by Chris Harris
He started as a sound disturbed him. Turning, he saw an Irinian woman walking towards him. She was tall, but not as tall as Foton, and very slender. At certain angles, her skin had a faint silver shimmer; metal fibres were inserted into Irinians' skin at birth to protect against the planet's weather. Running along the left side of her face, stretching from eye to her ear, before travelling down to the side of her mouth was an Irinian Augmentation, or Aug for short. “Foton,” she said, bowing her head.
“No need to bow to me, Teriva.” Foton said, smiling. “What brings you here?”
“I came to see Tahkshi,”Teriva said. “You're his bodyguard, where is he?”
“He's gone to talk to someone.” Foton answered solemnly. “Have you heard about Raan?”
Teriva sighed. “Yeah. And still my sister refuses to come to the capital.”
“Maybe Arias doesn't want to pledge her armies in a war that may only last a few days,” Foton suggested, “although the Xaosians are pretty serious; they're not gonna give up.”
“Exactly.” Teriva agreed. She ran a hand through her black hair. “I only came here to Tahkshi, and now I'm a political mediator.”
“Tell me about it.” Foton said light-heartedly, “I'm practically an ambassador for Prauw.”
Teriva chuckled, twisting her mouth as if trying to hide her smile. “I never knew you were from Prauw.” she said, folding her arms. “I always assumed Raan.”
“Wha', and talk like this, ma'e?” Foton said in a Raanian accent.
“Wow...” Teriva said, “You should be an enemy of Raan for that accent! And I meant the wealthier parts.”
“Nah, Prauw. It's not the best place, but it's simple.” Foton stated.
Teriva nodded, “Simple's good.”
They fell into silence for a moment, before Foton's pocket emitted a high-pitched squeal. He pulled a com out of it and pressed the button in the centre. “Foton here.”
“I know,” came the voice of Lord Tahkshi, president of the Empire of Twelve, “otherwise your com wouldn't be ringing. Can you pick up Devilclash and meet me at Buun's com-room?”
“Why?” asked Foton, annoyed at Tahkshi's sarcastic comment.
“Because Buun would be a good ally in our war with the Xaosians.” Tahkshi said.
“Alright then.” Foton said, before glancing over at Teriva. “By the way, Teriva's here.”
“Is she?” Tahkshi's voice sounded more enthused now. “Pass me over please.”
Foton mentally grinned as he passed the com over; one mention of Teriva would suddenly make Tahkshi polite. Teriva began talking into the com, but Foton ignored her; it didn't matter to him what they were saying. There was a sudden giggling and Foton saw Teriva's cheeks redden. She waked over to Foton, still talking into the com. “Love you too!” she called into the com, before passing it back to Foton, who raised an eyebrow; she was acting like the child she would've been thirty years ago.
“So, the Buun com-room with Devilclash?” Foton affirmed.
“Yeah, see you soon.” Tahkshi finished, before the com began to buzz; the call was over. Foton pushed the com's button and the buzzing stopped, before replacing it in his pocket.
“What are you doing now?” Foton asked Teriva.
“I'm going to wait for him here.” she said, leaning on the balcony's railing. “You should probably be going.”
“See you later.” Foton said, turning away.
He walked into the Spire, before entering an elevator, which took him down to the penultimate floor. From there, he went into the Tracking room, where he went over to the central computer and placed his thumb on the pad in front of it. This checked his thumbprint against the one on the database, whilst monitoring his pulse to make sure that there was one, or that he was not panicked or coerced into opening the system. A red light turned green and the screen turned on, displaying a map of each of the Spire's floors, all of them covered with blue shapes. Each blue shape was a bodyguard, all of whom had chips implanted in them; in Devilclash's case, it was attached to the Hive-Stone rather than in the neck. The Tracking room's purpose was to allow Foton, as the chief bodyguard, to find and track the other guards. He brought up a search box and typed in “DEVILCLASH-pyr”. She was on the seventh floor, standing in the main hall. Foton sighed; the Buun room was on the floor below the one he was on, nowhere near the seventh. For a moment, he wondered why Tahkshi hadn't just commed her as well, but then he remembered that Devilclash couldn't carry a com with her all the time. On the way out of the room, he spied the old building-com; this allowed him to communicate with everyone in the building, or on one floor, at once. He dusted it off and plugged it in, before selecting Floor 7 from the menu. He cleared his throat, before saying, “Devilclash, please meet Foton outside the Buun com-room. Repeat, Devilclash to the Buun com-room.” He watched Devilclash's dot move towards the nearest elevator. Foton smiled and nodded, before walking out of the Tracking Room and moving towards the stairs to the floor beneath.
