Idris looked up into the blue sky and although he could not see her, he knew that the wreck of Arcadia was still up there, her shattered hulk already being meticulously broken down by automated machines for spares and materials to support Atlantia. Numerous Morla’syn vessels were monitoring the work and the ship was routinely being bathed in high–energy microwaves in order to destroy any of the Legion found in or around the vessel. As the captain stared up into the blue sky he caught the occasional glimpse of reflected sunlight, like distant stars blinking as the various ships orbiting the planet caught the light of the sun.
Below them, across the city, tens of thousands of inhabitants were watching on giant holographic projections that hovered above the streets in the sky as Rh’yll announced the Galactic Council’s decision regarding the fate of humanity.
‘It cannot be denied that the sacrifices made, both before and during the battle to protect our planet, were largely made by the few remaining human beings left alive in the cosmos. They stood, where we failed to stand. They fought, where we failed to fight. They believed, when we so steadfastly refused to, and they warned us that the Legion, The Word, could not be trusted.’ Rh’yll looked over at the captain. ‘We did not listen, and it has cost us all dearly.’
Rh’yll turned back to the masses as he went on.
‘The Word is not a force that can be reasoned with, not a being that protects itself when attacked but a cold, brutal machine that seeks only to undermine and then destroy all species with whom it comes into contact. It is to our shame…, to my shame, that in my efforts to avoid conflict in our space, to uphold the centuries–old tradition of diplomacy among our people, I did not see the threat that was evolving before me and did not act in a manner befitting of the Oassian legacy left to us by our forefathers. Thus did so many lose their lives, and thus do I now relinquish my role as councillor and spokesperson for this alliance.’
Idris raised an eyebrow in surprise and heard a collective gasp from below as thousands of individuals around the platform and the city beyond digested what Rh’yll had just said. Before the protests began, Rh’yll spoke again.
‘I have held this council for one hundred and seventeen Oassian years and have served to the best of my abilities, but times have changed faster than any of us could have believed possible. My strength was to lead in a time of peace.’ Rh’yll paused. ‘That time is now over. We, the Oassian people, are now at war, and for that a different kind of leader is required. For the duration of the conflict against The Word, the Oassian council will be advised by a leader more experienced in the art of conflict: General Veer.’
Idris watched as the General bowed in acceptance of his new role and then spoke, his voice deeper and more melodious than Rhy’ll’s but weighted by the firm tone of a military leader.
‘Although I am honoured to take on this role, it is with deep regret regarding the circumstances. If, however, I have learned anything from the events of the past few days it is that all species are stronger together, that we should all stand as one and ensure that Oassians never again come under threat from a foreign force.’ Veer raised one pale–coloured fist and clenched it tightly beside his head. ‘We will be passive no longer. Now, allied at last, we shall advance and fight back against the cruel scourge that is the Legion and seek to scour its every last remains from every corner of the cosmos. The sacrifice of Arcadia, its captain and all of those who died in the battle of yesterday will not be in vain, and we will not stop until the day comes that all of our species, including humanity, are free once more!’
A distant roar of cheers drifted across the city and Idris spotted colourful lights bursting over the spires as Oassia celebrated the new alliance.
‘This is it,’ Idris said with conviction. ‘This is the day we turn the war around.’
He felt Meyanna’s arm slip through his as they watched together the city rejoice in the coming of war, and despite his relief he felt as though in coming to Oassia they had somehow poisoned a perfect chalice or shattered a jewel. Wherever you’re found, chaos follows he recalled a Gaollian saying.
*
It was hotter than he would have imagined. Far hotter.
But that suited him well because he had spent far too long fending off the cold. Now he felt cossetted, enveloped in a warm blanket of acceptance and even honour that still surprised him, given all that he had done.
The corridor was well illuminated, clean and devoid now of the stain of human presence that afflicted most ships of its kind. More modern than the old frigates that Sansin and his entourage cowered aboard, this was a truly magnificent vessel.
The Legion scuttled back and forth nearby, orderly black lines flowing like water as they moved toward damaged areas of the hull: rebuilding, repairing, making good the terrible damage inflicted when the frigate Arcadia had, to the amazement of all concerned, rammed headlong into her and nearly severed the great carrier in two.
