Submantle- The Alpha Key

by Patrick Lane

  Nifty’s first impulse was to face off with a meaty Boloczar. The blonde giants carried military grade splinter-staffs and wore thick-plated power boots. None would be a match for the Yolon’s strength, but they were strong nonetheless and their reach more than leveled the playing field.

  “Master Orediten?” Asked one of the Monsourions, gliding toward him, her eyes flickering towards Riot as he spun it reflexively in his hands. The painfully slender woman, topping Nifty by half a head, bowed elegantly.

  “Yes?” Nifty replied, holstering Riot, proffering a handshake. Her lithe hand clasped his in an iron grip, serving only to remind him of the deceptive strength of the Monsourions, “Well met…ahhh?”

  “Chellena,” she answered in a genteel accent. The raven haired Ranger had an almost ethereal beauty, her precise movements only adding to her allure. “Cadet Chellena Marsprite, Well met, Master Orediten, I’d heard rumors that you’d arrived and can’t tell you how positively-"

  “Calm down, Cadet, let the man breathe,” said one of the Boloczars, shouldering past the young woman to stand in front of Nifty. “Orediten, eh? I thought you’d not be so pretty.” He made no effort to hide the way he sized up Nifty, seemingly assuming he would be his first opponent. The man's breath washed over Nifty, a mixture of onions and mushroom gravy. “Tidy work up there on the vertigo circle. Won’t work on me though, I’ve studied your moves, a little too reckless, I’d say.”

  Nifty stepped around the Boloczar, ignoring the man completely, and addressed the young woman. “Welcome to Rocktower, Cadet Marsprite. Are you here to spar or are you taking a tour of the grounds?” Even as he said her name, something about it set off alarm bells in his head but he wasn’t sure why.

  “Spar, sir,” she replied with a blush, casting a nervous glance at her fellow Ascendants.

  Nifty knew there’d be no trouble with the big blonde Ranger behind him. The entire Boloczar Helix seemed immune to rudeness, simply doing and saying what they wanted. They rarely meant offense or perceived it, especially over something as silly as a conversation about sparing—the polar opposite of their Monsourion allies.

  “Ladies choice,” Nifty replied, indicating the sparing circles once again.

  “Hey shorty, I’m next. The name’s Draggart,” interrupted the Boloczar. “If she leaves you in one piece that is.” Followed by a coarse laugh.

  Something in his words gave Nifty pause, more than just Draggart’s warning. There was also the unusual confidence he’d heard in Chellena’s voice, uncommon for the typically uncomfortably polite Monsourions.

  Dross and double dross, he cursed to himself, remembering where he may have heard the name. Lulu, last year’s brawler bash winner, had lost her first sparring match in recent memory less than three months ago to a young Monsourion while out visiting an Ascendant settlement. Nifty had never really been that good with names but he was positive it had begun with an M.

  “Conventional, sir,” she said, retrieving a silver rucksack from her cycle.

  Watching her unpack, his mind ran through several strategies best suited for Monsourions. His strength, endurance, experience and the Link versus blinding speed, accuracy, and a highly structured fighting style.

  As she strapped on sleek, body-hugging armor he adjusted his, tightening any gaps she would most assuredly capitalize on if given the chance.

  He looked down at the bat and shook his head. She wasn’t fast enough, he needed to get her some upgrades like Brock Lodearm’s pick; that weapon was as nimble as a rock viper. The best choice would be ultra-light ceraniron castings or something similar, but he didn’t want them made in Rocktower where everyone would know the second he commissioned them. He’d planned to ask Scotty about visiting the ceraniron guilds in one of the outlying Helixes before they docked, but catching him in the right mood wasn’t always easy.

  “What do you think, Nifty?” Chadlock said, crossing to his side, having finished warming up with one of the cadets, “Yolon or Boloczar?”

  “For you? Yolon,” Nifty replied.

  He removed the punch-pick from his holster and activated one of the buttons near the thumb. The grappling line attachment released with a hiss of Flux energy and he replaced it with a long, thin, chisel-like blade. He also changed the hand grip, opting for the slimmer glove handle that would allow him to use the smaller pick and Riot at the same time.

  “You depend on your strength a little too much,” Nifty continued, “and you can’t hope to match them. I studied a few more combat manuals I pulled from the academy while on the Bolengrath mission. Arms master Danwright is right, I think the best way to beat them is footwork. They use a linear style, and are trained to pick up on predictable patterns, it’s instinctive. I think if you do eight to ten cat’s-cradle footwork sequences, then switch to a water-diamond before committing to a full assault, you may just manage to connect with an inner thigh or armpit. Both kill strikes with that armor of theirs.”

  “Elegantly reasoned, Master Orediten,” Chadlock quipped, spinning his long handled, blue and gold-plated power pick as he evaluated the group. “But I wouldn’t mind going a round or two with that Boloczar lass with the beautiful eyes. I may even let her win.”

  Nifty turned away, rolling his eyes. He was about to step into the circle with Chellena, when a brief flickering above his head caught the corner of his eye.

  Dross and double dross, he cursed inwardly, holding out an arm.