Twelve doors set in a circle greeted him as he arrived on the com-floor. The door he had came through and another door led to stairs, spiralling in opposing directions; one up, one down. The other ten doors led to separate com rooms; one for each of the Twelve, aside from New Orbus and Oblivion. One to Foton's left had “BUUN” engraved on a plaque attached to it. Pressing his ear to the door, Foton could hear Tahkshi's soft and soothing “political voice”.
“Should you really be listening?” came a rasping voice.
“Devilclash,” Foton said, turning to see the Pyrkagias. “You got here quickly.”
She began to walk over to him, but her feet didn't touch the floor; they never did. “D.” Foton asked, “Why do you bother to do the actions? Or even look human?”
“The Primary recommends it, so that we can fit in.” Devilclash said, “It doesn't work though, people still tend keep away from us. Also, I think it's a nice form.”
“It is.” Foton admired the Pyrkagia; powerful, immortal and somewhat graceful. For a swarm of bugs, anyway.
The door to the Buun com-room opened and Lord Tahkshi emerged, his red and gold lord's robe billowing behind him. “Foton. Devilclash.” Tahkshi acknowledged them both with a brief nod.
“Why did you want us, sir?” Foton asked.
“Well, Foton, I'm pretty sure you know your job description; you're my bodyguard, and you will guard my body.” Tahkshi said. Foton bit back a retort. “And you, Devilclash; partially for the same reason, but also because of your species. The Pykagian Primary refuses to talk over coms; we have to go to Buun to ask for his help.” Tahkshi turned to Foton. “I'm assuming you've never been to Buun before?”
“You assume wrong.” said Foton.
“Really?” Tahkshi said, his voice going higher-pitched in his surprise. “Good. Nixiin has the ship ready for us, so can you two go there now? I'm going to see Teriva quickly.”
“You had better be quick.” Foton said, his deep voice becoming more of a growl.
Tahkshi ignored him and walked away at a brisk pace.
Devilclash turned to Foton. “Have you really been to Buun?”
“Yes.” Foton said. “I wouldn't lie to my client.”
“But you hate him.” Devilclash stated; not a question, but an utterance of fact.
“Not hate.” Foton said. “Distaste, but not hate. And it's a matter of honour; I am bound to protect him.”
“So, why'd you go to Buun?” Devilclash asked.
Foton paused for a moment, before looking at Devilclash and saying, “Fancied a change of scenery.”
She gave Foton a strange look and said “Okay then.”
He nodded, before turning and walking to the stairs heading downwards, knowing that she didn't believe him.
Chapter 8
Strom 3
Strom was forced back in his seat as the Stinger gave a throaty roar and did away with the bonds of gravity. The titanic Crushers, more of them still moving towards the bridge, seemed like ants; albeit
ants that could fight back. Even the skyscrapers did not look so imposing as Strom grew level with their highest floors. Curtains were drawn in many that he could see, but some buildings had had their entire top floor obliterated, yet few were too much worse. One, Strom could see, was leaning to the left, bricks and glass running down its underside as though it was crying.
To his side, Strom could see Olaf and Ilisa, each piloting their own Stingers. Olaf caught Strom looking and saluted mockingly. Strom chuckled; Olaf could never take anything seriously, unlike his sister, who simply gave him a brief nod and a reassuring smile.
And then they met the Reapers.
Larger than the Stingers, the black Reapers were just as fast and twice as dangerous; even the black colouring helped them disappear into the night. Thermo-locking missiles were mounted on the wings of both craft, but the Reapers also had a chain-gun under the nose-cone; these deadly weapon fired large, nail-like bullets, which detonate their deadly interiors seconds after impact; ideal for destroying aircraft. Reapers were not tools of defence, only indiscriminate killing machines.
