Proof of Death (Grendel Uprising Book 1)

by Scott Moon

  Below him was a village surrounded by green fields and grazing cattle. The vibrant realness of the panoramic landscape made it seem impossible that the simple garments in the equipment case, now trailing on tandem line, could pass him off as a native farmer. Ooja, Reaver, milk that cow!

  An alarm blared inside of his helmet. For one instant, he yielded to his reflexes and paid the price all the way to the ground. Holding the outside of his helmet as though he might actually protect his ears, which were still on the inside of the helmet, thankfully, did nothing to stop the klaxon that stabbed into his brain. He thrust his arms back into the correct posture almost before he realized what he had done.

  Pay attention, Aef. This is just another mission.

  The last layer of the drop-suit flared as wide as the wings of a dragon — vaguely reminiscent of the old-school parachutes used in boot camp — then biodegraded seconds before he touched the ground. Wouldn’t want anyone to find a parasail from heaven and start a cult around it now, would we?

  Aefel tumbled through vegetation, tasting dirt in his mouth, feeling pain in his left leg, his left arm, his right arm, his head.

  Flat on his back, he saw the smoke trail of his descent like evidence of a meteor strike.

  Poorly done. About as stealthy as a fart on a first date. Good job, Aef.

  He decided to be thankful. A normal meteor would have burned over 1600 degrees Celsius without a million credits’ worth of shielding for protection. So there was that to be thankful for.

  Pain overwhelmed his body, matched only by the screaming drill sergeant phantom in his memory. Nothing but charnel house bones for you, boy! You can put people down or you can be put down! Are you looking at me? Are you seriously looking at me?

  He fought the need to black out as memories of his boot camp drill sergeant yelled at him to get his pansy ass off the ground. He closed his eyes and allowed himself several moments of wishful thinking. In a day or two, he would be resting in a modern hospital. Maybe there would be a nurse with a heart of gold.

  3

  MORNING

  NEAR SKY CLAN VILLAGE

  GRENDEL 0473829: SURFACE, HIGHLAND VALLEY 83A2T

  MISSION CLOCK: 00:19:13

  Aefel opened his eyes and saw a blond-haired, blue-eyed woman staring down at him. She tucked a strand of wild hair over one ear. With her other hand, she pushed back two girls and a boy as they crowded to look around her until one mighty shove scattered them. When she pivoted again toward Aefel — grace and strength and all the beauty of youth guiding even the smallest parameters of her movement — the look of annoyance was still fading from her eyes.

  Her consternation and displeasure fascinated and enthralled him and the hilarious insanity of passion shuddered through him. One of a kind, he thought, knowing with conviction that she was much more than he could handle. He barked a laugh and choked on the pain it caused him.

  “Why are you laughing, Vildfremmed?” she asked.

  Vildfremmed. The word came slowly, barely worth the effort with pain and wonder competing for his grip on reality. Strangling. Total stranger. Something like that. Understanding her words took longer than it should have. He was, in fact, laughing like a drunk combat survivor. Perfectly exquisite, thunderous pain was hilarious — apparently.

  “It’s a stress response,” he laughed. Agony throbbed a steady beat in both arms and one of his legs — his left. Something was wrong with his hip. God, that’s a bite.

  She nodded and averted her eyes, smiling uncertainly as she furrowed her brow.

  She doesn’t know what the hell I’m talking about, but she understands the words — more or less.

  “You’ve got a broken leg,” she said, brushing back her hair again as she looked at the damage below his knee.

  “It’s not broken.” Aefel pushed the words between his teeth as he tried to sit up. “Not like you think it is.” It felt like a fracture, but he recognized from experience that it was more likely hardware separated from the bone. The structural enhancers would eventually reattach or biodegrade, causing him to piss fire, or something that felt just like it.

  The young woman rocked back on her haunches slightly and stared into his eyes without fear. “Broken, I say. Badly twisted.”

  The children reemerged with renewed energy, gripping her arms, hair, and clothing, depending on proximity, and nodded vigorous agreement.

  “Like Thor’s hammer busted it!” the boy said.

