Galaxy Under Siege

by Tristan Vick

  Jegra smiled, waved to the televid drones that buzzed about, filming her speech in virtual high def, and took in a deep breath. She smiled to the camera, blew a kiss, and then turned and sauntered toward Dakroth, who kindly extended his arm for her to take.

  She took it, linking with him at the elbow, and arm-in-arm they headed back into the palace, waving to the crowd and shaking the hands of the noble men and women lining the garden path back to the palace.

  Once they’d arrived at the tall glass doors of the main entrance, they turned and waved one last time and then disappeared inside as the applause continued to roar unabated behind them.

  The tall doors came to a shut, reducing the sound to white noise, and Dakroth and Jegra unlatched their arms. Callestra pranced up to Dakroth and chirped, “You were magnificent, my luv.” She leapt up into his arms and kissed him with a sultry and unnecessarily deep, penetrating kiss. The entire time she kissed him she kept her eyes fixed on Jegra who, in turn, rolled hers out of exasperation of the ridiculously competitive display.

  Callestra ran her fingers through Dakroth’s flowing white hair, and whispered into his ear, “Seeing you out there in your element got me so wet.”

  Dakroth laughed and then put his arm around her waist and looked over at Jegra. “Care to join us?” he offered.

  “Maybe another time, my luv,” she said in a sarcastic tone. But her mockery went unnoticed. One of the downsides to Dagon culture was that they were so literal. The two merely shrugged and sauntered off to enjoy a good afternoon fuck.

  If she was being honest, though, she had to admit that she was secretly happy for them. Besides, Dakroth had quit being such a pain in her backside ever since Callestra had arrived on the scene. She kept his idle hands busy, and genuinely seemed to be into him. Much more than Jegra ever had been.

  In the meantime, she finally felt as though this entire wild carrousel ride that was her life was finally slowing down and, for the first time since she’d left the arena, felt as though she finally had a handle on things.

  JEGRA HAD RETURNED to her personal chambers and was taking out her earrings when she heard a familiar sound. The yellow flash in her mirror alerted her to the fact that an unlawful teleport had just transpired.

  Cautiously, she reached under her vanity and drew out the blade that was hidden there, strapped to its underside, for just such an occasion. Spinning around, dagger in hand, she saw the face of a petite Nyctan girl she didn’t recognize. She looked the worse for wear, as though she’d been tortured to within an inch of her life.

  She had numerous scrapes and bruises as well as a pretty severe burn mark on her left shoulder from where a plasma blast had scorched her delicate flesh.

  “You have to help,” the girl said, her voice trembling. “She’s completely mad with power and is going to kill us. Kill us all.”

  “Who is?” Jegra asked, lowering her blade.

  “The Voice of H’aaztre,” the girl answered.

  “Impossible,” Jegra replied. “I killed her.”

  “No!” the girl practically screamed. She coughed; her voice was raw and her lips were chapped and bleeding. “You’re not listening to me. She’s back. She...”

  A coughing spate interrupted her words and the frail girl sank to her knees. Jegra stowed the knife in her waistband and rushed over to help the girl up. She walked her over to the reading nook, set her down on the leather sofa, and poured her a cold glass of lemon water.

  After handing her the glass, Jegra asked, “Who?”

  Just then, a security team burst into the room. Jegra raised her hand and halted them, letting them know she had things well under control.

  After a short pause, the Nyctan girl gazed up at the empress with her black eyes and, in a weak voice, replied, “It’s true. The Voice of H’aaztre was never silenced. It merely found a new host.”

  The girl tried to whisper the name, but she choked on her own words. She looked over at the security team reticently, and Jegra motioned for them to lower their weapons.

  It was clear to Jegra that the new Voice had ordered this frail girl not to divulge their true identity. And yet she’d come all this way to warn her. The question was, why?

  Regardless, Jegra knew that it was simply a matter of time before this new, terrible identity would be revealed to them.

  Jegra snapped her fingers and said, “Get a medical team in here, now. The rest of you, leave us.”

