Alien Honor (A Fenris Novel)

by Heppner, Vaughn

  A vast gas giant moved before them.

  Skar clunked his helmet against Cyrus’s helmet. “Turn on your boots.” He didn’t use a radio, but let the sound move through the plastic of their two helmets. It made Skar’s voice sound far away.

  Ah. Cyrus turned on his boots because he understood what he saw. The gas giant—Pulsar—moved before them because High Station 3 rotated to provide centrifugal force: pseudogravity to the occupants of the habitat. Once they walked on the outside, the centrifugal force would send them hurtling out into space. They needed their magnetic boots to anchor them.

  Cyrus lifted one boot at a time. As it neared the space station’s surface, the boot clanged down hard against the metal. He followed Skar, and the Vomag kept turning back around.

  So did Cyrus. He saw it first. The Guardian floated out of the hatch. As it did, the fighting machine whipped outward because the surface moved and it didn’t. Spray blew out of nozzles, slowing its movement away.

  At that moment, the surface Cyrus stood on shuddered horribly. He began to shake and sway.

  “What’s going—?”

  Before Cyrus could finish the question, he saw a fiery blast blow outward from the space station many kilometers away from them. Metal, debris, and then material, including people, blew outward into space. Another blast occurred, farther away. Cyrus didn’t know if it came from the back or the front of High Station 3. What he assumed was that these explosions—bombs—were from the Resisters.

  How long have they been saving these bombs?

  Cyrus shuddered. How many people had just died to give him a chance to escape? He was like Spartacus escaping from the gladiatorial prison.

  The Guardian—the floating, fighting machine—stopped spraying its jets. Did it go to investigate these blasts or had the bombs destroyed its guidance mechanism or link with its controller, if it had one?

  Cyrus waited, but no more bombs went off. More people and things kept spewing into space. That was the air inside the habitat rushing out into the vacuum, taking people and things with it.

  Were Argon, Wexx, and Jasper dead? Cyrus had no way of knowing. But he doubted the Kresh were stupid. Space stations would have accidents. Smart builders would have sealable compartments. It was also unlikely the Resisters would have been able to place bombs near critical Kresh locations. More likely, the bombs had been placed in the Maze or places like the Maze.

  Cyrus’s shoulders slumped. Had all these deaths occurred so he could escape? No. They’d occurred to help the Tracker, so he could help free enslaved humanity in the Fenris System.

  I have to try. Yeah. I have to seek this Anointed One until I’m dead.

  He followed Skar across the outer surface. They clanked to a depression on High Station 3. Then Cyrus saw the vessel as Skar caused a hatch to open. It was a black as sin shuttle, a tiny thing built like a needle. There would hardly be any room in there for them.

  Cyrus followed the Vomag through the hatch. What a thing, a Resister spaceship. Well, for the moment at least he’d escaped the Grand Agonizer.

  9

  Skar 192 piloted the needle-ship. He sat in a swivel chair before a control panel, with a small window showing the stars and the color-banded gas giant. After reading a three-page manual, he switched polarity on the magnetics to repulsing, pushing them away from High Station 3.

  They moved without an engine signature, merely a black object drifting away from the injured habitat. High Station 3 was a monstrously long cylinder, many kilometers wide. The gas giant Pulsar loomed over them. On the screen Cyrus used, he studied the positions of the gravitational system’s moons and habs. One moon in particular dominated the Pulsar system. This moon was Jassac, Earth-sized and possessed of a breathable atmosphere.

  Cyrus viewed their narrow ship. It had one chamber, which narrowed here at the piloting end. Bunks and exercise machines lined the bulkheads, but still it was only three times the size of Venice’s quarters, making this a tiny ship.

  Fortunately, it didn’t look as if it would be a long journey to Jassac. Cyrus doubted it would take more than a week to reach there and possibly land.

  He had found one very interesting machine. It was the amplifier device he’d seen the psi-master’s use, the baan. The device had two curved prongs with two discs on the end to press against a baan. He’d found several of the baans.

  Now he weighed the crystal Reacher had given him in his hand.

  “Do you know what’s recorded here?” Cyrus asked Skar.

  The Vomag turned his swivel chair to face him as the chair squealed horribly. How long had this ship been here waiting?

  “Yes,” Skar said. “The Reacher wanted me to tell you it’s all they have on the Anointed One. If you put the crystal in the device, don the baan and press against the amplifier discs, you will learn all the Reacher knew about him.”

  Cyrus didn’t do it right away. He had to think about it. He rested, ate, slept, and found himself sitting before the amplifier again.

  As he sat there, he felt something—a psi-master likely—searching for them.

  Quickly, Cyrus composed himself and did what the red-eyed woman had shown him about being Null. He felt the psi-master reaching, searching, looking, and then there was nothing.

  Cyrus opened his eyes and grinned. He could do it. He could hide from their psi-talents. He’d never let them catch him, and he would make these aliens pay for what they had done to Discovery. They’d thought to enslave him, not realizing he was a new day Spartacus.

