“Drums,” he commanded. And the warship’s audio system began to beat a powerful rhythm with heavy bass elements, the kind of noise that chased away fear, reminded the soldiers about to engage in battle that they stood together in solidarity, but, most of all, the sound of the drums beating enflamed the already burning fires within them. They would treat the Polarians as if they were Strigoi, for their masters had helped the Strigoi, that much Tristan and Raidan had made clear. Not the least of which was also the damage the Dread Fleet had inflicted upon billions of innocent lives—allies of Raidan. That made them allies of Tristan, which made them allies of Zarao—whether the humans knew it or not. And the brutal and cavalier slaughter of so many billions, without provocation, only served to prove that these Polarians had a callousness toward life that was much the same as the wicked Strigoi. And, for that, they would receive the most painful and gruesome deaths that Zarao and his many lycans could give them.
The Thunder Sun closed on its target. A Polarian battleship. It was clear that the Polarian vessels, although they had the advantage in numbers, were struggling to get their forces into formation so they could pool their damned shields together.
“Do your worst, you wretched fucks,” muttered Zarao under his breath, as he watched the battleship seem to grow larger on the tactical display, now visible outside the forward window. “You,” he said, as if addressing the battleship the Thunder Sun had targeted. “You will be the first to die.”
Zarao then looked at his crew, knowing that a great many of them were below, in position to deliver the strike once they were able to. Here, on the bridge, was just the mere skeleton of what was needed to run the ship. And it was the last place Zarao wished to be once the blood began to spill. That was a fact he knew to be true of all of them but, unfortunately, these ones had to remain, to control the Thunder Sun. Zarao pitied them, though he had told them their duty deserved no less honor. He did not know if they believed him.
“We’re closing fast,” said the lycan manning the Ops controls. “I think it is time.”
“I agree,” said Zarao. “Let us show these bastards what we’re made of! Deploy the ram!”
“Deploying the ram!” shouted back the lycan manning the Defense post.
“The Ram!” the rest of them cheered as they saw it, a large, sturdy fixture of their starship extend outward, pointed sharply at the end so that it could tear through the armor and hulls of other vessels.
“The ram! The ram!” they continued chanting, as it became visible out the forward window.
“Continue on collision course, high velocity,” commanded Zarao.
“My pleasure,” said the lycan at the helm.
The enemy battleship appeared to grow in size rapidly as the Thunder Sun approached. The battleship even began firing off its beam weapons and other guns, the first of which did minimal damage to the Thunder Sun’s shields, the latter only managed to scrape the Thunder Sun’s armor and hull. Zarao could tell because he was watching the defense display, and this was exactly the outcome he had predicted.
“Collision is imminent!” announced the lycan at the helm.
“Brace yourselves,” said Zarao, as he watched the ram near the battleship, aiming to take it at the neck of the ship—nearest to the bridge. To their credit, the Polarian battleship attempted to change course and accelerate away, doing whatever it could to avoid the collision, but none of their efforts bore fruit. Zarao’s ships were designed to ram the throats, guts, and underbellies of whatever warships they came into contact with. He had seen the Thunder Sun personally lay waste to a battleship three times the Thunder Sun’s size, and he’d slaughtered its crew, and his own people were barely the worse for wear because of it.
“Three,” Zarao counted down. “Two. One.” The moment the last word left his lips, the ram made contact with the Polarian battleship, tearing through its paltry armor and wedging itself several meters inside the interior of the ship. “Full stop!” Zarao commanded; he didn’t want to decapitate the vessel; oh no, he had much greater plans for it.
“Answering full stop!” said the lycan at the helm. And, with surprising deftness, the powerful braking thrusters brought the Thunder Sun to a full stop nearly immediately. Meanwhile, the canvases forming the airtight closure deployed around the ram, sealing away any leaks that would compromise the ship’s atmosphere. The lycans had many gifts, but being able to breathe in open space was not one of them. Fortunately, the ram had been designed to solve that very problem.
