Galaxy Under Siege

by Tristan Vick

  “Exactly what it looks like,” Lycia replied dryly. “Your girl’s back in the thick of it.”

  Callestra folded her arms across her chest and stood patiently by, watching the drama unfold in real time. Although she had no dog in this fight, she still was curious as to what it meant. Danica was always fairly calculated. Everything she did had a reason behind it. Most Dagons were logical like that. But this...this wasn’t logical. This was impulsive.

  Jegra opened her mouth as though she were going to speak, but then closed her mouth again, opting to say nothing instead. Upset, she wheeled around, and stormed out of the room without saying another word.

  Once the empress had left the gymnasium, the blue hologram flickered and Lycia appeared beside Callestra.

  “End of discussion, I guess,” said Lycia with a shrug of her shoulders. Her blue flickering visage looked over at Callestra who was standing off to her side looking down at the ground, deep in thought.

  “I appreciate you bringing this to my attention.” After another few seconds of mulling things over, she added, “If you hear of anything interesting on the outskirts of the Outer Rim, don’t hesitate to inform me.”

  “So does that mean you’re giving me your personal number?” Lycia asked, a prurient smile forming on her pursed lips.

  Callestra extended her arm and Lycia did the same. The blue holochip under Callestra’s skin glowed as Lycia’s holographic wrist brushed hers. The information exchanged hands and the two women stood looking at each other with intense gazes as they studied each other.

  “I don’t just give my number out to anybody.”

  “I’ll try not to let it go to my head,” Lycia quipped.

  “I’d appreciate your digression in this matter,” Callestra said. She shifted her posture, placing both hands on her hips in a stern fashion.

  “I got it,” Lycia said, leaning in close and smiling. “Oh, and speaking of favors, maybe next time I’m in your sector of space, maybe you let me take you out for some drinks.”

  “Don’t push your luck. I don’t just sleep with anyone either.”

  Lycia ignored Callestra’s dismissive quip and simply took a step back. Her eyes fixed themselves on the gorgeous Dagon woman and she smiled. A flicker interrupted her blue glowing image and, a nanosecond later, the hologram dissolved into thin air.

  Callestra locked her arms behind her back and stood thinking for a moment, her eyes fixed on the drab gray floor in front of her. The fact was, it appeared as though Dakroth had spliced his DNA with Jegra’s and, indeed, created a designer clone.

  Illegal in the highest degree, but, even so, it wasn’t her place to question the Emperor’s motives. And she was sure that he’d divulge his reasons for creating Lycia all in good time. Until then, however, she was more curious as to what Danica was up to.

  With the entire galaxy edging toward all-out war, why in the seven systems would she re-enter the arena at a time like this? It simply didn’t make any sense.

  As far as Callestra could tell, there was no reason for Danica to rejoin the gladiatorial fights at all. Jegra had given her a royal pardon, something which even the Lord Emperor couldn’t dissolve let alone IGS. As such, according to galactic law, Danica was a free woman. Why risk her life in a series of death matches for no good reason?

  No matter how Callestra looked at it, Danica’s motives remained a complete mystery to her. And this vexed her. After all, Danica wasn’t a simple-minded savage. She was from a noble and prestigious line of pure Dagon pedigree.

  She turned back to the center of the room and said, “Computer, resume live televid broadcast of Arkadia arena.”

  A scene of two unfamiliar gladiators came onto the holovid display. One held a spear and the other a morning star. They parried and attacked with such clumsiness that it was a wonder they didn’t impale themselves.

  Unimpressed and not knowing who these warriors were, Callestra frowned and grunted in disapproval. “No. Find Danica Valencia’s feed.”

  The hologrid display wavered briefly as everything transformed to a different broadcast channel and Callestra watched Danica materialize into high def glory. She panted and groaned as she got reamed from behind by a strong, powerful Dagon woman with a full sleeve of tattoos on either arm, jewel studded eye-patch, pierced eyebrows, pierced nipples, and an impressive piece of male anatomy with a Jacob’s ladder, replete with a dozen D-rings all up and down the frenum.