  Two guards rushed off to fetch the medic while four others took up positions at the door and out in the hall.

  The empress waited for her doors to close before turning back to the girl. “What’s your name?” she asked.

  “Aidora,” the girl replied.

  “It’s nice to meet you Aidora.” Jegra smiled and Aidora took another sip of the water as she sat trembling.

  “There’s no need to be afraid,” Jegra said. “You’re safe here.”

  Aidora adamantly shook her head in the negative. “No,” she said, her face as hard and unmoving as stone. “You’ve provoked him. Angered him. Now, none of us are safe.”

  42

  All the televid screens on Dagon Prime and throughout the Commonwealth flickered with a wave of interference, cut out briefly, then resumed again. Instead of the continued celebration, however, there was something terrible, something stomach-churningly gruesome plastered upon the screens.

  A man, completely eviscerated, bound and strung up by his feet with sturdy rope, writhed as a pair of bloody hands carved away his flesh, skinning him and removing entire slabs of tissue like thick bacon.

  Worse than the brutality and the gruesomeness of it, though, was the anguish heard in the man’s screams. For this poor soul wasn’t yet fully dead, and he cried out in abhorrent, gut-wrenching agony.

  It was an agony so hideously penetrating that it sent chills down the most hardened warriors’ spines and put the very hairs of one’s arms on end with his every miserable shriek and grievous wail.

  The audience, stunned by what they beheld, shuddered with terror-stricken revulsion at those ghastly screams. The sounds rising up from his throat and lungs were almost other-worldly—sounds that no man should ever make.

  Onlookers shared distressed looks with one another and wondered among themselves, who this poor wretched soul was, being skinned alive before their very eyes. What had he done to deserve such a lamentable fate?

  “No, please, I beg of you!” the victim’s wet, sticky voice called out. “Have mercy!”

  “Mercy?” a woman’s voice asked. “Like your empress showed mercy to my emissaries?”

  “I beg of you...I cannot take this torture any longer. Please, let me die.”

  The bloody hands continued sawing at the man’s flesh and he bellowed out in torment. His body jerked and twitched as he tried to escape the lacerating kiss of her blade, but it was in vain, for the ropes were far too tight to escape.

  The audiences gasped and drew back in horror as the camera panned down to show his ghastly face—or rather the lack of one. Two bulbous eyeballs sat atop the white bone and sinewy muscle tissue of a smiling skull, the horrifying grin of Death.

  It was to this dark realm of the unliving that its desperate gaze shifted, and the bloody face looked right at the camera, drawing shrill screams and startled gasps from the distraught onlookers.

  One minute they had all been watching the empress give a rousing speech, followed by the talking heads of popular news personas discussing the nuances of every word and every gesture made. Then, in the middle of their review of the highlights of Jegra’s speech, their commentary was interrupted by this revolting live-feed of a psychopath’s snuff film.

  Who, they wondered, was bold enough to cut into the feed of the Imperial house of Rhadamanthus with this torture porn? Who dared interrupt the Dagon people’s celebration?

  The camera gradually pulled back to reveal the one and only Onelle Te’Legra Agnar grinning viciously, blood splattered upon her face. Although, it did not seem to
bother her.

  She wore a black leather jacket with spikes that ran from the pointy shoulders all the way down the sleeves and encircled the cuffs.

  She didn’t bother fastening the metal clasps of her jacket, though, and it hung open, revealing her gore dappled green chest and abdomen.

  Instead of pants, she had on what seemed to be a leather bikini, which met fishnet stockings that trailed down to thigh-high leather stiletto-boots. The heels of the stilettos were just more spikes and matched her dominatrix styled jacket.

  She brandished a bloody carving knife and played with it in an almost careless fashion as chunks of raw meat and burgundy muck dribbled down to her naval.

  Onelle tried wiping away the gore with her hand, but there was too much of it, and wiping it only smeared it around and made it that much worse, coating her like a sticky balm and leaving a glistening streak of claret upon her viridian flesh.

