In Her Name: The Last War

by Michael R. Hicks

  Ku’ar-Marekh lowered her arms, letting them fall to her side. All she felt now was a great weariness. It was a familiar sensation, and meant that it was time to move on yet again.

  That was when she felt a sudden surge in the Bloodsong, a great upwelling that could only have one source, the Empress Herself. Ku’ar-Marekh sighed as she opened herself to her sovereign’s power.

  She knelt and closed her eyes as she felt space and time whirl around her, bending to the will of She Who Reigned. There was but a brief moment of freezing emptiness as she crossed the vast span of the galaxy to her destination. Toward the home of her race.

  “Rise, priestess of the Nyur-A’il.”

  Ku’ar-Marekh opened her eyes to find the Empress standing before her. She wore only a simple white robe and a golden collar around the deep blue skin of her neck. Unlike the peers, Her collar bore no embellishments, no testimony to her feats from the time before she had surrendered her Collar of Honor and her birth name, things every Empress gave up when ascending to the throne.

  The braids of Her hair, unlike that of the peers, was white, not black. It was a rare trait among Her race, and only those warriors born with white hair could ever become Empress.

  She Who Reigned had once been a powerful warrior, but since ascending to the throne had become far, far more. She was the heart and soul of the Empire, and embodied the souls of all those who had reigned before Her. All except for Keel-Tath, the First Empress, and the most powerful. The Empress who had cursed Her Own people in a fit of rage and anguish, and whose spirit Her successors had sought for tens of thousands of generations.

  Ku’ar-Marekh and the Empress were alone in a corner of the Imperial Gardens that were part of the palace on the Empress Moon orbiting the Homeworld.

  Ku’ar-Marekh did as the Empress commanded and rose, yet kept her eyes downcast in respect.

  “Walk with me, child.” The Empress turned to follow the winding path made of stones taken from all the worlds the Empire had ever touched. Somewhere, Ku’ar-Marekh knew, there was a stone from each of the dead worlds she herself had set foot upon in her travels, and that someday the Empress would touch those stones with Her feet as she guided the Empire with Her words and the power of the Bloodsong.

  The thought of how long Ku’ar-Marekh had been away, how she had intentionally shunned the peers, even the Empress herself, should have made her feel great shame. She knew this, but did not feel it.

  “It has happened before.” The Empress walked slowly, one hand on her belly. She was heavy with child, one of many she had borne. She was older than most of the peers, but would yet outlive nearly all of them, and would bear children for many cycles more. For She was bound by the same curse as were the others of Her people. Fertile adult females had to mate every cycle or they would die. Powerful as She was, the living Empress, too, fell under the same Curse.

  “What has happened before, my Empress?”

  “What happened to you, child.” The Empress stopped and turned to face Ku’ar-Marekh. “I know the emptiness you feel, priestess of the Nyur-A’il. It is a rare thing, for when a priestess passing on her legacy dies in the Change, as did yours, the disciple nearly always dies, as well. But sometimes...”

  “Yes, my Empress?”

  “Sometimes, the body lives.”

  “I...” Ku’ar-Marekh stopped, her mind grappling with the unpleasant possibilities. “I do not understand.”

  “Your soul is caught between life and death, child. That is why you feel no fire in your heart from the Bloodsong, why joy and sorrow have no meaning. Why even pain has no sting. Why you do not feel this.”

  The Empress raised Her hand to Ku’ar-Marekh’s face, and as their flesh touched, Ku’ar-Marekh was flooded with the power of the Bloodsong as she remembered it, with feeling, emotions. With life. It was as if one of the great tapestries that hung in the throne room, drained of color, was returned to its original glory.

  “Oh,” she gasped, instinctively covering the Empress’s hand with her own, pressing it firmly against her cheek, never wanting to let Her go.

  Ku’ar-Marekh fell to her knees, and it took all her will not to cry out in joy that she could feel again, and in anguish at the knowledge that this was but a fleeting moment that would vanish as soon as the Empress took away Her hand.

