by Richard Fox
“Let’s pray their leaders aren’t as reluctant to help as the Regulos were,” Carson said. “I mean, I’ve seen some pretty ridiculous bureaucracies in my time—our own government is guilty too—but the Regulos didn’t even seem capable of bending the rules just a little bit. No independent decision making.”
West shrugged. “Makes sense in a way. It’s been running things the same way for hundreds of years probably. Why should it deviate from its established protocols for a race it’s never encountered before?”
“Well, now that they’ve got their asses kicked by the Ultari, maybe they’ll be a little more accommodating.”
“Even if they are,” West said, “it didn’t seem like they were equipped to mount an effective defense against the Ultari. Or anyone, for that matter. Those battle droids of theirs didn’t stand up very well at all to the Netherguard’s attacks. Hell, compared to everything else I saw, they were downright primitive. I mean, if you’re going to make autonomous battle robots, why not make them brutally effective, like Armor? Why restrict yourself to smaller, ineffective machines a strong wind would knock over?”
“Maybe they can tell us,” Carson said, again nodding to the Zeis.
“Maybe,” West said. “But I’d definitely give them some time before approaching them about it.”
Popov groaned. Her eyes opened, groggily taking in her surroundings. She tried to lift a hand from under the sheet, but Moretti gently pushed it back down.
“Try to be still,” Moretti said, leaning in close. “Don’t want you to pull any of these IVs out.”
Popov frowned, eyeing the lines hanging from the rover’s hatch. “What?”
“You took a pretty substantial bullet wound to your abdomen. It tore your large intestine and punctured your liver. I was able to patch you up, but you lost a lot of blood. Elias,” Moretti said, nodding to the boy. “He volunteered to be your blood bank.”
Popov craned her head up to see the boy. Elias smiled and waved.
“You’ll be under the weather for a few days,” Moretti continued. “But after that, you’ll be back on your feet.”
“Oh, shit,” Popov said, eyes widening, darting around the room. “The ship, pirates! I’ve got to—” She tried to sit, then stopped, gasping in pain, grimacing.
Carson stepped up, putting a hand on her shoulder. “Easy. It’s okay. They’re gone.”
“Lie down,” Moretti said, sounding slightly irritated. He put a hand on Popov’s other shoulder and they both pressed her back down. “If you rip my sutures, I swear to God.”
“So,” Popov said, straining against obvious pain. “We won?”
“We’re alive,” Carson said. “But I’m not sure ‘we won’ is the proper way to describe it.”
“Next time you take an alien rifle round, you might want to think about taking it in the leg or something,” Moretti said, smiling. “You know, somewhere a little less… vital.”
Popov groaned, hands moving under the sheet, touching her bandaged wounds. “Shit, that hurts.”
Carson chuckled. “Getting shot has that effect.”
“Goddamn Mickey Mouse sons of bitches. Bastard caught me totally by surprise.”
“I know,” Carson said. “Jerry told us.”
“Jerry, is he okay?”
“He’s fine.” Carson looked across the bay to where the older Hale boy was sitting, elbows on his knees, eyes locked on the floor. “He’s a little shell-shocked, but he’ll be okay.”
Popov let out a sigh. “He’s a hell of a fighter.”
“He is that.”
“We’ll have to put in a good word for him when we get home,” Popov said. “You know, so Governor Hale doesn’t string him up.”
“I think the governor has bigger things to worry about at the moment.”
“Damn, Sarge,” Nunez said, joining the group. He held one of the CL1 gauss carbines in his hand, running a dirty rag over the barrel. “You really worked the hell out of this gun.”
“Her name’s Grace,” West said, holding out his hand for the weapon.
Nunez raised an eyebrow at him. “Grace?”
West took the rifle, turning it over to inspect Nunez’s work. “She was my dog as a kid, tore up everything. Chewed through one of the legs on our dining room table, almost shit herself when the damn thing toppled over on her.”
Nunez laughed. “So you going to reconsider?”
“Reconsider?”
“Yeah,” Nunez said, crossing his arms. “You know, my shirts.”
