by A. R. Knight
“Viera,” my friend and current exasperation, says. “Figure we ought to start negotiations off strong.”
“If only it were I that you needed to persuade,” Kolas says. “I am the Chorus’ vessel to lead the Vincere, but I am not the Chorus itself. Keep your courage for them, and they will treat you well.”
“Will they?” I ask. “Because I don’t think they wanted us to exist.”
That prompts the first surprise I’ve seen on an Oratus face. Lan’s mouth pops open slightly, her vents sucking in a bunch of air. Kolas, though, only gives me a dead stare, what remains of its humor dying away quick.
“You were a failure,” Kolas says. “A species far more independent than the need called for. Look what we already have - Flaum, Whelk, Vyphen. All of these are as capable as yours, and more pliable still. That is why you have a tough trial ahead. You must prove the galaxy needs you.”
Kolas’ answer doesn’t tell me why the Chorus made humans at all, what that need was, but before I can ask the question, the Oratus turns and barks an order down to the pit of Flaum. A call to prepare the cruiser and the fleet for a leap. Kolas glances back at us.
“Lan will take you to your cabin for the leap,” Kolas says. “When it’s done, you can return here to witness the end of the longest war in galactic history.”
6 The Galaxy’s Center
A familiar ship floats beyond the pair of frigates. The Mobius, coasting in space like the head of a trident, waits for Sax and Bas well out of range of any surprise Vincere attack. Before they dock, Sax manages to send one last message of thanks to Rav, though when the commander asks where they’re going next, Sax keeps quiet.
“The next mission,” Sax hisses through space to Rav.
“There’s always another one,” Rav replies. “Good luck, Sax. I hope I don’t have to rescue you again.”
“You won’t.” Sax doesn’t add that if they need rescuing where they’re going, it’ll be too late.
The Flaum pilot doesn’t bother asking either, and the creature seems relieved when the airlocks open and the two Oratus make their way out of her ship. Knowing the bloody chaos that tends to follow him around, Sax doesn’t blame her.
Standing on the other side of the airlock is a familiar site: Plake, her rainbow feathers furled around her arms stands center, with Agra-Red, a crimson, jelly-like Whelk whose body holds a gigantic miner embedded into its side, armed and ready beside her.
“Engee and Nobaa are busy back near the engines,” Plake says when Sax looks around, curious. “I left Silver and Black on Rathfall.” Plake winces for a second. “Really, they left me. Apparently your bug-hunting strategy is earning them more than running cargo ever would.”
“Coorvin?” Sax asks.
The older Flaum is the only one of that species Sax likes. Coorvin’s long tenure under the vice-grip of a psychotic Amigga has made him an infinitely preferable companion to the chattering madness of his brethren. That, and Coorvin’s uncanny ability to slip around unnoticed through the side ways of spaces would make him a valuable asset for their mission.
“He’s gone ahead,” Agra-Red speaks for its captain. “The little guy is quiet, but I think he’s burning for a bit of revenge. Wouldn’t like to be an Amigga caught alone with him.”
“He’s a Flaum,” Bas says. “What could he do?”
“Species have been killing each other long before your claws ever showed up, Oratus,” Agra-Red replies. “Coorvin’s clever enough to find a way.”
Rav was kind enough to give Sax and Bas a couple of miners and a pair of masks, but that’s all the gear the two Oratus bring onto the Mobius, so after a minute’s worth of prep, the airlock breaks from the Vincere shuttle and Sax’s former pilot takes no spare time in jetting back towards the frigates.
The rest of them form up in the cockpit as Plake powers up the engines for a leap. The captain makes a quick call to Engee and confirms they’re good to go. Crash netting falls down around them and Sax straps himself in.
“Anyone ever been to Aspicis?” Plake asks as she hovers a hand over the terminal.
“Never,” Sax says and Bas echoes his sentiment. “Nobody would dare attack the Chorus, so we were never called there.”
The Amigga’s home and, by default, the galaxy’s capitol world; Aspicis is almost a place of myth. Sax figures the limited information is by design - to even get onto the planet takes a whole set of clearances. Even Caches, those stores of knowledge kept on ships and, occasionally, individuals were generally wiped clear except to list what had to be done to gain entrance to the planet.
