by Tripp Ellis
VALKYRIE
THE GALACTIC EMPIRE BOOK ONE
TRIPP ELLIS
TRIPP ELLIS
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Thank You!
Connect With Me
COPYRIGHT © 2016 BY TRIPP ELLIS
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. WORLDWIDE.
THIS BOOK IS A WORK OF FICTION. THE NAMES, CHARACTERS, PLACES, AND INCIDENTS, EXCEPT FOR INCIDENTAL REFERENCES TO PUBLIC FIGURES, PRODUCTS, OR SERVICES, ARE FICTITIOUS. ANY RESEMBLANCE TO PERSONS, LIVING OR DEAD, ACTUAL EVENTS, LOCALES, OR ORGANIZATIONS IS ENTIRELY COINCIDENTAL, AND NOT INTENDED TO REFER TO ANY LIVING PERSON OR TO DISPARAGE ANY COMPANY’S PRODUCTS OR SERVICES.
NO PART OF THIS TEXT MAY BE REPRODUCED, TRANSMITTED, DOWNLOADED, DECOMPILED, UPLOADED, OR STORED IN OR INTRODUCED INTO ANY INFORMATION STORAGE AND RETRIEVAL SYSTEM, IN ANY FORM OR BY ANY MEANS, WHETHER ELECTRONIC OR MECHANICAL, NOW KNOWN OR HEREAFTER DEVISED, WITHOUT THE EXPRESS WRITTEN PERMISSION OF THE PUBLISHER EXCEPT FOR THE USE OF BRIEF QUOTATIONS IN A BOOK REVIEW.
1
A destroyer of the Imperial Realm was never a good thing. Especially this far out. Crysolos was too remote for any routine operations. There was no real reason to be here. The destroyer was trouble—no doubt about it. The mere sight of one usually instilled sheer panic and terror in those unfortunate enough to be in close proximity.
The Wolverine class destroyer lumbered toward the frozen planet. The ISS Excelsior was massive, seemingly stretching on forever. Plasma cannons lined the exterior hull. It had a full complement of tactical fighters and troop transports. It never needed refueling—its four reactor cores saw to that. These warships were largely self-sufficient, with enough processed foodstuffs to last years. A Wolverine could cruise around the galaxy at will, subjugating the various planetary systems that fell under the thumb of the Empress.
Crysolos was a hunk of ice at the ass end of the galaxy. It wasn’t a place you visited on vacation. It wasn’t a hotspot for R&R. The only things you'd find on this godforsaken planet were outlaws, smugglers, and the Oracles. And the Oracles kept to themselves.
Their temple was embedded into the side of an unforgiving mountain. It was surrounded by jagged snow-covered peaks that clawed at the sky. It was virtually inaccessible. It was the holiest of holy places, and stood untouched for eons. It was the same today as when the Order first came into existence. A time capsule into the ancient ways.
There were five temples scattered across the galaxy. They were keepers of the Shards of Vezmír. No outsider could ever set foot onto the temple grounds. And none had tried.
Until today.
As the Excelsior slung into orbit around the frigid globe of Crysolos, sleek black tactical fighters swarmed from the flight deck. The TXR-6 Vanquish was the most technologically advanced fighter in the galaxy. Two Mark 9 plasma cannons mounted under the wings, and four Inferno missiles, combined with an optical targeting system, made them a deadly predator.
They escorted several heavily armored troop transports—ATDV StormRunners. A hulking behemoth that could deploy 20 troops into the field and provide close air support. It had higher caliber Mark 15 cannons fore and aft, as well as under the sub-wing pylons.
The cadre of ships angled down toward the planet surface, streaking through the turbulent upper atmosphere. The crafts rumbled and shook. The re-entry tiles so efficiently dissipated heat, they felt cool to the touch even when subjected to extreme temperatures.
In each of the drop ships, a platoon of Imperial Soturi readied for battle. They were the Realm’s version of Marines. The Soturi Corps, or So Corps, was a distinct branch of the service, but a component of the Department of the Navy. Platoons often found themselves under the direction of a Navy Commander. They were an elite mobile force that relied on the Navy for logistics and transportation. Decked out in head to toe body armor, these warriors were practically invulnerable. The TAA-67X (Tactical Assault Armor) was state-of-the-art. The impact resistant plating could defend against small caliber weapons and low intensity plasma rifles. The dynamic smart coating could match terrain, allowing them to blend in seamlessly to any environment. An onboard life-support system filtered biological and chemical agents, and provided the wearer with fresh air for as long as the CO2 rebreather canister would last—the duration of which would depend on the environment and physical exertion of the wearer.
As tough as the battle armor was, the men inside were tougher. Born and bred for war. An elite fighting force that had no fear, felt little pain, and followed orders unquestioningly. The Oracles may have been the keepers of an ancient religion, but these men had a religion of their own. Death. And they were spreading their ministry throughout the galaxy.
