The hospital was largely quiet this early in the morning, its halls silent save for the occasional noise from one of the neighbouring rooms. Good; Vrakk hated having his thoughts disturbed. The room was just like every other; dull and empty, giving the occupants nothing to do but consider their own mortality. A window provided a view of what had once been a great jungle, where thousand-foot trees had twisted around each other, their long branches weaving together into a thick canopy in which primitive Zulkar had once made their homes. Now it was a different sort of jungle, one of concrete and metal that bent to the desires of architects instead of the whims of ever-chaotic nature. The old trees had been felled and stripped, materials shipped to the far corners of the Empire. Vrakk had never known that old world, but he still felt a sense of loss when he tried to picture it. How the shodi would weep.
An unwelcome volley of coughs startled him from his chair, and he wearily turned his attention to the dying figure in the bed beside his chair. The white sheets, stained with vomit and other fluids, were pulled up to her chin, concealing the gangly, bone-thin frame beneath. Most of the scales on her head had fallen off from the combined assault of the disease and attempts to treat it, and the pale flesh of her face shone beneath the light of the ceiling lamps. Her yellow eyes, dull and unfocused, fluttered open for the briefest of moments, and Vrakk caught a look of naked fragility in her expression before she fell back into an uneasy sleep. He leaned close, just to be sure, then refolded his legs and sighed.
He’d hoped for more from this, but he had been the only visitor this whole week. Somehow, he’d thought his father, either of them, would make an appearance to say goodbye and mouth some empty apology to him and his fading mother. Foolish optimism; few Zulkar lords would deign to visit an unfaithful spouse, even on her death bed, for fear of losing face. Guilt didn’t factor into the equation. Vrakk’s “father” in particular had been ruthless about the matter, and he was probably relieved to have her done with. He had his blood-children; coddled, overly-emotional idiots that Vrakk estimated would bring their line to an end in a few short generations.
As for Vrakk’s blood-father, the one who had seduced the most sought-after woman on Zulis almost unnoticed, the chances were slim, but he held onto a faint hope. He had come here for closure, and this mystery man might be the one to provide it. Mother had talked of him constantly when he’d been a child; how radiant he was, how extraordinary. Yet she hadn’t bothered to get his name before jumping into bed with him, so Vrakk had no way of finding him, of finding out who he was. The man wouldn’t show; after nearly thirty years, why would he appear now? He might not even know he’d fathered a child.
The bedsheets shifted, and a scrawny hand slipped over the side, the claws worn-down and filthy. “My son, are you still there?” came a voice, weak and wheezing. “It hurts so much! Vrakk, my sweet, please—tell me you’re there.”
He reached out and took her hand to quiet her whining. “I’m here, Mother.”
Her head turned towards him, but the eyes were still unfocused. “I can’t see you. Is that supposed to happen?”
“Yes, Mother—the doctors said it would,” Vrakk droned.
“Oh, yes, I forgot.” She swallowed, her throat convulsing. “Is anyone else here?”
“No, Mother.”
“I thought not,” she said, nakedly disappointed. “I had hoped your father would’ve shown up. I dreamed of him—he came to me, swept me up into his shining arms, and carried me off into the stars. You’ve been out there, among the stars, haven’t you, Vrakk?”
“A few times, yes.” He’d had a couple of off-world operations, but they’d both been within the solar system. With the recent promotion and his plans for expanding the scope of imperial espionage, he hoped to change that soon.
“Good,” his mother croaked, seemingly relieved. “You aren’t meant to stay on Zulis. I would have left when you were born, but my family disinherited me and left me nothing. Your father came from somewhere out there, beyond even the Empire. He was something amazing, greater than even the Emperor himself, a god. You are like him—your hudriss lies beyond the pettiness of nobles and their lineages.”
Vrakk had heard this all before, and even as a child he’d been disgusted by his mother’s strange worship of the man who’d abandoned her. Now, though, with no miraculous visit in sight and at a loss as to how to proceed, her words seemed so much more appealing. “Do you think so?”
“I know so,” his mother said. “We both know you’re special. Everyone does, but they hold you back because they fear you. Listen to me, Vrakk. Don’t let anyone—anyone—hold you back from what you’re destined to be.”
“I won’t, Mother,” Vrakk answered.
“Good. You deserve so much more.” She began to cough once again, a few specks of violet adding to the stains on the sheet. She closed her eyes, face contorted with pain, but a low snore told Vrakk she’d fallen asleep yet again.
Vrakk extricated his hand from her feeble grasp, wiping it on a relatively clean corner of the sheet. He stood, taking one last look at the city outside. There were no shodi left to weep at what progress had done to their world, the legacy long lost. But maybe that could change; maybe the title of shodus need not fade into obscurity with everything else.
He took one last look over the machines monitoring his mother’s health, then shrugged. She would not be in this world much longer; it was just a matter of days, hours. He made his way into the corridor, already planning a meeting with his closest subordinates, questions of family and parentage all but forgotten. He would not let anyone hold him back.
