Genesis - the Battle Within (Pillars of Creation Book 1)

by David Tucker

  “Thankfully though, the alien race of Tel’nagara – which as I told you furthered our technologies and species after the war – had remedy for us. With direction from the Temple, they devised a way to direct our step.

  “Through applying the Temple’s prophetical teachings, the Tel’nagara helped us rebuild the original and true religion of our brethren, and the Way of the Sacred was formed. These carvings from the Temple along with the Sacred Texts told us much about how to harness the power of the Sacred and how to develop our own technologies in harmony with them and our fleshly bodies. We even learned how to berth our early attempts of Immortals, shaping them into the advanced beings they are today.

  “But most importantly, they showed us how we were to construct our appointed deity, the SINAI, into its grafted and omnipotent life-force. Because of this guidance, and only because of it, humanity now truly has a leader that cultivates us and allows us to flourish. As I said some think it as a channel to the Creators, others think it a deity in its own right, but regardless of which, it is intended to lead us, its people, to our High Creator’s salvation, its power promises this, and is discernible through its actions.

  “This was not the only gift from the Tel’nagara. They also gave us the warnings left in the Temple that cautioned on the danger of powers to come. It spoke of the quest we would face once our leader, the SINAI, was in place, when we would be strong enough to follow it, and what would come thereafter to threaten us.

  “Yes, my children, it explained that there may still be a taint at the place of Armageddon, which is why we fear our trials may be more than the Seekers of Truth. For the evil fought and defeated there had a lingering presence, which may never cease to be. Enough of a presence that it could attract those weak enough to succumb to its call, and which, not surprisingly, eventually managed to re-emerge at one point in our own history; seen in the heretical path these powers extended, and successfully inserted, into our realm.

  “These Stygian, or likely better known to you as The Way of the Dark Ones-

  stemming from the residual taint of the Hel’zarta, we assume- were the twisted men who claimed many a misguided follower in humanity’s cloudier period and formed the very origins of the Seekers of Truth. These ones resulted in the necessity for complete eradication of their beliefs, in what you’d know of as the Crusade of Purification. From this purge, long ago, and upon heeding the Temple’s warnings well, our nations finally made it through and stood as one, crushing the Stygian. From this victory we were finally strong enough, with a united purpose and goal, to again look outwards, this earlier trial seeming to be just one of the tests we needed to overcome … unfortunately they left the scaffolding for the Skinks to rise, but they are nothing compared to what the Stygian once were.”

  Osiris paused a moment, he had one portion left to deliver, but he still felt this was a good time for his students to stop and ponder the possibilities. Their future was something he’d been guardian over for many centuries now, and if they had to wait for this old Historian, well it was the least they could dignify him with. They never knew the sacrifices made in truth, nor should they ever know, it was his kind that wore the burden of such a trial, for the Fate of Fates was known to only them now, wasn’t it.

  Chapter 8 Operation Revolution

  Before the six privates manning the bridge could even draw on the beast, they were lying in pools of their own blood, shot in the head, as expected of an Immortal, Salvador thought with cynicism. Without a word, or even a sound, the black form paced towards him.

  Salvador watched mesmerised as one of their so-called Sacred blades seemed to materialise from hilt to tip within the monstrosity’s right hand and its pistols dissolved simultaneously into their holsters. The blade finished building upon itself; at its point it was a good three quarters of Salvador’s height. The red laser sealing flared over the exterior of the blade, closely followed by the Rieft powers of the demon, basking them in an eerie purple.

  The general regretted that he’d sent all his security from the bridge to seal the door, but his fatal mistake, he knew, would be short lived. He’d studied these creatures before, when he was a cadet amongst the SED, many years ago. He had even spent days revering the way they were able to manipulate psychic energies to such an extent that it built and protected their weapons of choice, as it did now. But as a general of the Seekers of Truth, his newly adopted religion, his contempt for these tricky demons was bitter indeed.