“One time,” Agra-Red says, and Sax jerks his heard to the Whelk, surprised. “Before I knew you, Plake.”
The captain removes her feathered hand from the launch button. “Anything we should know?”
“We wanted revenge,” Agra-Red said. “The Sevora ruined our planet. So we went to Aspicis to plead for a place in the Vincere, a chance to get our own vengeance. It worked, more or less. That’s why you’ve got Whelk in the Vincere now. I was packed into a freighter, and what I know is that we never made it to the surface. The Vincere stopped us well outside of orbit and we did everything over long range communications.”
The Whelk’s burbling story matches what little Sax knows. Aspicis isn’t so much a place to visit as a fortress that only opens for a few.
“So we can’t expect to be let in.” Plake closes her eyes for a second, then presses the intercom button. “Engee, Nobaa, change the leap target. I want to get as close as possible to the planet itself.”
“What?” Engee’s voice comes back high and bright. “You know that’s dangerous, right?”
“This whole thing’s suicide,” Plake says. “If we’re going to run a blockade, we might as well start as far through it as we can. You like puzzles, Engee. Solve this one.”
The Teven says they’re getting to work on it, and Plake turns back to the stars. “Funny thing, I never thought I’d do anything worth anything after they took us out of the Vincere. Guess I was wrong.”
Sax threads his tail through the netting, wraps it around Bas’. “We will never part again.”
She hisses a laugh. “Sax, don’t make promises you can’t keep.”
“I’ll keep this one.” By the slight shake of her head, Sax knows Bas doesn’t believe him, but that doesn’t matter, because it’s his promise to keep.
Engee beeps back, says the calculations are done. Plake’s good to launch.
“If this goes wrong,” Plake says. “We won’t get a chance to say goodbye, so make your peace now.”
The countdown starts at ten, but drops to zero faster than Sax thinks possible. Mere heartbeats and then the universe twists and warps around them, the leap folding the Mobius through space to the exact point Engee has them set to go. A point that could be occupied by an asteroid, by a passing ship or any number of things. Normally, worlds kept leap corridors clear of incoming vessels and debris, but here they’re dodging the designated route. Here, they’re going right into the teeth.
When everything snaps back into focus, the only thing Sax can see out the front of the Mobius is a huge, glittering hull. A battle cruiser, more than double the size of a frigate - the analysis runs through Sax like instinct - and more than capable of blowing them to bits in moments. Plake, though, gets this too and sends the Mobius into a spiraling dive, pulling the deep green world of Aspicis into view.
“Stations!” Plake shouts as the crash netting sucks back up into the ceiling.
There’s no gravity on the ship, so Sax and the others depend on hand-and-foot holds to get around. The Mobius has a few weapons scattered about its hull, and the two Oratus and Agra-Red head to the respective spots. Sax launches himself towards the rear, where a claw press against a single large terminal at the back of the cargo bay sets up some stabilizing crash netting and sets Sax into place. The terminal shifts to a clear view out the Mobius’ aft, where scrambling Vincere fighters show as blips between the five-cruiser pha
lanx extending back into the distance.
At least their leap gives them a bit of surprise. The Vincere fighters are slow turning around towards them, and Sax has plenty of time to settle on the closest trio. And pauses. These aren’t the normal Flaum claw fighters, essentially three-pronged hooks, that Sax is used to. These, rather, look like needles. Their profile is long, thin and tiny. They also don’t seem to have any weapons.
“Are you seeing these?” Sax hisses through the intercom in the terminal.
“I don’t recognize them,” Bas says, she’s on his right, on the edge of the hull. “They must be new.”
“Don’t care if they’re new or old,” Plake says. “Get rid of them!”
The first bright flashes of hot energy lance out towards the Mobius from the nearby cruiser, though the shots are wide and travel above and below their ship. Sax isn’t surprised - the cruiser would have a hard time hitting the tiny target, but if it could keep the Mobius trapped into a narrow lane, the Vincere fighters would have an easy job taking it down.