* * *
Few spoke the Zulkar language anymore. When the Empire had taken power, the old tongue had been usurped by their own, as had so many other things. But the Zulkar ways were long-lived and hardy, and the Darem’s domineering culture had not completely consumed them; the old words lived on, sequestered in ancient texts and the dark corners of academic study. In his long quest for understanding, Vrakk had dabbled in the linguistics, enough to write simple sentences and recognize a few hundred words.
During his studies, two words had struck him in particular: nols and hudriss. Translated into more modern terms, they were rough equivalents to “fate” and “destiny”, respectively. Objectively speaking, they were the same thing; a set of pre-determined events. It was in the connotations that they differed. Nols—fate—was an end, a death or misfortune that one struggles to escape. Hudriss—destiny—was a more positive example, something that one strives for. Destiny was not handed to you; Vrakk had learned that at an early age, as his mother had filled his head with tales of a birthright he had been denied. One must live up to his destiny to seize his rightful place in the world.
But now, he could feel his hudriss slipping through his claws. He’d planned the attack on the Consortium for months, making meticulous adjustments with every scrap of information his spies turned up. Every precaution had been taken to conceal their presence, to ensure that to the outside galaxy, only humans and Aquila had been aboard that station. Somehow, though, they’d been found, not just by Rashani witches but by a well-armed mercenary force. Now they were scuttling about the ship like rat-roaches, muddling up everything. How? How had this happened?
Seated in his chair on the bridge, Vrakk found himself at the centre of his crew’s frantic messages. Battle reports from five separate crewmen brought the first inklings of failure. His crew outnumbered the mercenaries, but almost half of them were trained in espionage and assassination, not direct combat. They were holding on, but his lieutenants had no high hopes of chasing the enemy off the ship in their current state. Their suggestions on the next course of action clouded the bridge, their irritating voices overlapping and mixing into incoherency.
A hammering pain behind the eyes made itself known to Vrakk, and he slammed his fist down on the communicator controls built into the captain’s chair, closing all channels. He let out a deep breath and leaned back in his seat. Fools; perfect soldiers until the moment things went slightly awry. They needed a steady hand to lead them, a leader who could keep a cool head in these unexpected situations. Being that leader sometimes proved difficult.
He’d been away from the artifact for too long. Deprived of its sweet, silent music, he’d begun to feel the doubts creeping back in. The experiments on the Rashani, the attempts to domesticate Rhapsody; both were only fleeting distractions from the gnawing curiosity he felt. He wanted to be back aboard the Superius, unlocking the secrets hidden within the black device. What if the scientists managed to solve its riddle before his return? Might he not miss the very hudriss he sought? But he had made the right decision in leaving it behind. This mission, the attack on the Consortium and manipulating the enemies of the Empire into war, was only the first step in his plan, and the riskiest. Something had clearly gone wrong, and it would have been disastrous if anyone had laid hands on the artifact. He could suffer some irritation in exchange for keeping his prize secure.
“Your Lordship?” asked a deep voice.
Vrakk returned to the present, back aboard the outdated piece of salvage they’d chosen as a temporary base of operations. He glanced over his shoulder, where Bunus stood sentinel. He was the sole Darem on the crew, a soldier who cared little for Vrakk’s political machinations but held a fierce loyalty towards their unit. Vrakk accepted that loyalty as a substitute to complete fealty to him personally, and it had earned the Darem the honour of holding onto the Rashani prisoner’s weapon, which was held in a pouch at his belt.
“Yes, Bunus?” Vrakk asked. “Do you have a suggestion?”
Bunus shrugged. “Cut and run, I guess. Thought we were about to scrap this old junk-heap anyway.”
Vrakk smiled; Bunus’ ineloquent bluntness was worth the advice of a hundred strategists. The communications board flickered with countless lights indicating waiting callers, but Vrakk opened the channel only to his security chief.
“What is the status of our two prisoners?” He’d given the execution order with a heavy heart. The research team would grieve over the loss of the Rashani test subject, but Vrakk was personally sad to be losing Rhapsody, just when he’d come so close to breaking the upstart slave. Yet it had to be done; neither of them could be found, lest his plans unravel even further.
“There’s been no word from the men I sent,” the S.C. responded. “It’s been twenty minutes since I gave the order—I fear something may have gone wrong, Your Lordship.”
“Yes, that seems to be a trend recently,” Vrakk snapped. “Have our assailants reached that far into the ship already?”
“No sir, I would’ve known,” the S.C. said hurriedly. “It’s possible the prisoners took the opportunity to escape, maybe even kill my men. Should I send someone to retrieve them?”
A deep growl rumbled up through Vrakk’s throat reflexively, his face purpling in rage. That worthless slave! He should have killed both the humans when he’d had them in the Consortium’s hangar. With these mercenaries loose on his ship, the chances of Rhapsody escaping and sharing his story increased significantly.
He clenched his fists and breathed in, getting a hold on himself. “No, we can’t spare the men at the moment. If they stumble into your path, kill them, but otherwise focus on protecting what assets we still have. How is the Aquila?”
“Sedated and ready for transport, Your Lordship,” the S.C. replied, sounding a little too proud of himself for Vrakk’s liking.
“Good, at least you can do something right.” The survival of Rhapsody and the Rashani would hurt his plans, but it would still be the word of a couple of humans against contrary evidence and, soon, a trusted Aquila diplomat. Trem was proving resistant to his crew’s persuasion techniques, but it was only a matter of time before he saw things their way. As long as they could return him to Croish, bringing tales of the Kinship’s treachery, the war would still come.