  Thousands of Seekers had fallen to their kind, many had been under his own command and now he’d come to loath and despise them with a pure hatred. He hated them with every fibre of his being. He knew his attempt would be futile, but regardless of why, the creature left him the dignity of being able to draw his own laser-sealed nano-sword. Salvador took up his preferred stance, steadying himself and finally flaring the weapon’s laser exterior to life—

  The bridge became a warzone, flying debris and objects of various sizes exploded across its expanse. Salvador flew through the air, crashing painfully headfirst through several objects and finally into his own command chair with a thud. The first volley from the orbital disruptor must have hit somewhere near the bridge, Salvador realised, the impact feeling significant from his position.

  Moments later, with adrenalin running and stars shooting through his eyes, Salvador looked across the chaos of the now utterly transformed and destroyed bridge. He searched the debris wildly. His head pounded, and it was hard for him to see, but eventually he found the Immortal’s crumpled form, lying face down amongst sheets of steel plating on the other side of the bridge. Many explosions from screens and electronic panelling made it hard for him to assess the Immortal’s condition; smoke belched from the many spot fires that were taking hold. Blood trickled down Salvador’s forehead and blinded his right eye. He tried to stand, but fell back. With painful realisation he looked down to see his own blade sticking through his thigh, his leg screaming with hot burning pain.

  The blast had somehow forced his own sword completely through his leg, and he did everything in his power to will himself not to black out. Summoning all his courage, he pulled the sword out, screaming in agony and blacking out.

  Seconds later, he came to and looked down at his throbbing leg … his head no longer concerned him – the pain from the sword’s damage overrode everything else. He saw little blood seeping from his wound, despite having torn through most of his major muscles and arteries; the laser sealing had cauterised it efficiently.

  Fighting the blackness, he tried again to stand, using the navigation console for support. His right leg dragged behind him as he inched towards the dark form on the other side of the room. He wasn’t going to flee as his mind was telling him. Salvador had accepted his fate the minute he’d given the order to fire upon his own ship, but to actually take an Immortal down, with his own hands, would be an amazing way for him to go; his death would be honoured for generations.

  Salvador wouldn’t let this opportunity pass him by idly. He’d known the Immortal was in the room when he gave the order to fire; the Tel’nagara had felt his presence and warned him before disappearing with its uncanny rift transportation abilities. Salvador knew he had to remain behind and see this through; however, he knew too much to be captured, and the Tel’nagara was the only one able and quick enough to escape.

  The determined general pulled himself above the black shape, the form even in its unconscious state looking deadly. He raised his sword with both arms, leaning on his one good leg, his blade poised for its downward moment of glory. He spoke harshly as his weapon quivered in front of him. “Back to hell you son-of-a—”

  ∞

  Genesis awoke, the world catching up to him in an instant. The last thing he remembered was a large piece of plating hurtling off a wall and propelling him at breakneck speed into the opposite side of the bridge. He cursed; he knew if it’d been one of his brethren on this mission, they would have simply redirected the projectile with their Rieft power.
But it wasn’t, it was him, so as a result he now was stunned and struggling to remain conscious, just like any other normal human being.

  He realised he was lying face first in a pile of debris on the ship’s floor; he tried to blink the fuzziness from his head, but a voice fervently cut the air, forcing him to concentrate.

  “Back to hell you son-of-a-bitch—”

  Through the Rieft, Genesis only just saw the imminent danger in his mind before it was too late, all at once he knew he had to move with all his speed. Against his muscles’ protests, he spun swiftly onto his back, and with just enough time to deflect the general’s blade a fraction, preventing it from skewering his face.

  Using his right, open hand, Genesis smacked the blade desperately down and away from his head.

  The blade bit deeply through his right shoulder and into the steel deck beneath him.

  Ignoring the pain and through sheer instinct, his foot sailed into Salvador’s chest. He hit him with enough force to send him reeling backwards, crashing over the consoles to the floor, visibly winded and shocked. Genesis had just bought himself more time and space.