  With a nod, Cyrus decided he’d better learn whatever he could about this so-called Anointed One while he had the time.

  Cyrus slipped the baan over his forehead. Immediately, he heard voices in his mind. He clamped down on them and used the Null, making himself vanish in the psionic world.

  That was too close. Could this baan and amplifier be a trap?

  Deliberately, before he could have second thoughts, Cyrus pressed the baan against the amplifier discs so the metal clicked. Next, he inserted the crystal into the obvious slot.

  A green light flashed, and then Cyrus became disoriented. It felt as if he was falling, falling…

  A voice spoke to him in his mind. It sounded like Reacher, but a mental recording of the man’s thoughts.

  “Where did the Kresh originate?” the recording asked. “I do not believe they are indigenous to the Fenris System. Their origins are unknown to me, although I believe the moon Jassac gives us the best clue.”

  As if watching a holo-vid, Cyrus viewed the largest moon orbiting Pulsar: the gas giant with many colorful bands. As if coming down from space, he spied the dusty, planet-sized moon comprised of red and black mountains. Like rotten teeth, the various mountains rose across high desert plains. There were deep chasm valleys here and there. On the highest plateaus sat squat, miles-long converters. They were black fortresses with vapors continuously billowing skyward.

  Reacher said, “Ice haulers ship asteroids from New Saturn and from the outer asteroid belt and bring them down to Jassac. The ice is fed into the converters, I believe, in an attempt to reshape Jassac into the lost Kresh home world. The Kresh live in the deep valleys, and I believe that is what their home world must have most been like.

  “The Kresh are loath to pass up any opportunity for the furtherance of the Codex of All Knowledge. In the wilds of Jassac, they have released genetically manipulated humans. These Stone Age primitives are large-lunged and large-hearted individuals able to live in the sparse regions. It is my belief the Kresh wonder how untamed humans will react in their natural state. The Kresh study everything from every possible angle.

  “In pursuit of such knowledge, it is my contention that from time to time they place ‘failed’ specimens among the Jassac humans. The Anointed One appears to be such a human. In this, I believe the Kresh have made their greatest blunder. The following is a stolen recording of the Anointed One’s entrance into Clan Tash-Toi.”

  Cyrus’s awareness sped closer to the surface. He
noticed something in the distance. Through the amplifying mechanism, a silent narrator embedded certain facts into Cyrus’s thoughts. He understood what he witnessed, and he strove to view the proceedings carefully.

  In harsh morning sunlight, with the vast banded moon—the gas giant Pulsar—high in the sky, a group of Tash-Toi warriors struggled over a jagged spine of red rocks. The warriors were thickly muscled men whose brown skin was burnt like cracked leather. Their eyes were hard and dark, their mouths mere slits and their large noses hooked. They wore rough garments of reddish leather and complex conical helmets of fur and black rock. Each man carried a leather shield, a stone-shod spear and a heavy flint dagger strapped against his chest.

  Ahead of them, a baby cried. The sound emanated from a lone reed basket.

  The warriors halted in suspicion, glancing around. Nothing but sand drifted in the breeze. They studied the sky, but no demons appeared or slid across the sky in their airborne cars.

  Warily, seven warriors surrounded the basket and the baby. The creature appeared human, but had strange white skin. A red blanket covered his body. Bumps appeared where the babe flailed with his little fists under the blanket.

  One of the warriors spoke up. He was a sneering, truculent-looking youth. “The creature’s skin is pale and his eyes are demon blue. He must be diseased. Listen to him squeal. Kill him, I say.” The youth produced a dagger.

  “Wait,” the largest Tash-Toi said. His helmet was more complex than the others were, signifying him as the hetman. He made a gesture to the others waiting by the jagged spine. A small figure rose up as if from the ground and limped toward the seven warriors. He was a twisted old man with a sun-wrinkled face and a riot of dark hair. He was dressed in skins and wore a crude metal badge clipped to his garments.

  “Seeker,” the hetman asked. “Why is this squealing thing here?”

  The seeker squatted on skinny legs and peered at the baby. With his dirty fingers, the seeker made a fluttering-fingered gesture over the baby as it continued to cry.

  “Kill it,” the truculent youth said.

  “Quiet,” the hetman told him.

  The big youth shifted from foot to foot, gazing sullenly at the baby.

  “Seeker?” the hetman asked.

  “It isn’t a demon,” the seeker whispered. “He smells of soap and has clean human skin.”

  The hetman grunted. The others remained silent. “What should be done to him?” the hetman asked.

  “Bah!” the big youth said. “Look at him shiver in the summer air.” The warrior reached down and jerked the blanket away, tossing it aside.

  The naked and pink-skinned baby screamed even louder, waving his clenched fists and kicking his feet.

  “Kill the weakling and be done with it,” the young warrior said.