“Keep an extra-large guard on him. I will join you shortly,” Vrakk said, rising from his seat. “Know that if we lose the Aquila, I will have your head. Is that understood?”
“Perfectly, your Lordship,” the S.C. squeaked.
Vrakk closed the channel, then broadcast an automated message to all his soldiers, sounding the call to retreat. Every man had the protocols hammered into his head and would play his part in the ensuing withdrawal. He motioned to Bunus to follow him, then donned his crowned helmet and left the bridge. The hangar was mid-way along the ship’s left side, so Vrakk took the right fork to minimize enemy encounters. He had disliked the vessel’s convoluted design since retrofitting had begun, but in this one case it might pay off.
All of this was just a small setback, he assured himself. Hudriss could not be overturned so easily, not now that he’d set out down its path. The artifact was key; that was what Sudra had told him. So long as he possessed it, war would spark, one way or another, and in war Vrakk would achieve his true glory.
Vrakk thought of Sudra almost as frequently and fervently as the artifact. Even as his march through the corridors brought him closer to danger, he couldn’t help but picture her in his mind. Standing at a diminutive six feet, with a plump figure and scales the colour of dazzling emeralds, she was the most desirable woman Vrakk had ever laid eyes on. The clothes she’d worn on the day they’d met had been equally captivating; a long robe of deep black cloth wrapped tight around her waist, embroidered with gold thread around the edges, and a pendant hanging from her long, pale neck, depicting a closed eye: the symbol of her god.
She’d come to him only a few short years ago, knowing far more about him than anyone outside of Imperial Intelligence should. He was supposed to be a shadow, a forgotten bastard of a noble house, and he’d made a living out of staying out of sight. Yet Sudra had found him and approached him with the sort of confidence rarely seen in a commoner. She’d told him in that sensuous voice of hers that her god had spoken to her in dreams and commanded her to seek him out. He’d been prepared to dismiss her as a lunatic, but she’d known exactly what to say:
“I have come to deliver you your hudriss, Lord Shodus. I have come to show you the path to greatness.”
She was a member of the Order of the Great Dreamer, a strange little cult that Intelligence had been anxious about, but which Vrakk had paid little notice. That had changed after his first night with Sudra, during which she’d been quite open about her religion. According to her claims, the Order was composed of people from every known space-faring nation—Empire, Kinship, and Alliance—drawn together by the belief that a higher being communicated to them through their dreams. Vrakk had initially doubted her, until his own research at Intelligence had turned up reports of these dreamers prophesying natural disasters weeks before they occurred, or acting as one despite never having met before, or carrying out conversations across planets without the aid of communications equipment. Sudra assured him it was all true, that they were all linked by the will of the Great Dreamer, and that their goals were His goals.
“And what is your goal?” Vrakk had asked, lying in bed beside her that cool summer night.
“I cannot say what the ultimate end is until He tells it to me,” Sudra had replied, rolling over to rest a hand on his shoulder. “For the moment, though, my goal is you. Do you know what potential you hold? You are destined for great things.”
Vrakk had smirked. “So my mother told me, every day, even on her death bed. She’d said I’d had my birthright stolen by my idiot half-siblings, and a clutch of nonsense about hudriss on top of that.”
“Did she tell you that you were the son of a god?”
Vrakk’s stomach had tightened. How did she know these things? Even Intelligence didn’t know about that. “She was delirious at the end. She didn’t know what she was saying.”
“She did,” Sudra had sat up, the sheets sliding teasingly down her chest. “It was the same thing the Great Dreamer told me. You are a Lord of Lords, a mortal who carries divine ichor in his veins.”
It had a nice ring to it, especially coming from her, but Vrakk had been foolish then, suspicious. “You mean to say that your god is my father?”
Sudra’s face purpled slightly, as if she’d been offended. “No, never—the Dreamer’s children are sinners of the greatest magnitude. There are many gods, but only the Dreamer deigns to speak to us mortals, to fill our wretched lives with meaning. I don’t know your father’s name, but I would tell you if I did. What the Dreamer has told me is that you are divine and that you must not squander your birthright any longer.”
Vrakk had been wary of embracing his godhood at first. Even half a year ago, he would infrequently wonder if he’d been too gullible in swallowing Sudra’s words. But it had seemed to fit—Vrakk had always been stronger, faster, better than other Zulkar. Wouldn’t a divine heritage explain that? Sudra seemed to think so, and she’d been patient with him as he’d gradually grown to accept it. Then she shared another dream; that he would ascend in the midst of a war of his own making, and that a peculiar artifact would be the key to that ascension.
Back in the present, the crew continued to send a steady stream of reports to his communicator, the subjects seeming trivial in comparison to his thoughts. He made long strides down the corridor, mindful of the low ceiling. Bunus walked silently behind him, keeping watch on their backs. The door to the security chief’s office was flanked by a pair of guards, who knelt as Vrakk approached. Vrakk gave a small nod of acknowledgement, then stepped inside. Five more warriors stood at attention within, clustered around a figure laid out on a stretcher. The S.C. stood at the head of the formation and saluted, but Vrakk had no time for him. He pushed past to gaze upon his last hope for war.
