by Peter Nealen
And while the details were still fuzzy and indistinct from so far out, it all appeared to be geared toward building war materiel.
“The sheer numbers…” Horvaset whispered.
“There must be something different about this cloning technology,” Rehenek observed. “Some sort of acceleration. There is no other way they could reach these numbers so quickly. My father described a system with a few hundred million people, and that was only twenty-seven years ago. To reach these numbers in such a short time…”
There was a chirp from the console, and Horvaset listened for a moment, then tapped a key. A voice blasted from the speakers. It was strident, bombastic, and unintelligible. After a moment, Scalas recognized the same language he had heard reverberating across the battlefield, directing the Unity’s clone soldiers.
“That’s Palawese,” Rehenek said. “One of the primary dialects in Sparat. I know a little of it…” He trailed off as he listened, but Horvaset was already ahead of him, and translated.
“…never flag, never fail. The future lies upon all our shoulders. Only through complete dedication to the cause of our Visionary Leader can the future of unity, prosperity, and progress be made real. Only through his vision can we truly reach the next step in evolution. Work well. Work hard. You are building the future for all the galaxy.”
The voice changed. Rehenek’s head snapped up, and he had to catch himself on the back of Horvaset’s acceleration couch to keep from spinning backward. Scalas recognized the voice as well. That was Geretesk Vakolo.
Again Horvaset translated.
“The first step of the plan has been wildly successful. Valdek has been brought into the embrace of the Galactic Unity, and soon will be a shining example of what a partner in our great cause can accomplish. The first major system away from Sparat has joined us. The march has begun! Soon, perhaps even within a human lifetime, the entire galaxy will be one Unity! One government, one leader, one purpose!”
“Turn it off,” Rehenek said. “I’ve heard enough.”
An alarm sounded, and Horvaset looked up at the wider display in the holo-tank. “We’ve been detected,” she announced. “Drive flares at forty-three light-minutes out, coming our direction.”
Considering how far they were from Sparat’s star, that was worrying. The Unity must have had pickets everywhere across the system. “Get us away from here, Captain,” Rehenek said, pushing off for an empty acceleration couch. “I’ve seen enough.”
Epilogue
The Herald of Justice wasn’t a dreadnaught, but the Pride of Valdek was currently in orbit over Kaletonan IV, so the Angelos-class starship was still the biggest vessel in sight as she descended on the Avar Sector Keep’s landing pads atop a tower of golden-white fire. Her drives rumbled through the ground even before she’d touched down.
The Herald settled, and Scalas turned away from the window overlooking the spaceport. He was standing in what had been Kranjick’s inner sanctum. The printout of the missive from the Herald was on the desk before him. He looked around at the room, which still held his mentor’s spare personal effects, let out a faint sigh, squared his shoulders, and turned toward the door.
Costigan and Cobb were waiting for him in the hallway. Costigan clapped him on the shoulder, and he returned the bruising blow just to tell his friend that he was all right. Cobb met his eyes levelly, then shook his head a little.
“They should have stood by the Brother Legate’s decision,” Cobb said. He smiled tightly. “And I’m not saying that because it means I won’t be a centurion yet. The Brother Legate knew what he was about.”
“You should be a centurion, Cobb,” Scalas said quietly as he started for the stairs at the end of the hall. All three men were in their white tunics, sidearms at their hips. Scalas had not yet put on the red tunic of the legate; he’d had too much work to do, and somehow it hadn’t felt right. Now that word had arrived from Caerfon, it was probably just as well that he hadn’t.
But his senior squad sergeant shook his head again with a chuckle. “Is that still bothering you?” He stopped and faced his centurion. “I’m a good sergeant, Erekan. I know it. But I’m not ambitious. We work well together. The Brotherhood isn’t like some planetary military where advancement means political power later on. I couldn’t care less. Besides, which one of us was always taking the lead during our novitiate? It wasn’t me.”