So Sax focuses, aims and starts a stitching hot fire through space back towards those needles. Behind the first trio, there are another dozen and they’re closing fast. Too fast. Sax can barely see them, and the terminal’s having a hard time picking up those small profiles on its scanners, so the Oratus is essentially shooting into the dark and hoping.
On either side, Agra-Red and Bas open up too, their streams having a harder time getting close to the needles, which are doing their best to stay right behind the Mobius. Sax can’t tell if he’s getting hits until one shot gets lucky, nails one of the needles in its cockpit and sends the fighter into a sparking, swirling dive away from them. Only the strike comes at point blank range, with the needles so, so close.
The needles haven’t fired a shot, and they’re still coming closer.
“They’re going to ram us!” Sax hisses as he realizes just why these fighters have those long, pointed shapes.
“What?” Agra-Red manages to say before the first needle fighter punches into the back of the freighter.
There’s a wrenching, sucking sound as the housing around one of the Mobius’ engines tears away and the pointed end of the needle rips through. A hot second later, as high-pitched Teven shouts come through the intercom, a steady whine fills the freighter and Sax’s terminal sparks and dies. It’s not hard to tell what’s happened, and the sucking sound of vacuum makes it clear the Mobius, with a single strike, is done.
“Get to the evac mods!” Plake’s yelling as she comes running out of the cockpit.
Her voice barely carries over the noise of the Mobius pulling itself apart. There’s two of the escape craft, both latched onto the cargo bay like leeches. Sax talon-and-claws his way to the first one, slaps at the panel to open it. Hard-wired to the evac mod’s own batteries for issues just like this, the panel still works enough to open the escape mod’s door. Bas crashes against Sax, and together the two Oratus tumble in.
Agra-Red joins them a second later, and the Whelk slaps shut the door and sets the evac mod to ready for launch.
“They’re all in the other one,” the Whelk says as Bas and Sax hiss questions at him. “We’re going.”
An evac mod is weaponless, essentially a floating tank with a rocket on one end. If they spit out into space filled with lasers and fighters, they’ll be easy targets.
“Don’t launch yet,” Plake’s voice comes over the intercom - short-range communications between the two craft. “Wait till the last minute. I put us into an unstable dive towards the surface.”
As if playing to her words, the evac mod begins to shake as Aspicis tugs against its fall. As they descend, the rumble increases until the evac mod jolts hard, too hard for atmosphere. Agra-Red does something then that Sax doesn’t think is possible - the Whelk gets even redder, as if the blood in its gel body literally boils.
“That was the Mobius,” the Whelk oozes. “Plake and I spent a long time earning that ship, running cargo for other idiots and saving our scratch till we could get her.”
Sax, whose been a part of many Vincere ships lost to the explosions of war with the Sevora, can’t empathize. He’s never put much value in any craft - there’s an inevitability that they’re going to go up in a burning fireball someday.
“You’ll find another,” Sax hisses.
“You’ve never had to earn anything in your life,” Agra-Red replies. “What would you know?”
“I earned my name,” Sax says.
The pair glower at each other while Bas watches out the front viewport as Aspicis fills every available view. Sax follows his pair’s eyes - no sense waging a war of wills with the Whelk, as Sax could shred the creature here in a second, and the ability to end, permanently, an adversary is the most important calculation in any argument.
What Sax does notice, though, as he looks out into space is that there aren’t any other shots streaking past them. The Vincere fighters aren’t, apparently, following them towards the ground and the cruisers aren’t attempting to immolate them either.
“Why?” Sax says to Bas. “They should be able to destroy us before we hit the ground.”
“Two evac mods,” Bas says. “That’s it. This can’t be an invasion, and no doubt they’re tracking our landing zone. They’ll be waiting for us.”
“They’ll be getting more than they expect,” Agra-Red burbles, its floppy arms wrapped around its miner.
“Interrogation?” Sax asks the only reason that comes to mind.
Why let an opposing force make landfall on your own turf unless you’d benefit?
“Either they don’t know who we are, and they want to understand what would make someone try to leap that close to Aspicis,” Bas says. “Or they do, and want to make an example of us.”