  Two of the seven warriors grunted in agreement.

  The seeker gasped. “Look!” he said.

  The red blanket lying near the basket moved in jerks, stopped, and jerked again like a rock snake until it covered the exposed baby.

  “It’s demon-spawn!” the big youth shouted. He shoved the seeker aside and slashed down with his dagger. His flint edge chipped against the hardwood pole of the hetman’s blocking spear. A flint chip struck the baby’s nose and caused him to scream again.

  With his free hand, the hetman clouted the youth on the side of the head. The young warrior sprawled across the red ground, unconscious.

  With wounded dignity, the seeker picked himself up. He dusted his ragged garments.

  “Well?” the hetman asked.

  “The baby has power,” the seeker said. “I want him for my apprentice.”

  “Yeg’s son is your apprentice,” one of the other warriors said.

  “Still,” the seeker said, “I want him. He has the power.” Squatting, the old man rubbed the reed basket.

  “Two apprentices are against custom,” the older warrior replied.

  The hetman glared at the fallen youth. “It is against custom,” he said. “Even so, the white creature will be the seeker’s second apprentice. I name him Klane. Klane will be under Yeg’s son. And this rash fool must see that the babe receives his share of food.” The hetman toed the unconscious youth.

  The other warriors muttered among themselves. Soon, they nodded in agreement.

  In glee, the seeker scooped up the baby boy called Klane. He limped to his youngest wife and handed him to her.

  In such a way, the Anointed One entered Clan Tash-Toi.

  The scene vanished into darkness, and the Reacher’s voice came back. “It is all we know about the Anointed One, with the Tash-Toi Clan name of Klane. What happened to Klane? I do not know. There is a prophecy that points to the white one in the red sands. Surely, the old prophecy means Klane. We must find the Anointed One and learn what he knows. How will he free humanity from the Kresh? I do not know. But we must find him, and to do so we need a Tracker.”

  Cyrus drew back from the amplifier and removed the baan from his head.

  “Did you learn what you needed?” Skar asked.

  Cyrus glanced at the soldier. It was a good question. There was a baby among Stone Age warriors. The baby had clearly shown telekinetic power. His name is Klane. How could such a baby help humanity against the unbeatable Kresh?

  “I am Spartacus,” Cyrus whispered. He would seek this baby, this Anointed One. He would do whatever he could against the Kresh. He might not win, but that was better than surrendering to them.

  “I learned something,” Cyrus said.

  “Good. Do you know where to go?”

  “Yes, to Jassac. But where on the planet this Anointed One might be, I have no idea.”

  “If we find him, what do we do then?” Skar asked.

  That was a good question. “Let’s find him first,” Cyrus said. “Can you make the needle-ship go faster?”

  “I can, but now isn’t the time. We have to get closer to Jassac. Otherwise, the Kresh might spot us.”

  Cyrus weighed the crystal in his hand. He needed to go back into it and study the terrain and the Tash-Toi. It was his only clue. What would Skar and he do once they found the baby Klane? He decided not to worry about that now. Finding the Anointed One was the problem. He would take each step one move at a time. While he did so, he would do what Spartacus had done, and that was hurt the slave-owning Romans.

  I’m going to hurt the Kresh the best I know how.

  Thinking that, Cyrus put the baan back on his forehead and the crystal back into the slot. He needed to learn as much as he could about Jassac while he had an opportunity.

  “We’re going to hurt the Kresh,” Cyrus said.

  “I hope you’re right,” Skar said.

  “Or we’ll die trying,” Cyrus said.

  Skar became grim-faced and turned back to the controls.

  As the soldier did so, Cyrus clicked the baan against the amplifier. He would study everything with care this time. He needed more knowledge to help him in his bitter quest.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Thank you, David Pomerico, for wanting to see the Doom Star universe continue in a new series. Thanks Brian Larson for giving me advice during the writing of the story and thank you David VanDyke for the first round of editing. Jennifer Smith-Gaynor, you gave me some “grim” editing advice later, but I believe your comments helped make the story better—thank you. A hearty thanks to the entire 47North team. You are an easy and enjoyable group of people to work with.

  Thank you, Evan Gregory, for your advice on the business end. And I want to give a special thank you to my wife Cyndi Heppner and to Madison and Mackenzie: two of the nicest girls in the world.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  2013 © CYNDI HEPPNER

  Vaughn Heppner is the author of many science fiction and fantasy novels, including the “Invasion America” series and the “Doom Star” series. He is inspired by venerable sci-fi writers such as Jack Vance and Roger Zelazny, as well as by the Night of the Long Knives by Hans Hellmut Kirst. The or
iginal movie, “Spartacus,” and its themes of slave rebellion, color much of his work. Among his contemporaries, BV Larson’s military science fiction novels are most akin to Alien Honor. Canadian-born, Heppner now lives in Central California. Visit his website at www.vaughnheppner.com.