Chapter 11

 

“Bridge, this is Captain Pellew,” he transmitted.

“Go ahead, Captain.”

“I’m at the site of the breach,” he said, gazing at a large round hole cut out of the ship. It was eerie, and more than a little alarming, to watch the stars turn slowly and know that there was nothing more than a helmet between him and them. “The breach has a diameter of about three and a half feet. It definitely wasn’t caused by debris. There’s a ship here, latched onto the Nighthawk.”

“Are you sure it’s a ship? The scopes show nothing.”

“I’m sure. Definitely a ship.” He looked at it. It was sleek and, although mostly out of view, what he could see of it looked new and state-of-the art. No doubt this was one of those Hunter ships the prisoners had told him about. “It’s about half the size of the Nighthawk, but it has a cockpit instead of a bridge, and looks designed for a crew of only one.”

“I’m still not getting any readings, Captain.”

“That’s because the ships are moving,” Pellew replied. “Stop the ship. That will force this one to become stationary and then you’ll see it.”

The stars stopped turning and almost the instant they became stationary, he heard a scream over the radio. “Holy shit!”

“Stay calm,” said Pellew. “I’m going to disengage us from her,” he’d already begun to examine the controls and systems available to him on the foreign ship. It appeared to be of Rotham design, based on its markings, and fortunately, since he had Rotham fluency, he was able to interpret the meaning of most of the controls. “I think I can use the control here to patch the breach,” he said, noting that the Hunter ship was designed to cut its way into another ship and then seal the cut. But the intruder here had made the unique decision not to seal the cut, no doubt to keep the deck in a state of null gravity, otherwise he couldn’t hope to move the isotome missile alone.

Pellew climbed inside the cockpit of the Hunter ship and fiddled with the controls. On his second try, he was able to force the ship to patch over the Nighthawk’s hull breach, sealing it—at least for the time being.

“I’ve got a patch on our breach,” said Pellew. “I want gravity and atmosphere restored to Deck Four immediately, but keep decks three and five under Hull Breach Protocol.”

“Right away, sir.”

Pellew next set to task trying to disarm or disable the extractor device, which was slowly pulling and coiling a chain toward the ship. No doubt bringing the isotome missile with it. Unfortunately, this seemed to be stuck using some sort of command override system that he could not figure out. In his frustration, he climbed out of the cockpit, drew his carbine, aimed it at the extractor, and emptied a magazine.

Other than sending a hail of ricocheting bullets all throughout the Hunter ship’s cabin, it seemed to have no effect. “Damn…” he muttered, then slapped a new magazine into his gun.

“Where are we at with that gravity and atmosphere?” he asked.

“Just three more seconds.”

He counted down and, to his surprise, the gravity, atmosphere, and lights were all restored in almost exactly three seconds. He felt suddenly heavy, which meant so would the isotome missile. Take that, you bastard, he thought. Then he deactivated the magnets on his boots, so he’d have better mobility.

 

***

 

When the lights snapped back on, so too did the atmospheric pressure and the artificial gravity. This caused the isotome missile to plummet to the deck where, with a hideous screech, the extractor attempted to drag the now 220 kg object along the deck. It only managed to pull it a few feet before becoming stuck. The extractor wasn’t rated for dragging a heavy object in such a way. Obviously, Blackmoth needed to take care of this.

He disabled the magnetism of his boots and left the missile where it lay, marching forward, toward Hunter Four, ready to deal with the rest of these pests. And feeling a premonition that there was only one of them left, and that one was the leader. And most strongly of all, that of all the sacrifices he’d made that day—sending soul after soul into the void—this one would prove the most deserving. In fact, it seemed to be the will of The One True God that this one be made to suffer. So suffer he shall.

The One True God does like to test me, he thought. But I shall prevail. The One True God’s design requires it.

 

***

 

Pellew lay prone in the corridor, with his carbine held at the ready, his right eye peering through the iron sights. He faced the direction that he knew the enemy would be coming from. Because he faced the direction where the chain led. A chain that, fortunately, had been brought to a screeching halt. Which meant the isotome missile was safely planted on the Nighthawk’s deck, where it belonged, no longer being dragged through absent gravity toward a Rotham starship for whatever evil design the intruder had intended.

“Come on, come on,” whispered Pellew. “Show yourself.” As soon as he had a clear shot, he was going to take it. No one tore through his soldiers, and boarded his ship, and tried to steal his missile and got away with it. That missile was meant for Raidan, and Pellew had some very important—critical even—considerations riding upon that safe delivery. As the best fighter on the Nighthawk, and an expert in both tactics and combat, Pellew felt that he would be more than a match for whatever was coming. Especially if he managed the element of surprise, which was why he was so bent on firing the first shot.