Dae Trem was immobile, with only the rise and fall of his chest to tell that he still lived. One of his sleeves had been rolled up to reveal light pink flesh beneath, with a red spot where the needle had pierced. His mask had been reattached to his face to keep him from overtaxing his lungs while he slept, but the cap had been peeled away, his brown curled hair fanning around his head. It was difficult to see this peaceful creature and equate it with the man they’d been struggling to control for the last few weeks.
Like Rhapsody, a powerful hate had nested in Trem, but this anger was fresher, newly ignited by the death of his fellow diplomat. Vrakk had seen that as a positive at first, eager to find a way to turn that hatred against the Kinship. But after weeks of torture, drugging, and mental manipulation, it had become clear that Trem’s rage was a form of resistance. No matter how hard they beat him down, the Aquila would not kneel. It was just as well that they were leaving; the tools aboard this ship had proven insufficient. The technology and techniques aboard the Superius, on the other hand, were always being improved. If the methods Vrakk had used since he began his career no longer worked, he would develop newer, harsher ones.
Vrakk turned to the S.C., who quivered slightly beneath his gaze. “We go, now. Send the call—full retreat to the Obscura. Anyone not onboard in twenty minutes gets left behind.”
“Yes, my lord!” the S.C. said, scurrying off to send the message.
The whir of machinery drew Vrakk’s attention to the corner of the room, where Bunus had retrieved and activated the handheld laser weapon. It was highly experimental and quite expensive, and Bunus was the only one Vrakk trusted with it. The sheer amount of power needed to fire a laser was immense, taxing even a ship’s generator, and the bulky battery pack on Bunus’ back could only allow a couple of shots at this stage of development. It had limited uses in a frontal assault, but it only took a single shot to hit a key target and bring everything else tumbling down.
The S.C. returned to face Vrakk, claws fidgeting. “The message has been sent, Your Lordship. Shall we begin moving the prisoner?”
“No, I was thinking of waiting here for the enemy to find us,” Vrakk hissed. How had he ever thought this man fit for any sort of promotion? He raised a hand to the other soldiers, who saluted in unison. They lifted the stretcher and marched on his signal, the S.C. tripping over himself in their wake. Vrakk followed at his leisure, working through attack plans in his head.
“Take the lead, Bunus,” he commanded the Darem. “If the enemy blocks our way, one shot will send them scampering.”
Bunus nodded. “And you, boss?”
“I will stay by the Aquila for now,” Vrakk replied. “I will watch what our enemy brings to combat and—if I deem it worth my time—I may decide to test my blades for a few minutes.”
Bunus strode ahead with a grunt, levelling the laser gun into firing position. Vrakk took his place at the back of the group, standing with Trem’s unconscious head pointed up at him. He took up the rhythm of the march they’d fallen into, recalling his early days of military training, that brief period of his life where he’d managed to forget about who he was or how he’d been born.
They were nearly at the hangar when they met their first resistance; a pair of red and white mercenaries charged them as they approached the entrance. Bunus tensed at the sight of them, but kept his finger off the trigger. As the first came at him with his sword, Bunus butted him with his armoured head, sending the mercenary sprawling to the floor. Bunus took the brunt of the second’s charge on his shoulder, then threw his own weight against the attacker, slamming him against the wall. Both humans were left unconscious or dazed, and the march continued. Normally, Vrakk would have insisted on ensuring they were dead, but time was limited.
The entrance to the hangar was cluttered with warriors locked in furious combat, and neither side appeared to be giving ground. That was unfortunate, given the urgent need to get through. Vrakk walked ahead of the stretcher and stood beside Bunus, exchanging a nod with him.
The Darem lifted his weapon, then hesitated. “What if I hit one of our own?”
“Then you’ll have to apologize, if he survives,” Vrakk said, impatiently.
Bunus was frozen a moment longer, then hit a button on the side of the long barrel to prep the weapon. The pack on his back, a featureless black rectangle, began to roar as the cooling fan came to life and the battery charged up. The noise reached a crescendo in less than a second, and Bunus pulled the trigger.
A bolt of red light flashed across Vrakk’s vision, leaving an after-image that lingered for a few moments. Despite the noisy start-up, the shot itself was completely silent, and more importantly, instant. The moment the light left the barrel, anything in its path was already dead. A mercenary let out a cry as he noticed the hole seared through his abdomen, and then he collapsed. Yelps of surprise erupted from both sides, and bodies scrambled to get out of the way.
Vrakk’s patience had worn thin by this point, and he decided to speed up the humans’ retreat. He leapt after them, drawing his twin blades, and brought them down on the slowest of the mercenaries. He hit one in the back, knocking him onto all fours to crawl away like an animal. Another he took in the neck, slipping the blade into the break between helmet and armour, and nearly took the mercenary’s head off. Most hastened their retreat, but a few stopped to take shots at Vrakk. The needles bounced harmlessly off his armour, and he took the chance to cut down one of the riflemen, sending his comrades running. The S.C. and his squad followed behind him, as if they meant to use their lord as cover. He supposed he must seem invincible to them with the way he fought. Perhaps he was.
