CHAPTER 18

 

It was a display of absolute carnage.

Smashed screens and broken tables. Shards of glass sprayed throughout the room. But, far more disturbingly, on top of all the ruined technology and furniture, lay seemingly countless corpses. Strigoi and lycans alike, ripped apart and maimed. Entrails torn out through orifices, eyeballs torn from sockets, bones cracked, broken, and even protruding. Entire limbs had been ripped from bodies and claw marks had dug deep, removing organs and shredding innards…it was a rancid spectacle of pure, brutal, animalistic slaughter.

Shen stood there, mostly intact, holding a bent steel pipe in his arms, staring down at his latest victim as blood dripped from the pipe onto the bludgeoned corpse.

What have I become? Shen wondered. What have I done?

“Hit him again,” snarled Tristan from behind. “Make sure the bastard’s dead.”

Shen closed his eyes, begging whatever gods existed—if any—for forgiveness, then smacked the crooked pipe down against his victim’s head; it burst apart, spraying skull fragments and grey-matter everywhere, not to mention plenty of blood. Some of the blood sprayed so high it caught Shen in the eye, stinging him; he wiped it away.

“Good work,” said Tristan, obviously still catching his breath. “Good work, everyone.”

“We’ve won a great victory here this day,” said Zarao, who, miraculously, seemed completely unharmed. He let out a howl and the other lycans joined in. Shen remained silent. He looked at Zarao and the others, all eleven that had survived—other than himself—and then stared back down at his Strigoi victim. One of three that he had personally dispatched.

I’m a killer, he thought. A monster.

The scent was almost as overbearingly nauseating as the sight, yet Shen could not tear his eyes away from his handiwork. He felt his sore arms go limp and when he dropped the steel pipe, it landed against the cement with a loud ring that echoed in the mostly quiet laboratory.

For his part, Shen had taken a solid punch to the face and some Strigoi teeth had sliced through his uniform collar—just shy of his jugular.

I did what I had to do, he told himself. They tried to kill us. We had to kill them first.

Still, as he held up his hands and saw the stains of red on his palms, then looked down once more at the Strigoi he had slaughtered, a creature that once—like him—had once been a human being, Shen couldn’t help but feel an outpouring of guilt wash over him.

If this is what it means to live as a Remorii, then I want no part of it, he decided. I would rather die.

To their credit, the lycans had proven their superior mettle when forced to the limit against the Strigoi, perhaps that was because the lycans were Type III Remorii, mused Shen; certainly, the newer the type, the more advantages would come with it. Including, evidently, the willingness and capacity to kill—to brutally slaughter—in order to survive.

Even though he struggled to grasp what had just happened, the last ten minutes felt like a rushing, violent blur, during which he had surrendered to pure instinct; he nevertheless understood it rationally. The Strigoi had wanted to kill them. And one couldn’t gently and peacefully incapacitate a dangerous Strigoi; they were tenacious in their ability to survive violence, and ruthless in their capability of dishing it out. This was the only way, thought Shen. Otherwise, we would be the shredded corpses on the floor…in fact, some of us are. He looked at the fallen lycans, far fewer lycan corpses than Strigoi ones, but these had been people he had walked in here with. People who, a few moments ago, were living and breathing and thinking beings. Now what? A smattering of goo, shattered bones, and rended flesh, all soaking in a bath of fast-drying blood that oozed out around them in large chaotic puddles…Shen had to blink. He had to look away.

He could live with this. He had to. He could even justify it. But, somehow, the sight of it all, the smells, the memory that was forming—one that would likely haunt him night and day—it left him feeling a kind of emptiness inside. Like there was a hole in his heart where that piece of him should be—that human piece—that knew where to draw the line, that understood when enough was enough. Instead, he had helped to slaughter and maim these creatures. There had been no respect for their enemies and, when each Strigoi had fallen down—presumably dead—the lycans, and Shen, had made certain to mutilate each corpse just to be certain. The whole thing had been a gruesome and sickening enterprise.

“Now,” said Zarao, waking Shen from the inner depths of his own somber thoughts. “We mourn our dead.” He then launched into a speech, listing each of the fallen lycans by name, and speaking a few words of respect about him. He bowed his head as he did this, as if in human fashion, and Shen thought perhaps the human element had not been eliminated entirely. We may be killers, we may be animals, but that doesn’t mean we cannot take responsibility for our actions, and show respect for those things that have transpired, he thought.

As Zarao paid homage to the fallen, the survivors crowded around their deceased comrades and each of them, in turn, ritualistically knelt next to each corpse and kissed it on the forehead—or where the forehead should have been. As they did, they muttered a phrase in some other language…Shen couldn’t make it out.