  She bit her tongue, one of her fangs piercing it clean through, to keep from begging the Empress to take her life, to not consign her to another moment of living death. For Ku’ar-Marekh was a warrior priestess, and she could not dishonor herself or her order. She would not.

  “Your Way is a difficult one, child.” The Empress gently ran the fingers of Her other hand over Ku’ar-Marekh’s black braids. While the priestess was not a child of Her body, she was a child of Her spirit, and the Empress felt the fear and anguish in her heart now. Yet She was warmed by Ku’ar-Marekh’s strength and her refusal to give in, to beg for mercy. “It is a path that very few have been fated to walk during the long ages of our history. Yet it is a path that you must follow to its end, where you shall find peace.”

  Slowly, the Empress took away Her hands, and Ku’ar-Marekh felt the warmth fade from her heart. In but seconds, her soul was as it had been since the terrible day of the Change. Dead. Empty.

  “What must I do, my Empress?” Ku’ar-Marekh’s tongue felt heavy, wooden in her mouth.

  “You are a warrior priestess, and the Empire is again at war. We know the measure of the enemy, the humans, and they are worthy opponents.” She paused. “And if we are to find the One who shall release us from the Curse, we must find him among these animals. For if we do not, in but a few generations our race shall perish from the stars.”

  Ku’ar-Marekh merely nodded, for the ancient prophecy was no secret among the priestesses and the elder mistresses of the clawless ones.

  “A scout force has landed on one of the smaller human colonies, but they have no priestess attending them. Your presence there will redress this.”

  “As you command, my Empress.” Ku’ar-Marekh saluted, hammering her gauntleted fist, her silver talons clenched, against the armor of her breast. The silver signified that she was sterile, barren. Another legacy of the change, and one whose irony had not escaped her.

  “I will deliver you to the command ship.” The Empress paused, looking at Ku’ar-Marekh with great sorrow. “May thy Way be long and glorious, my child.”

  To Ku’ar-Marekh, the ancient words of parting were a curse that echoed in her mind as the Empress again sent her across the stars.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  Her name was Valentina. It was not the name she had been given at birth, and she had gone by many others in her life. Those few who knew her true identity called her only by her old codename, Scarlet. But Valentina was her chosen name, the one she planned to carry with her to the grave.

  A year of agony, sweat and tears had passed since she had awakened from her coma to endure a brutal physical therapy regimen designed to rebuild her body and recover her strength. Beyond the psychological trauma from the implants, she had been hit five times at point blank range by an assault rifle, and only the implants she had been given as a special operative, the ones that could inject painkillers, adrenaline, and hormones into her blood stream, had kept her alive.

  As her body mended, so did her mind. She had brought under control the soul-numbing coldness of the machines that she had merged with, that had nearly driven her insane. She had not banished the frigid darkness entirely, for it still haunted her dreams, but it no longer ruled her mind.

  Now, her dark brown hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail, and her face was dripping sweat as she hammered at a well-worn punching bag with her hands and feet. Where she had once cried with joy at being able to hold her arms up from the bed for an agonizing thirty seconds, she now worked out hard every day for at least two hours, kicking and punching the bag with lethal moves taken from a variety of martial arts before she went running through the surrounding woods. She was not as str
ong or as fast as she had been before she had been shot, for there was some damage to her body that the surgical team had not been able to fully repair. Even at that, once again she was a lethal weapon, even though there was no one for her to kill.

  Her days were spent with Dmitri and Ludmilla Sikorsky, her adopted parents, in peaceful pursuits on their horse farm in what had once been the American State of Virginia. During the days and in good weather they were mostly outdoors, working the garden, tending the horses and riding, and enjoying the beauty of the surrounding woods. Inside, especially during the winter, reading had become a favorite pastime. The Sikorskys had grown up on a world where the only books allowed were those published by government-approved authors, and with their sudden immersion in a society where they could read whatever they wanted, where authors could write whatever they pleased, reading had become an instant addiction. Valentina had always loved to read, but never had the time, and had happily gone along with this new family tradition.