Strom swerved, two thermo-missiles narrowly missing their target. Strom looked at the screen to his right; it showed a view from the rear camera. The missiles stopped in mid-air, before turning and darting back at Strom. As they drew closer, Strom veered to the left. The missiles shot past, but Strom was on them now, and fired his own. The four missiles collided and detonated together, flames billowing backwards in the air. A Reaper darted past Strom, its tail-fin scraping the Stinger's wing. Inside, Strom caught a glimpse of the Xaosian inside, who glared back with black eyes.
A crackle of static came over the radio, before Admiral Fairns's voice said, “All pilots, come in. We have orders from President Yuki to engage The Dominion. This attack is of paramount importance; the Xaosians have threatened to ignite the Sea of Oil. Our ODS is near enough depleted and destroyed. Forget Tapal, forget your families, forget your friends. Here, we fight for our planet. Up there, I want you to fight for yourselves; I want you to win, and if – I say if – we lose, we lose kicking and screaming all the way. Forget honour now; we fight for our lives. I will be taking to the air myself soon, leaving the ground forces in the command of General Trexor. Begin your assault.”
In the Stinger's cockpit, Strom pulled a lever, and the cockpit was airlocked; nothing got out, and nothing got in. Instead, plant-based filters changed the carbon dioxide he exhaled back into oxygen to be inhaled again; perfect for space flight. Following Ilisa, Strom shot upwards. As he got higher, the cockpit turned cold, so he flicked the switch which activated the solar-powered heaters. The heat coming off of the small pads on his seat relaxed his body, as if he was in a warm bath. But his mind stayed resolute as the Stinger was slung into a higher form of darkness.
For a moment, Strom felt weightless before the gravity compensators adjusted themselves. There were few Reapers up at this height; most were in Raan's skies. Instead, twisted and burnt spirals of metal floated in front of him, slowly turning like gears in a broken clock. Strom weaved in and out of the ruins of the ODS until finally he saw it.
The Dominion.
Only visible by the Solus's reflection in its solar panels, The Dominion was a sight to behold. A wedge-shaped slice of pure darkness and, judging by the number of gun emplacements, a machine of destruction. As the Stingers converged on the Flagship, its hull was lit up with the smallest of flashes; merely the impact of the missiles on the behemoth's force field, which acted as an invisible, thicker hull; it could be breached, eventually. Flashes illuminated the gun emplacements as they fired; hulking, cylindrical constructions, there were four smaller cylinders on both its left and right, with a command centre at the top. Strom briefly saw three Xaosians in one such command centre, as the smaller cylinders fired their deadly cargo, recoil only affecting them slightly. The cannon-fire did not cause the Stingers that were in its path to explode, or at least, not in the conventional way; normally, explosions are associated with flames and crashes, but in space, neither of those things can happen. Instead, the Stingers are simply forced apart by the impact of the explosive shell, before the explosion scatters them in every direction. No sound, no flames, no collateral.
As the cannons fired again, a Stinger near to him was caught in the missile's path. The nosecone was forced back into the cockpit, before it shattered and the remains of the pilot were ejected forcefully. The nosecone, still being forced backwards, crushed into the back of the craft, which began to disintegrate. The wings came apart, as did the tail fin. The ammunition and cannons came loose from their riggings and floated away from the ship, where the nosecone had finally emerged from the rear of the Stinger. Then, the missile exploded, and the pieces were scattered like shrapnel, which cut into the nearby Stingers. Strom shoved the joystick to the left, and the Stinger rolled like a ball to the left, narrowly avoiding a large chunk of what appeared to be part of a the Stinger's wing.
Strom fired on The Dominion, missiles storming towards it. But none hit the flagship, detonating just meters from the hull; the forcefield still wasn't down. Strom flew along the length of the flagship, peppering it with the thermo-locking missiles. Small explosions flashed briefly as they hit the forcefield, blending in with hundreds of others. Stingers were forced apart all around him and he would see the pilots float out, clutching their throats as their breath was stolen away. Some, Strom recognised; most, he did not. Just nameless faces that he may never forget, eyes begging for help and mercy from anyone who could. But no-one could deliver.