The Obscura was surrounded by a ring of his Zulkar, dutifully peppering the enemy with their rifles. Vrakk motioned the S.C. and his squad to go on, then turned his attention to the battle. The hangar was not particularly large, but all the commotion contained within made it seem to stretch for miles. Reports guessed at maybe twenty mercenaries, but if that was the case, then those twenty were damn good at being in many places at once.
Vrakk looked towards the airlock and felt something sink in his stomach. A wide blue vessel blocked the Obscura’s escape, its curving wings stretched out to prevent an easy exit. He knew enough to recognize a Moonsaber when he saw one, and that meant Rashani were here. He searched the hangar for blue robes or the silver sheen of a Lucidil, but there was no sign of the witches. That didn’t make Vrakk feel any better; he bore a certain uneasiness towards the Rashani, one that extended beyond a healthy cautiousness. What he felt was deeper, almost primal, as if it were in his very blood. None of his crew seemed to share that feeling; some were superstitious, but none felt the same physical revulsion that their lord did.
He couldn’t find any Rashani, but there was one mercenary that stood out from the rest, not just by the gold marks on his shoulders that designated him as a commander, but by the level of skill on display. He seemed to dance between opponents, parrying an attack before spinning around to cut down another foe. Many of Vrakk’s troops stepped back at the sight of him and sought out easier targets, only to find the human pursuing them. He moved with an almost Zulkar-like grace, somehow appearing both arrogant and cautious at the same time.
Vrakk tightened his grip on his swords, his mood brightening. Here was an opponent worth his time, one he could feel proud of striking down. The defeat of the mercenary commander would decimate their morale, maybe even force them to retreat. The prospect was tempting to his warrior’s blood; Vrakk could leap into the fray, cut this mercenary down, and return to the Obscura within minutes. Behind him, the S.C. had already begun loading the Aquila onboard while Bunus watched attentively. They were almost ready to leave; what could one duel hurt?
Vrakk stepped in the direction of the tumultuous battle, gauging the distance between him and his quarry in that storm of swords and blood. He was close, but the commander was focused on his nearer enemies. First step would be to get his attention. As he approached, another mercenary broke free from the battle and raised his sword in Vrakk’s direction. He tried to contain his amusement; an opportunity had come right to him. He let the mercenary come closer, then lunged, swinging both arms out. One blade met the mercenary’s, hitting with enough force to send the lesser weapon flying from the human’s hand. The other went low, striking at the human’s leg. It didn’t need to hit flesh; it struck the kneepad with enough force to dent the armour and force the joint to buckle, knocking the merc on his back.
Vrakk brought his foot down on the human’s chest, pinning him to the floor. The human squirmed in place like the insects Vrakk had spent his childhood spearing to trees and leaving out in the hot sun to die. He leaned forward, pressing his weight down. “Call your commander.”
The mercenary stared back, face scrunched with pain. “What? Why the hell would I do that?”
Vrakk smiled; just the response he’d expected. He eased off on the mercenary’s chest, then lifted his other foot and brought it down on the human’s hand. It made a satisfying crunch, and the mercenary an even more satisfying scream. Vrakk eagerly eyed the centre of the battle. The mercenary commander had slowed in his deadly dance, his head turning in their direction.
In his years practising the arts of advanced interrogation, Vrakk had made an interesting discovery: that the best way to elicit a response from an individual was not to harm them, but to harm someone else. Against all reason, many became agitated, if not outright enraged, at seeing another hurt, which opened them up to manipulation. He’d recently exercised this tactic with the older human diplomat, sacrificing him in order to break down Rhapsody’s will. In the same way, he hoped to use Delse’s death to control Trem. Vrakk did not quite understand this behavioural phenomenon, but it was not exclusive to humans; he’d seen it in most species, even other Zulkar; a shared weakness that he exploited as often as he could.
He lifted his foot again, then brought it down on the pinned mercenary’s elbow joint. Another scream exploded across the hangar, and the commander faced Vrakk. Another soldier came at the human from the side, but a quick sweep sent the Zulkar’s blade skittering across the floor and forced a retreat. The commander strode through the throng of warriors, pushing aside Zulkar as he ducked beneath their blows. Impatient, Vrakk applied some extra pressure to his captive’s broken limb to speed the commander up.
The commander stopped a few feet away, sword ready for battle. “Judging by that crap on your head, I’d guess you’re in charge here. You’ve got my attention, now let him go.”
Vrakk shifted his weight, stepping off the broken arm, but keeping the mercenary pinned under his other foot. “I think we should have a little talk first. Who sent you? Rashani prefer to do mercenary work themselves, so I don’t imagine they hired you.”
“No one sent me,” the commander replied in an impetuous tone. “I just caught a whiff of your Imperial stink and had to do something about it myself.”
Vrakk lowered an arm, bringing a sword tip close to his captive’s neck. “Careful with the tone you use answering my questions, human—my hand may just slip. Perhaps you might tell me how you found us?”
The commander seemed to hesitate, then shrugged. “Lacus emissions. That little ship of yours leaks them like a punctured balloon.”
