The Crimson Deathbringer

by Sean Robins

  He slumped onto his seat and buried his head in his hands. Everything he thought he knew about the enemy fleet’s capabilities and tactics was wrong. He had been deceived. No, he had been a fool.

  Even so, this is impossible, thought Tarq. Invincible was capable of unleashing a world-killing array of heavy weaponry. A thousand space fighters could not possibly be a match for her.

  It was as if the pilot of the crimson space fighter heard Tarq’s thoughts and decided to prove him wrong. The enemy vessel spit a deadly stream of laser bolts at Invincible, bringing about more explosions. Several sections of the starship were in flames.

  The Invincible lit the space with countless white-hot energy bolts and filled it with thousands of missiles. The Xortaag vessels, and especially the devilish blood-red space fighter, zigzagged through the missiles and energy bolts with such skill that it made Tarq’s blood boil with jealousy. One of the starship’s blaster cannons came to life. It missed the targets and annihilated one of their own fleet’s vessels instead.

  What is the point of building the most advanced weapons in the galaxy if the people using them are so damned incompetent?

  Biting his fingers, Tarq pictured Varina sitting at Invincible’s helm, desperately fighting for her life. He cursed under his breath and asked his assistant, “How did the Xortaag ships suddenly became so powerful? I personally observed their last two campaigns . . . Oh!”

  Tarq paused for a second. “We saw what they wanted us to see.”

  Tarq’s assistant, Lieutenant Barook, said, “My thoughts exactly.” He pointed at the red fighter. “It seems you have finally met your match.”

  Staring at the crimson space fighter with burning hatred in his eyes, Tarq murmured, “General Maada! I should have known defeating him would not be easy.”

  The contents of the file Tarq himself had prepared about General Maada flashed through his mind. Maada was the Xortaags’ legendary warrior and military genius. The mere sight of his crimson space fighter sent shivers down the collective spine of space-faring species throughout the galaxy. As the commander of the fleet, there was no need for Maada to lead the attack personally. He could have stayed safely in Xortaag’s command ship and directed the assault from there. Instead, the General always deputized implementing strategy and coordinating the fleet to others and rushed to the frontline. Under Maada’s command, the Xortaags had conquered around a hundred planets, including a few far more technologically advanced civilizations, exterminating all their inhabitants, killing billions of sentient beings.

  Underestimating the general had proved to be a fatal mistake.

  “Stop biting your fingers. You are going to leave blood stains everywhere,” said Barook.

  Tarq looked down at his hands, and sure enough, he saw dark blue blood drops— drawn by his sharp teeth—on his fingertips. He wiped his fingers on the top part of one of his four legs and kept staring at his station’s holographic display, desperately hoping for a miracle to save his daughter.

  A frightened voice announced, “Here they come again!”

  The crimson space fighter and its wingmen attacked Invincible, laser cannons blazing. Maada’s vessel dived at high speed, pulled its nose up at the last moment, and did a firing run close to the starship, hitting her repeatedly from bow to stern. The gray space fighters followed it, raining deadly laser bolts on the Akaki ship. Energy bolt after energy bolt tore into her, scoring devastating hits. As soon as the Xortaag vessels veered off, a massive ball of multihued fire engulfed Invincible, and in a flash, she blew up into millions of minute glowing shards shimmering in dark space.

  Five thousand sailors, vaporized. Just like that.

  And Varina.

  The thought of his daughter made Tarq feel his hearts were about to give out. His only child, who could not wait to grow up, was dead. Varina, who loved his pranks, and who never got tired of listening to the stories of how her father had saved the galaxy multiple times, was gone, and it was Tarq’s fault.

  The command ship was under attack. Someone shouted, “Brace for impact!” The vessel shook violently. Tarq did not pay any attention. He stared at what was left of Varina’s ship, and overwhelming grief cut through him like a thousand sharp knives. Trying to use physical pain to block his mental anguish, he grabbed his two front antennae and pulled them so hard the agony made his vision blur. That worked. For a brief second.