“Chief, do you mind?” West asked, handing off his rifle to Carson.
Carson took it with a grin. “Sure.”
“Nunez,” West said, unbuttoning the top buttons on his jumpsuit. “Your shenanigans are really going to get you hemmed up one day.” He pulled open the suit, revealing the Netherguard Hunter shirt underneath with a grin.
Nunez’s eyes bulged. “Hey, well played, Sarge, well played.” He glanced over to the Zeis. “I wonder what size they are. We could start a trend here.”
Carson slipped a hand in her pocket, feeling the pin there. “Excuse me.”
The older Hale boy hadn’t said much since he’d come down out of the turret. When she’d first seen him, she’d thought he looked like some kind of crazed primitive warrior, his clothes battered and torn, his body covered almost entirely in blood. It looked like he’d taken a shower in the stuff. He’d spent almost an hour in the shower, cleansing himself, and when he’d come out, Carson thought he’d come out a different person.
He wouldn’t talk about what he’d done, but Carson had seen the alien corpse and had put it together pretty easily. Elias had filled in the bits she hadn’t already gleaned from the obvious clues. The young man had wanted action, and he’d gotten more than his fair share of it. Carson remembered her first combat mission, and it hadn’t been nearly as chaotic as their time on Diasore had been.
Jerry looked up as she approached, nodded, then turned back to the deck.
“Can I sit?” Carson asked.
Jerry nodded.
“You know,” Carson said, taking a seat on the bench next to him. “Despite what you may think, you did exceptionally well. You and your brother both. Your actions were integral to the success of our mission here.”
Jerry shook his head, spreading his hands. “The things I did…”
“War isn’t pretty sometimes,” Carson said. “Actually, it’s not pretty most of the time. But as soldiers, it’s our job to press on and fight the fight. If you hadn’t done what you’d done, that alien would’ve killed you and your brother and Popov, don’t forget that. What you did saved lives. It might not’ve been pretty, but you did what needed to be done.”
“I can still smell the blood.”
“I expect you will for a long time,” Carson said.
She pulled her knife from its sheath at the small of her back, then extended it to Jerry, hilt first. Jerry looked at the knife, then up to Carson, confused.
“I don’t…”
“I’m the highest-ranking member of this expedition. By the regs, I can, if the need arises, recruit civilians into the militia as field commander in times of war. Now, unless you interpret this whole thing differently, we’re at war and we damn sure have the need.”
Jerry cautiously wrapped his fingers around the knife’s hilt, then lifted it up, inspecting it.
“You’ll still have to go through regular indoc when we get back home, and of course, the enlistment is subject to your father giving his blessing, but the position is yours if you want it.”
Jerry looked from the knife to Carson. “A Pathfinder?”
Carson smiled. “Well, let’s not get too carried away just yet. Combat militia is a start. If you accept, you’ll report to Sergeant West for your duty assignments. And I’ll warn you ahead of time, a lot of them aren’t going to be glamorous. The military isn’t all shiny battles and shooting big guns. There’s a lot of grunt work that comes along with it. You’ll be expected to carry y
our weight. Just because your father’s the governor won’t give you any extra points. Understood?”
Jerry nodded. “I understand.”
“So,” Carson said, pulling her hand out of her pocket, holding the pin in her fist. “You up for it?”
Jerry straightened. “Yes.”
Carson turned her hand over, opening her fist. A small, silver pin, a single chevron, lay on her upturned palm. Jerry took it, smiling.
“Voidman 2nd Class Hale,” Carson said. “Welcome to the team.”
Chapter 30
Jared watched the celebration through video feeds from his netherguard stationed around the Hand of God’s coliseum. Hundreds and hundreds of Ultari, captain and crew alike, had packed the stadium to celebrate their total victory on Diasore. He blinked and the feeds vanished from his HUD, allowing his eyes to focus on his actual surroundings.
He stood on the bridge of Ultar’s Wrath waiting for the Arch Duke to arrive. The chronometer on his HUD told him he’d been waiting ten minutes already. He might have been irritated, but the more time he spent here, the less time he would have to spend at the celebration.
