“They created us in pairs to deliver opposing messages,” Victor continued. “Simply put, I was supposed to be the catalyst to end the human race. And my antithesis... he was supposed to ‘save’ the human race, transform it into something less wretched.”
“But you knew who your opposition was, didn’t you, since you could hear these things talk?” Jetta inferred.
The change in his face was very subtle, but Jetta could have sworn Victor sneered. “Yes, I did. I know what you think. You think I killed him. But I didn’t. I never laid a finger on him. My competition, when faced with the ugly truth of human nature, eliminated himself.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
Victor didn’t look at her. “There are no more prophets to come, Warchild—the lines are finished. I was the last of two Speakers for the Azerthenes. We were the final gamble for the fate of the human race.”
“And you’re the devil, right?” Jetta ventured. She tried to sound doubtful, but she felt anything but. The experience in Victor’s mind was unlike anything else she had ever been subjected to in all her psionic encounters. The depths of him was a maze of shadowy nightmare deep inside the belly of the beast. She had never felt such separation, such isolation, from her own identity, as if he had slowly devoured her mind from the inside out. He was all the sickness, all the pain, all the despair she had ever known, concentrated into one man.
“I was born to butcher the world, yes, but I chose otherwise. I chose my own path.”
The invisible struggle within her became fiercer as she realized the potential in his words. He chose his own path. Was that possible? She needed it to be—she needed to believe there was hope for someone like her, someone who harbored a terrible demon that was harder and harder to keep at bay. But still, his claims were bizarre—Azerthenes? Interdimensional beings? It was a stretch to believe that such entities were influencing their universe.
No, Jetta thought to herself. He’s insane, with grandiose delusions like every other psychopathic tyrant.
“So what path did you choose, Victor? Total and complete control of the Starways? The slow eradication of the human race?” Jetta said. “I’ve seen the reports—I know of your ‘investments’ in the flesh farms despite all your speeches against them.”
“I am against flesh farms—but they have their purpose, so I have bought out many of them and changed the way they operate. No longer are they butcher shops. We only employ humane methods on our volunteers.”
“And most of these ‘volunteers’ are humans, of course.”
“Not humans—Deadskins. Those who have abandoned their humanity, their decency, any worth they might have contributed to the Starways. Besides, humans have the most compatible tissues in the Sentient spectrum. We’ve saved countless lives—human and Sentient alike—with our extractions. And I don’t have to tell you that there are some people that don’t deserve their skin.”
Jetta immediately thought of Yahmen, but she said nothing. It was wrong—Jaeia and Jahx would be so disappointed in her—but in the darkest corner of her mind she agreed with Victor. There were humans—Deadskins—and other Sentients who wasted their lives, serving only to clog the gutters of dead planets like Fiorah.
“With these farms I’ve also helped control the viral human population; it is nothing like the pre-war days in 2050. People were starving, fighting, dying of curable diseases because the resources had been bled dry.Now there is order. All are serviceable, all have sponsors, all are accounted for—at least in my regions. I take responsibility for restoring and preserving the best of the human race. It was rampant human consumption that nearly ended us in 2052, and I don’t intend for that to happen again.”
Jetta pinched the bridge of her nose. No, she wouldn’t be fooled. Victor was a murderer, a fascist tyrant who had capitalized on the universal prejudice against humans. And he lied. The conditions he spoke of on Old Earth—starvation, disease, war—were horrific, but nothing compared to the soul-devouring conditions of the human labor colonies. Humans—Deadskins—were fed and kept healthy, but their lives were strictly regulated and constantly monitored by their sponsors. Freedom didn’t exist. And when those who weren’t sponsored were caught traveling through unfriendly territories, they were traded or farmed.
Jetta’s hands knotted into fists. There were free humans, many of whom she had served alongside in the Alliance, who fought for the unification of the colonies and the eradication of trafficking and farming. The Alliance had always campaigned for the freedom of the human race, challenging the traditional theories of human regulation and control, but without the votes of the General Assembly, some of whom were old enough to remember the troubled first contact with the human race, the movement to restore freedom to humanity had failed.