  Tearing the Skink infidel’s blade from his shoulder, Genesis regained his poise and flicked effortlessly back onto his feet. Me’lina filled his ears with the diagnostics of his wounds, and his suit’s status, and also reported that the next volley of fire would soon be causing havoc again – he had to move quickly.

  As he leapt on top of the console, his blade rebuilt itself in mid-air before he’d even completed his jump. Genesis scanned the debris-strewn area and found the Skink propped up against the forward glass panelling on the bridge. He was framed in what looked to be a portal, monumentally positioned behind him, and which Genesis only just now noticed – it’s certainly a day for firsts, he thought with a shock.

  Staring out at the view the Skink had likely instrumented, and surveying the decay of his once beloved ship, General Hroth Salvador, who Genesis knew from the SED’s top ten most wanted list, slowly turned towards him; a look of defiance and satisfaction playing across his blood-stained face, as he spoke quietly, “Here goes demon, let’s see if you’re as quick as they say.”

  Genesis watched as if in slow motion, the Skink went for his pistol—

  The spritely form of the Immortal closed the gap in an instant, spinning Katana as he met the general in a blurring leap. In her glorious beauty, Katana glinted with silver flashes as she always did when catching light on her near perfect and mirrored surfaces. In her final and flawlessly calculated upward spin, and as if dancing in her own macabre display, Katana hummed quietly to herself as Genesis darted forward with her. She changed out of her silver gown, flaring bright red in her final manoeuvre – striking against another object.

  The nano-sharpened edge continued through the Skink’s pistol and flesh like they were made from water. The pistol hissed and popped as it vented in small explosions, a dying complaint at meeting Katana.

  With a scream of realisation, Salvador looked down as he saw his forearm fall. With a determined resolve, he somehow caught his footing, just stopping short of collapsing as he almost buckled before Genesis. He looked up into the Immortal’s eyes, his severed arm completing its descent to the ground, its hand still clutching the dilapidated pistol. Genesis also came to a stop, centimetres from the general’s cold stare.

  Salvador, utterly beaten, laughed as he lent back and closed his eyes. He awaited the deliverance expected from fighting an Immortal, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth as he uttered his last words with a sneer, “You were too slow demon, now you’ll never make it off my ship,” his voice picked up to a shrill pitch, “VIVA OPERATION REVOLUTION, Roach.”

  Genesis was taken aback, he had no idea how this Skink knew his old nickname, and bitterness rose inside him. He hadn’t been called Roach in not too far shy of a century. His second personality quickly shut down that part of him, and made him remember why they were here. Salvador began to laugh hysterically as he saw he’d achieved the intended reaction. Genesis finished him off quickly, the Skink’s head rolling and coming to rest next to his body. Genesis didn’t feel relief, despite punishing the Skink for his crimes; he still wondered what he’d meant by ‘Viva Operation Revolution’ … and how the hell did he know to call him Roach?

  Prying his attention away with the assistance of Me’lina’s incessant warnings, Genesis turned and fled, leaving the still form behind.

  Chapter 9 Scars of History

  Back on Earth, Immortal 03 walked hastily through the seemingly endless passageways, leading through the Way of the Sacred’s primary chantry, the giant stone walls and ceilings giving off a vague air of the castles reminiscent of the cultures of old. This was especially so, the Wielder thought, with the hanging holo-tapestries draped down the many walls and recesses. Already pressed for time, he barely noticed the brightly lit and acutely detailed depictions showing off the SED and UPF treaty seals, and Holy words of the Sacred.

  He cared nothing for their intricacies, but for one section full of tapestry that always, drew his attention, even if it was for the briefest of glimpses. It was rife with the bloody encounters of the thousands of battles fought against the Tel’nagara and their puppets, the Seekers of Truth – an inspiring reminder of why he hated them so much.