To his right, the bridge’s main hatch slid open. Kyrios and Zviera stepped through, followed by an entourage of Netherguard. These new elite guards wore matte black armor, with two red stripes drawn vertically down their faces. Their red eyes exuded hate and malice, just the kind of thing the Emperor would appreciate.
“What are you doing here, servant?” Kyrios asked.
“My lord,” Jared said, bowing his head. “The Arch Duke requested my presence.” With a thought, the faceplate slid up over his forehead, revealing his face to the Emperor.
“What is Cigyd up to?” the Prince asked.
“I do not know, my lord,” Jared half-lied. He resisted the urge to look at the hidden alcove at the side of the bridge, apprehensive about he suspected what lay behind the bulkhead. There was only one reason why Cigyd would’ve summoned them all here.
“Where is he?” Kyrios asked. “His flair for the dramatic is extremely irritating.”
As if on cue, the bulkhead began to move aside, revealing the hidden chamber beyond.
“Ah,” the Arch Duke said, stepping past the door as it disappeared into the bulkhead. “But what is art without some dramatic flair?”
“What is it, Cigyd,” Kyrios said, sounding slightly annoyed.
“I have a gift for you, my Emperor.” Cigyd motioned to the three stasis tanks behind him, their front glass panels frosted over.
Exhaust vapor from the far-left tank sprayed out of vents on the backside. The white cloud rolled across the deck as the hydraulics whined, pushing the tank into its vertical position. There was a hiss of pressurized gas as the panel unlocked and folded open. More vapor from inside the tank spilled out over the deck, combining with the dissipating cloud from the vents.
Kyrios and Zviera stepped forward as a tank rolled through the fog, a hidden figure within.
“By the Ancestors,” Kyrios said.
“Not quite.” Cigyd touched the tank glass, running his sharp fingers down the length. A naked Ultari male was within. It stood, eyes closed, as if it was asleep and was almost as tall as their robotic bodies. Its bald head was slightly bigger than the average Ultari, its shoulders slightly broader. The frame was muscular, but still seemed too thin for its height. The bony ridges that stretched over its skull from its eye sockets were not as pronounced as the older Ultari captains, and the skin was smooth and supple. The eye sockets weren’t as deep, but were still ringed in thin bone protrusions.
“What is this?” Kyrios asked, walking around the Arch Duke’s creation. “An upgraded Netherguard?”
“Do you not recognize my former glory, my Emperor? It has been some time since we were of the flesh. I had to sculpt this form from memory. These are not for combat, my Emperor. They will be our new vessels. We will be flesh and blood once more. Once we have shed these monstrous metal shells. With these, the Ultari will never doubt our place as their lords and masters.”
Cigyd nodded to Prince Zviera. “The data core you extracted from the Abomination was the key to the success of this project. Without it, the transference would not be possible.”
“Transference? You mean to transfer your consciousness into that?”
“A back-up copy will be kept in our secure storage, obviously, and with the new data I’ve been able to gather from the core, growing additional bodies will not be difficult. In fact, I have no doubt that we will be producing more improved Netherguard by the time we move on Ultar.”
“You have done all this without consulting us?” the Prince asked.
“I wanted to ensure the procedure would work before I presented it to the Emperor.”
“And does it?” Kyrios asked.
“Observe.”
Cigyd moved to stand beside the open tank and pulled a cable down from a rig above his head. He attached it to a coupling on his chest and let his arms all to his side. Data flashed on the screens behind him, and a second later, the glowing yellow eyes faded to black.
Kyrios leaned forward, inspecting the naked body. “How do you feel?”
After taking another long breath, Cigyd spoke. It was odd hearing him speaking without the deep, digitized tone Jared had grown accustomed to. His voice was soft, almost childlike, young and fresh. His eyes, one green, one yellow, met the Emperor’s and he said, “Alive.”
