The Super Power Saga (Book 3): Fear the Empire

by Jaron Lee Knuth

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Also by Jaron Lee Knuth

  Copyright

  Map

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  EPILOGUE

  About the Author

  FEAR THE EMPIRE

  The Super Power Saga

  Book Three

  By Jaron Lee Knuth

  Also by Jaron Lee Knuth

  After Life

  Fixing Sam

  Demigod

  The Infinite Life of Emily Crane

  Nottingham

  The NextWorld Series

  Level Zero

  Spawn Point

  End Code

  The Super Power Saga

  Super Powers of Mass Destruction

  Rise of the Supervillains

  Fear the Empire

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © by Jaron Lee Knuth

  First Edition 2018

  This work is licensed under a Creative Commons

  Attribution - NonCommercial - ShareAlike

  3.0 Unported License

  1

  AZAKOR

  Shouting and bickering filled the throne room in the Grand Citadel of the Zharkovian Empire, but Imperator Azakor wasn't listening to anyone. He stared silently down upon the empty throne that floated in mid-air in front of him. Carved from the black meteor that fell to earth during the Super Power War, it was supposed to symbolize the resilience of the empire, the godliness of the Zharkovs, and the unification of the eight domains, but to Azakor, it now seemed like a coffin, a purgatory where he could wait for his inevitable death. It was a stark contrast to the invincibility his family once portrayed. Now he understood how fragile they all were, and how weak their grip upon the world truly was.

  “We must seek utter destruction of the Oshiro dynasty! Katsu is the only remaining member of their family. If we strike the head of the snake-”

  “Spare us your metaphors, General LaForte. Katsu Oshiro sits behind an invincible force field that covers his entire domain. We cannot kill that which we cannot reach.”

  The other generals grumbled their agreements and disagreements to each other before a third general spoke.

  “Have we completely given up on the idea of diplomacy?”

  There was an eruption of barking and shouting that bordered on laughter at the idea. The world had fallen into chaos. To these men of war, there was no place for words.

  “Surely the Therians will give us the upper hand on the Eastern Front. Once we unleash their forces against the southern shore of Neo-Nippon, the enemy will be forced to withdraw their numbers from our border.”

  “And what if they don't?” Azakor asked, still staring down at the throne.

  “I beg your pardon, my Imperator?”

  Azakor slowly turned, his black cape billowing around his golden armor. He took a step down from where the throne hovered, toward the group of generals assembled below him, all of them flinching as he approached.

  Azakor motioned with his arm, waving it across the room. “Our enemy has endless numbers, a self-replicating robot army that spews out soldiers and death machines at ever-increasing numbers, while our flesh and blood soldiers fall at their feet. The kill ratio is unacceptable. At this rate, our defeat is inevitable. We can throw all the man-beasts of Therian at Neo-Nippon's shores that we want. There will always be a robot to match them.”

  “My Imperator... what are you saying?” one of the generals asked.

  Azakor couldn't keep their names straight anymore. As the war raged on, it seemed more and more of them were promoted as more and more of the men on the front line fell. It was a sick irony that he had witnessed first hand, until he was recalled from the fighting, summoned back to the Grand Citadel to take his uncle's place under the crown.

  The same general looked to his fellow officers, waiting for them to back him up, but they did not meet his gaze. He seemed to dismiss them immediately, and continued his line of questioning.

  “We all know the dire circumstances we face, that's why we're here, but if you are suggesting some sort of surrender-”

  Azakor's hand was around the man's throat before anyone could react. He gently squeezed, and the man's fleshy neck turned to pulp, oozing between his fingers as the head of the general fell to the floor, rolling toward the other officers.

  Azakor held out his hand and two servant girls rushed toward him with clean towels, wiping each of his fingers clean. He inspected their work and then dismissed them with a nod of his head. Once they had scurried away in fear, he turned his gaze back toward the generals, who were all doing their best not to cower from him.

  “We are the Zharkovian Empire,” Azakor said with his jaw set. Then, with a thunderous shout, “We will never surrender! Do you hear me?”

  The generals nodded and muttered their understanding.

  Azakor clenched his fist, looking down at the swollen knuckles that thirsted for purpose and ached to be unleashed.

  “This uprising has cost me the life of my uncle. My sister. My...” He stumbled, his breath taken away before he continued, “My wife. My son.”

  He shut his eyes for a moment, pushing away the images of his fallen family, their faces staring back at him, asking him to avenge them. Demanding it.

  “This price is unacceptable. There must be consequences for this action against me. Severe consequences. The world must see what it means to raise a fist, a sword, an army against us. They must tremble at the thought. They must look upon the flag of our empire and be compelled to do nothing but serve us.”