  Aefel stared. Shell-shocked by wonder and confusion, he studied the boisterous children as though the fate of the Commonwealth depended on each movement, every word, and the very life of these backwater children. As a soldier, he kept his Internals dedicated to subconscious enhancements — aiming, reloading, suppressing pain, healing — but even his relatively light information-processing ability could spot identification markers of the Blood Royal. It was somewhat disconcerting that he hadn’t been alerted to the clues immediately. Two seconds after his realization, he should have received confirmation, but nothing appeared in the corner of his vision. He should be getting more biofeedback regarding his injuries. His golden-haired savior described his injuries in ways that sounded even worse than they felt. Some of the inaccuracy had to be the byproduct of the faux language.

  “Sveinn!” The first blond-haired twin clenched her fists and lunged at the boy, her lips peeled back from her teeth, a mischievous light shining in her eyes.

  “Punch him straight, Ari!” The second twin moved toward Sveinn’s flank, attacked, and dodged a counter move.

  “Like Thor, I say!”

  Aefel made a sound that was both a grunt and a sob, but also a laugh. You tell them, Sveinn. He was drawn to the boy, like any good soldier would be to his captain, his lord, his king, or his emperor. His vision blurred as a fresh wave of pain washed through him, starting just below his knees and flashing to a sharp point in the back of his skull.

  Both girls punched Sveinn, one from his left and the other from his right. “Watch your pagan mouth, Sveinn!”

  Aefel guessed the twin girls were twelve, probably a week from married-with-children on this planet, and their brother was slightly younger or slightly older, but definitely taller and stronger with the first signs of puberty showing in his behavior. The trio was childish but mature, playful and drunk on life as they should be with death waiting right around the corner. In a world this raw and natural, anything could happen.

  And then, as he studied these barbarian children, Aefel admitted he knew exactly how old Sveinn and the others were. A fool might turn from the truth. A damn happy fool, he thought. Twenty-seven standard days longer than eleven years ago, there had been a month of news coverage — every channel, every medium, every mouthpiece of the government mourning the loss of the Blood Royal. With the children dead, only their uncle remains. The Hall of Lords must pass a security mandate. The Emperor must have a strong right arm.

  A long, strange moment passed during which he held his breath and fought for consciousness as too many startling facts jumbled in his mind. It was like bursting through the atmosphere without a drop-suit. The Emperor of the Commonwealth is dead. He’s dead. That’s why I’m here. Seccon is an assassin. The Emperor is dead.

  Who betrayed the Emperor’s sister? Who slaughtered his nephew and his nieces? Why do you even care because that was a long time ago?

  Aefel moaned in pain and snarled inwardly at the instinctual reaction. There was no reason for a weak or cowardly FALD Reaver to exist, but the crash landing impact was one for the record book. It felt as though a bone had lacerated the flesh of his leg, or some worse injury — whatever that would be — as the woman ignored the capering children and leaned on his throbbing hip with her slim body.

  Aef-fool! Why are you here? He killed the children with a better claim to the throne, and now Seccon has killed him. There was proof of death for every one of the Emperor’s nieces and his nephew. Stop hallucinating and get your act together. Ooja, Reaver!

  Nothing good came
from a FALD Reaver thinking about treason or ghosts. He passed out. A straight-punch power-dream of Commonwealth security officers scanning the freckle-like bar codes of the Emperor’s corpse tortured the pounding unconsciousness that came and went. He flicked awake long enough to think random thoughts, jerk his eyes desperately at his rescuers, bite down on a stick until it snapped.

  Sveinn has freckles. He could be scanned.

  Tugging, pushing, binding, and blinding torture shifted his body and teased his awareness. The woman — she was called Fey, he’d heard her called Fey — God, Fey, what are you doing — spoke to him, cursed him, then murmured soothing words in his ear.

  “Weak, stupid, outlander baby is going to die, he is.”

  Her voice was like music from the dark clouds that surrounded Aefel.

  “There, there…sniffling baby man. Moan and groan. Let it all out, Vildfremmed.”