“Who are you to decide who lives and who dies, Victor?”
Victor squeezed the handle on his cane. “I’m not gifted like you, Warchild, but my many years have given me the advantage of seeing into the hearts of men.”
Jetta watched as the younger man on the video projection showed the data readouts on a flat-screen. “No one man could do what you’ve said. I don’t believe you.”
“Not one man in one lifetime, you’re right. But there is possibility in many lifetimes,” Victor said.
Victor ended the video feed and seemed to fall into contemplation. The grand chamber was eerily still save the wind whistling through the cracks in the stone building and the quiet whine of the holographic projectors.
“You want to know what my purpose is, what I path I have chosen,” Victor said, circling her, his voice suddenly cold and precise. “I was born to see the flaws of mankind, and believe me, they are innumerable. But with this knowledge I will open the eyes of all the Sentients. They will be faced with their inadequacies, and they will fall on their knees and repent. Every last living creature shall submit to the greater will. It is only under one banner that we can create a peaceful, unified galaxy, and only under one rule can that order be maintained.”
Jetta squeezed her temples. An invisible ice pick rammed into the space between her eyes, digging through to the base of her skull. She backed up, toppling over a bust of General Sun Tzu.
Victor stood over her, his teeth set in perfect diamond rows. “The reason I asked you here, Jetta Kyron, is to tell you of your destiny. You were not born a Speaker like me. But you are special nonetheless, especially to me. You are proof that we can confront those who manipulate us and end their games, take control of our lives.”
“What do you mean?” Jetta said.
“You traveled to their world, before you were born,” Victor said, his voice chilling her blood. “And you brought them back with you.”
Jaeia’s memory of Triel flashed in her mind. The Legend of Rion. Rion, the Abomination, the Harbinger of Death, who crossed over into Cudal and stole the power of the Gods.
“How do you know that?”
Victor pointed to her arm. “Your mark.”
“I don’t understand,” Jetta said, reflexively rubbing the tattoo.
Victor’s lower lip curled. “Do you not remember how you got your tattoo?”
Jetta shook her head. “No, I don’t.”
Victor didn’t hide his disappointment. “How unfortunate.”
“I don’t believe any of this,” Jetta said, although it sounded more like she was trying to convince herself. “Are you saying I have one of those things inside me?”
But somehow, someway, she knew what he was saying was true. Everything made sense, at least on an intuitive level, and yet she fought against it. She was genetically human with no logical explanation for her unique telepathic gifts. What if she had traveled to another dimension and melded with a transphasic being? Was that the dark voice inside her?
No. Impossible, Jetta thought. Victor was brilliant, a master manipulator, and there was so much he wasn’t telling her. She couldn’t be sure what the truth was.
Victor’s hand grazed the top of her head as if
to pet her. A phantom chill ran shot down her spine as his holographic hand passed through her, and she closed her eyes. “Your mind is filled with the knowledge of thousands of Sentients, your body that of a woman’s, and yet you’re only eight years old. No time to grow up, no time to acclimate to so many encounters, so many changes. You’ve seen horrible things in your lifetime, and from these dark remnants of stolen and lived experience have come forth something you can’t explain, a darkness that pulls at you, drawing you deeper and deeper into a terrible abyss. You wanted to find me not because of your aunt and uncle, but because you know that I can help you with these demons. I possess control, and I possess answers. Together we can overcome our torments, we can end the reign of the Azerthenes, and we can take control of the Starways. No more persecution, no more war. Peace, forever, for all of us—and for ourselves.”
The world dissolved into an infinite pale blue sky. The pain in her head was gone. People lined up in front of her laughing joyfully, praising her, chanting her name over and over. The air was sweet, and her body slowly relaxed as their unified psionic voice calmed her thoughts. It was a world devoid of pain, disease, suffering, and she found herself lulled into a strange comfort as her body lifted from the ground and floated across the sea of people, their outstretched hands brushing against her skin.