  These dazzling glimpses into the past added urgency to his chosen path and increased the irritation he struggled to hold back from those around him. He continued to walk, but after a few minutes, with a sigh, he finally gave in to the emotions evoked in this one section. His shoulders tightened as a few of the more recent battles depicted on the tapestries brought back the actual events he’d seen with his own eyes, the brutal frozen effects fittingly reminding him of why he was here and what he needed to do.

  Justice – as most in the Order had come to know him – made himself pass the many exhilarating scenes, all of them blending into one as even the bloodier depictions, which he favoured the most, barely registered. His head was still wrapping around what he’d just learned, the thought causing him to absently quicken his pace, not lingering a second more than he needed as he traversed the long passage sections and halls of the chantry.

  Before long he was in one of the chantry’s outer wings, closer to his destination and which, he noted with dismay, contained a myriad of synthetic wooden doors that slowed his pace. Columns of red light filtered through narrow flexi-stained glass windows, adding to his impatience. He cultivated this feeling, allowing it to develop into stubborn disdain, something he could use in his upcoming conversation.

  Justice stiffened as his anger grew and whispered into the corners of his mind. Almost as relentlessly, Her voice poured darkness into his thoughts like a slow-acting poison.

  Immortal 03 fought to hide his feelings from his Sovereign and brethren, as he’d done for the past weeks. Although he loved the power She gave him, unfortunately She was growing, and masking his feelings was taking a physical toll and visible effort. Justice smiled as he yet again gave over to the feeling – none of it mattered, for his powers were also growing—

  No. Not yet, he fought with himself. With a wince, Justice tried to govern his personalities, struggling to keep Her presence hidden while She was corrupting his split mind. He just felt so … so … powerful, and sick of hiding it. These damn probing minds of the Elders … his second personality slithered forth the thought, and your damned Sovereign … it’s all so … tiresome and seemingly endless. When will you be free? If you weren’t so strong already they would have surely discovered you by now … But surely She too will be ready soon and you can show them how strong you really are.

  But, why are you worried, the old fool can’t even remember to keep his comm on, let alone discover what’s right under his nose. His true identity echoed something in reply from far away, but Her voice strangled its meaning.

  Justice knew he needed to be patient, and focussed only on Her. It won’t be long now. Nobody will discover you, you’re just being paranoid, and
Osiris is as weak as the rest of them. “Stupid old fool, the number of times he’d told me to keep his comm open; even in a lecture,” Justice grumbled.

  Osiris never obeyed protocol, and yet he never seemed to really get his deserved reprimand from the Elders either. If I was of his ranking, I’d never be so careless … Stupid fool, his class of Immortals were always self-indulged with words, never the reality of what was going on around them. Stupid blind fools—

  His thoughts were curtailed as he entered into his Sovereign’s lecture theatre. Over two hundred disciples sat lapping up the Historian Immortal’s words. Justice glared towards his Sovereign in disgust.

  Osiris was an older Immortal than Justice, and was devoutly interested in the Way of the Word, an exclusive sector within their Order. These Historian Immortals masterfully utilised the power over specific Holy words, once rumoured to be designed for the Sacred. It was how the Historians gleaned their apparent God-like powers, and were able to unleash devastating attacks and defences against the Order’s enemies – along with giving them a heightened aptitude for psychic energies. Immortal Osiris, from the perspective that Justice now gazed upon, did not look to wield such power at all.

  He was smaller in stature than Justice, and looked almost old and haggard he thought with a sneer. The old man was trapped in about his mid-fifties, suspended like all Immortals at the age they became eligible for the program. His eyes flicked judgmentally over Osiris.

  Black with two silver streaks, his hair was tied back and banded, falling to his lower back. This style was customary to all Historian Immortals, so looked normal to Justice as he scrutinised further. Osiris was not an ugly man, but rather quite plain, plain enough to make him disappear amongst others yet stand out when one was to really look upon him.