He wondered awkwardly if they expected him to follow suit, but he was spared the potential embarrassment when Tristan waved him over next to a sophisticated piece of machinery. Judging by its intact state, and the fact that the lycans had swiftly moved to control the area around it—and subsequently protect it during the melee—Shen assumed it was the Phalaxium. Or, at the very least, a crucial element of the Phalaxium. By the look of it, it was a receptacle for the toxins Tristan described, and based on its setup, sent them through pipes to various distribution networks across the surface of the planet.

“Can you look at this and tell me if it is still broken?” asked Tristan.

“I don’t even know what this is,” said Shen. However, as he examined it, the technology did make a kind of intuitive sense to him. He could even spot where there had been a broken sequencer which had been spot repaired by a welder.

“Try your best,” said Tristan, as he went about finding a safe, breaking it open, and retrieving some vials. Shen watched him, curious to know what they were; he expected there to be three—one for each toxin—but the case contained several dozen vials. Perhaps to create the toxins correctly a combination of chemicals was needed. It made sense, Shen supposed, certainly a vial of something wasn’t enough to affect an entire planet, but if it catalyzed something else, perhaps other chemicals stored in this distribution matrix, that might do the trick. He only hoped Tristan didn’t expect him to know which vials to use and how much—if forced to guess, he might kill them all.

“The machine looks repaired,” said Shen. “Evidently, our Strigoi friends managed to take care of that for us.”

“Then we got here without a moment to spare,” said Tristan. He handled the vials as if he had seen them before and Shen got the inkling suspicion that Tristan knew more about the Phalaxium than he was letting on. “There we are,” he said, retrieving a combination of three vials. “Mix this to a ratio of one third each,” he said, then handed Shen an empty beaker. “Also, try not to breathe the fumes.”

“Noted,” said Shen, as he began mixing.

By now, Zarao had finished leading the others in paying their respects to the dead—and further disrespecting the fallen Strigoi corpses—and he sounded impatient as he spoke. “Can we hurry this up?”

“I’m trying to make certain it is exact,” said Shen, finally achieving the ratio that Tristan had instructed.

“Well you’d damn well better hurry it up,” said Zarao, sounding either afraid or angry—or both.

“And why is that?” asked Shen, annoyed by the leader’s tone. Calvin never spoke to him in such a manner.

“Because you’ve got about eight seconds to get it done before a whole mess of unwanted guests arrive,” said Zarao.

Shen looked up and saw that Zarao was looking out the only window. Then, like a zap of electricity, Shen felt it. The pulsing pain. Quick and intense. It took all his effort not to drop the beaker when the pain hit him so unexpectedly.

“They’re coming, aren’t they?” asked Shen, knowing the answer.

“Oh, yes. And a whole lot of them.”

Shen handed the beaker to Tristan, who added some other chemical to it and then set about sealing it into a large capsule, making it ready for the Phalaxium to use.

“More Strigoi?” asked Tristan, not breaking his concentration.

“No,” said Zarao. “Type I Remorii, and a whole lot of them,” he then barked commands at the others. “You there, board up that window; barricade it with anything we’ve got. The rest of you, over there, do not let them get in through that doorway.”

Shen understood what that meant, not only would it be a useful chokepoint to hold the enemy at the doorway—whereas, should they breach the room, they could attack the lycans from all angles—the doorway also represented their group’s only path of escape. There were no other exits.

A moment later, clawing and banging could be heard against the tables that had been turned over to block the window. A fist crashed through the wood, splintered and bleeding, but its owner did not care. Shen doubted the Type I Remorii could feel a thing.

Well, at least I’m safe, he thought. Then felt guilty at the selfishness of it.

“I said hurry it up!” said Zarao.

“Almost done,” said Tristan. He deposited the capsule and activated the machine. “There!”

By now, the Type I Remorii had broken through the crude blockade of tables and furniture blocking the window, and were crawling and clamoring to get inside. As each of them did, a lycan shredded the Type I Remorii apart, but their numbers seemed endless. Shen moved to catch a glance out the window and indeed it seemed like an ocean of Type I Remorii had found them. Shen knew if they stayed here, they would all die. Except possibly himself, but that was of little consolation.

“Move! Move! Move!” said Zarao, once Tristan gave him the signal. The group of them charged for the door and met resistance immediately. With fury, they clawed their way past and kept going, not bothering to make certain the Type I Remorii they attacked had indeed fallen dead. There simply wasn’t time.