“The forces below report the ram has stabilized,” said the lycan at the comms station. “They await your order.”
“Tell them to attack,” said Zarao, as he began making his way toward the ship’s elevator to join them. “And tell them to enjoy it.” As the elevator door slid open and he stepped inside, he could still hear the beating of the war-drums over the ship’s loudspeakers.
“We’re coming, you bastards; we’re coming and you have no idea what is about to hit you!”
His final glance, before the elevator door slid closed, was a view of the tactical display, which showed that his sister ships—the rest of his squadron—had done the same, and rammed their targets. As far as he could tell, they hadn’t lost a ship. Not yet. The door whisked closed and the elevator lurched, delivering him several floors below to the Battle Preparation Room, which, aside from weapons and armor strewn about, showed no signs of life. All of his people had gone aboard, he would have to hurry to catch up with them, or else there wouldn’t be any kills left for him.
Fortunately, he was already wearing his armor and preferred to fight with his own claws, instead of a pike, blade, or other weapon, and so he dropped to all fours, felt himself undergo his transformation from human-like to the warped human form that the galaxy called “lycan” and, after it was over, everything seemed to move slower. His reflexes were faster. His muscles were taut and bulging. And behind his eyes was a pain, a red, burning, searing pain, and he yearned to tear into the enemies. Not because the lycans were bloodthirsty in the way the Strigoi were, but rather instead because they were the counter-balance to the Strigoi and their evil ways.
When an evil rises, such as the Strigoi—or the Dread Fleet—and slaughters the innocent, there must be someone strong enough to fight back. To deliver upon them the very suffering that they had inflicted upon others. Zarao was proud to be a member of the species that, despite being considered an abomination, was truly the carrier of the banner of justice against such vile maliciousness. And if their form of retribution, to take eyes for eyes, and to slaughter those who would slaughter, was not a very progressive form of justice, perhaps even just a pale shadow of justice, Zarao cared not. He pitied those who would not exact vengeance upon those most deserving.
Only strength can counter strength, and power…power, when such are used to take brutal advantage of those least able to defend themselves. Truly, Zarao pitied the humans and their seeming conflict with the ethics of war.
The truth was, war had never changed. And it never would. Not since the first barbarian crushed the skull of another barbarian so he could eat. Survival belonged to the fittest and, if the good was to prevail over the evil, then that survival depended upon people like Zarao and his kin. That was his core belief. And, as he raced through the long corridor that was the ram’s extension, eventually finding himself on board the Polarian ship, it was that core belief that fueled the rage inside him. It was a fire that would not burn out. No, it was a fire that could not burn out. And he would use it to scourge and torment these enemies. Now, if only he could find them.
The inside of the Polarian ship was dark, lit by sparks of wires that jolted electricity at nothing. Cables had been shredded, consoles overturned, a collection of Polarian corpses was the coup-de-grace, their bodies formed a small, mutilated mountain in a pile—their weapons broken, shattered, uselessly tossed aside. Perhaps one or two had gotten off a lucky shot, but it took more than a mere beam weapon to put down a lycan, in most cases. And Z
arao was pleased to see that while the hastily assembled Polarian defense party had been slaughtered to a man, there wasn’t a single lycan corpse to be seen.
Never underestimate the element of surprise, he thought, as he imagined these Polarians, Teldari bastards by the look of them, rushing to defend a hole in their ship that they had never anticipated was even within the realm of possibilities today.
By the time Zarao reached the bridge, he found his people brutally slaughtering the officers and crew that commanded this vessel of war. Blood smeared the walls, many of the consoles had been turned over and broken; there were screams, some of the Polarians were trying to flee in terror. One nearly escaped, but Zarao caught him and, with a well-placed slash of his claws to the jugular, the Polarian collapsed.
“Mere fodder,” said Zarao, loud enough so his compatriots could hear him. “They are weak. They are fuel for the flames!”
“Let them burn!” the lycans shouted.
