausted Golan.
He thrust the muzzle of his machinegun into the beast’s skin, all the while struggling to maintain his balance. He squeezed the trigger forcefully, sending slug after slug directly into the beast’s spine, all the while letting out an inhuman roar. Instantly, Jago was showered in a torrent of viscous black blood, pieces of skin and fragmented bone, a fountain of gore spraying from right between his feet. The beast twitched and trembled as the bullets tore through its body, nearly severing it in half.
When the dust had settled and the others began crawling out of their hiding places, Taylor came striding over to Jago, helmet in one hand and a lit cigarette in the other, the latter of which he promptly handed over to the huge man, who stood, dripping in gore, chest heaving. Without so much as a word, Jago accepted the cigarette and took a mighty puff, finishing half of it in one go. Taylor lit himself another and plumped himself down on the dead Golan’s shoulder.
“For a second there I thought you were gonna take him hand to hand,” he joked as the others approached.
Serena knelt down by th
e berserker’s head, tracing the metal implant protruding from its skull with her fingertips.
“Poor creature,” she sighed. “He should never have left Ga’ouna.”
“Poor creature?” Taz gasped. “He nearly killed us all!”
“Quiet Taz,” Marcus snapped, seeing her distress.
Sometimes he thought they were the only two on the Tengri’s crew capable of compassion. He too shared her sympathies. The Golan were being transported off their homeworld with promises of a place among the gods, only to be transformed into these… abominations. He only hoped that not all the Golan offworlders shared his fate.
“We’re not done,” Captain Mitchell reminded the others.
“I’m pretty sure he’s dead,” Taylor proclaimed, slapping the dead berserker on the shoulder.
“Not him,” the captain scowled. “The camera drones. I don’t think Lishan’s contact would be pleased to have our R.V. broadcast.”
“I’m on it,” Reid stated calmly, turning and making quick work of one of the unshielded drones with his rifle.
Captain Mitchell stepped onto the top of a nearby slab of broken concrete. He drew his sidearm, staring defiantly into the lens of the remaining drone as he took aim. He fired, sending the drone crashing into the ground.
“Let’s move.”
They pulled themselves together and made for the shallow, fetid lake in the dim light of the city above. Serena reluctantly looked over her shoulder at the Golan’s remains, saying a silent prayer.
“There was nothing else we could have done,” Marcus assured her as he put an arm across her shoulder and pulled her close, comfortingly.
“I know,” she admitted, leaning into him. “I just wished… things could have been different.”
Taz waded out into the murky waters of the lake. At its deepest, it barely reached his knees. Once he was a dozen meters ahead, the others followed him, approaching the rendezvous point, where something dark lay shrouded on the other side of the shimmering barrier wall.
“This is the place,” Marcus confirmed, consulting his holographic map.
“Where’s our contact?” Taz probed, attempting to peer through the force field.
“He should be here,” Captain Mitchell assured them. “Maybe he ran into trouble, same as us. In the meantime-”
The captain’s order was cut off as an intensely bright spot appeared at head height on the force field, gaining in size rapidly. As it expanded, its center became hollow, revealing the sight of a Sheshen wearing a gleaming silver environmental suit.
When the gaping hole in the force field had expanded far enough, he waved them all to hurry on through. They poured through the opening, emerging on the other side inside a large cargo container, apparently the back of a transport vehicle parked right up against the force field. It resembled the inside of the cargo truck they’d travelled in on Beta Terra, a simple sheet-metal box loaded with several large metal crates with a tiny internal hatch presumably leading to some sort of cab at the front.
Marcus was fascinated by the device their contact was holding up to the force field. It was a small, handheld device with four mechanical arms, each one creating a beam of energy focused directly at the force field. Despite this technology, however, it took some time to get Jago through the barrier, as he was worried that he would be too big for the gap. Lishan’s contact had to enlarge the hole significantly before the bulky clone accepted that it was indeed large enough for him to fit through.
As soon as they were all aboard, the Sheshen disengaged the device, allowing the force field to spring shut, and reached out to roll the vehicle’s door shut. Marcus realized that the cargo container had been backed up right against the barrier so that they could enter without having to risk breathing any of Nos Shana’s toxic atmosphere.
“Not that we’re not pleased to see you, but couldn’t we have met someplace less… inaccessible?” Mitchell asked their contact as he took his seat on one of the crates.
“Princcce Lissshan would know your worth before committing to your aid,” the Sheshen hissed, shifting awkwardly as he answered.
“So this was a test?” the captain burst out.
“You mussst underssstand, the Ssshrouded Kinssship is a sssmall faction. We cannot afford to take risksss!” the contact explained, clearly terrified that the filthy, blood-stained aliens would punish him for his prince’s precautions.
“The what?” Taz demanded.