Costigan smiled faintly. “He’s got you there, Erekan.”
Cobb turned toward the stairs. “Come on,” he said, the conversation apparently settled in his mind. “We best not keep the Brother Legate waiting.”
Scalas felt a pang at the words, though not because he thought he should be wearing the red. No, it was because for the last ten years, that title had belonged to one man. Now Kranjick was gone, and they were on their way to meet an unknown quantity.
Side by side, the three men headed for the steps.
By the time the sleds reached the main gates and the courtyard, the ragged remnant of the Avar Sector Legio was drawn up in formation, all in whites and blacks, the centurions and squad sergeants wearing sidearms, the regular Brothers holding their well-worn powerguns at port arms. The Blade of the Protector had arrived while the other five centuries had been on Valdek, so the legio didn’t look quite as understrength as it might have otherwise, but the gaps in the ranks were still noticeable.
The lead sled came to a stop, and a short man with short, iron-gray hair got out. He was nearly as wide as he was tall, his red tunic stretched tightly across his barrel chest, the sleeves looking like they might burst around his massive arms. Brother Legate Dravus Maruks hailed from the high-gravity world of Draeyeen, and he looked it.
Maruks marched crisply up to the steps, his sidearm held stiffly in front of him to return the salutes offered by the ranks as he passed between them. He halted before the five centurions with a stamp of his heels. It looked like the impact should have shaken the ground.
Scalas took a single step forward, stiffened to attention, and saluted. “The Avar Sector Legio is assembled, Brother Legate,” he announced. “I hereby relinquish command.”
Maruks returned the salute gravely. “Thank you, Acting Legate.” His voice was deep and gravelly, though he spoke a clipped, fast-paced Latin. “I accept command.” His eyes swept the assembled centurions, and then with a single nod, he turned on his heel and faced the rest of the legio.
“Brothers!” he bellowed, his voice echoing from the walls of the courtyard. “I have come at a difficult time. A time of crisis. I mourn Brother Legate Kranjick with all of you. He was my friend, and more than that, he was my Brother. A more formidable warrior, and a better friend and mentor, could not be found in all the galaxy. I mean that.” Though the speech must have been rehearsed, Maruks’s voice caught slightly as he spoke. He cleared his throat and continued. “There may well be dire days ahead of us, Brothers. There will not be time for us to get used to one another before we must once more plunge unto the breach. But we are Caractacan Brothers, and we will do our duty. To God, to the Brotherhood, and to our fellow man.” He lifted a meaty hand to salute the assembled Brothers. “We have much to do, and I am not much of a man for speeches. Legio! Dismissed!”
He turned back around, the movement as precise as if he were still on parade. “Centurions, I would speak with each of you.” He turned his eyes on Scalas. “You first, Centurion Scalas. We have a great deal to discuss.”
Maruks strode into the legate’s chambers without preamble, though Scalas paused at the threshold, unsure if his new commander would insist on protocol. Kranjick never had, but he didn’t know Maruks.
Maruks turned and looked over his shoulder at him. “You need not ask permission to come in here, Centurion. My door is open to all of my centurions. Day or night. Understood?” He waved toward the window. “Come, join me. We need to talk.” He turned back toward the window.
Scalas followed, and stepped forward to stand next to him. He stood well over a head taller than the B
rother Legate, but Maruks’s sheer presence seemed to nullify the difference in height.
Maruks turned from the window and studied him. The Brother Legate’s eyes were a pale green, set in a mass of crow’s-feet in a face as tanned by unknown suns as Scalas’s was. “If I’d had my way, Scalas,” he said, “you’d be standing here wearing the red. Not because I know you, but because I knew Kranjick. If he named you his successor, that’s good enough for me.
“But there are enough of the New School on the Conclave that letting a legio become the inheritance of Michael Kranjick was out of the question.” He looked like he felt like spitting on the floor. “Fortunately, the Brotherhood is not so far gone that one of those fops was picked to replace such an irreplaceable man. So they sent me. Tell me: do you resent this?”