Vrakk clenched his jaw. Of all the stupid things! The use of Lacus engines had seemed ingenious, a means of allowing the Obscura to move untraceably through space, since no logical person would search for signs of outdated tech. Now that the secret had been discovered, it must be an enormous giveaway.
“I’ve answered your question,” the commander snarled. “Now let him go.”
Vrakk was not at all intimidated by a lowly human. “One more thing. What is your name?”
“Barnes,” the commander answered, not hiding his irritation.
Vrakk smiled. “It is good to know the name of an opponent before a duel. You may call me Lord Shodus.”
“What makes you think I’m gonna waste my time fighting you?” Barnes asked.
In response, Vrakk drove his sword into the pinned mercenary’s neck. The pitiful creature made a surprised gurgling noise, then went limp as blood gushed from the wound. Vrakk pulled his weapon free and wiped the red liquid on the leg of his armour.
“You bastard!” Barnes shouted. Though his face was hidden behind his red-white helm, Vrakk could just picture his rage. Even the most rational warrior could be drawn into a fight with the right prodding.
Vrakk stepped off the fresh corpse and kicked it aside. “A poor choice of word. I am the heir of a god, a Lord of Lords, and soon to be champion and ruler of the Empire. Only those too blind to recognize greatness would dare call me a bastard. Now, we fight.”
Barnes lifted his free hand, a single finger raised high. Humans had many strange physical gestures like this, but Vrakk had never bothered to learn their meaning. It was probably a challenge, which Vrakk eagerly answered, overtaken by a rush of strength and bloodlust.
* * *
Marissa felt a rush as she and her companions approached the hangar. She felt lighter on her feet, the spear in her hands no heavier than a twig and her armour as unrestricting as cloth. She charged ahead of the group, abandoning her earlier caution as she knocked Zulkar soldiers aside to clear the way for Arc and the Rashani. She didn’t even need the spear’s tip; a single strike with the shaft toppled the timberous Zulkar and sent them retreating back into the hangar.
Marissa’s attention was only half-focused on the enemies ahead. She frequently looked back over her shoulder, where Arc helped Mela support her ill Sister. After the long journey, the search, the anxiety that had percolated in the back of her mind for weeks, Marissa didn’t want him out of her sight for too long. She would not let Arc be taken from her again. Whatever disagreements they’d had, they were one, and they were going to stay that way.
The hangar was a pool of clashing tides of red-white and murk-green, and Marissa dove right in without a second thought. In a flash, she perceived a Zulkar bearing down on an injured merc, and she rushed to intervene, sweeping her spear under the Zulkar’s feet to drop him to the floor. The Zulkar leapt back up, thrusting his sword outwards, but Marissa drove the end of her spear through his breastplate and stopped him dead. She let the body drop and helped the grateful merc to his feet.
On a second glance, the battle was going better than she’d expected. Most of the Zulkar had been pushed back, clustered close around the smaller ship. The entry hatch was open, and now Marissa saw that the soldiers were positioned to cover their comrades’ escape inside. They were in full retreat then. Good. Let them run.
She spotted Arc and the others crossing the newly cleared space, and went to meet them. She caught Arc’s eye and read the disapproval in his expression. She felt the rush die almost immediately; why had she charged ahead like that? She couldn’t protect him if she was leaving him behind. She threw an arm around him, much to his surprise.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, touching her shoulder.
“Nothing—sorry, I just can’t believe we did this,” she said, gently squeezing him.
Arc chuckled weakly. “I can, especially with you here.”
“Rhapsody!” The call cut through the din of battle, edged with contempt. Both of them looked for the source; a lone Zulkar stood ahead of the defensive formation, his helmet decorated with a set of spikes like a crown. He held a pair of long, curved swords, one of which he held high above his head in salute to them. The other swung out to his side, parrying a blow from a merc he was fighting. The sight of the gold on the merc’s armour filled Marissa with unease; that was Barnes. The lieutenant-commander backpedalled away from the next swing.
“Who’s that?” Marissa asked.
“Shodus—he’s the nut in charge here,” Arc muttered through clenched teeth. “Who’s the other one?”
“Barnes—lieutenant-commander of these mercs,” Marissa replied.
The communicator in her ear piped up, and it was like Barnes was inside her helmet. “You found them?”
“I’ve got Arc and the Rashani,” Marissa replied. “Osterly’s dead, and no one’s sure where the Aquila is.”
“He’s probably been loaded onto that small spacecraft,” said Barnes, blocking a swing from Shodus. “We’ll get him back—they’re not getting out of this ship with the Moonsaber blocking the exit. Just give me a minute to kill this prick and we’ll work out a plan to take down the rest of them.”
“Do you need help?” Marissa asked. Shodus looked very formidable with those swords, and was he taller than the others? It must have only been an inch or two, but it was noticeable. The Zulkar leader stared back at her from behind a dark visor, and she felt a sort of morbid curiosity about him.
“I’ve got this covered. Just get the Rashani and your husband back to the Moonsaber.” Barnes charged Shodus, bringing his sword down in a powerful swing that the less-than-attentive Zulkar barely managed to block with his arm-guard.