They sprinted through the corridor, back toward the LZ. At this point, Shen knew he was slowing them all down, as they continued to run bipedally. Like him. When he knew perfectly well they were much faster on all fours.

“Go on ahead,” said Shen.

“What?” asked Zarao. “And leave you here?”

“They won’t hurt me; they think I smell like them,” said Shen. “Just do it.”

“Don’t worry; I’ve got this,” said Tristan. He then grabbed Shen, stopping him long enough to hand him a small vial, Shen recognized it as the combination of chemicals he had helped Tristan brew.

“What do you expect me to do with that?” demanded Shen.

“Drink it! And be quick about it!” said Tristan.

Shen resisted at first; if it was a toxic compound meant to slowly purge the world of its Type I Remorii, and he was part Type I Remorii, it would kill him—wouldn’t it? But then he remembered his dreams, remembered seeing Tristan reaching out for him. Calling him brother. Shen knew it was stupid, he knew that dreams had no meaning. They were just random images inside your mind, the defragmentation process of the brain’s hard drive. But, not knowing what else to do in the moment, he took the vial and drank. After all, he thought, I would rather be dead than be a monster.

“Finished?” asked Tristan.

“Yes,” said Shen, tossing the vial aside. By now the pain was becoming almost too much to bear, so great were the number of Remorii closing in on them, fast on their heels, that he couldn’t move without experiencing wretched agony. It was as if he could feel each and every one. A single Remorii felt like little more than a pinch, but hundreds and thousands of them, he thought he would die on the spot.

He took a few fumbling steps forward and Tristan caught him just as he was about to collapse. The world went dark and all sound faded. At first, it became a hum, and then in time, the hum faded also. That was the last he remembered.

 

***

 

“Yes, what is it?” asked Calvin, as he stepped out onto the bridge. It was currently Red Shift and Vargas had the deck. He wasn’t sitting at the command position, but instead standing nearby, gazing intently at the ship’s bow window. Even the other officers of the watch, Cassidy, Jay, and Donaldson seemed to be captivated by something, but what? Rez’nac was there too, sitting in the XO’s chair. Calvin had no idea what the Polarian was doing on the bridge at this hour—or for that matter, what he was doing there at this hour—but he could tell it was Rez’nac because his entire head and neck stuck up over the back side of the chair, due to his height.

“Ah, there you are, sir,” said Vargas, turning his head just enough to acknowledge Calvin and then he looked back out the window. “I thought you’d wish to see it for yourself.”

Calvin went to the command position and sat down. He thought from there perhaps he could see what they were talking about, but all that was visible to him was blackness—just the way alteredspace travel was supposed to look.

Bored, and a little annoyed, Calvin crossed his legs and leaned back in the chair. He had to stifle a yawn before he could speak. “What is going on here, Mr. Vargas?” he asked. “Is this some sort of joke?”

“You mean, you don’t see it?” asked Mr. Vargas.

“See what?”

Mr. Vargas pointed toward the window.

“You mean the blackness of alteredspace?” asked Calvin. “I hate to be the one to break the news to you but…I’ve seen it before. Loads of times, actually.”

Mr. Vargas nodded. “Ah. But we’re not in alteredspace. We’re actually at a full stop.”

Calvin blinked away his fatigue and he realized immediately what was so odd about the view out the window. “Are you sure we’re not in alteredspace?”

“I confirm,” said Jay from the helm, “we answered full stop about ten minutes ago. This ship is not moving.”

“And, we did that deliberately, yes?” asked Calvin, wanting to make sure that some strange, mysterious force belonging to the Vast Empty had not yanked them out of alteredspace somehow—there were rumors of very strange things indeed the nearer one got to Forbidden Space.

“Yes, sir, I ordered the stop myself,” said Mr. Vargas. “You see a course correction became necessary and, well, I decided to indulge myself and take a look for myself. It’s rather magnificent in an eerie way, isn’t it?”

“What is it?” asked Calvin. “I mean, where are all the stars? The lights? We should see something other than total blackness.”

“That’s because we are staring at the largest cluster of black holes in the known galaxy.”

“Black holes, as in plural?” asked Calvin.

“Thousands of them, from microscopic to massive, some of them are even in orbit around others,” said Vargas. “Hence the need for the course correction.”

“Understood,” said Calvin. Then, a bit nervously, “Jay, you sure you’ve got the Nighthawk well in hand for this?”

“Don’t worry, sir, the computer does most of the work for a maneuver like this—but of course you know that, sir, being a pilot and all.”

Calvin nodded, knowing that was true. But he still felt unnerved having his third-string pilot at the controls of the ship as it moved through such a hazardous region of space. “How long until we’ve cleared the black hole field and can return to alteredspace?”