I’ll line up his head in my sights and then squeeze, and that’ll be the end of him, he thought, waiting for the enemy to appear. Pellew still wore his helmet and gear—just in case the Hunter ship’s seal failed and they lost atmosphere again. The helmet made sighting the gun a lot harder, but he’d managed to make tougher shots under worse conditions. And, like all members of Special Forces, he’d been forced to train with and without climate gear, just for such occasions as this.

After a few seconds, the enemy did appear. His head, which was also helmeted, came into view and Pellew immediately took the shot. His first glanced off the side of the helmet. So he hurriedly fired another. This struck the helmet directly, but didn’t penetrate. Instead, the carbine’s bullet ricocheted off. Clearly the stranger’s helmet was made of tougher material than what came standard to Special Forces.

If the intruder was alarmed, he did not show it. He continued to walk toward Pellew at the same calm pace, standing tall and proud, not even bothering to try and minimize the size of his target. Nor did he seem in any haste to return fire.

Strange and stranger, thought Pellew. He abandoned his plan to go for the headshot and instead jumped up to his feet and took aim at the intruder’s heart. Certainly his climate suit couldn’t handle a direct hit from a carbine, despite its bullet resistant properties. One clean shot in the chest and that’ll be the end.

The intruder, evidently, agreed with Pellew’s analysis, because, as soon as Pellew leveled his carbine to fire—which he did as speedily as he could—the intruder raised his own weapon, in an inhuman flash, and fired, beating Pellew to the punch. A metal rail carved into the barrel of Pellew’s gun, destroying it. The projectile itself didn’t look like it was going to stop and only managed to just shy of striking Pellew’s own heart. It even managed to penetrate partway into Pellew’s climate suit, after ripping through the entirety of his carbine.

“Holy shit,” was all Pellew could say, and he dove for cover, scrambling to find his sidearm. Before he could draw it from its holster, though, the intruder fired a second shot from his railgun. This one sliced through Pellew’s sidearm and implanted itself an inch deep on the Nighthawk’s deck, leaving him completely unarmed.

He looked up at the intruder in disbelief. Behind his helmet screen he looked like any other common human, pale skin, dark hair, a bit of pockmarks to his face. Nothing special, certainly nothing that hinted he was so dangerous. And yet he’d slaughtered his way through Pellew’s entire Special Forces garrison. And now, by the looks of it, he was about to do the same to Pellew himself.

“How…?” was all Pellew could get himself to say. He scooted backwards, trying to regain his feet. Not ready to die, but not sure how to prevent it.

The intruder looked down at him and watched in silence as Pellew climbed back to his feet. “So it is you then,” said the intruder, in a voice that sounded dark and not quite human. “You’re the one The One True God has sent to challenge me.”

Pellew didn’t know what the hell he was talking about. But so long as he kept talking, and not shooting, Pellew might be able to think of something.

“Yeah, I guess that’d be me,” said Pellew, scooting back a little bit farther.

The intruder stayed where he was. “Why do you dare oppose me? Do you not see that this, all of this,” he gestured widely, as if meaning the Nighthawk. “Is utterly futile?”

“Because,” said Pellew. “I sure as hell wasn’t about to let you take my missile.”

The intruder nodded. Then, for no logical reason whatsoever, he tossed his railgun far behind him—disarming himself. Pellew didn’t know if that was meant as a gesture of peace, or a display of superiority—like a bet that he could still defeat Pellew, on even terms, without any weapons at all.

Big mistake, thought Pellew. He charged, wanting to have the element of surprise, and dove as he reached the intruder, ready to tackle him with all his momentum.

***

 

Blackmoth found the human soldier amusing. There was something in him, his tenacity, his desire to fight, that sparked a memory inside Blackmoth’s own mind. A memory of a time long ago, before he’d seen the light.

I was little more than you, once, he thought as he caught the soldier with his hands, blocking his tackle with ease. He threw the soldier into the bulkhead, where he crashed and collapsed to the floor. Blackmoth looked down at him and waited, wanting to see what the human soldier would try next.

As he’d expected, the human soldier got back to his feet, despite the pain he was in, and charged at Blackmoth once more. Except, instead of trying to tackle him, this time he threw a punch, followed by several quick jabs. It was an unimpressive, even banal form of mixed martial-arts soldiers learned and Blackmoth had mastered as a child. He easily deflected the incoming blows. Block after block he watched the human soldier struggle to connect with him, clearly frustrated by Blackmoth’s superior hand-to-hand skill and, no doubt, surprised by Blackmoth’s restraint.