Shodus pushed Barnes back, then crossed his blades across his chest before slashing outwards. Barnes lifted his own sword vertically, catching both blades on his own, then sidestepped and went for Shodus’ flank. Shodus stabbed downwards, but his long arms seemed to make it difficult for him to wield his swords against an enemy at close quarters, and Barnes avoided it easily. He slashed a gash into the side of the Zulkar’s armour, just beneath the ribs. The blade cut deep, and a trickle of violet blood escaped when Barnes pulled it free.
Shodus let out an astounding angry bellow. Barnes lifted his sword in a guard stance as Shodus spun to face him, but the Zulkar stopped short of swinging at him. Instead he aimed low, kicking at Barnes’s undefended knee. Barnes didn’t just stagger from the kick; his knee bent in a way a human knee shouldn’t, and he dropped forward like a bag of concrete, letting out a loud cry. In a split second, Shodus struck, driving his swords into Barnes’ back like a spider digging its fangs into a fresh catch.
Marissa’s breath caught in her throat, and then another rush consumed her. She was running, rage building in her lungs. It came out as a howl, primal and inarticulate, its force carrying her across the hangar. She lifted her spear into position, aiming for the Zulkar’s heart.
Shodus turned to see her and made a sound of amused surprise. He left his swords sticking in Barnes’ back and faced her head-on, making no effort to evade. Marissa’s mind was too clouded to wonder at that. She just wanted her spear in his chest, and maybe to see if it came out the other side.
With only a few feet between them, Shodus’ arm shot out and seized hold of the spear’s shaft, just below the metal head. A jolt of unexpected pain hit Marissa’s arms as an opposing strength forced her to a stop, the spear inches from Shodus’ breastplate. A powerful twist followed, and the spear was wrenched from her hands and tossed aside.
“That strength, that sign on your chest—you’re Marissa Rhapsody,” the Zulkar said between ragged breaths. “Here for your slave husband, I take it? I never expected you to come here personally.”
Marissa didn’t give a shit about what he was saying. She just needed a moment to recover from the shock of what had just happened. It didn’t really matter how he’d managed to stop her with those flimsy arms of his. She leaned back on her heels, made a fist, and let loose with the same sort of punch that had reduced fighters like that jerk Westri to a quivering lump.
Shodus’ reflexes were quick, and he caught the fist between his claws, folding his arms inwards to absorb the impact. The Zulkar grunted as if he was lifting a heavy object, then began to chuckle.
“You and I share a similar strength and a similar origin,” he said, his fingers holding firmly to Marissa’s fist. “I had my suspicions, but now I’ve felt it. Do you sense it as well?”
“No, and I don’t care.” Marissa tried to pull her hand away, but Shodus’ claws held like a vise. How could he be so strong?
Shodus yanked her towards him, and their helmets nearly knocked together. “We were destined to meet, you know. It’s only a pity that I haven’t the time to take your full measure right now. I must be going.”
Marissa grabbed onto the side of Shodus’ helmet with her free hand, her fingertips denting the rounded shape. “You’re not going anywhere! I’m going to make you pay for what you did to Barnes!”
Shodus shrugged, then suddenly pushed Marissa away, sending her stumbling backwards. “You shouldn’t be so concerned over the life of one lowly human. It’s unbefitting one of your divine standing.” He leaned over Barnes, pulling the swords from his back before turning to go.
Marissa moved to follow, but a sudden streak of red light flew over her head, and she dropped to the floor reflexively. A laser; Arc had warned her they had one. Its source was a lone Darem standing on the entry ramp of the Zulkar ship, wielding an unusual gun/backpack combination. A long cable extended from the back of the pack and disappeared into the ship. It was probably connected to the ship’s generator, considering how frivolously he fired as he covered Shodus’ retreat. Any merc that came too close was down in an instant, their armour useless against weaponry designed to pierce ship hulls.
Marissa crawled across the floor towards Barnes, lying down beside his still form. A trickle of blood welled up from one of the gashes in his armour, but she suspected there was a whole lot of it she couldn’t see beneath the plates. His head lay on its side, facing in her direction, and she delicately pried his helmet off. Barnes, his face bone-white, flinched weakly, a quiet puff of breath escaping his lips. His eyes fluttered, lids sluggishly lifting.
“That bastard,” he said, mustering a scowl. “I thought he was just some stuck-up lord, but it turns out he’s actually a stuck-up lord who can fight.” He pushed against the floor, trying to lift himself up, but his arms went slack with a hiss of pain. “Shit! I’m done.”
“You’re not done until I say so,” Marissa said, trying to fight back despair. Those wounds were bad, and would only get worse without immediate medical attention.
Another flash of red felled a merc trying to charge the ship a few meters from them. Barnes cringed, then took his helmet from Marissa. He fished a hand inside and pulled the tiny communicator out, holding it close to his mouth.
“This is Lieut—this is Barnes speaking,” he said, punctuating his words with a sharp gasp. “I’m down, and my chances of getting back up are slim. Stick to a defensive position and minimize exposing yourselves to enemy fire, kids. Try to take out the guy with the laser if you can, but not if it puts you at risk. I don’t want to lose another one of you!”