“Once we resume course, just under an hour, sir,” said Jay.

“Very good,” said Calvin. “Resume course immediately.” He looked back at the darkness out the window, trying to imagine the powerful gravity wells and destructive forces that lurked in the blackness, totally invisible to his naked eye. Like black sharks in dark water, dangers that the primitive senses would never detect until it was too late.

“Aye, sir. Resuming course,” said Jay.

“Sir,” said Vargas, “I apologize for causing the delay. I just thought you wouldn’t want to miss the black hole field.”

“Quite right, Vargas, not to worry,” said Calvin. “I enjoy a massive, interstellar marvel as much as the next guy—even if I can’t see it.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Rez’nac,” said Calvin, turning to face the taciturn Polarian. “This black hole field has got to be near the edge of the Vast Empty.”

“It is.”

“Then you and your people must have a name for it. Or, at the very least, something as incredible as this must have some sort of significance to you and yours? Forgive me if I’m wrong.”

“You are not wrong, Master of this ship,” said Rez’nac, he pressed his hands together, almost prayerfully, and his eyes flicked from Calvin to the blackness out the window, then they seemed to become glassy. “There is a name for this place, though it is a sin just to utter it.”

“A sin?” asked Calvin, surprised. “That seems a little extreme. Your Essences look down upon a specific use of language?” Calvin tried to phrase the question as politely as he could, without giving away the fact that he thought the mere act of speaking a word could be sinful was entirely stupid. Then again, so too was the concept of sin—at least as far as he could tell. If there were gods, essences, or other judges looking down upon all of mortality, taking such intense interest in what mortals said and did, what their mating preferences were, such must be bored gods indeed. Not to mention cruel gods, that would punish a lesser being after designing it to be born in total ignorance.

“It is a sin to speak the name because it is a sin to give of oneself’s time, energy, or attention, to they who have been cast out into the darkness,” explained Rez’nac.

“I see,” said Calvin.

“Those who have forsaken their Essence, and those who are born with the taint, they are the Dark Ones. Such shadows are the domain of such creatures. Worms must live where worms must live. In the deep recesses and holes and filth, just as they are. The Dark Ones are the same. They have been cast out, since time immemorial, and out they must remain. I caution you, we are in dangerous space, my brothers and sisters. Nothing good can come from such a vile abyss.”

Calvin had no response except to nod. He had never made much sense of the Polarian religion, but he was ever more convinced of its role in the larger events at play. The replicants, the Dark Ones, this schism within the faith that Rez’nac had spoken of, all of it tied back to the Phoenix Ring, the Rahajiim, the Enclave, everything, somehow.

“We emerge from the Vast Empty soon and then we will reach the Veil,” said Rez’nac.

“What happens then?” asked Calvin.

“I can get us through the Veil,” said Rez’nac. “Though I am fallen, I was once of Khalahar. I know the ways inside. After that, though, you are left to your own devices.”

“You won’t continue to help us and guide us?” asked Calvin.

“I will do what I can…to restore my people. To bring the truth, before I die. But there are secrets within that nether region of space that defy even my own knowledge,” said Rez’nac. “I suppose we shall experience them together. And live or die, as the Essences demand.”

“I can’t wait.”

 

***

 

“Your Highness, our worst fear has been confirmed,” said her advisor, the look on her face was like that of a ghost’s and she hadn’t even had the sense of mind to introduce herself with any protocol or dignity. Rather, she had burst into Kalila’s new throne room—still under construction—and proceeded to interrupt the queen, who was otherwise occupied.

Still, Kalila decided to let the slight go, since the sound of such news intrigued her, while simultaneously making her feel as though a stone had grown in the pit of her stomach.

“What is it?” Kalila demanded, gently but authoritatively.

“The ships, the ones spotted by our listening posts.”

“Yes, what about them?” asked Kalila, trying to be patient.

“They have left Gemini System and are headed directly for Imperial Space, Your Majesty.”

“I see,” said Kalila, feeling a terrible sense of doom loom over her. She didn’t have to be told the rest, she could infer it, but she indulged her advisor anyway and listened.

“The fleet—if fleet is even a sufficient word—has been identified, Your Highness. It is, beyond question, the Dread Fleet.”

“And you say it is headed for our space?” asked Kalila. “On a direct course?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

That could only mean one thing. And it wasn’t good. And just when I had restored the peace, she thought.