  His PDD beeped. It was a video message from Varina. With terror in her eyes, she said, “Father, we did our best,” and the message cut into static.

  His daughter’s last thought before being murdered by the Xortaags was how she had disappointed him.

  The thought made his gut churn. He twisted his antennae as hard as he could. The severe pain pushed him to the brink of losing conscientiousness.

  Barook approached him from behind, said, “This does not help,” and gently opened his fingers one by one, making him let go of his antennae.

  A fleet lieutenant announced, “The fleet is retreating.”

  That was a diplomatic way of putting it: The Akaki ships were zooming away from the Xortaags at maximum speed. Despite the tragic situation, Tarq could not stifle a bitter chuckle.

  “This is no ‘retreat,’ you moron,” Tarq murmured under his breath, his voice so faint only Barook could hear him. “This is the worst every-Akaki-for-himself, save-your-own-exoskeleton, run-for-your-life tail-turning in history.”

  And the Akaki ships’ crew could not even do that right. A starship veered off its course and ran into another one. Both ships blew up with a spectacular explosion. Tarq noticed the first ship to escape to safety was Dauntless. He covered his face in his hands and groaned. Barook put his hand around Tarq’s shoulder in silence.

  An explosion shook the bridge. Tarq looked at the damage reports coming in. For a moment, he wished Maada would come and finish what he has started. But them who would avenge Varina?

  An admiral, wearing a white uniform almost identical to Tarq’s but with fleet insignia, shouted into his communication device, “You cowards! Where do you think you are going? Get back in there. I will have all of you court-martialed for this!”

  “It seems they are more afraid of Maada than you, Admiral,” Tarq said, bleary-eyed.

  The admiral took his frustration out on Tarq. With both pairs of his antennae standing erect in pure rage, he yelled, “And you, Commander Tarq. This is all your fault. You are supposed to be the greatest strategist ever lived. All this was your plan.”

  Tarq bared his teeth for one second, but he managed to control himself. Biting the Navy general’s head off would not help anyone. He took a deep breath, steadied himself and replied, “And I paid the price for my mistake. Or has it escaped your attention that I have just lost my only daughter?”

  “I have to point out the command ship is also, eh, retreating,” said Barook.

  The admiral froze, then he spun on his heels, ran to the ship’s captain and started arguing with him.

  Barook said, “It is safe to say you have made a lot of new enemies today.”

  With Varina gone, and their extinction in sight, that did not sound like such a big deal right now.

  “I am the commander of Special Operations Force. Making enemies is literally in my job description,” Tarq answered.

  “Not to mention your affinity for playing practical jokes on highly influential people,” said Barook. “You remember what you did to that poor admiral a while ago, don’t you?”

  Tarq chuckled bitterly. “You honestly think I remember everyone I have ever played a prank on?”

  Tarq looked around the bridge. All other officers were glued to their various screens, watching what was happening in disbelief. He knew they were all thinking the same thing he was: Their catastrophic failure here probably meant the end of their species in the very near future. Unless they—more specifically Tarq himself, since he was the Akakies’ chief strategist—came up with a brilliant plan and did it fast, they were about to suffer the same dread
ful fate as the other races who had been in the Xortaags’ way: enslavement for a few generations, followed by a comprehensive genocide, leaving every man, woman and youngling dead.

  Tarq silently vowed, not if I have anything to do with it.

  General Maada kicked the conference hall’s door open.

  The four guards stationed inside the hall made no attempt to stop the general. They saluted, stared ahead and avoided eye contact.

  “Wise choice,” growled Maada. “I am certain you remember what happened the last time I stormed this hall.”

  The officer in charge, trepidation written all over his face, approached Maada. “General, with all due respect, His Highness is in the middle of an important meeting—”

  Maada did not even bother to look at him. He drew his sidearm and shot the officer in the foot. The man made no sound. He folded, grabbed his foot and toppled to the floor. The smell of burned flesh filled Maada’s nostrils. The guards did not move an inch and made no attempt to help their superior officer.

  Pussies!

  Deep inside Maada’s brain, Crown Prince Mushgaana’s voice said, “That was a bit too much.”