  Valentina - Scarlet - found that she was, for the first time in her life, at peace.

  She had just landed another low kick against the bag, a hit that would have shattered the leg of a human opponent, and was about to follow up with an open-hand strike when her wristcomm chimed.

  “Security alert.” It was the soft female voice of the house’s central security system. It had been installed by the CIS to protect Valentina and the Sikorskys from anyone who might have somehow learned her true identity and come to take revenge for her previous operations. “An unidentified vehicle is approaching.”

  Valentina immediately went from the workout room to the front door. Next to it was a cabinet on the wall. Opening the cabinet, she pulled out a large-bore pistol that could put a hole through centimeter-thick armor plate. She and the Sikorskys had some local friends who periodically came to visit, but no one ever came to the house unannounced. While she considered herself out of the death-dealing business, she would never hesitate to defend herself or her adopted parents, and there was an impressive arsenal hidden throughout the house.

  Taking a look at the video monitor that was tracking the vehicle’s progress along the lengthy driveway toward the house, she did a double-take.

  It was a Marine utility vehicle.

  “What the hell?” She wondered who it could possibly be. While she had been in a coma, she had received a pile of get well cards and flowers from the Marines she had helped to save from the Saint Petersburg debacle, but none of them had ever stopped by to see her. Most of them, she knew, were either still in combat zones or had been killed in action. Very few had been able to return home, and most probably never would.

  The dark green- and brown-painted vehicle, an ugly, angular beast on four oversized tires that could drive through or over virtually any terrain, pulled to a stop in front of the house, about a dozen meters from the front door.

  The driver side door opened, and a big, broad-shouldered man with close-cropped dark blond hair stepped out. He was wearing a Marine dress uniform that was a stark contrast to the dark forest colors of the vehicle’s camouflage paint: a dark blue coat with polished brass buttons and crimson piping over slightly lighter blue trousers sporting a broad crimson stripe down the leg, with the bright red and gold stripes and rockers on the sleeve proclaiming him a first sergeant.

  He carefully placed his white “wheel” cap on his head with his white-gloved hands, the black visor shielding his eyes from the bright sun, before he headed toward the house.

  With a warm smile, Valentina opened the door and stepped outside to meet him.

  “Mills.” She was unable to keep the tears from her eyes. “Roland Mills.”

  “Valentina!” His handsome face turned up in a devilish grin. “Bloody hell, woman,” he said in his public school English accent, “but you’re looking good!”

  She wrapped her arms around his muscular frame, hugging him. He returned her embrace with rib-cracking force.

  “It’s good to see you.” She pulled away, looking up into his intensely green eyes.

  “Were you, ah, expecting someone?” He cocked his head at the pistol she was still holding.

  “Well, a girl can’t be too careful these days.” She set the safety on the pistol and hooked an arm through his and led him into the house. “Come on. Let me make you some tea.”

  When they reached the kitchen, Valentina made some tea from an ornate samovar perched on one of the counters. She smiled every time she looked at it, thinking of how excited Dmitri and Ludmilla had been when they had come home one day and found it there. They had always wanted a nice samovar, which had long been used by Russians to boil water for tea, but had never been able to afford a good one. Valentina had this one custom made for them in Tula, Russia, where samovars had been made since the late sixteenth century. It was ridiculously ornate by modern standards, with an intricate floral design in silver over a bright blue enamel surface, and had cost her a small fortune. But it had been worth every credit for the joy it had brought to her adopted parents.

  She turned around to look at Mills, who now sat at the cozy wooden table where the Sikorsky family normally ate breakfast. Having taken off his hat and gloves, he was giving her an openly appraising look.

  “I’m not in the market, Roland.” She frowned at him as she handed him the glass of hot tea.

  “Pardon?”

  She stood there, hands on hips, and stared at him. “If you came here looking for some female companionship while you’re on shore leave, you came to the wrong place.”

  He sat there for just a moment, dumbfounded. Then he covered his face with his hands, and she could see his shoulders begin to quiver. She thought he was crying until he threw his head back and roared with laughter.