  She sighed out lackadaisically, as though she was getting bored with this game, and then bent down next to her victim's mutilated face. “Tell them, Senator Targon Van Morgan. Tell them what they’re dying so desperately to know.”

  The onlookers gasped out when they heard the name of her wretched victim. Senator Targon...he was one of their own.

  He merely whimpered, and she thrust her hand into the meaty sinews of his thigh muscles, causing him to wail out in ear-splitting agony. This only seemed to cause the smile on her face to tighten with a twisted sort of pleasure.

  “I said tell them,” she growled, digging her fingers in deeper and moving her hand around inside his tissue without remorse.

  “The Voice,” he answered in a feeble, pathetic manner, sticky strings of blood oozing from his mouth as he spoke. With no lips to catch his blood-saturated drool, all he could do was make a mess of himself and look the part of the, wretched, broken creature. “H’aaztre’s Voice cannot be silenced.”

  “Good boy,” she said in a voice that dripped with unadulterated disdain. Then, to everyone’s astonishment, she drew her blade up and sliced open his lower gut.

  As the thin, red line split open like a gaping mouth, she thrust her bloody hand inside the gash and, ignoring his ear-piercing screams, tore out his bowels.

  The senator’s insides spilled from his torso and slithered down his upside-down body like mucus covered bloodworms. The ends of his entrails coiling on the floor like a brood of snakes, he gurgled an inaudible last sound and then went silent as his body fell limp.

  His lidless eyes and skeletal smile grinned back at the viewers with a perpetually manic look that forced people of weak constitutions to look away. The only redeeming quality of Targon’s grisly death was that with his slaying, his miserable screams had finally ceased.

  The televid feed refocused on Onelle, who daintily sucked the glistening red goo off her fingertips and then turned to the camera with a blood stained grin.

  “My dear servants, I’m so sorry to have interrupted your joyous celebration. But, you see, I just wanted to let you all know that I haven’t forgotten about you. In fact, truth be told, I’m just getting started.”

  She slurped on her thumb, lapping up the senator’s blood thirstily. Then, she let out an overly dramatic sigh, took a deep breath, and turned toward the camera with drooping lids and the detached gaze of an insomniac.

  “It seems there are those among you who insist on defying me at every turn. Well, I’m putting an end to that. Side with them if you will, but know this. Everyone who joins Jegra Alakandra’s cause or helps her ragtag band of rebels in any way will meet the same fate as our friend Senator Targon here.”

  She slapped the slab of dead meat hanging beside her and laughed. Then she turned back to the camera, her eyes pitch black except for the halos of gold encircling her obsidian tinted irises.

  “I am the new The Voice of H’aaztre. And I am placing a one trillion credit bounty on my lovely, dear sister, Raphine Agnar. Oh, and listen up boys and girls...I want her alive. The condition you bring her to me in, however, is up to you. Thanks for listening. You may all go back to your celebration now.”

  Onelle waved her fingers as if giving a slow-motion single-handed clap and bid her viewers goodbye with a breezy: “Ta ta for now,” just before the televid feed cut out.

  When the regular news broadcast resumed, the crowd, who had been cheering on the empress’s great victory, were now deathly silent. So much so that somewhere in the distance, a Quilox cricket could be heard chirping.

  The newscasters touched their earpieces, taking in the frantic chatter of their producers and then, composing themselves, made their announcements.

  “This just in. Emperor Dakroth will be giving a formal response within the hour. Stay tuned for any further breaking news. It appears that the war with The Fusion is here, folks. Again, I’m being told that we’ll be bringing you a live televid broadcast of the Lord Emperor’s official response to this startling revelation. Please, stay tuned and we’ll keep you apprised of every detail as our team of reporters get information to us.”

  Cameras flashed and televid drones swarmed the Imperial palace lawn as the glass doors parted and Jegra, along with Dakroth, marched back out to the podium situated at the foot of the stairs. They’d come this way merely a little less than a half hour ago, and here they were, returning to give more speeches. This time, however, the news was grim.