  Aefel opened his eyes and tried to stare her down, but felt his humiliation, fear, and disorientation as though each trait was a sign of neon ink scrawled across his face. She looked away, examining the dislocated hip she had jammed back into place during his shock and delirium.

  Time passed — hours, seconds, or minutes — he couldn’t tell the difference.

  Sveinn and the twins grew bored and resumed their triangle of harassment. Aefel watched them pummel each other with half his attention as his mind struggled to absorb all of Fey’s magnificence.

  She touched his thigh in shy wonderment, examining his well-formed muscle while her younger siblings argued, played, and ducked her authority with fascinating skill. Her cheeks turned a shade of pale rose when she realized she had been caught examining parts of his body that needed no medical attention. This time, she pulled her hair into a long mass of gold and held it in front of her shoulder with one hand.

  “Your leg is broken out of place,” she said. “I pushed the joint back and bound the wounds that were bleeding.” She paused. “The thigh bone should have broken in pieces, not just out of the joint. You should have many broken bones. You should be dead, Vildfremmed.”

  “Did you see me fall?” Aefel asked as quietly as he could, given his condition. The children didn’t seem to hear or care.

  Fey didn’t answer.

  He writhed in pain, searched for solace in routine, and focused on the present — concentrating on the part of his situation beyond the injuries. He examined her movements, her clothing, and the hand-axe shoved through the belt around her tunic-shirt and kilt. The near perfection of the woman — girl, really — and the children made sense even if she wasn’t who he thought she was — even if she was the descendent of the original volunteer colonists.

  Grendel had been a tourist world. The developers called it a historical preservation society, but it was here for the pleasure of wealthy adventurers. The colonists had likely been subjected to every possible genetic screen during the early days of the project. Screw realism; billionaires wanted scenery.

  But I am looking at the Blood Royal. Are they ghosts? Am I dead? Because they certainly are. Slaughtered as babes. Identities scanned. Proof of death broadcast throughout the Commonwealth before the coronation of Dan Uburt-Wesson, first of his name.

  “Sveinn, run to the village. Bring a cart and a flagon of mead,” she said.

  “I’m not thirsty, Fey,” the boy said.

  The young woman smacked the top of Sveinn’s head. “It’s not for you, boy.”

  You shouldn’t strike him, Aefel thought.

  He laughed, groaned in pain, and clutched his leg. Bile scorched throat. Stars danced in his vision as the verdant plant life of the highland clearing began to spin. The reality of his situation struck him during that moment. He shouldn’t be in this kind of pain without suffering a compound fracture or maybe some kind of burn.

  His Internals were not functioning. That explained his lousy flight path and his crash landing. His emotions were all over the place and his pain tolerance was in the basement. No meperidine bolus for you, Aef. If this mission was a test, then it was the mother of all tests. Forget about capture the flag or hunt down the fugitive Commonwealth-destroying assassin; this was a regular quest for fire.

  Focus on the mission, Reaver.

  Seccon, Captain of the Royal Strongarms now turned traitorous assassin, had put an end to the Uburt-Wesson line, just like his father killed the Emperor’s twin in the cradle. Any person entrusted with that kind of power had to be ruthless; every boy and girl learned that before getting fitted with their first Internal modification. The human race could not afford interspecies war. There had to be unity. The Uburt-Wesson line kept the galaxies of violence on an even keel.

  Aefel struggled with fatigue and a type of mental haze he hadn’t known since boot camp. The idea of Seccon, who had been a good man and a respected if not brilliant soldier, committing regicide, did not make sense. Now Aefel was faced with the apparent resurrection of the Emperor’s nieces and nephew.

  My job is to kill him, no matter what these natives look like. No matter Seccon’s justification. Regardless of whatever game he was playing. Nothing made sense on Grendel. Why would Seccon kill the Emperor he was sworn to protect, then come after the family that same Emperor had put to death — or tried to have put to death?

  Kill them all. We don’t need them. That was what the traitor screamed before he fled the Commonwealth. Perhaps it was time for the descendants of Earth to forget the past, forget their heritage, forget bloodlines and class distinctions —— they never led to anything good.