  Some Dagon women were better endowed than others when it came to their male organs. Vestigial organs which, obviously, worked well enough to cause Danica enough pleasure to make her scream out loud with each penetrating thrust of Ladgara’s hips.

  Between Danica’s metal arm and the woman’s numerous body modifications, Callestra couldn’t help but feel disgusted by the lewd conduct on display here. The lack of purity was unwholesome and, quite frankly, a huge turn off. But, for whatever reason, she couldn’t take her eyes off of them.

  “Computer, identify the tattooed woman.”

  [*Female Dagon is identified as Ladgara Vassex, first officer aboard the Avarice and second in command to the outlaw pirate Novac Tamoran.*]

  “Threat assessment.”

  [*Considered highly dangerous and is wanted for murder in five systems. Currently being held by IGS on a code-blue warrant. Code-red warrant suspended in exchange for a thirty-year contract to fight in the gladiatorial games.*]

  “Code red?” Callestra asked, raising a surprised eyebrow. That was more than a simple bag and tag warrant. It was a kill order. And only the extremely wealthy and powerful could issue such warrants. “Who issued the code red on her?”

  There was a brief pause before the computer answered. [*Vice Admiral Cassera Van Danica Amelorak,*] the computer replied in a prosodic, almost soothing tone.

  “The plot thickens,” Callestra said in a hushed voice. The woman currently taking it from behind like a ten-dollar hooker was the very same person who’d issued the death warrant on the woman vigorously pounding her with every inch of her Dagon male anatomy as though her life absolutely depended on it.

  It escaped Callestra’s comprehension, how two women willing to kill one another on principle were currently engaged in such carnal delights. Regardless, she was bound and determined to get to the bottom of it.

  She looked down at the glowing numbers that hovered just near the floor which gave the active Needle stream viewing numbers. She nearly balked. Eight million active viewers were watching Danica get off with some pirate chick in real time.

  “Computer,” Callestra called out again, making her way to the exit, “transfer all files you have on Ladgara Vassex and Cassera Van Danica Amelorak, aka Danica Valencia, to my personal data console. Highlight any and all files that show a connection between the two of them and mark it as priority reading.”

  The computer chimed with affirmative tones from over her shoulder just as she stepped out into the corridor. The holovid gymnasium doors slid shut behind her, and she turned up the corridor, a smug smile curling on her lips.

  Whatever Danica was plotting, she was going to get to the bottom of it. You didn’t just get engaged to the empress of the whole bleedin’ galaxy and then enter yourself into the gladiatorial fights simply to hook up with an old flame. No. Something else was going on here and she was bound and determined to explore every avenue until she discovered exactly what it was.

  35

  Six heavy Nyctan battlecruisers hung in geosynchronous orbit around Dagon Prime. Three more held a fixed position just beyond Thessalonica and tracked any and all ships entering or exiting the hyperspace lanes. If any ship came through without the proper access codes, they’d be immediately shot down.

  Azra’il Nun was done with polite warnings and mundane boarding searches. Jegra had somehow managed to kill both Nodengoth and Giddion. Which meant, if she was careless, she’d be next on the chopping block.

  Of course, she couldn’t have that. She planned to live a long and healthy life. So, in addition
to the Nyctan ships, she had thirty Nephilim destroyers cloaked and waiting for whatever bold move Jegra had in mind.

  The empress's propensity to come in guns blazing and fists swinging meant Azra’il had to beef up Dagon security. And her spies had informed her that Jegra and the emperor would be returning to Dagon Prime in order to reclaim their beloved planet within the next forty-eight hours.

  Perhaps more exciting than lying in wait was that, with her siblings dead, she was able to syphon more raw power from H’aaztre, making her three times as powerful. All she had to do was think a solitary thought and someone would carry out her orders.

  But right now, everyone was preparing for the looming battle, and she was doing her best to try and clear her head as she stared out at the vast expanse of stars. But even this lingering bit of solitude was beginning to grow tedious.

  Luckily, an alarm sounded, sparing her from any further stretches of boredom. She looked up as a giant vessel flashed into view outside her view portal. It was the Chiron.