2
A sledgehammer of a fist careened through the air and crunched against the chiseled cheekbones of Ray Dakota. It wasn't the first punch he had received today, and it wasn't going to be the last. Small contusions opened up on his cheek and brow. Blood spattered as the fist connected. His stubbled jaw felt like it had been dislocated. He tongued one of his molars that wiggled precariously.
Ray looked up at his tormentor with his ice blue eyes and trademark grin. The scar across his chin and left eyebrow indicated that this wasn't his first encounter with an angry adversary. "Is that all you got. You hit like my sister.”
SMACK!
Another fist cracked his face like a cinderblock.
More blood.
Ray was bound to a chair, utterly defenseless. His lip was split, and crimson blood trickled down his chin. “Wow. That’s embarrassing. You should look into testosterone supplementation.”
SMACK!
Ray's neck twisted in an unnatural way from the impact. He felt the pain shoot down through his shoulder blades, through his arm, and down to his pinky finger. That had to herniate a disc, he thought.
The ogre beating him was a big, thick, meathead of a guy. His shoulders were twice as wide as the average man, and his head sat upon his body like a melon. His neck disappeared into the bulging muscles of his trapezius. The goon’s knuckles were red and raw and split from scraping against Ray's face and teeth.
Ray continued to goad the meathead. “And tell your sister to stop calling me. It looks desperate.”
SMACK!
Ray felt another tooth loosen.
“Enough,” a voice said, emanating from the shadows of the dreary storeroom. “A dead man can’t pay his debts.”
Ray spit a pinkish mix of blood and saliva on the concrete floor.
The voice belonged to a well dressed man who emerged from the darkness. He was wearing an expensive suit and tie, probably Zangari Couture, and a fedora hat by Jean Paul Chevalier. The brim of his hat cast a long shadow over his face, obscuring it from view. A single overhead light illuminated the room.
“It was a si
mple task, Mr. Dakota,” the man said. “Yet you failed.”
“My friends call me Ray. We’re friends, aren’t we?”
The well dressed man glared at him.
“Circumstances beyond my control," Ray slurred with a mouthful of blood. He tried to smile.
The goon reared back, ready to hit him again. But the man in the suit waved him off. The dapper man was Salazar Nicotero—the most powerful mob boss in the galaxy. Ray knew going into business with Nicotero could mean trouble, but Ray was never one to shy away from danger.
“The cargo you were transporting was precious to me,” Nicotero said.
“Everybody loses a shipment every now and then."
"Not those who work for me." Nicotero pulled a cigar from his pocket. He pulled out a stainless steel cutter and clipped the cap of the cigar. The razor sharp blades sliced with ease. Then he used a long cedar match to warm the head of the cigar. He was very deliberate about the process.
Ray watched with trepidation.
Nicotero brought the cigar to his lips and took several puffs to stoke the cherry. It lit up with a fiery amber glow. Thick smoke wafted to the ceiling.
Ray eyed the glowing cherry. He knew it was probably going to end up against his flesh at some point. That would be Nicotero’s style. He'd probably sear the skin on his face, or burnout an eyeball. Ray knew all too well what Nicotero was capable of.
The mob boss drew closer. “It is a sign of my generosity that you are not dead yet. But I'm conflicted. Part of me wants to inflict an immeasurable amount of pain, watch you suffer until you beg for death, then let you suffer more. The other part of me wants my money back.”
“Well, that is a difficult decision, isn't it?”
“Indeed. Max is highly skilled at bringing individuals to the brink of death and keeping them there for days on end.”
The meathead smiled.
“You must be very proud.”
"I am." Nicotero puffed rapidly on the cigar. The cherry bloomed red.
“You’re going to ruin the flavor doing that,” Ray said. He enjoyed the occasional cigar, and knew that overheating the tobacco could lead to a bitter, unpleasant taste.
Nicotero didn’t seem to care. He took the cigar from his mouth and angled the glowing cherry toward one of Ray’s eyes.
Ray angled his head back, trying to escape the glowing cherry. But there was only so far he could move. He could feel the searing heat against his skin as the cigar was millimeters away from his eyeball.
“It's gonna be a lot harder for me to get your money back with just one eye."
“Who said anything about leaving you with one eye? I intend to take both of them."
Ray swallowed hard.
The glowing cigar drew closer.
Ray clenched his eyelids tight. He waited for the pain. A moment went by—he felt nothing. When he cracked his eyelid to peek out, the cigar was gone. And so was Nicotero.
Ray glanced around the room—the meathead was grinning. Ray could feel the presence of Nicotero behind him. The Mafia kingpin grabbed Ray's hand and slid the cigar cutter over his pinky finger.
“No,” Ray whined. “Not the finger.”
“I don’t see the problem. You’ve got nine others.”
“It's going to put a damper on my music career."
"Oh, I didn't know you were a musician." Nicotero almost sounded sympathetic.