The sheer insane ingenuity of human beings had never ceased to amaze him, their insatiable desire for conflict forever warring with their undeniably courageous nature and capacity for love and the desire for that love to be returned. They craved and then rejected, sought and then abandoned, often cared only for what they didn’t have and then missed it only when it was gone again. The unbalanced line between genius and fool was often a fine one trodden so often by human beings.
The corridor led to the great vessel’s bridge, the doors there open as he walked through and surveyed the ship’s command centre. To him it all appeared in rippling shades of colour, his eyes detecting multiple wavelengths of light and amassing them into a coherent image of the bridge. Since his arrival, the Legion had done a far more efficient job of perfecting his eyesight.
A rippling mass of Infectors turned to face him, standing with its hands behind its back as it looked him up and down.
‘Kordaz,’ it said in a rippling, unnatural voice, ‘we meet at last.’
‘Tyraeus Forge,’ Kordaz acknowledged the captain. ‘I’ve heard much about you.’
‘No doubt.’
Kordaz had been on the verge of death, tumbling endlessly through the abyss of space when the Legion had arrived, but they had answered his call and they had come. He had been delivered safely aboard Defiance long before the first shots of the battle had been fired, the Hunters swarming around him in constant motion, protecting him from the bitter cold of space, their Infectors infiltrating his body and shutting it down into a bizarre form of deep hibernation until he could be liberated.
‘I owe you my life, once again,’ Kordaz said, speaking more to The Word in general than to Forge.
‘You owe us nothing,’ Tyraeus replied. ‘You are a curious figure, Kordaz, neither free nor our slave. You interest us immensely.’
Kordaz said nothing as he surveyed the rest of Defiance’s bridge, the posts manned by humans who were grotesquely deformed by the Infectors controlling their bodies. Most were gradually becoming more like Tyraeus as their biological forms slowly decayed and were replaced by more Infectors, although others were starting to look as though they were retaining their human forms.
‘Our work continues to improve,’ Tyraeus said as he observed the direction of Kordaz’s gaze. ‘Soon, the humans will need little modification to remain under our control.’
‘Why do you maintain their form, if you hate them so much?’ Kordaz asked.
‘Hate them?’ Tyraeus echoed. ‘We don’t hate them, Kordaz, we merely consider them an obsolete form of life, something to be updated. Humans, like all biological species, are the past. They are what came before us. Look at me – I’m obsolete now, a machine and nothing more. The person who held this form was a stoic, patriotic Colonial hero. He is gone. I will be gone too, soon, when The Word finally decides that I am no longer required, but it pains me not. This is the future that awaits us all. No death, Kordaz. No pain. No suffering. Existence, without the existential angst that burdens lesser forms of life.’
Kordaz nodded, to hi
s own surprise, for he understood precisely what Tyraeus meant now that he could feel it himself. Though Defiance was hot, he knew that the Legion surging through his veins was warming him as though he were still on his tropical home world, Wraiythe, to comfort him. He no longer felt pain from wounds, only a need to repair the damage. He did not miss his own kind, for he knew that they had nothing to fear from being infected by the Legion – how could they, when he felt as he did?
‘What now?’ Kordaz asked. ‘The humans have no doubt become allies of the Oassians and they had a fleet waiting for you. They’re preparing for war.’
‘As must we,’ Tyraeus agreed.
‘You son, he is among them.’
Tyraeus stopped in mid–stride, and Kordaz watched the commander for a long moment before he finally turned and looked at him.
‘Taron?’
Kordaz nodded. ‘He stands with the humans.’
Tyraeus’s glowing red eyes seemed to lose focus for a moment, as though the commander were wrestling with memories that he didn’t even know he had.
‘How ironic,’ he said finally, ‘that I fought for so long to keep him in the Colonial fleet and yet he rebelled and fled to become a common criminal. Now, with no fleet to speak of remaining, he starts allying himself to Idris Sansin.’
‘You still see him as your son,’ Kordaz observed, as interested in the machines before him as they seemed to be in him.
Tyraeus looked at Kordaz and the thousands of tiny machines that made up his head shifted into a position that mimicked an expression of surprise.
‘Yes, but he is the son of a man who once lived,’ he replied, ‘and that man’s memories are of course now my own. It is of no consequence, for we have other matters to attend to. We must report back to The Word and inform them of the alliance building against us. They will be seeking conquest, and we shall be ready.’