  She ignored the comm hails as the bridge tried to contact her, and she watched, waiting, hoping the Shard would soon follow. After a minute, it was clear that the Chiron had come alone. Probably to negotiate their terms of surrender.

  Still ignoring her incoming calls, she marched all the way to the bridge. Her black leather corset and tight leather pants squeaked softly as she strode up the hall. Her black, flowing cape wafted behind her elegantly as she strode onto the bridge and settled into pleated folds when she came to a standstill. All the white faces and black eyes fixated on her as she fanned her cape to the side and took her seat at the large command chair on the upper central region of the three-tiered bridge.

  “Report,” she said, stretching a slender leg out and then crossing it over her right knee.

  “It’s Admiral Grendok, mistress,” an officer with a headset informed her. “He’s requesting a parley.”

  “A parley?” She laughed at the mere thought of allowing any further negotiations.

  No. She’d given Jegra and her rebel forces more than enough chances to throw down their arms and surrender to the almighty H’aaztre. But they continued to defy her will, H’aaztre’s will, at every turn. For their insolence, it was clear to her now that she couldn’t accept anything less than their total and utter surrender.

  “Request denied,” she barked without giving it a second thought. “Arm missile tubes and prepare to fire.”

  Before the vessel Qui’tek’alon could arm itself, the Chiron began spewing out little metallic balls. Thousands of the small probes all rushed off in every direction, where they formed a hexagonal grid pattern all around Thessalonica.

  The automated drones established a perimeter around the entire moon which looked like a gridwork of metallic orbs, or something along the lines of a miniature Dyson’s sphere. Once they’d locked into place, essentially creating an orbital defense grid, the Chiron maneuvered itself between the enemy fleet and Dagon Prime, where it began releasing more of the probes.

  “Fire a single warning shot across the bow of that ship,” Azra’il Nun ordered. A red plasma blast streaked across the divide and struck the Chiron.

  “Direct hit, mistress.”

  Although the Galliforn warship took the brunt of the blast with its shields down, it ignored the attack and continued releasing a flood of metallic balls which began to spread out in the same hexagonal pattern as those that surrounded Thessalonica.

  “All ships converge firepower on that battleship,” she snarled, rising to her feet and making a fist.

  The darkness of space lit up with flashes of disruptor canon fire. All nine ships converged all their firepower on the Chiron, which finally responded to their volley by raising its shields.

  “As the Voice of H’aaztre, I must warn you that my ships are prepared to continue firing on your vessel unless you meet my demands and do exactly as I command. Power down your shields and surrender yourself to The Children of H’aaztre and the Nyctan-Nephilim Fusion. If you do as I say, you will be spared wasting away in the giant sundew pits of Nyctan’s moon, Endiva”

  “Ho there! Who, may I ask, do I have the great pleasure of speaking with this fine morning?” a hoary goat with wonky sky-blue eyes called back. His slatted pupils stared off in different directions, making it difficult for Azra’il Nun to tell if he was looking at her or at something else.

  “I just said,” Azra’il said in a vexed tone, “you are addressing the Voice of H’aaztre and the Nyctan-Nephilim Fusion.”

  “What’s been fused?” he asked in an agitated manner. Bleating in typical goat fashion, he shook his head in protest. “No, no, no. I told them to keep the plasma conduits shut. Shut!”

  Azra’il looked around the room only to receive numerous shrugs and people staring back at her with the same look of confusion that she wore on her own face.

  She turned back to the satyr and asked, “Who are you again?”

  “I’m Phipps. Grog Phipps. Pronounce P-i-p-s, not Fips. Fips is my cousin. Cousin!” Again, he shouted the last word for no apparent reason then bowed reverently. Once the formalities were out of the way, he went over to a console and began typing something out on the keyboard.

  “Mr. Phipps, is it?” Azra’il said, a polite smile struggling to maintain itself on her taught lips. “Would you be so kind as to enlighten us as to what your purpose is?”