  Sure enough, Ryder swooped in to land on the proffered limb. With a flourish of iridescent wings, she tilted her ridged head this way and that as she took stock of the surrounding Rangers.

  The mantis began waving her raptorial forelimbs accompanied by several pops and chirps: Scotty man’s search for you. Be here soon.

  “Already?” Nifty sighed. It looked like he would only be getting two matches in today. “Please wait for me on the racks,” he said, launching the duster and turning to face his opponent.

  Chellena entered the circle carrying a pair of finely wrought, long-handled maces. By the pinkish glow of their striped handles he knew they contained Ascendant power batteries, no Flux at all. It packed a similar wallop to the Flux, but the weapons would never feel like a part of her, the way Nifty felt with his bat.

  As he circled the Monsourion he let the Link surge through him. His jacket ready to feel even the slightest breeze, his boots allowed him to sense every imperfection of the circle beneath his feet.

  Chellena attacked in a blur of motion.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Nothing means anything, Dysuss Dripvein reminded himself as he considered the struggling men and women before him, unsure whether or not he should allow them to see another day. A white hot rage seethed in his belly as he glared through the bars at the six Rocktower Rangers. They had been stripped of their uniforms, and lay bound and weaponless in their cell, wrapped tightly in thermosilk bindings.

  A Monitor wouldn’t be arriving for at least another day to evaluate the progress in this sector. Dysuss was running out of time. He had quickly found that these fool Rangers knew nothing about the whereabouts of a Key. The dredge helmet had made sure of that.

  Capturing them had cost him over twenty soldiers. His throat caught at the thought of it. Cintressa, his daughter, his heart, had died with them, and along with her, his sense that his life mattered anymore. What a waste. Not even the Quantum’s will, imbedded by the Monitors directly onto his cerebral cortex, seemed to hold sway since her death. His mailed fist lashed out at the wall, and he embraced the pain as it stifled his anger, preventing him from doing something the Monitors might not forgive.

  Nothing means anything.

  The sound of metal-clad boots marching briskly down the passage caught his attention and he jerked his hand away from where it had come to rest on the cell’s purge lever; he’d not even remembered reaching for it.

  He straightened to his full height. He needed to maintain control, for the sake of his men. Let it be the Monitors’ choice whether or not to
send these Rangers to their final rest in the earth’s mantle.

  Ensign Krok, the hulking Boloczar, saluted Dysuss as he slid to a halt on the metal deck plates.

  “Commander Dripvein, another delve-train has been captured. Two more Rangers will be here in less than three hours. And a message from Rocktower…,” Krok reported hastily.

  “Casualties?” Dysuss interrupted.

  “Yes, casualties, Commander…”

  “How many? Fool!” Dysuss almost shouted, struggling to control his anger.

  “Six, sir.”

  “Dross and double dross,” he cursed, resisting the urge to lash out at Krok or the wall again. More men dead. The mission orders from the Monitor had been clear but no one had anticipated such losses. The situation was becoming untenable.

  “Commander, sir, we also have messages from the Citadel at Rocktower,” Krok added. “The Ranger Corps are mobilizing.”

  “As anticipated. The Rangers are nothing if not predictable,” Dysuss replied, as he took note of the man fidgeting in place as if wanting to say more. “Well, out with it, soldier.”

  “Over a hundred ships are being deployed, and a contingent of dreadnaughts. If the reports are accurate.”

  “They’re always accurate,” he said, almost to himself, as he considered the news.

  He reached up to stroke the glowing blue glyphs lining the side of his face from brow to chin. They needed to find that Key; his daughter’s death could not be in vain. He was beginning to think his sacrifices were no longer worth it. Not even if the Monitors allowed him to complete the next stage of Mergence with the Quantum, something Cintressa had wished for above all else. The Monitors needed to come up with a better plan or he would have to take matters into his own hands.

  “We’re wasting time here. This latest batch of prisoners will no doubt prove to be just as useless as this lot,” he said, trying not to sigh in front of a subordinate. “Prepare the ship for departure and establish a communication link with the base at Hellstamp.”

  Krok blanched at that. He knew as well as Dysuss that contacting them meant breaking communication protocol. This sector was under strict guidelines to maintain silence. As usual, the Monitors gave no reason for their orders, they simply expected them to be obeyed.

  Leaving the prisoners behind to struggle in silence, both men made their way to the bridge. There they joined a dozen crew members who were immersed in holo-viewer workstations, each worker controlling some facet of the dreadnaught Valorous’s navigation functions.

  Krok relayed the orders to the bridge Captain, who recalled all scouting frigates, and final preparations were made for Valorous’s departure.

  “Sir?” whispered a squat Sakurian communications officer seated next to Dysuss. She glanced surreptitiously around the bridge before continuing. “Hellstamp has denied communication. They just sent redeployment instructions. I will forward them to your chair.”

  “Yes, do,” Dysuss replied, keeping the surprise from his voice.