  Azakor took a deep breath in through his nose, then walked back up the steps, toward the black meteor carved into a throne. He placed his hand upon it and closed his eyes.

  “For too long, my forefathers have ruled this empire from this throne. They sat among the clouds, hearing advice from men who were supposedly more informed, more educated, about the events below this floating citadel. They would hear numbers and read charts, signing off on laws and decisions made by other men. Councils would meet and decide the fate of millions... billions of people. And the Imperator would nod along, trusting the ideas of these... lesser men.”

  Azakor sensed the confusion and apprehension that the generals were sharing with each other, but after his display of violence, none of them dared question him verbally.

  “Now that I am the Imperator of this empire, that will no longer be the case.”

  He gripped the meteoric throne with both hands, and lifted it over his head. With a slight gesture, the throne went hurtling through the air, crashing into the far wall and shattering into a thousand tiny pieces.

  All the generals gasped, taking steps away from what they could only assume was a mad tyrant whom had lost his mind. But Azakor had never
felt more clear-headed. His thoughts were pure, unadulterated.

  “I will rule from the very earth that makes our empire. I will fight alongside our men, as I have ever since this war began. I will see firsthand what is happening to our people, and they will see me, in all of my glory, and know that I am their Imperator, their protector, their provider... their god.”

  The generals did not nod or exchange glances, they just stared up at the man, waiting for his next declaration. As it should be.

  “Go now. Return to your men. Tell them that their Imperator will be returning to the battlefield... and vengeance will be coming with me.”

  The generals all bowed on one knee before filing out of the throne room, leaving Azakor alone with only a small contingent of servants who waited silently in the shadows. A part of him was happy to be left in silence again. When he was alone, his mind seemed to work in a more linear fashion, uncomplicated by the debates and thoughts of others. He knew what was best. He knew what was right and wrong. It was these so-called intellectuals that always tried to muddy the waters, to smear the line between black and white. But he was in charge now, and the world would see what true leadership looked like.

  Just as the content, satisfied smile came to rest upon his lips, he heard the throne room doors open once again. The soldiers who manned the door announced the names of the guests entering.

  “Lady Magda Zharkov and The Guardian of the West, Maksim the Warhammer.”

  Azakor's mother and brother crossed the huge chamber. Magda floated next to Maksim, her feet hovering far from the marble floor, yet her head was level with Maksim's giant frame. She always floated now, her legs paralyzed by the assassin's bullet that had struck her spine. She remained her regal self, always straight and rigid, her chin slightly raised into the air, but the fact that her feet never touched the ground was a constant reminder of the infiltration that had occurred in Azakor's absence.

  “Brother!” Azakor said with a smile. “You have perfect timing. I was just issuing my new commands to my generals, and you are to be an integral part of them.”

  Magda's lips pursed as she hissed out the words, “I am here too, my son.”

  Azakor tried not to respond to her condescension. He had grown tired of her superiority. He wore the crown now.

  “Yes, mother. Hello.”

  “Ah,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Such warmth.”

  Her gaze flashed to where the throne once floated, then to the wall where it lay in pieces. “Redecorating?”

  Azakor lazily waved his hand in the air. “I have discarded the past.”

  “What does that mean?” Magda asked, floating over to the pieces of the throne and picking one off the floor. “This... this is the center piece of our citadel. You don't just discard an image of authority. This was a tool for you to use. A symbol of your power over the empire!”

  “I am that symbol!” Azakor shouted, shaking even his mother's demeanor. “What good is my strength if all I do is sit in a chair? I must flex these muscles in the empire itself. I must remind the people what we are capable of.”

  Magda dropped the piece of meteor onto the floor and floated back toward him. “Listen to yourself. Mingling with the masses is no place for an Imperator. Gods do not walk among men.”

  “And that is why men forget about the gods.”

  “Nonsense.”

  “It's not nonsense, mother! This is my declaration. I am your Imperator.”

  “You're still my son. And you still have much to learn about ruling an empire. Now, you need to forget these foolish thoughts and prepare yourself for the weekly address. The media crew is here to record your statement for-”

  Azakor roared. It wasn't a word, just a guttural noise of anger that echoed throughout the chamber. His arms reached out to his sides as he let loose the sound, his hands clenching the empty air as if he were trying to grasp onto reality itself and strangle it into submission.

  “I did not ask for your advice!” Azakor shouted into his mother's face. “And until I do, you will not speak to your Imperator!”

  Magda stared back at her son, her entire body frozen in place. Her eyes finally broke away, glancing down at the floor, defeated.

  “I was only-”

  “I know what you were doing, mother. The same thing you always do. You think you know better than anyone else. You think you have this all figured out, because you've lived through more than any of us. But where has this wisdom gotten us? Imperator after Imperator has fallen under your guidance. The Empire is crumbling because of your ideas. Our family is dying because of you.”