But along the edge of her vision she saw the cheap, cinematic forgery, and she knew it wasn’t real. It was a dream, a reaction to his words, something that she was too willing to accept.
“No,” she said, struggling against the calm that had pervaded her body. “This can’t be.”
“Why can’t it? With you at the helm of my army, we can achieve anything.”
Her vision changed. She was back in the narrow entryway of their old apartment. Jetta crumpled to the ground, shaking as heavy footsteps approached. Cigarette smoke, thick and acrid, filled her nose. His bottle clinked against the wall as he drunkenly turned the corner, his breathing labored and hungry as he picked up her scent.
“With order and control we can eliminate needless suffering,” Victor said, his voice just above a whisper. “I can show you control, how to channel your demons. And then you can finally have the world in your hands.”
The footsteps stopped. Heart thumping in her chest, she dared to peek one eye out from under her arms. Staring back at her under the low light of the hallway wasn’t Yahmen. It was the man she had seen before, when she had tried to enter Victor’s mind—the man with the immeasurable second shadow. Soulful brown eyes held grief she had only seen in her uncle. He stood in the archway, his lips upturned in an apologetic smile, as if he wanted to say something, but couldn’t.
Slowly Jetta uncurled, curiosity overcoming her fear. (Who are you?)
The vision shattered. Pain capsized her attempts to hold on and she resurfaced on the cold marble floor. She opened her eyes to find Victor standing over her, his black eyes hard set behind his gold-rimmed glasses, lips pressed into a flat line.
“What is your decision, Warchild? Do you choose to let others control you, or do you choose to make your own path?”
Her mind snapped backward, and when she looked down she saw her hands, bloodied and scraped and wrapped around the neck of a boy in uniform. A crowd of children encircled her, chanting and cheering as she pummeled his face, mashing his nose into an unrecognizable pulp. A teacher stood in the shadows, clipboard in hand, taking notes.
She was just protecting Jaeia and Jahx, she told herself. This was just one of the bullies that had threatened them since their arrival at the Core Academy. If she didn’t neutralize him and send a message to his cronies, the harassment would escalate.
As she felt his left eye socket crunch under her knuckles, spraying blood across the floor, she knew she had delivered the message—so why couldn’t she stop? Each time her fist connected with his face, she felt more and more alive, a carnal hunger burning in her veins, giving her strength and power she didn’t know she had.
Was she protective—or was she just a predator, using the love of her siblings to mask her bloodlust? Even though she had amassed the knowledge of an entire armada, it was her ability to synthesize that knowledge into an effective strategy that made her a killer. And her thirsts were worsening, the dark voice in her mind growing louder and louder each day—soon it wouldn’t be enough just to taste her enemies’ blood. She would need more.
“I am a killer. I am a monster,” Jetta said, clutching her head, remembering her sister’s muffled cry as she cracked her head against the crossbeam in the stealth fighter. She hurt Jaeia. How could she hurt her sister, her twin? What was she turning into?
“That’s what they used to called me,” Victor said levelly. “But I proved them wrong. I have done much to improve humanity, and I will do so much more. You will see, Warchild, that you have a choice, too. You can choose your own destiny.”
Jetta thought about her siblings, about Triel, about her duties as an Alliance officer. She didn’t want to hurt anybody else, but would they understand her decision? Even if she disagreed with Victor—even if Victor was evil—he could teach her things that nobody else could about the terrible thing she harbored.
“If your friends and family mean anything to you, you’ll take your place at my side. You can’t leave this place as you are. Your mind is weak and polluted, and you will only continue to hurt them.”
Jetta bent forward on her knees, her palms pressed to the ground. Her head seemed too heavy for her neck as she bowed before Victor, vaguely aware of the troops that had quietly filtered in and surrounded her.