Strom came across one of the functioning cannons of the Orbital Defence System. The tubular object had two solar panels jutting out of it, with an antenna-like dish on the end of it. Poking out of the centre of the dish was a long, slim cone with a rounded top; this was where the ammunition was fired from. Hundreds of small explosives dwelled inside the satellite, all on a chain-fire belt. Thanks to the belt, they were shot at extremely high velocities and, due to their small size, were excellent armour-penetrators. What struck Strom, however, was that it wasn't firing. He stopped his Stinger next to it, engaging the craft's gravity-locks. Pressing a button under his seat, a small compartment behind the seat opened. Inside was a standard-issue spacesuit, designed for short excursions into space. As it was standard issue, it shrank or grew to fit any shape, size or species. Strom wriggled into it and put the helmet on; it was too big for him and his head seemed lost inside it, but the airlocks closed around the suit's collar as he plugged the helmet into the Stinger's oxygen supply.
He opened the cockpit.
Even through the spacesuit, Strom felt a breeze as air was sucked from the craft. He drifted off of the seat, and quickly grabbed the side of the cockpit to steady himself. Closing his eyes, he tried to calm his breathing. This won't be like before. The memory of before only made him think of falling, drifting, dying. Olaf can't save me this time. He remembered his friend's hand, grasping his own. At that point, Strom could barely see, but he took the hand which flailed in front of him before being crammed into a Stinger and passing out. Strom's heart raced as he thought about it, but then he remembered Fairns's words: “we fight for our planet”. Gulping, Strom rose from his seat, going into a crouching position. His hand shook as it gripped the edge of the seat. He noticed that, unconsciously, both hands were gripping tight, and that the rubber supports on the seat had split slightly. Breathing in, he pushed away from the seat. Drifting forwards, Strom flailed to try and grab the satellite. His fingers touched the side of it.
And slipped away.
Panicking, Strom flailed once more, heart speeding up. This was just like before, just as he feared. But with no-one to save him, he was as good as dead, lost in space, just one of the corpses that he'd seen floating in the endless void.
The oxygen cord snapped taut and Strom stopped with an abrupt halt. He let out a deep breath, which he didn't realise he had been holding in. He swam through space, as if doing the breast-crawl. Drifting slowly back towards the
satellite, Strom realised that he had worried for nothing. Last time, before, he remembered that the cord had snapped; he relied solely on the backup oxygen supply in the small cannisters embedded in the suit.
Approaching the satellite once more, he put his hand out, slowly and carefully this time. He felt the touch of cold metal through the spacesuit's gloves as his hand clasped a ridge on the side of the Orbital Cannon. He dragged himself closer, painfully slamming his body into the metal surface, making him wince as his ribs erupted with pain again.
The satellite was larger than he had expected when he had first seen it; it was close to the size of a small house, obviously to house all of the ammunition as they did not get serviced often. Clambering along it, Strom searched for an access panel. The panel would not be large, only big enough for an arm to fit in and fix any software faults; the satellites were controlled completely by a special AI, which would sort and fix any mechanical failures. With the solar panels powering it, the AI would never go offline. Hence, the only reason for the cannon not firing would be a failure within the AI, which should be fixed by rebooting the system.
Strom barely felt the groove of the access panel through his gloves, but he knew it was there; perhaps the absence of sound heightened his sense of touch. He considered this as he thought never would've been able to feel that normally.... He wrapped his fingers around the edges and slid the panel open. Inside was a small screen with a touchscreen keypad. Strom entered the numbers 7719: the reboot code. The screen went black, before some white text came up saying “REBOOTING”. Beneath was a bar which was slowly lengthening. Strom nodded, satisfied with the job he'd done. He pushed himself off of the satellite, towards his Stinger. Pulling himself into the seat once more, he closed the cockpit and sealed the airlocks again before quickly stripping off the spacesuit. Disengaging the gravity-locks, the craft began to move again and Strom steered it away from the Orbital Cannon while he slowly counted down, nodding to each number.