Ah. The last makes sense. Sax has been party to plenty of those. Little pockets of resistance; planets or species that decide they’d like to make their own decisions rather than abide by the Chorus’ demands. Those bursts of independence live until a few sets of Oratus show up and the sky bleeds as Vincere cruisers obliterate cities from orbit. Then, with video broadcasting everywhere, Sax holds up the leader of the cause with a claw to whatever part is going to make the most compelling demonstration and either extracts a loyalty pledge, or exacts the costs of refusing one.
“They won’t have that chance,” Sax says. “If the situation is impossible, then we must prevent them from taking us alive.”
“I’ll do the honors,” Agra-Red says. “Wouldn’t mind getting to blast a couple of Oratus before I go.”
If there was any way Sax could make the Whelk’s demise in this evac mod plausible, he’d act on it, but since there isn’t, he settles for a glare at the crimson blob.
The evac mod postpones their fight, though, by entering the heavy part of Aspicis’ atmosphere. Outside, blue-orange fire rings the viewport while, inside, the three occupants jostle on their benches. Sax uses his claws to grab holds, except his left midclaw, which is reserved for Bas. Agra-Red simply bobs with the motion, its wide, sticky base serving to keep the Whelk set on the bench.
They’re silent for a while, listening to the roar and pop of the world coming into place around them. There’s something about being so close to instant death that stays Sax from any cutting commentary, any tactical considerations for when they land. It’s one of those things that happens on every atmospheric insertion, and on most ship-to-ship assaults; the point where, if a species has a god, they ought to be reaching out to them.
The Oratus have no deities, worship at no altar save the bloody one of survival. Sax doesn’t mind this, even here. With Bas beside him, and a purpose waiting on the planet’s surface, Sax has all he needs. Though that doesn’t keep his vents from issuing a small sigh when the rumbles quiet and the stress of diving through an atmosphere fades away into a bright, clear descent towards the tangle of giant vines that shroud Aspicis’ surface.
Like Rathfall, but without the flowers and many times the size, the
Amigga have nurtured Aspicis into a perfect genetic generator of everything they need. Every one of those vines, behind the thick green skin, holds the nutrient goop that fills the ration crates on every Vincere ship. Other planets have been cultivated to serve as forward-based ‘farms’, but none reach the production of the Chorus’ home.
From this high up, Sax can see a few other patches too, clusters of vines adopting shades other than the dominate emerald. Bluish vines the color of morning skies and purple-red ones, like falling leaves at twilight, appear in blots, and serve as crops for the healing gels and weaponized chemicals proliferating more and more through the Vincere forces.
“They’ll cover the whole galaxy, eventually,” Bas says, staring through the viewport.
As they plummet, the evac mod grows warmer and warmer, equalizing as the horizons disappear and the gnarled knots of green fill the entire view, to a temperature not far from that of Solis. Sax can’t smell anything of the planet, though, as the mod itself stays pressurized. Which, considering how fast they’re dropping, is a good thing.
Evac mods carry enough juice for their microjets - provided the escapees aren’t surfing the galaxy for too long before their descent - to make it through a bumpy landing even on high gravity planets. Aspicis isn’t particularly large, but it’s big enough for the evac mod to make a hard lurch when its jets fire up.
“Plake?” Agra-Red says and Sax turns to see the Whelk’s using the evac mod’s short-range communicator. “You still with us?”
“We’re toasty, but here. Don’t think they bothered to shoot at us.”
“The Oratus think that means they’re waiting for us on the ground.”
“We don’t think,” Sax says, loud enough for the intercom to pick him up. “We know.”
“I agree with the uglies,” Plake replies. “Be ready for company. I’ve got a set of coordinates for Evva, or at least a safe-house, so if we can get that far without them tagging us...”
The rest of her words fade into a burst of static as the evac mod pushes all of its power into the final stages of the fall. If the first minutes seemed to take forever, floating through space on a slow slide into the planet, the last couple pass by like lightning, the vines swarming towards them and, with a half-second warning from Bas, slamming into the mod.