“I hear it too, Warchild. I hear the dark whisper, that call deep within my chest. It is the Azerthenes. But I know how to fight them, and you will learn, too.”
Jetta squeezed her eyes shut. She wanted to believe him, but he was the one behind the attack on the Alliance. His treatment of Deadskins was callous—merciless—and she couldn’t concede to a man who thought so poorly of members of his own race.
There are some beings that don’t deserve their skin.
But what if he was right? Not everyone was created equal, not everyone deserved freedom of choice. Sometimes someone needed to take charge and make difficult decisions, an experience with which she was bitterly familiar. There wasn’t always time for military councils, assemblies, and general consensus. After living through and being subjected to thousands of battles, she knew that principle well.
Maybe with his help she could control her anger, the dark voice in her head, and could finally excel with her abilities rather than cause harm. But most of all, she ached to believe that it wasn’t her fault. It was a force beyond her, but one she could fight. It wasn’t her.
Instantly she spun down an invisible drain, the artifacts, oil paintings, and sculptures all becoming part of the dizzy swirl. Jetta dug her nails into her forehead, trying to regain control. Her face felt bloodless, and her lips squirmed spastically. A sensation akin to revolt sunk into her belly, and her skin felt slimy, unnatural. She didn’t know whose feelings they were. It wasn’t Victor—his mind was distant and unreadable. This was something inside her, somehow provoked, struggling to be freed.
Jetta screamed helplessly across the psionic plane, grasping for a lifeline, until something broke inside her. She came down hard on her hands, gasping for breath as the world reoriented itself.
“What is your choice?”
She collapsed on the cold, tiled floor. With considerable effort she propped herself up on her hands and knees. She knew what she had to do. Cold hatred resurrected her limbs, reanimated her drive. The tears were gone, as was her fear. Jetta lifted up her right arm, stretching to touch Victor’s looming image. “I am...”
But her words were cut short by a cacophony of sound that built in volume and intensity until she was forced to cover her ears, only to resolve into a desperate whisper: Help me, Jetta.
“Who are—?” Jetta whispered back.
“What is your choice, Jetta Kyron?” Victor repeated more insistent
ly.
Jetta gasped, cupping her hands over her mouth. Her chest was on fire, but her limbs were as cold as ice. And the most terrible of all feelings brewed beneath—the pitting loneliness laced with caustic anger that she had experienced when she murdered Jahx. But it wasn’t hers.
Triel—
Jetta ground her fists into the floor. It was overwhelming, more concentrated and visceral than anything she had ever felt before, even from her siblings.
She’s desperate.
Her resolve capsized. What was she doing?
“I have to go,” Jetta said, rising on unsteady legs. This was something she couldn’t ignore. She didn’t know why she felt so strongly for the Healer, but there was no time to question it now.
“You can’t go. It is too dangerous. Their voice inside you is growing stronger. If you leave now, it may be too late for me to help you.”
Jetta wavered a moment. Something heavy slunk back into her mind, and she drew in a deep breath. A primal hunger awakened inside her belly, and she found herself gritting her teeth against the desire to draw the surrounding troops’ blood.
Jetta focused on Triel’s tune in the back of her mind, forcing out the words as she turned from Victor. “I must help my friend.”
“So be it, Jetta Kyron.”
Jetta tried to sidestep the troops, but they crossed their firearms to prevent her from leaving.
“Move, soldier,” Jetta whispered, digging her fingernails into her palms. She could taste their aggression, and it inflamed the tension building beneath her sternum. She didn’t want to fight—she didn’t want any more bloodshed—but they were leaving her no choice. And in a way, she was glad.
They raised arms to her. The one nearest her with the captain’s insignia spoke through his headset. “Stop where you are. You are under arrest for trespassing.”
“Let me go,” she repeated, her voice barely above a whisper. “Please. For your own sake.”
Triorion Omnibus Page 87