  He groaned; the physical pain wasn’t enough, his soul was falling out and evaporating just to be certain that he was completely miserable.

  Fey grabbed his wrists with surprising strength and attempted to pull his hands away from his throbbing hip.

  “Thunder!” Aefel shouted. He had meant to shrug off the pain as he mimicked his boot camp drill sergeant by grunting about thunder and lightning. Two syllables was all he could manage.

  Fey laughed and tugged his hands back — twisting his injured arms painfully — then pinned them to his chest. She locked her arms straight and then pressed down with the weight of her slim body behind the effort.

  Gasping, half-laughing, half-cursing, he struggled to think. Complete the mission, Reaver.

  Aefel remembered his mission, more or less. His immediate reality was pain, with a bunch of nearly helpful kids who resembled a noble family that had been murdered in their sleep — bodies desecrated, the assassination broadcast on every news feed in the galaxy.

  Fey looked over her shoulder, briefly, then held him. “You mustn’t squirm around so much. What are you, a fish?”

  Aefel tilted his chin down until he could see his other injuries and confirm he wasn’t about to bleed to death. He fought to sit up as the two girls rushed to help Fey.

  Moments later, when he’d spewed the most violent profanity he knew and vomited in his mouth at least once, Fey and the younger girls stepped back. Fey crossed her arms and then tapped her toe.

  “Have you seen another stranger?” Aefel groaned. Each word increased in volume and pitch.

  Fey rolled her eyes. “The men of our village don’t allow strangers this near the palisade.”

  Aefel looked around. “What men?”

  Fey stepped forward and pointed a finger menacingly. “You don’t want to be finding out, now, do you?”

  He started to laugh again, but the sound emerged as a sob and nearly choked him.

  4

  MORNING

  SKY CLAN VILLAGE

  GRENDEL 0473829: SURFACE, HIGHLAND VALLEY 83A2T

  MISSION CLOCK: 00:27:27

  Sveinn did better than a flagon of mead and a cart; he brought two sturdy midwives to help push it and wrestle Aefel down when the pain drove him out of his mind. Aefel wasn’t in need of midwifery, but he supposed they were kind of like field medics.

  The oldest and largest was called Helen by the excited children. Her thick fingers gripped the front of his shirt deftly, a
nd with considerable strength.

  “Have you encountered another stranger?” Aefel asked, realizing his words and the way he phrased them was slightly off.

  “Oh, perhaps I have,” Helen said. “You are a difficult one, just as Fey was saying.”

  Aefel watched her fist as it fell. He should have avoided the blow, even though his entire body was a knot of pain and damaged muscles. This was the first time in years that he had been injured without the immediate and automatic first aid procedures that came with body armor and he was finding it worse than he remembered.

  He turned his face. Her knuckles grazed the side of his head as he twisted to get free.

  “Don’t let him touch his hip,” Fey said. Nervousness and guilt colored her words.

  Aefel cursed. “What did you do?” He spat the question as both a threat and a challenge. His hip throbbed and the injury was severe. But she had done something to him during his mental stumbling and bouts of unconsciousness. She had taken something from him. There was a lot of hardware bolted on thigh bones and sensor chips fused in the pelvic girdle — some small enough to be nearly invisible, others large enough to be broken free in a fight without armor or a crash landing. Broken free or cut free.

  That was why there was so much blood from an essentially bloodless injury.

  “The bone fragment was sticking out. I pushed it back in,” she said.

  “No you didn’t!” He clenched his teeth, tried to push free of Helen and the other woman, and growled at Fey. “Give it back. I need that thing inside of my body.”

  This time, the impact of Helen’s fist on his chin was tremendous. He wondered what kind of midwife this woman was.

  She stared at him in puzzlement, then hit him again.

  He awoke on a cart with Fey pushing it. Helen swaggered alongside whistling a fine melody, stopping only to improvise the tune with her alto-baritone singing voice. The smaller woman chewed her lower lip and frequently threw her weight into cart handles to force the wheels across uneven ground.