It was a blunter question than Scalas had been expecting, and it staggered him a little. “No, sir,” he said. When Maruks raised a graying eyebrow, he corrected himself. “Well, perhaps a little, sir. Against my better judgment. I shall speak to Father Corinus about it.”
A faint smile quirked one corner of Maruks’s mouth. “I hardly think it’s that bad, Centurion. You’ve every right to resent it. If only for the sake of Brother Legate Kranjick’s memory. But the Conclave has spoken, and we have our duty. The Code is clear.”
“It is, Brother Legate,” Scalas agreed. He paused, and when Maruks seemed to be waiting for him to say something more, he ventured, “Sir, why would the New School want to… separate this legio from Brother Legate Kranjick’s influence, even after he’s dead?”
Maruks’s eyes went cold, though they weren’t aimed at Scalas. “Because of what he represents in the Brotherhood, Centurion,” he said quietly. “I know you served under him for ten years, but knowing him… somehow I doubt you ever knew everything about him.”
“I never knew he had been on Pontakus IX,” Scalas offered.
Maruks nodded. “One of the few to survive. And also one of the oldest still-serving men in the Brotherhood. No one really knew how old he was; he never seemed to get older after a certain point. And even after that horror show, he held as strongly to the Code as anyone in the Brotherhood.”
Scalas thought he understood. “And his faithfulness to the Code, as a veteran of Pontakus IX, undermines the arguments of the ‘pragmatists’. If a man who survived that, and who knows how many battles since, still held to the Code, what does that make them?”
Maruks snorted. “‘Pragmatists’ is an overly complimentary name for them. But yes, you’re right. That’s precisely why they want him blotted out. Forgotten.” He smiled tightly, a feral expression that didn’t reach his eyes. “I fear they will be thwarted if that is their intention.”
“How did they even come to such power in the Brotherhood in the first place?” Scalas asked.
The Brother Legate sighed. “The Brotherhood, as noble as it is, is still a human institution, Centurion. After almost eight hundred years, some rot is bound to set in. Younger generations might not face the same challenges that the older ones did. What recent battles have we fought that compared to Pontakus IX, until Valdek?” He paused. “It is our fault, really. Those of us with the age and experience haven’t sufficiently taught the Code and its purpose. We became complacent. And with the threat before us, I fear it will only get harder.”
Scalas nodded. He had no doubt of that. “What has the Conclave decided regarding this so-called ‘Galactic Unity,’ sir?”
“Even the most contrary of the New School could not argue with the recordings you sent,” Maruks said. “Is General-Regent Rehenek still on Kaletonan IV?”
“He is back aboard the Pride of Valdek, in orbit. I believe he’s preparing to travel to Eta Sashenaei, to appeal to their duma for help.”
Maruks turned and looked out the windows. “We’ll send a contingent with him. Not you; not yet. I need you here, to help me get the legio ready to go back to war. I brought replacements aboard the Herald. We’ll have to integrate them into the wounded centuries.” He looked up at the deep blue sky above the limb of Kaletonan. “I fear that the first truly galactic war in history may be at hand, Centurion,” he said gravely. “And somehow I doubt that any of us will live to see the end of it.”
Scalas stood next to his new commander and said nothing. There was nothing to say. The Brother was right.
Everything had changed on Valdek. And no one, not even the Brotherhood, was ready for the onslaught to come.
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ALSO IN SERIES
1. THE FALL OF VALDEK
2. THE DEFENSE OF PROVENIA
3. THE ALLIANCE RISES
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About Peter Nealen
Peter Nealen is a former Recon Marine, a veteran of Iraq and Afghanistan, and something of an aspiring renaissance man. He has long been a reader of history, philosophy, folklore, science fiction, and fantasy, and is the author of fifteen published novels and several short stories in the action adventure and supernatural thriller genres.
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