Once the bridge was clear, and before more Teldari could respond to the attack, Zarao and his people made sure to seal down every security door and blast door on the ship, hindering their progress. They then uploaded a program to the Defense console and watched—just for a moment—as the Polarian battleship turned its weapons onto its nearest allied vessel and destroyed it. It then sought another Dread Fleet target and began firing upon it. The program, fortunately could be run automatically, which meant it was time for them to go. Either the Teldari would eventually get clear of the obstacles and overwhelm Zarao’s people, if they stayed, or, likelier to happen faster, the other Dread Fleet warships would fire on this treasonous vessel and eliminate it. All the more reason to get the hell back to the Thunder Sun.
“We return, now! For there are more ships to slaughter!” said Zarao, leading the charge back to the Thunder Sun, and finding himself disappointed that his people had been so efficient that they had spared him only the one kill. The next ship they rammed would be an opportunity to really release himself and show what he was capable of. The thought filled him with hunger for the opportunity.
Once they were all back inside the ram, and it had been sealed off, Zarao radioed the bridge of the Thunder Sun to retract the ram and maneuver to engage its next target. Pretty soon, the Dread Fleet would adapt to this tactic, he knew. And then the Thunder Sun and its sister ships would be in trouble. But, until then, the humans had time to form up and attack in their most ideal fashion. Meanwhile, the Dread Fleet—whose mass of starships was likely still arriving inside the system—had to struggle mightily to get their vanguard into a useful position before the human vanguard smashed into it.
And that, Dear Humans, thought Zarao, as he waited with the others in the Battle Room, still listening to the drum music blasting over the ship’s speakers on every deck, is why we deployed how we did.
CHAPTER 08
Rez’nac stood before the Council of Prelains. Normally, this would have been considered among the highest honors. And yet he stood here, holding the High Prelain himself hostage, ostensibly claiming that he would take the spiritual leader’s life if the Council did not listen to him, and, a small part of him wondered; have I gone completely and utterly mad? Did the failure of the Arahn-Fi not only deprive me of my Essence and my soul, but also of my senses and sensibilities?
Still, whether contact with the humans had poisoned his mind to the point where he believed, or at least feared for the possibility of the truth of, their conspiratorial and deceitful ways; there was no turning back now. He was here. Calvin was here. A small army of human soldiers was here—out of sight in the tunnel. And, most importantly, the High Prelain was here. Or, at least, a being that purported to be the High Prelain. He looked the part, he sounded the part, he should have fooled anyone. Hell, for all Rez’nac knew, he was the High Prelain. And yet Calvin suspected that he was, in fact, a Dark One. A Dark One who had somehow gotten past all the defenses, fooled all the wisest Polarians, disposed of the true High Prelain, and, on top of it all, seamlessly taken his place. The whole thing sounded mad. And yet, Calvin had been right before, about so many things. And Rez’nac knew better than the humans even of the Dark Ones’ ability to take the shapes and forms of others. Was it really such a hard thing to believe? Especially when this High Prelain had done the unthinkable and declared a Reckoning to Purge the Galaxy.
True, he had invoked the correct prayers, chants, rituals, and made the correct offerings, things only a few would know, but that did not explain why a Reckoning and why now? Perhaps I am too small to understand, thought Rez’nac. But, since he was a fallen one already, and there existed the possibility that Calvin was right—that the ever-suspicious humans were right—Rez’nac would happily sacrifice his own life, which was forfeit anyway, to make certain that this High Prelain was indeed the true High Prelain. And, Calvin had promised him, it could be done in such a way that the true High Prelain would not be harmed. But a false High Prelain would be killed.
Rez’nac believed Calvin at his word. He was an honorable human. Even though he knew, should the High Prelain prove true, and still die, it would fall upon Rez’nac to extract justice upon Calvin and all of his men. He did not relish the thought. But he did not know which possibility was worse, that the Council had truly been deceived, or that Rez’nac had been deceived and would soon have to ritualistically slaughter all the humans he had brought with him. Humans he even considered to be friends.