  Valentina, unable to help herself, started laughing, too, as she sat down next to him.

  “No, girl.” He finally brought himself under control, wiping tears from his eyes after laughing so hard. “Christ, no, I’m not here to try and crawl in your knickers, although Lord knows a lad could do worse.”

  She took the complement for what it was, and knew that plenty of women would gladly have welcomed the attentions of Roland Mills. He was unarguably good looking, with a ruggedly handsome face bearing a mouth that could light the room when he smiled, and a scowl that could make hardened Marines shrink away in fear when he was angry. Nearly any man would be frankly envious of his body. He was big, tall and broad-shouldered, with a tight waist and powerful arms and legs, his muscles perfectly defined under his lightly bronzed skin. While he often enjoyed giving others the impression that he was an ignorant ape, he had a keen mind and a big heart, a heart that she knew had been gravely wounded when the woman he loved, Emmanuelle Sabourin, had been killed by the Kreelans on Saint Petersburg.

  Valentina had only met him briefly before she had been shot during the battle, but he had been one of the few visitors she had received during her recovery from her coma. He had been on temporary duty to Earth and had made special arrangements to see her, appearing in his dress uniform, just as he had today, to thank her in person for what she had done to get him and his Marines to safety.

  She had still been bedridden then, her muscles so atrophied that she could barely lift up her hands to hold his. They had talked for a long time, and even managed a few jokes, but she could tell that the pain he felt inside, just like her own, would take a long time to heal. They had become friends that day, and she still remembered the feeling of his lips on hers as he had gently, like a shy schoolboy, kissed her goodbye before starting the long trip back to the ongoing battle for Saint Petersburg. They had exchanged emails since then, but getting anything other than military communications into or out of the spreading war zones was hit or miss, at best.

  Looking at him now, she could tell that he had come a long way from the last time they had spoken, despite what must have been an incredible strain from having been engaged in nearly non-stop combat operations. She knew there was still a reservoir of pain under the surfac
e, but he could smile now without forcing it, just as she herself could.

  “Seriously, Valentina,” he told her, “you’re looking fantastic. When I came to visit you that first time, I...I didn’t think you’d ever even be able to walk again. You were a bit of a fright, you know.”

  She laughed. “Thanks for the compliment! You really know how to impress a woman, you know that?” Then, more seriously, she asked, “And how about you? How are you doing?”

  He shrugged, an uncomfortable look on his face. Like most men, she was sure he hated talking about his emotions, but he hadn’t shied away from it when he visited her last time, or in their correspondence.

  “Okay, I suppose.” He looked down into his tea as he slowly spun the glass around on the table. “Still in one piece, as you can see.” He was silent a moment, then went on softly, “I still think of her, Emmanuelle, but I guess I’ve moved on, mostly. Combat has a way of focusing your attention on more immediate matters.” He sighed. “But for most of us there isn’t much beyond that now, is there?”

  Valentina had a sudden premonition that his last words were more significant than he had meant to let on. Understanding the truth behind a casual statement was a talent she had honed into a useful skill that had saved her life on more than one occasion.

  After taking a sip of tea, she set the glass down and looked the big Marine in the eyes. “All right, Roland, you didn’t come here just for another social visit, did you?”

  Mills had to look away for a moment, a feeling of guilt knotting up in his stomach.

  Bloody idiot, he cursed himself. You should have just gotten to the point right from the start. She’s not a damn fool.

  He turned back to her, once again stunned by the transformation she had undergone in the months that had passed since he had last come to visit her. Where there had once been a bullet-riddled body housing a tormented mind, he now saw a strikingly beautiful woman in superb physical and, from what he had read from her files before he had come here, mental shape. With muscles that were lithe and strong as any champion athlete, even without the additional strength her implants might offer, she remained profoundly feminine, with a full bust and invitingly curved hips, her features accentuated by her tight black workout clothes. Valentina’s face was graced with sensuous lips and deep brown eyes that were now locked with his own.