An hour later, the Triumvirate stepped out onto the stadium floor, all three dressed in red and black robes, trimmed in gold. Jared followed several paces behind, still in his herald’s armor, his faceplate down. Twenty Netherguard Elites accompanied them out to the middle of the arena, forming a protective half-circle around them.
Silence fell across the stadium as the masses slowly began to comprehend exactly what they were seeing. Several of the captains in the lower tiers pointed and whispered amongst themselves as Kyrios stepped onto a small platform, the other two taking up positions on either side. A black cloak, trimmed in gold, hung from his shoulders, his loose-fitting robes flowing around his ankles.
Jared stopped at the base of the short flight of stairs leading up to the platform and waited for his cue.
Kyrios lifted his arms, quieting the remnants of conversation in the crowd. He waited until everyone had given him their undivided attention, then began.
“Ultari! We are victorious!” he shouted, voice amplified by unseen speakers throughout the arena.
The crowd erupted in shouts and cheers. Jared stomach turned, remembering the plumes of fire rising off Diasore as the nukes went off, obliterating everything living thing remaining on the planet. How many men, women, and children had he just destroyed? How many millions of people had he killed with a simple flick of his finger? Simply defeating the SI hadn’t been enough for Kyrios; he wanted to make a statement, and Jared was disgusted by it.
The Emperor allowed the cheers to continue for several minutes before lifting his hands to quiet them again.
“You are right to rejoice,” Kyrios continued. “You have handed the Abomination a crippling blow. The eradication of the scourge has begun.”
More cheers.
“Your loyalty and faithfulness will be rewarded, but we have much work to do. We must remove all doubt from those who would preach against us. Ultar must be reclaimed and the unfaithful must be shown the light. Our righteous cause must prevail!”
The crowd erupted again.
Jared took his cue and started up the stairs. He took his place to the right of the Emperor, kneeling before him.
“I am Kyrios,” the Emperor said as the crowd quieted. “I’m am Ultar’s vengeance. I am Ultar’s wrath. The Ancestors themselves proclaimed this day as the day when the entire galaxy would weep at our ascension.”
Jared stood and held up the golden crown. He stepped before Kyrios, who bowed his head slightly. The crowd quieted as Jared placed the crown on the Emperor’s head.
Jared backed away, kneeling again a
s the crowd erupted in cheers, their voices shaking the arena.
“I am your Emperor!” Kyrios shouted. “Follow me and you will never again be forced to live under the Abomination’s heel. Rejoice in me, and you will find glory! Worship me, and I will lead our people to victory!”
Chapter 31
Carson’s stomach turned as the Valiant dropped out of FTL and the kaleidoscope of blue-white light vanished. “Ugh, I don’t like that at all.”
“You’re telling me,” Nunez said. “Feels like I just had a double helping of my aunt’s Chicken Surprise.”
“What’s the surprise?” Birch asked.
Nunez laughed. “It’s not chicken.”
The Pathfinders, save Moretti, who was still attending to Popov’s wounds, stood in Valiant’s cockpit, along with Jena and Jor, scanning the backdrop of stars outside the main viewport.
“FTL drive shutdown successful,” Greer advised, tapping on her console. “Receiving external sensor data now. Is this where we want to be?”
Jena leaned forward. A globe of green and blue hung in the void ahead of them, the colors vibrant and deep, almost like Earth. Several blips of light flew through the ocean of blackness, vessels of all shapes and sizes.
“Yes,” the Zeis woman said. “This is home.”
“Wow, check this out,” Lincoln said, running a finger across his screen, reading the sensor data. “The entire world is surrounded by a warp induction field and thousands of defensive platforms. That’s impressive.”
“We are a private people,” Jena said.
“I’ll say,” Lincoln said. “We’re being hailed.”
“Open a channel,” Carson told him.
A holo image of a Zeis male appeared above the center console. His hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail, his angled face clean shaven. He wore a high-collared jacket; open at the top, revealing a bare chest underneath. His goat-like eyes glared back at them with suspicion and contempt.
“I am Warrant Officer Kit Carson, of the—”
“You are not permitted to enter Zeis space. Leave immediately or face sanctions.”