“Well, you know, I get together with friends every now and then. We jam. You'd like it.”
"Why didn't you say so? I'm a big music lover."
“See, I knew we had some common ground.”
"In that case, I’ll take two fingers.”
Ray could feel the sharp metal blades against the edge of his skin. There was just enough pressure to cut the surface of the epidermis. But the blade hadn’t sliced through the fascia or the muscle yet. Right now, it was nothing more than a paper cut. But that was about to change. Ray cringed, waiting for Nicotero to clamp down.
3
Ava stared out the window of her chamber at the majestic peaks and snow-covered tundra. Her contemplative eyes bordered on hopelessness. Life in the temple could be… repetitive, to say the least.
Her friend, Sakah, was a believer. It’s not that Ava wasn’t, but let’s just say, she was highly skeptical. If you asked her, Sakah could recite the entire text of the sacred scrolls, line by line, with unfaltering accuracy. All 1322 pages of them. Ava didn’t really know how she did it. Ava had a hard time remembering what they had for lunch yesterday, not that there was a lot of variation in the temple.
Today was the day they were set to take their vows. Sakah had no doubts about doing so. Ava, on the other hand, was fighting the butterflies in her stomach. She had chewed her fingernails down to nubs, and she couldn’t seem to focus on a coherent thought. At least a thought other than the dread of the choice she would have to make.
At 18, Oracles must make their vow to the Order. Swearing an oath upon the crystal, bound in blood—an oath lasting until they draw their dying breath. Of course, they are free to choose their own destiny. Free to leave the temple, and pursue a normal life. But that fact was of little consolation. No one in the history of the Order had ever left—except for one, and she is never spoken of.
Ava continued to stare at the razor sharp mountains that stabbed at the sky. The frozen ridge was like a fortress that protected the temple. An infinite tundra of ice and snow. The pink hues of sunset colored the clouds, offset against the vibrant sky. The landscape was beautiful, but deadly. Needless to say, the temple didn’t get many visitors.
Ava’s mind filled with dread as she tried to make the most important decision of her life. For Sakah, and the other girls, it was easy. They were a perfect fit for this place. Everyone here had learned to channel the power of the shard, at least to some degree—except for Ava. The Great Mother said that she lacked faith, and that was why she struggled. Ava thought the reason she struggled was because she didn’t belong. Yet she had nowhere else to go. The temple was the only home Ava had ever known. As her adoptive family, the Oracles had raised her since she was an infant. They had treated her as one of their own.
“Don’t you wonder what’s out there?” Ava asked, still gazing at the magnificent sky.
“I already know what’s out there. Ice, and a lot of cold,” Sakah said.
“No. I mean, beyond this planet.”
“I know what’s out there. Evil, wickedness, and sin.” Sakah had a glint in her eye and seemed to revel in saying those words.
“That’s just what they tell us to scare us,” Ava said.
“Well it worked, didn’t it?”
Ava could see through Sakah’s outward devotion. “Are you really content to spend the rest of your life inside these walls?”
“I have no desire to ever leave.”
“None?”
“None.” There wasn’t a person in the temple who didn’t at least wonder what their life could be like outside these walls.
“So, you are perfectly fine with wearing these dreadful robes, day in and day out, for the next hundred years?”
Sakah shrugged, then looked over her drab garment. “They are kind of… simple.”
“That’s a nice way of putting it.” Ava paused. “I just once want to wear something else.”
Sakah searched for a positive spin on the atrocious garments they were forced to wear—boring light grey robes. “But it is their drab nature that allows us to reflect on our inner strength and beauty. Not our fleeting and unimportant external appearance.” She smiled. It was a load of bullshit, and she knew it.
“But, you’ll never fall in love. You’ll never marry. You’ll never have children.” Sadness tugged at Ava's heart like an anchor—a reminder of all the things she would never experience if she chose to stay.
“It is the highest honor to take the vow,” Sakah said, beaming with delight. “Only the chosen ones are brought here and prepared for a life within the Sacred Order.”
“Not me. I was a charity case, remember?”
“Perhaps that was your destiny. You too were chosen, whether you want to admit it, or not.”
“I’m different than you,” Ava said. “I can’t do what you can do. What everyone else can do. I struggle with even the simplest of things.”
“Doubt clutters your mind. I think, when you take your vow, you’ll find your true strength within.”
“But what if I don’t?” Ava's question hung in the dim chamber like smoke.
“You will,” Sakah said, drawing near. A reassuring smile curled on her face. Her big hazel eyes sparkled. She was full of comfort and enthusiasm.
In all the time Ava had known Sakah, she was never angry, or sad. Always supportive. There was never a doubt in her mind about who she was, or what she should be doing with her life. And for some reason, she never had any doubts about Ava.
Sakah cupped her hands and held them out before her. "It's easy. Just focus your mind. Breathe slow and deep. Clear all of your thoughts. Feel the energy of the stone flow through you. See in your mind what you want, then create it."