This news had come at a particularly bad time. Prior to her advisor’s arrival, she had received word about the many dozens of officers—some in lofty positions—that had died failing the Xinocodone test. One or two might have been a normal allergic reaction, and those deaths she regretted, but the others, they had proven to be replicants. So very many of them, and at such a deep level within the Imperial command structure. She was amazed that the entire political infrastructure hadn’t entirely collapsed because of it. Then again, there was still time for that…unless she could figure out the right things to do.

She had ordered replacements for all the officers and staff lost because of the mandatory Xinocodone dosing. It hadn’t been easy, but she’d managed to assign suitable replacements where necessary, and, as for the junior officers, she delegated the finding of replacements to those beneath her. That had been one more crisis solved. After it, she had hoped to have something of a rest, a break from the insanity that was her crumbling Empire…the great legacy of her family which she would defend and restore at any cost.

Unfortunately, now she had to deal with this, and unlike replacing a few replicants, this crisis came with no easy solutions.

“We’ll have to marshal all of our forces,” she said, knowing that was their best and only chance at repelling an assault by the Dread Fleet. Even then, she doubted it would be enough. True, she had reunited the Imperial Fleet into one military, though some tensions still existed as a result of the civil war, but even with the combined and reunified force, they had sustained incredible losses by slaughtering one another, and what was left was a poor excuse for what had once been the premiere war-machine in all the galaxy.

“Yes, of course, Your Majesty,” said her advisor. “Although I fear we will not be able to gather our forces in time.”

“In time for what?” asked Kalila. “Have you determined a target? Tell me, where is the Dread Fleet going to strike first?”

“Layheri Alpha,” replied her advisor. “It’s a small colony in The Rim,” she explained, upon seeing the queen’s unrecognizing face.

“Ah, yes, of course, Layheri Alpha,” said Kalila, surprised she had never heard of it. Then again, governing an Empire of over a hundred major planets, a small colony or two was bound to slip through the cracks of her present mind. She could hardly be expected to remember them all by name.

“Layheri Alpha is a mining colony of roughly a quarter-million people,” her advisor informed her. “It is so near the border that it would be impossible for us to get any meaningful force there in time.”

“Then order an immediate planet-wide evacuation,” snapped Kalila. “Let them know that no help is coming.”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

“After the Dread Fleet lays waste to Layheri Alpha, where then? Do we have a second target identified?”

“It is difficult to be certain,” said her advisor, “but there is a likeliest target.”

“Which is?”

“Centuria V.”

Now that was a name Kalila did recognize. It was a major world, with over eight billion souls, and, more importantly, should the Dread Fleet capture or destroy the system, it would put them within striking range of Capital World itself. “Then we shall make our stand in the Centuria System,” announced Kalila. “Be sure the order is sent to all ships, military and otherwise. I want the entire merchant marine, civilian convoy, and anyone else within the sound of our call to know that we are in peril and that the queen asks—no, demands—that they respond to help save our Empire.”

“Including unarmed vessels?” asked her advisor.

“We will arm them,” said Kalila. “We must have everything and everyone possible at Centuria V if we are to have any hope of repelling the Dread Fleet.”

“Yes, Your Majesty, that is wise. I shall send out the messages at once.”

“Wait,” said Kalila, almost unable to believe what she was about to say. Yet she felt she had no choice.

“Was there something else, My Queen?”

“Send a message to the Rotham Senate; let them know the Dread Fleet has left Polarian Space and it has come for us—which means it has come for them as well. Make it clear to them that if Capital World falls within the week, then Ro will surely fall within the month. It is inevitable.”

“Yes, Your Highness,” said her advisor, looking a bit confused. “To what end am I to send such a message?”

“You will set everything up, but I will make the plea to them personally,” said Kalila. “And, as to what end, it is to offer a temporary tactical alliance. The Dread Fleet is a common enemy, and as much as I loathe the idea of inviting more Rotham ships into my space, I would welcome them if it meant more firepower against the Dread Fleet.”

Her advisor bowed. “I understand, Your Majesty.”

I only wish I understood, thought Kalila. All that she had done, all she had arranged, it seemed that the purpose had been to subvert the cunning, guile, and subterfuge of the Rotham people in their designs to take advantage of the Empire, and now, here she was, about to beg them for their help and to open the very door of the henhouse for the wolves to enter. A part of her hoped they would refuse her offer. She did not trust them. She couldn’t. She didn’t dare! But without more ships standing up against the Dread Fleet, what hope was there?

She knew, as queen, she had to reach out for everything, far and wide, to give her people the best chance possible of surviving. Even if it meant swallowing her pride and taking a measured risk.

I’ll keep an eye on them, she promised herself. If they come, it will be for our benefit. That much I swear.