  Magda's stone face broke. She looked as if Azakor had stabbed her in the stomach. She backed away from him, as if his words might not hurt her as much from a distance. Her mouth opened wide, gasping for air.

  “Take that back.”

  Azakor knew the strike he had inflicted upon her, but he did not yield. “Leave us. I have much to discuss with my brother.”

  Magda flashed a look at Maksim, but he did not make eye contact. She wrapped her arms around her stomach, turned, and floated out of the chamber. A tiny whimper escaped her mouth just as she exited through the doors.

  “I'm sorry, brother. That was... unpleasant. But we must act, and we must do so with strength. Which is why I require your assistance.”

  Maksim nodded and asked, “What will you have me do, my Imperator?”

  Azakor marched around him, throwing his hands into the air as he spoke. “These reports I'm hearing about dissent in the empire. Are they true? Graffiti on our flags? People marching in the streets?”

  Maksim took a deep breath. “It's true, my Imperator. But it is a small minority.”

  “A minority? Then why hasn't it been contained? Destroyed? What are you waiting for?”

  Maksim looked uncomfortable, as if he was hesitating with the truth. “It isn't that simple. New groups pop up all the time. All around the world.”

  “So what is connecting them? What do they have in common? My advisers tell me nothing. They simply say these groups are unhappy with our rule.”

  Maksim took a deep breath and looked his brother in the eye. “Azakor... they do not tell you the truth, because they are afraid.”

  “Afraid? Of what?”

  “Of you.”

  Azakor let out a huff of breath and said, “And this is why I ask you for the truth.”

  Maksim sat down on the steps that once led to the throne, resting his armored forearms on top of his knees. It was obvious he was struggling with his words, and when he finally spoke, Azakor understood why.

  “These groups are... victims. Victims of your son.”

  Azakor looked down at his right hand and opened his palm. The lines that crisscrossed it had grown deeper in his old age, even though his invincibility had kept him so young. He remembered when Yuri's tiny hand used to wrap all five of his fingers around one of Azakor's. Even as a baby, he had displayed strength beyond his years. Azakor knew he should have cultivated that. He knew he should have raised his son into a rightful heir, rather than the wild boy he had become. Azakor clenched his fist, putting away the marks of time. He had to stop looking backward. It was time for change.

  “Yuri is only the first step in this new campaign. We must remind the citizens of the empire what it means to be our enemy. We must remind them how cold it can be outside of our embrace. We must show the sheep what the wolves can do.”

  Maksim looked at him with confusion. “What are you saying? You can't tell me you agree with what Yuri is doing.”

  “I not only agree. I think we need to do more.”

  Maksim replied with stunned horror. “He's the reason they're turning against us! Their homes have been destroyed. Their families have been slaughtered. Their farms have been burnt to the ground. But they aren't bending their knees in forgiveness. They're organizing. They're rebelling. They're blaming us.”

  “The only reason there are rebels, is because he left some of them alive.”

 
“Brother. Please. You can't-”

  Azakor glared at Maksim. “Would you care to join mother? Or do you want to work with me? Do you want to help rebuild this empire and save our family?”

  Maksim stared at him for a moment as if he were truly questioning which of those options was the best, but in the end, he knelt down on one knee and bowed his head.

  “I will do whatever you ask of me, my Imperator.”

  Azakor placed his hand on Maksim's head and said, “Thank you, brother. I will be making the announcement in my weekly address, but I want you to know first. If you are to work with me on this, I no longer think the title of Guardian of the West applies anymore. I do not want us to appear weak without our four Guardians to protect our borders. It is only you and I now, brother. Therefore, from this moment on, you will be known as Maksim the Warhammer, Guardian of the Empire.”

  Azakor removed his hand and Maksim looked up at him, his eyes tearing up.

  “Thank you, my Imperator.”

  As his brother stood, a guard near the door cleared his throat. Azakor glanced in his direction and saw the media crew waiting outside with their lights and cameras, ready to record the weekly address. Azakor nodded to him and the men and women entered the throne room. Maksim stepped to the side to allow his brother to take his place at the top of the steps, but Azakor stopped him, demanding he stayed at his side, albeit one step lower than him on the platform.

  “We must show unity,” he explained.

  Once everything was in place, the man in charge of the state-run media pointed at Azakor and a red light blinked to life on top of each camera.

  “Greetings, citizens of the Zharkovian Empire. I am here to speak to each and every one of you, in every domain that rests under our watchful gaze, and present to you an ultimatum.”

  Azakor took a deep breath, then glared into the camera with eyes that pierced through every television set across the globe and said in the most matter of fact way possible, “Submit or die.”

  2

  WESLEY