“Tell me, soldier,” said Blackmoth as he ducked a fast jab then blocked a second. “Are you the leader of that army of the damned back there?” he pointed his thumb over his shoulder to where crumpled heaps of corpses lay in piles.

“Army of the damned?” the soldier sounded confused. He kept his attention on trying to best Blackmoth and darted close, managing to get something of a grip on Blackmoth’s arm and wrist, trying valiantly to grapple him down to the ground and pin him. The soldier even managed to jam his knee into the back of Blackmoth’s leg.

Had he been a normal man, he likely would have gone down with such an attack. But for Blackmoth, this was mere child’s play. In a blur, he rebuffed the soldier’s efforts and sent him to the ground, sliding along the floor.

“The men you sent against me, did you intend to send them to the slaughter?” asked Blackmoth. “Because I have delivered them to the void.”

“Those were my men, you heartless bastard,” the soldier said, regaining his feet.

“Their blood is on your hands, soldier,” said Blackmoth. “The responsibility always lies with the commander.”

This had the effect Blackmoth expected and put the soldier into a heated state of rage. When he charged Blackmoth this time, his fists we’re practically flailing, his legs kicking, and he did all he could to land a blow, just one blow, desperate to rip Blackmoth apart limb from limb.

Blackmoth easily sidestepped the attacks, blocked the blows, and held the soldier at bay. For all his athleticism and practiced hand-to-hand combat, this soldier was little more than a speck before the sword of The One True God. Dealing with him was like dealing with a child still bound to the cradle.

“Are you afraid?” asked Blackmoth, when the soldier’s flurry of blows stopped and he bent down to catch his breath, hands on his knees.

“Afraid of what?” To his credit, the soldier made a respectable effort to sound strong, to sound intimidating. As if he still had some power here, or any hope.

“Afraid of the void,” said Blackmoth. He noticed the soldier’s eyes subtly take interest in something behind Blackmoth and then hurriedly glanced away, as if he pretending he hadn’t noted the railgun on the ground, several meters away. But Blackmoth knew the soldier would make a play for the railgun. He’d always known it.

The soldier charged him one more time, exchanging two more blows, which Blackmoth blocked with ease, but it was a feint, an obvious one, and the soldier spun around, ready to sprint for the railgun. Only this time, Blackmoth wasn’t quite so gentle. He caught the man by the back of his arm and wrapped his free hand around the soldier’s throat, stopping him in his tracks.

“You never answered my question,” said Blackmoth, sensing the evil within the soldier as he held him. This one should have been given to the void long ago…No wonder the galaxy is in such dire need of purification.

“I’m not afraid of you or anything else,” said the soldier, resiliently.

“Not even the void?”

“Especially not the void,” the soldier swung his head backward, crashing his helmet against Blackmoth’s and then, while kicking Blackmoth in the shin with his heavy metal boot, he desperately tried to break free. It was no use.

Blackmoth ignored the pain in his leg. It was irrelevant, as was the life of this pathetic creature here before him. As were the lives of the many billions of such creatures which had populated and polluted the One True God’s beautiful galaxy.

He released the soldier’s arm, but still held him by the throat. The soldier twisted, trying to take advantage of his now free arm, readying to strike Blackmoth as hard as he could. But Blackmoth struck first, slamming his fist directly into the soldier’s helmet with full force, cracking it open. Shards of transparent metals sliced into the soldier’s face, like shrapnel, and he let out a scream of terror, but to Blackmoth, it was silent.

With both hands, Blackmoth picked up the soldier and heaved him, tossing him to the ground where he rolled to a stop right next to the breach in the Nighthawk’s hull. He lay there, broken and beaten, but still trying to fight. He struggled to get up, unsuccessfully, and swore at Blackmoth with every colorful word he knew.

Blackmoth ignored him and went to the cockpit of Hunter Four. He pressed a button and, with a snap followed by a loud bang, withdrew the seal that had been acting as a patch over the large breach in the Nighthawk’s hull.

What atmosphere there had been vanished, blowing rapidly out into space and taking the soldier along with it. He spun as the air took him; in a blink he spiraled past the windows of Hunter Four and disappeared into the darkness.

“And now one more has been given to the void,” said Blackmoth. “Two-thousand three-hundred and seventy-one.” He thought of all those he’d slain here today and combined the number with the many lives he’d already taken. So many sacrifices in the name of The One True God, a name he was unworthy to speak, and yet that number was nothing before such a tremendous intelligence as The One True God. He demanded far more. The galaxy itself must be baptized with blood. “And so it will,” said Blackmoth. “And so it will.” He looked out the window into the blackness, seeing only a few stars; not many were bright enough to be seen over Hunter Four’s docking lights. He stared at those stars, imagining them winking out one after another as the One True God’s fury became known.