  An entire contingent of Imperial Guards lined the palace stairs as Dakroth and Jegra descended the red carpeted steps one foot at a time. Behind them trailed Raphine, along with the empress’s private security.

  Jegra felt worried for Raph. She now had a target painted on her back in the form of a trillion credits. Even if it was H’aaztre pulling Onelle’s strings, it still had to sting, and Jegra couldn’t imagine the heartache Raphine was feeling right about now, realizing that her own sister had given herself over to H’aaztre and was now calling for her head; it was almost too much to fathom.

  Jegra tried her best to give Raphine a comforting look, but with what they just learned, things seemed the direst they’d been since Jegra had slipped into that coma.

  When the Lord Emperor stepped up to the podium, Jegra clasped her hands in front of her and stepped to the side, dutifully supporting her husband. Those in attendance watched with great suspense as they waited for the emperor’s speech.

  Lord Emperor Dakroth put a fist to his mouth, cleared his throat, and then, leaning into the microphone, opened his mouth to address the startling revelation that had just shaken the entire galaxy.

  “People of Dagon Prime, I don’t know about you, but I’m fed up with being pushed around. Enough is enough. That is why, instead of giving in to The Voice’s threats and demands, I ask you to heed my words. I will match the traitor Onelle Te’Legra Agnar’s one trillion credit bounty with one of my own—bring me her smug, grinning head on a pike, and I won’t only pay the trillion credits in full, but I’ll give you a complete royal pardon for any previous transgressions that might be dogging your good names.”

  Staring long and hard at the camera, as if he were peering out at her, he added, “You picked the wrong empire to invade. You picked the wrong emperor to challenge. And you picked the wrong people to piss off!”

  Cheers erupted all across Dagon Prime and all the worlds of the Dagon Empire. Their emperor was championing them. For the first time in their collective memories, the Lord Emperor himself was standing in their corner—rallying them to a unified cause.

  Emperor Dakroth brushed down his royal dress uniform and paused, letting the cheers die down naturally before resuming his speech.

  “I’ve listened to your words, Voice of H’aaztre, now hear mine. You don’t intimidate me. I don’t care if you think yourself a god. I don’t even care if you’re just a puppet on a string, doing your master’s bidding. You wanted my attention? Well, now you have it. And I am coming for you. First you, then your army, and then H’aaztre himself. And so is the whole bleeding galaxy! Do you hear me?” Dakroth pointed at the ca
mera and wagged his finger angrily. “You wanted a war? Well, now you have one!”

  Dakroth spun dramatically on his heels and stormed back to toward the palace. Jegra gestured for Raphine to accompany her and, sidling up to one another, they quickly fell in line and trailed after Dakroth, the Imperial Guards closing rank behind them.

  The people’s cheers soared to the skies and a sound never heard before in the entire existence of the planet echoed all the way to the heavens: the sound of four billion voices joining one another in support of their ruler, of Jegra, and of the inevitable war that was at hand.

  As they made their way back into the palace, Jegra and Raphine paused beneath the archway and looked back at the cheering throng of people.

  “Are you ready for this war?” Raphine asked, turning her inquisitive gaze to the empress.

  Jegra didn’t return her look but, rather, kept her gaze fixed on the blue faces of the Dagon people.

  “War, I’m afraid, is inevitable while we wish to defend our lives against a destroyer who threatens to tear us asunder and bring ruin to everything that we hold dear. And here we are, ready to let slip the dogs of war once more. Am I ready? Nobody is ever truly ready for war. Not even the conquerors. I suppose that is the inevitable truth of our existence. But there can be no greater glory in this life than fighting for something worth dying for.”

  Finally, Jegra turned to Raphine, her gaze settling on the young, green-skinned woman, a sagacious and somewhat uplifting smile forming on her burnt umber painted lips.

  “Is all this worth fighting for, though?” Raphine asked, glancing back out at the city that filled the valley at the foot of the great palace. “Are they?”

  Jegra’s warm touch upon her left bosom brought her gaze back around. The empress smiled at her as she pressed her hand upon Raphine’s heart.