  Maada’s anger coiled in his stomach. He had repeatedly asked Mushgaana to stay out of his head. He felt violated when Mushgaana, or any other members of the uniquely talented royal family, entered his mind and read his intimate thoughts.

  Clenching his fists, Maada approached a big table in the middle of the conference hall, where Mushgaana and five high-ranking diplomats who had just arrived from Tangaar were sitting. He ignored everyone and addressed the prince. “I have just heard you have accepted the Akakies’ peace proposal.”

  Mushgaana frowned. “Yes, I did.”

  “This is stupid,” said Maada, raising his voice. “Have you lost your mind? We have the initiative now. We must push forward until we reach Kanoor.”

  One of the diplomats, a well-dressed young woman, sprung out of her seat. “You dare address His Highness in this manner?”

  Maada glared at the woman. Nobody talked to him like that. His hand was moving towards his sidearm when another diplomat told the first one, “What are you doing? This is General Maada.”

  The woman’s eyes widened, and she paled. She stuttered, “My apologies, General. In my defense, you look completely different in the news feeds.”

  Mushgaana laughed. “The general has no time for trivial matters like newsfeeds and interviews. We hired an actor to do that. But we did not want to scare people, so we decided to find someone without that scary beard and those terrifying scars.”

  The diplomats forced a laugh. Maada touched the scar on his left cheek. He was loyal to Mushgaana, but in moments like this shooting him in the face sounded very appealing.

  Mushgaana continued, “Still, we cannot have you insult the commander of our fleet, can we?”

  The diplomats sitting next to the woman pulled their chairs away from her. She leaned on the table to support her weight, lips shivering and face white. Everyone knew what was coming.

  Maada stared at the crown prince, trying to get his attention, and thought, Your Highness, if you want to melt people’s brains for entertainment, it’s your right, but I respectfully request you do not do it on my account.

  Anger flashed in Mushgaana’s baby blue eyes, and for a second Maada wondered if the crown prince might hurt him. They had been in many successful campaigns together and formed a close friendship. Mushgaana was surely accustomed to his outbursts and did not take them personally. Then the general remembered Mushgaana could read his thoughts, and he blushed so hotly his olive skin became the same color as his fabled space fighter.

  Mushgaana chuckled, obviously amused by his discomfort. The woman sank back into her seat, a palm pressed to her heart.

  “The peace treaty is a ruse,” said Mushgaana as if nothing had happened. “You know the Akakies are technologically much more advanced than we are, and our intelligence suggests the fleet we destroyed on Alora’s orbit was probably one-third of their total forces. We caught them by surprise this time, but the next encounter will not be so easy. The treaty will give us the opportunity to do three things: reverse-engineer a few of the ships we have captured and build a new fleet, attack easier targets, and replenish and expand our current fleet. Once we are better prepared, we will invade the Akaki’s homeworld.”

  “Do you have a new target designated?” asked Maada.

  With a flick of his wrist, Mushgaana brought up a holographic image. “Right there. The blue planet, third from the sun. And it is only the first of seven targets we have identified and are planning to hit one after another. Let me finish this meeting. After that, you and I must sit together and start planning our new campaign.”

  Maada glared at the crown prince. Mushgaana should not have made the decision without consulting him first, but as the crown prince, it was his prerogative.

  “Before you leave, let me share a military secret with these gentlemen and the lady,” said Mushgaana. “A decade ago, when the confrontation with the Akakies started to look inevitable, General Maada figured they might be watching us. In our last three military campaigns, he made our fleet perform far below their ability. We took some losses in those battles, but it was worth catching the Akakies with their pants down.”

  The diplomats looked at Maada with admiration in their eyes. That made him uncomfortable. He bowed his head, turned and walked toward the hall’s entrance. The officer he had shot earlier was receiving medical attention. Maada stopped by him and said, “Sorry about that.”

  Grimacing in pain, the officer replied, “Not a problem, General. It is not the first time, and to be honest, it is kind of an honor.”