“Fodder for the storm,” he said. Then he closed his eyes and said a silent prayer for his sins and those of the soldiers he’d just slain. Not for forgiveness of sins; neither their sins nor Blackmoth’s could be forgiven. Merely a prayer of acknowledgement, of humility, of submission to that great power which stood, greater than all others, with a maw the size of infinity, that power who commands the void, a vast pit without end. Neither could be sated. Neither could be filled.

“My brothers,” he said, still staring at the darkness and thinking of the dead soldiers. “In His name—a name no mortal has worth enough to speak, may you find absolution in the never-ending void. And know that, as this universe passes away, we shall meet again. So say I, the Harbinger of Darkness.”

That last soldier had been something foul. Hubris clothed in the flesh of a man no stronger than the others, no more talented, no more able to resist the Will of the One True God. And now he was no different than any of the others, another lost in the void clenched by the fist of death from which there is no escape. Blackmoth’s only regret with that man was that he had only suffered ten seconds before losing consciousness. “I should have made you bleed,” said Blackmoth. “I should have taken from you one drop at a time until you were all out. You should have been my hourglass, a timepiece of blood, counting down the hours and seconds until the fourth destruction. Until the dawn of the darkness…”

Blackmoth fell silent for a moment as he recalibrated the extractor and turned it back on. It warmed to life, turning and coiling once more.

“Two-thousand three-hundred and seventy-one,” he repeated.

The loss of atmosphere had returned the Nighthawk’s deck to its proper state of null gravity, allowing the missile to float once more as the retractor slowly reeled it in.

When the missile arrived, he gently secured it, then sealed the cockpit and detached Hunter Four from the Nighthawk.

Soon after, he plunged into the depths of alteredspace. The time is coming, he thought, feeling the electricity of anticipation flowing through all of his veins. And when the moment is ripe, all shall tremble before the might of The One True God. Five destructions there shall be. I am the fourth.

 

***

 

Shen didn’t know what the hell was happening. First he’d been trapped inside the observation deck. Then, after miraculously forcing the doors apart, he’d found himself on deck without gravity or atmosphere where he’d clung in terror to a ceiling fixture for the better part of five minutes before he could get himself to move.

During that time, he saw an intruder guiding some sort of missile on a chain, a missile that looked suspiciously like ones he, Pellew, and Calvin had destroyed on Remus Nine. But that made no sense; there was no isotome missile aboard the Nighthawk! Then again, the stranger himself had made no sense. A man’s face inside that helmet, Shen had seen it clearly, nothing special about him except he’d pointed a railgun at Shen and, just when Shen believed fate had chosen to write the ending to his story for him, the man lowered the gun as if in an act of mercy and proceeded onward.

What happened after that, Shen had no idea. Even with his improved hearing he couldn’t hear sound in a vacuum. But by the looks of it, there'd been a fight…a bad one, more like a massacre.

He lost count of the number of corpses he ran into as he glided, pushing himself from wall to wall. He constantly was bumping into one dead soldier or another and swimming through clouds of blood droplets and other gore he didn’t even want to try and identify.

So much death…so much carnage…

For a minute there, the gravity, atmosphere, and lights had returned. And Shen used that chance to spring for the hatch, thinking all had been restored. He was eager to get to the Bridge to find out just what the hell had happened. And then, as instantly as it had returned, the atmosphere blew out of the ship again, bullying him over and sending him floating into a bulkhead, the artificial gravity a thing of the past.

Back to this, he thought. And he kicked off the bulkhead and toward the nearest wall in a series of maneuvers, which slowly but surely were getting him to that hatch.

How he remained conscious in these conditions was a mystery he didn’t know the answer to. It was deathly cold, his legs and arms had swelled up like balloons, and he couldn’t breathe. He needed to breathe; his body kept trying to breathe. But there was no air, not even nitrogen, to take into his lungs.

I should be dead, he kept thinking over and over, but somehow he wasn’t. He even managed to make it to the hatch. He pressed the control to open it.

Nothing.

He pulled the emergency lever.

Still nothing.

Damn, I have not come this far to die here! He gritted his teeth and tried to bang on the hatch, to force it like he had the observation deck doors, but it was no use. He lacked the strength now, and there was nothing to prop himself up against in the null gravity. The harder he pushed on the hatch, the farther away it sent him, hovering downward.

Nevertheless, determined, he pushed himself off the floor and hovered back up to the hatch, hell bent on finding some way to reach the other side. For, although his body had proven incredibly, even miraculously, resistant to the deathly effects of vacuum exposure so far, he could feel himself getting weaker, sicker, and knew if he didn’t get back into an atmosphere soon he would die. Whether he had seconds or minutes left, he wasn’t sure.