The mercs began to pull back, ducking low to avoid fire, but the Darem seemed just as pleased to shoot fleeing targets as he was attacking ones. Barnes swore weakly as another merc fell, a black hole burned through her back. Marissa adjusted her grip on her spear, judging the distance between her and the shooter. The wall of Zulkar was dissolving, filing into their ship. Shodus walked behind them, swords sheathed and claws folded behind his back like he was taking a stroll. Could she get to him without getting shot? Or should she go for the Darem instead and give the mercs a chance to attack again? Either one was a long shot, and she wasn’t keen on leaving Barnes alone.
“Alis, stay down!” The shout pulled her attention off to the side, the voice unmistakably Arc’s. He and the Rashani had hunkered down to avoid the lasers, but now she saw that the newest addition to the group was struggling in Arc’s grasp. The blonde woman flailed about frantically, until Arc had to let go or risk hurting her. She crawled furiously across the floor, and Mela shouted something after her, but Alis simply shook her head and kept going. Her expression became terrifying as she came closer; a mixture of pain and rage so deep that even Marissa flinched from her gaze.
“He has it!” Alis snarled at the top of her lungs, pointing an accusing finger at the Darem. “Y-you monster! It’s mine!”
Marissa squinted where she was pointing, and it was almost as if her sight was being guided to the Darem’s belt. A bulging pouch hung from his hip, a bit of silver poking out the top. A Lucidil, just like the one Mela had.
Alis opened her palm in a reaching gesture, and a hellish scream exploded from her throat. As if in answer, the Lucidil leapt from the pouch and then exploded into a thicket of spikes. They lanced through the Darem’s right side, punching bloody holes into his body from the waist up, and then the ball retracted into its original shape and shot through the air like a bullet. It hit the floor not too far from Marissa and Barnes, then rolled the rest of the way into Alis’s waiting hands. The Rashani cradled the Lucidil against her chest like an infant, eyes shining, and then she collapsed. Mela and Arc seized hold of her a moment later and hauled her away from the battle.
The last of the Zulkar soldiers entered the ship, leaving only Shodus exposed. He stood over the Darem’s body for a moment, then folded his arms around his waist and bent his knees; a Zulkar prayer, of all things. As he rose, he cast one last look at Marissa before striding up the entry ramp as it closed shut.
“Looks like we got a friend of his,” Barnes said with a wheeze.
“Yeah, well, he hurt one of mine,” Marissa replied, glaring after Shodus. “Where do they think they’re going? The Moonsaber’s blocking the exit.”
The Zulkar ship’s engines sprang to life regardless, humming as they charged. A pair of panels slid away from the domed surface, and two cannon barrels emerged from the openings. Marissa’s breath caught, and Barnes fumbled with his communicator and barked something she couldn’t make out at his team. The shells fired almost as fast as the lasers had, and the shockwave from their impact forced her face against the floor.
When she lifted her head, the Moonsaber was in flames. One of its wings had broken off, and shrapnel was scattered around the hangar. There was a tense moment when she couldn’t find Arc, but then she spotted him and the Rashani nearby. They’d been at a safe distance, but others hadn’t been so lucky; a handful of broken and charred bodies lay in the Moonsaber’s vicinity.
The Zulkar ship lifted off the floor and hurtled towards the Moonsaber. It hit the damaged vessel with a metallic crunch, shunting it aside on its way out. The Moonsaber’s supports gave and it toppled, crashing hard enough to make Marissa’s ears ring. Free of the hangar, the Zulkar ship’s engines hit full speed and the vessel rocketed into the void.
Mela was the first to rise, and she went running to the Moonsaber. She skirted the edge of the flames, making her way to the crumpled cockpit. Her Lucidil stretched into a long blade, which she dug into the cracked starshield to split it open. She crawled in through the opening, and the moment she was gone felt like an eternity. Then she emerged, hauling the unconscious pilot out with her.
The sight of that heroic act roused Marissa, and she returned her attention to Barnes’ side. The lieutenant-commander lay as he’d been, communicator clutched in a death grip. His breathing had become slow and laboured, and his eyes remained unfocused as he looked at her.
“That’s it then,” he said, forcing a smile. “We got your husband back. We got the Rashani back.”
Marissa blinked; her eyes were a little wet. “We didn’t get the Aquila back.”
Barnes nodded. “Two out of three isn’t so bad. Donna and Cassandra will have some idea of what to do next.”
“What about you?” She knew the answer, but she couldn’t accept it.
“Like I said, I’m done,” Barnes said, still smiling. “Don’t give me that look—we both know it. There’s no time to call the Valiance here, and I doubt the Zulkar had much in the way of medical supplies. We got this ship, though, so I’d say it was worth it. I bet there’s information on where they might have gone, if you guys want to go after them.”
“I don’t—I don’t know if I want to,” Marissa confessed.
“No shame in that. You got what you came for.” Barnes sighed. “I never really saw the point in revenge—just makes messes even messier. It was fun, Marissa.”
Marissa wiped her cheek. “Thank you for training with me. You made me feel welcome.”
“I saw something in you,” Barnes said, distantly. “No clue what it was, but you’ve been a good student and friend. All my guys are special, but you’re something else. Maybe Shodus was onto something about you.”
Marissa couldn’t think of anything else to say. She crossed her legs and remained at his side, long after he departed.