  Outside the hall, Maada rubbed the scar on his face and thought, I should really learn how to control my temper.

  He nearly jumped out of his socks when, in his brain, Mushgaana said, “Have you ever considered therapy?”

  Chapter Three

  A nauseating stench assaulted my nostrils as soon as I came to.

  I was in a small prison cell, alone, wearing an orange jumpsuit. The cell was empty, except for a narrow, hard platform which was supposed to be a bed, a toilet, and a sink. It smelled of urine and vomit.

  I couldn’t remember when I’d passed out.

  My right thigh was bandaged. With a slight limp, I walked to the cell’s barred door and looked outside. I saw nothing but a few empty cells. I knew where I was: the Coffin. Zheng’s infamous maximum-security prison where SCTU imprisoned captured Resistance members along with the most dangerous death-row inmates on the planet.

  I sat on the bed and tried to process my situation. It was disorienting. One moment, I was at the top of the world. I had a career I loved, I was rich and famous, and I was in a loving relationship with the most amazing woman I’d ever met. Now I was on death row. Helping a member of the Resistance carried the death sentence. I’d helped their leader and shot a few SCTU agents to boot. They’d probably sentence me to five consecutive executions, each carried out by a different method. They might’ve even invented a couple of new methods just for me.

  It was not the thought of dying that tormented me. Not because I wasn’t scared of death. If I sat down and thought about it, I’d probably freak out. But I was very good at avoiding this particular topic. As a fighter pilot and veteran of two wars, I’d faced death several times in the past. Each experience had made the next one just a bit easier. What gnawed at my brain was losing everything I treasured. I thought about Liz, wondering if she’d survived the attack. Thinking about her possible demise caused an almost physical reaction—as if a limb had been torn from my body.

  I met Liz at a party thrown by another pilot in my squadron. I’d had a few drinks and was tipsy, so at first, I didn’t notice the gorgeous, Afro-Hispanic woman with the fancy British accent passionately discussing some political issue with a group of admiring young men, who I was certain didn’t care about her political views. What first caught my attention wasn’t her long th
ick black curly hair, her very expensive canary-yellow body-hugging dress, her smooth coffee-bean skin or her long, long legs—and I was a sucker for long legs. I noticed her when she said, “The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few.”

  I’d always said if I ever found a girl who could quote Mr. Spock, I’d marry her in a heartbeat.

  One of the men talking to her nodded and smiled like an old, wise guru. “Ah, Aristotle. How very fitting.”

  I approached the group and said, “Or the one.”

  Liz looked at me approvingly and repeated, “Or the one,” then her amazing eyes—dark brown with flecks of gold—widened. “You’re Jim Harrison!”

  The other guys gave me an exasperated look that told me they knew they’d lost any chance they might’ve had with Liz the moment I walked in. I got this particular look all the time.

  “The book or the movie?” I asked.

  She smiled, opened her bag and took out her PDD. She touched the screen a few times and gave it to me. I looked at the screen and saw my book’s cover. I read out loud, “Nights of Thunder; the Adventures of Air Force’s Youngest Flying Ace.”

  I winked at her. “That’s me all right.”

  A few months before the Unification, China, Korea, and Japan, who didn’t want to join, formed their own alliance called the East Asia Coalition. You couldn’t have a United Earth if a third of the population didn’t sign up. The provisional government of Earth imposed severe economic sanctions on them. The Eastern Coalition responded by going to war with the rest of the world. The war ended with both sides making major concessions, and the Unification became official.

  During the war, my squadron was deployed in the Philippines. I shot down thirty-two enemy aircraft. I was only twenty-five at the time. Later, I wrote a book about my experiences in the war. As luck would have it, seven months after the war and right when my book was published, a dictator seized power in one of the ex-Soviet Union republics and declared independence. The United Earth Air Force sent its most decorated fighter pilots to show the dictator the error of his ways, and I ended up adding another sixteen kills to my tally in less than two weeks (yeah, I was that good). This helped my book sell a couple of million copies and got me a movie deal, on top of a couple of documentaries that had already been made about me. I was a big deal.