“The Lessshani resssistanccce,” he elaborated. “We ssstrive to rid our world from corruption.”
“You’re doing a great job,” Taz muttered.
“We are few,” the contact snapped.
“Why have you risked your lives for us?” Marcus pressed.
“We do not aid you without cause. Kesssha Kun’s experimentsss are an abomination, and there isss a priccce for our assssistance.”
“A price?” Mitchell pressed. He’d known there had to be a price. He didn’t have to be a telepath to see that coming, especially in a society that was as rotten as this one.
“One day, we will call upon you, and you ssshall heed our call,” the contact explained, as if that was self-evident. “Now, get in the box.”
* * * * *
Having managed to slip through the gap in the force field during the big one’s moment of hesitation, Hanan Aru slid past the others and took up position behind the crates. He watched as they opened them one by one and began cramming themselves in as best they could. He took particular enjoyment in seeing Jago trying to squeeze himself into a crate much too small for his size. Once they were all stowed away, the driver climbed to the front of the vehicle and within seconds it was speeding off into the mist.
Chapter 45
As the Council meeting had produced few results, Ambassador Janosh was forced to attempt to sway the Gaian Triumvirate to his cause. His old friend Tysob Agashi, father of his apprentice Luneia, was a triumvir, but that was where Janosh’s influence with the Gaian ruling council ended. The others were too driven by decades of suspicion to give his claims the hearing they deserved.
“Thales,” he prompted as he marched into the holographic suite, a dimly lit cylindrical chamber with walls of polished chrome.
The virtual servant flickered into view, bowing its head in reverence according to its programming. Ambassador Janosh sat himself on the cold tiled floor, folding his legs together and arching his back.
“How can I serve, Master?” Thales enquired, its glowing image reflected on the walls and smooth floor tiles.
“I must speak with the Triumvirate.”
“As you wish, Master,” Thales complied, the glowing figure vanishing just as quickly as it had appeared.
Ambassador Janosh closed his eyes. His schedule had been more hectic than usual these last few days. The Etheran Council was in uproar over the bombing of one of Semeh’yone’s transport hubs. The Freedom Fighters of Cerakan had already claimed responsibility. Theirs was the world most ravaged by the Moloukan Empire, an independent colony world which had once been home to upwards of four billion people of a range of races.
As the Moloukans had pushed their borders further and further out, they had began raiding the sprawling urban hub of Cerakan in great numbers, claiming hundreds of thousands of colonists as slaves and killing millions with each assault. As Cerakan was a world which had prided itself of its freedom from the strict laws of the Etherium, it was no great surprise to anyone when their calls for help fell on deaf ears.
After centuries of raids, most of the survivors had already relocated to safer parts of the galaxy, leaving only a few thousand die-hard freedom fighters living in squalid conditions amongst the decaying ruins. It had become a popular attraction for the young and foolish, eager to make a name for themselves on the field of battle.
The Moloukans had never bothered to keep a permanent presence on the ruined world. Now it was little more than a staging post for those brave enough to strike back at the Moloukan Empire. These days the Freedom
Fighters were little more than terrorists, striking out equally at the Moloukan Empire and the Etherium, in retaliation for their indifference.
Ambassador Janosh rubbed his temples, attempting to keep the ensuing headache at bay.
The entire chamber faded from view, suddenly replaced by the image of the Gaian Triumvirate.
He recognized the interior assembly hall atop Vale’s southern tower. There were three towers in all, just as there were three Gaian cities: Vale, the capital; Albion, a magnificent island city and the most popular among visitors to Avalon; and Elysium, shrouded in the deep canyons of Avalon’s southern hemisphere.
Seated on three thrones of purest white, before three towering arched windows, sat the Triumvirate, bathed in the earthy, natural glow of Avalon’s evening light. They each wore a black half-robe adorned with silver runes along its sleeves and loose white trousers with a wide, shimmering belt made from a series of clasps woven together into a mesh so fine Janosh could barely make out the links. On the left sat Tysob Agashi, Janosh’s oldest and dearest friend, whose graying beard had grown since the two had last he seen each other.
In the center sat Jace Rondel, a dark-haired man with a hawk’s nose and the vigilant eyes to match. More often than not he disagreed with Janosh on every matter they discussed, though whether this was out of some petty principle or simply because the two men had very different views on almost everything Janosh wasn’t yet sure. Last came the ancient Lein Kanter, whose skin reminded him of spotted paper, so thin Janosh could see the web of blue veins on his hands and neck. What little hair remained to Lein was pure white, and he had grown so cautious with age that there was no longer any practical difference between the discretion he always urged and outright cowardice. As far as Janosh was concerned, Lein had long ago proved his ineffectiveness, and the main reason why the Triumvirate said much and did little.
“Ambassador,” Tysob greeted him with a respectful nod.
Merillian: 2 (Locus Origin) Page 31