“Speak then, you who have betrayed your Essence,” said one of the council members. “You, who once stood as a proud son of Khalahar. Now you are a Fallen One.”
“I do not deny it,” said Rez’nac.
“And you have thrown yourself in with these humans, whose very presence brings taint upon this the most sacred of all planets, do you deny that?”
“I do not deny it,” said Rez’nac.
“Then why do you do it?” asked another councilman.
“Because I bring a truth. A truth the humans have discovered.”
“Humans cannot divine truth,” scoffed one of the other councilmen. “They have no souls. They have no Essences.”
“Be that as it may,” said Rez’nac, keeping a keen eye on the guards, making sure none of them were trying to sneak behind him and Calvin to try and take them unawares. It seemed they were safe, however, at least for the moment. For none of the guards wished to risk the life of the High Prelain by firing their weapons in Rez’nac and Calvin’s direction. At least for now. “The truth is the truth no matter how it is discovered.”
“The humans are rakh!”
“They are not rakh!” said Rez’nac, raising his voice for the first time and doing so in defense of his friends, who truly, he believed, were risking their lives to unmask a sinister Dark One—assuming they had not deceived him. Or were not wrong.
“They are rakh! And bringing them here, corrupting our soil, threatening our Highest and Most Divine…there is no Blu-qi sufficient enough to address the crimes you have committed.”
“I shall pay for my actions with my soul,” said Rez’nac.
“You have no soul, Fallen One!”
“Be that as it may; as the saying goes, my Ez’rok is placed. Whatever I am, whatever I have become, my actions remain my own, and I stand by them. For honor is a great thing, and I have lost it, but the truth is greater still.”
“Blasphemy,” said one of the councilmen.
Another councilman seemed more intrigued by Rez’nac’s firm stance and more willing to listen than he had before. “If you dare come to us, and liken your actions to the throwing of one’s Ez’rok, then you indeed must have something important to say. Even under circumstances as unfortunate as these.” No doubt Rez’nac’s cultural metaphor had struck a chord with that particular councilman.
“Or you are clearly insane,” said the most hostile councilman of all, the one who had correctly accused him of having no soul.
“Let him speak,” said the softened councilman. “His Ez’rok is thrown, it stands where it lies. W
hether he brings us truth that the Essences have chosen to deliver to us in the strangest of manners, or if he speaks the filth of rakh’ lies—we cannot know if we do not hear it.”
The hostile councilman shrugged. “If you wish to waste our time, then so be it. But mark my words, he has nothing for us but rakh’ lies. For he brings a rakh onto our sacred world, befouls it with his presence, and that of the rakh, and the rakh he has brought holds a human weapon to the body of our Most Divine. These are facts as surely as they are sins.”
“You may be right,” said yet another councilman. “But we cannot know if we do not hear. And the safety of our Most Divine depends upon us entertaining the words of the Fallen One.”
“You, Fallen One,” said the most hostile councilman. “If we hear your words—all of them—you will allow the Most Divine to walk away free of any harm, is that your promise to us?”
“Not that a promise from a Fallen One has any worth,” sneered another councilman.
“I promise to reveal a truth to you that you will wish to know, but it will cause you great alarm and fear,” said Rez’nac, choosing his words carefully. He knew he could not guarantee the safety of the High Prelain if, in fact, the High Prelain turned out to be a Dark One.
“You speak nothing as to the safety of our Most Divine. Instead, you make idle promises and speak of vague threats and unknown, highly suspicious, truths. How then can we believe you will leave our Most Divine unharmed once we have granted you your audience?”
Rez’nac noticed movement from two of the guards, one on either side. It was subtle, they were still a few meters away from getting behind him, and getting a clear shot of either him or Calvin, but it was enough to realize he needed to speed this up, and show actual aggression.
The Phoenix Requiem (The Phoenix Conspiracy Series Book 7) Page 15