  “Oh-ho! I’m so glad you asked. My duty is to lay these mines,” he answered, a big yellow-toothed grin forming on his maw.

  “Mines?” Azra’il gasped.

  “Mines!” he shouted as though he had a strange form of Tourette’s syndrome.

  “What mines?” she asked him, ignoring his outburst.

  “Of the magnetic variety, Your Worshipfulness,” he said, shooting her a wink.

  “Would you mind not doing that?” she asked.

  “Oh, ho!” he laughed. “But it’s my duty! I must oblige lest I make the captain upset with me. And you know how that old goat gets.” He laughed again.

  Azra’il huffed in annoyance.

  She wheeled around, her cape sprawling out behind her, and turned to the officer with the headset. “Order the closest ship to move in on the Chiron and fire all missile batteries. I want that ninny and his ship blown out of the sky. Right. This. Bloody. Instant!”

  The tactical officer followed her orders, and the bridge crew all turned to watch as the Nyctan armada changed course, converging on the Chiron. As they came within weapon’s range, the magnetic mines began tracking the ships, moving closer to them the closer they got to the Chiron.

  By the time Azra’il Nun’s ships were within firing range, approximately three hundred metallic balls had attached themselves to each ship’s hull.

  The missile launch bays of the closest destroyer opened and then, launching its missiles as ordered, it went up in an instantaneous explosion.

  “What just happened?” Azra’il demanded to know.

  “The mines detonated and took the ship with it, mistress. What are your orders?”

  “Cancel my order to fire on that ship and call in a squid. They aren’t made of metal; they won’t attract any of those mines.”

  A female Nyctan officer confirmed the order and, with a nod, hit a call button. A low whine, almost like whale song, filled the bridge. It changed tones a few times, as if making music, and almost immediately there was a flash off the port bow.

  “As prompt as ever,” Azra’il said with a smirk. “Now order it to carve us a patch through those silver orbs.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” the female Nyctan officer replied. She looked down at the keyboard, her black eyes blinking rapidly as she typed in the orders and sent them in song to the squid entity.

  They watched the CSE swim through space and into the minefield. But the mines just moved around it like water across grease. Nothing stuck. They just slipped around the entity only to settle back into their original position once the beast had passed on through.

  “It’s n
o use, mistress. Those are smart-mines. They can’t be jostled out of the way.”

  “I can see that,” she growled, growing even more vexed than before. “Fire a Helios python missile at one of the mines and see what it does.”

  The missile launched from the front firing tube and Azra’il peered out the viewscreen as its thrusters flared white-hot and tore away from the Qui’tek’alon.

  A single mine matched the missile’s velocity, trailing it as if caught in its wake. But then it promptly accelerated, latched on, and detonated itself before the missile could even cut half the distance between itself and its intended target.

  Azra’il rolled her eyes and turned back to the ship’s viewscreen. “Excuse me, Mr. Phipps. Are you still there?”

  “I’m here, ye bonnie lass. How may I help you?”

  Her black eyes lit up with a halo of gold and H’aaztre’s energy surged through her. With her power of persuasion turned to full, she grinned menacingly. “Mr. Phipps, please be my hero and give me the deactivation codes for these mines of yours.”

  “Aye, miss,” he replied. “But first, who may I ask is wanting the codes?”

  “I want the codes,” she replied.

  “And who might you be again?” Mr. Phipps pulled out some spectacles and placed them on his wonky eyes, which didn’t seem to help in the slightest.

  “I’ve already told you,” she said in a controlled fashion, speaking through her teeth. “I’m Azra’il Nun.”

  “I thought you said you were the Voice of Pasture, or some such?”

  “H’aaztre,” she corrected.

  “So,” he said, growing annoyed with her, “of the four of you, which might you be? Azra’il, H’aaztre, the Voice, or the Nun?”

  She looked at more blank faces and then back to the monitor. “I’m...what I mean to say is...all of us are the same person.”

  “You’re telling me that your full name is Azra’il Pasture Voice, the Nun?”

  “Yes,” she growled through clenched teeth. It was better to agree with his butchering of her name than to try and argue with an obvious dolt.