  They had kicked-up quite the whip-wasp’s nest with the abduction of the Rangers. Maybe the Monitors had decided it was time to come out from the shadows after centuries of hiding in plain sight. Most Submantlers only knew them as an obscure non-military religious sect called Hadrians. They were viewed as a harmless cult, relegated to spreading the word of The Exaulted One—and that’s exactly how they’d wanted it.

  Dysuss scanned the orders, biting back a growl, his hand curling into a fist. The instructions were clear: Leave this quadrant, regroup at Terraport Helix, and wait for more slagging Rangers. He was about to bark out a series of angry orders when a pair of familiar names on the display caught his attention: Scott Slatearm and Niftmire Orediten. They were in one of the Ranger teams charged with finding the Key, and it looked like they would soon be arriving at Terraport.

  Finally, a legitimate candidate for the dredge helmet. Decades ago, Dysuss had trained at the Citadel and had had a chance to cross blades with the legendary Slatearm. He was a formidable opponent, but more than that, he was a seasoned veteran of hundreds of conflicts and knew a wealth of Ranger secrets.

  Dysuss caressed the glyphs on his cheek with his index finger, once more as a smile slowly crept across his face. “Set a course for Terraport,” he ordered. “We are about to find our Key.” He took a deep, considering breath. “Oh, and Krok, purge our Ranger guests into the mantle.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  “Stop brooding lad,” Scotty said, tossing the mission brief across his desk at Nifty. “It’ll not be the last time you lose to a younger Ranger.”

  “Thanks,” Nifty snapped back, his ears still ringing from the drubbing Chellena had dealt him.

  He’d hardly lasted ten minutes against the young cadet. Her fighting style was like nothing he’d encountered before from a Monsourion. Their speed could often times be countered by the Link. It allowed most fighters to focus on the fight rather than the weapons, giving one the ability to anticipate the strikes of the Ascendants with extreme accuracy. Chellena hadn’t fought in their typical manner. She had been completely unstructured, flowing from one unpredictable form to the next. She had even taken a terrible blow to land her final kill strike, something unheard of for her race.

  Blaze it, I was too slow.

  Scotty had arrived at the training grounds just as the Draggart, amused by the whole affair, had picked him up off the ground, slapping him on the back with a giant mitt.

  “Didn’t see that coming did you, Orediten?” the Boloczar roared. “You lasted longer than most. She’s done it to us all at least once,” he added as Chellena handed him back Riot.

  “Lance Corporal Orediten,” Scotty called out, crossing the pitch towards the group. He watched with interest as Nifty rotated his chin in his hand, checking for broken teeth.

  “Sir?” Nifty replied, reverting as usual to the honorific in front of foreign Rangers.

  “Our deployment has been moved up.”

  “Sorry sir, you didn’t need to come here yourself. Ryder would have sufficed.”

  “Well…” Scotty patted his belly. “I made a stop along the way,” he said, drawing a laugh from few of the gathered Rangers.

  “Ryder, attend,” Scotty said, holding out an arm.

  The duster leapt from the weapon rack and flew to Scotty’s side. He handed her a neatly folded piece of paper. “Please take this to Sarah,” he instructed, knowing his wife would have been expecting him, along with the rest of his family. “She can visit me in the mess hall before I leave. Now let’s not tarry,” he said, waving her off.

  He returned his attention to Nifty. The visiting Rangers just stood there and stared at the man who had nearly single-handedly put an end to the Batista conflict.

  “Nice work, lass,” Scotty commended as Chellena bowed to Nifty, as she cradled an injured arm. “I arrived just in time to see the final few blows. Quite unusual. I take it you trained under a water-glide master?”

  “You’re right, Commander Slatearm,” she replied, flushing a deep red. “I still need plenty of practice, I doubt Master Orediten committed to full effort. As your legendary Arms-master Trodstomp wrote, ‘In the circle I fought with all that knew and all I possessed, but in battle I fought with that which I neither knew I knew or knew I possessed,” she finished, proffering her injured limb.

  “That’s a mouthful for certain, and in this case nonsense, lass. You’ve just beaten one of our best, and about time too. He needs to start focusing on his next promotion.”

  Why did he insist on doing that? Nifty thought, caught between anger and embarrassment. His career progression had somehow become the senior Ranger’s second-favorite subject.

  Like two sides of a coin, Scotty’s typically gruff demeanor shifted to become the epitome of affability as he introduced himself to the visiting Ascendants. He shook each of their hands in turn, commenting briefly about their armor or asking a probing question about their fighting style. It wasn’t the first time Nifty had witnessed the senio
r Ranger’s ability to win over a crowd.

  By the time Scotty left, with Nifty close behind, he’d even managed to elicit laughs from both the Boloczars and Yolons.

  Fighting the nearly irresistible urge to slump his shoulders, Nifty de-rigged his armor and followed Scotty back through the darkening Ranger headquarters. They took a hydro-lift to his office on the upper floors, the dizzying view overlooking Citadel City and the mirrored surface of Lake Gorn.

  “Sorry for the brief visit home, lad. I’m sure you planned to stay for a few days, maybe even submit your promotion papers and take the upgrade tests,” Scotty said, studying the holo-viewer built into his desk. He set his mantle watch into one of the access port and transferred pertinent information into the device.