Kordaz was about to turn and leave the bridge, but Tyraeus forestalled him with a raised hand.
‘There is something I wish to show you. We have a new venture to consider.’
Kordaz turned as the bridge doors opened and a metallic gurney drifted in, pushed by two Colonial Marines, their eyes glowing red and their skin laced with dark veins filled with Infectors. Before them on the gurney was strapped a man wearing nothing but briefs, his body covered in lacerations where countless Hunters had mauled him. To his horror, Kordaz could see that the man’s limbs had been reattached, terrible lesions repaired with metallic sutures, horrific burns soothed with unknown lubricants. Kordaz watched as the wreckage of the man was manoeuvered into position on the bridge and Tyraeus looked down at him.
‘Pitiful, don’t you think?’ he asked Kordaz.
Kordaz looked down at the man, who glared back at him with pure and undiluted hatred, his voice warbling with digital resonance from his shattered throat.
‘I wish I’d killed you when I had the chance!’
Mikhain had shouted, presumably using anger to veil his fear. Kordaz ignored him as he turned to Tyraeus.
‘How is this possible? He died when Arcadia rammed us.’
‘The Legion entered Arcadia’s bridge moments before the impact and decided to entomb Captain Mikhain within them and rush him away from the bridge and the blast. They succeeded, to a degree, and brought Mikhain’s remains across before we fled the scene of the battle in much the same way that they preserved your life, Kordaz. Isn’t it wonderful, how such simple machines can achieve such incredible things when they work together? If only humans could do that, then the Legion would never be able to stand against them. We would be nothing.’
Mikhain glared up at them both, defiance glowing in his eyes along with a dull red light.
‘Sooner or later you’ll both be obliterated once the fleet finds you. I just hope I’m there to see it, preferably when I pull the trigger that destroys you myself!’
Tyraeus smiled and one hand gently caressed Mikhain’s cheek.
‘He’s fighting the infection,’ Tyraeus explained. ‘Enough of the human that he once was remains to fight another day, but it is useless of course.’
Mikhain’s features twisted with grief. ‘I’m not dead!’
‘Not now,’ Tyraeus agreed, ‘we needed you to remain something of the person you once were in order to study you.’
From Tyraeus’s hand a flood of Infectors spilling onto Mikhain’s cheek and swarmed across his face. Mikhain screamed in horror and turned his head away, but it mattered little. Kordaz watched as the Infectors swarmed into Mikhain’s ear.
The captain screamed again, this time in pain as the tiny machines swept through his delicate eardrum, seeking a way to take control of his mind and his body.
‘The humans have engineered a vaccine of sorts against infection,’ Tyraeus said conversationally as Mikhain writhed before them. ‘Let’s see how long it takes to break that resistance down and turn the captain to our side for good, shall we?’
***
Also by Dean Crawford:
The Atlantia Series
Survivor, Retaliator
Aggressor, Endeavour, Defiance
The Warner & Lopez Series
The Nemesis Origin
The Ethan Warner Series
Covenant, Immortal, Apocalypse
The Chimera Secret, The Eternity Project
Independent novels
Eden, Holo Sapiens
Revolution, Soul Seekers
Find more books by Dean Crawford here in the USA: Author Page USA or here in the UK: Author Page UK or sign up to Dean Crawford's Newsletter
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Dean Crawford is the author of the internationally published series of thrillers featuring Ethan Warner, a former United States Marine now employed by a government agency tasked with investigating unusual scientific phenomena. The novels have been Sunday Times paperback best–sellers and have gained the interest of major Hollywood production studios. He is also the enthusiastic author of many independently published Science Fiction novels.
Table of Contents
DEFIANCE
I
II
III
IV
V
VI
VII
VIII
IX
X
XI
XII
XIII
XIV
XV
XVI
XVII
XVIII
XIX
XX
XXI
XXII
XXIII
XXIV
XXV
XXVI
XXVII
XXVIII
XXIX
XXX
XXXI
XXXII
XXXIII
XXXIV
XXXV
XXXVI
XXXVII
XXXVIII
XXXIX
XL
XLI
XLII
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XLIV
Defiance (Atlantia Series Book 5) Page 30
