by J. N. Chaney
Flight time to Worru would be just under six hours. After making the jump to light speed, Moldark surrendered the helm to his captain and made his way to his quarters. He’d ordered his crew not to disturb him until they arrived above Worru.
The door closed, and Moldark removed his uniform to take a shower. He caught sight of himself in the mirror just before the hot water began to steam up the glass. The puckered flesh around his torso spoke to memories that plagued him like Sorlium leeches on a druther snout fish. He could still feel the flames, still hear the screams of his men, still hear his own screams. Then he caught the glint of his pinky ring. Its gold band and red stone reflected the clear cabin light like a beacon, guiding his attention back to port. He’d suffered greatly, but then he’d been given a second chance that would let him right the wrongs and rebuild the future.
He stepped into the shower and let the water beat against his skin hotter and hotter. He pushed the temperature icon far beyond its routine setting; he’d ordered a coder to remove the maximum-temperature limit to allow boiling water through the showerhead. Try as he might, Moldark could not sense the heat or feel his skin burning atop his bones. The medics would scold him, the bots would treat him, and the same old story would repeat itself. Still, he wanted to feel again. He wanted to remember what it was like.
He thought he heard a scream in the distance—someone shrieking in agony—but he couldn’t pick it out amidst the sound of water streaming over his head and splashing at his feet. That person, whoever it was, felt pain. In fact, everyone he knew complained about physical pain. Labored with it. Mourned it. Spent small fortunes to alleviate it. Moldark would have given anything to feel physical pain again. Its ghost haunted him and compelled him to do strange things in the hopes that it would return one day. But no matter how he mutilated himself, no matter how he tortured his aging body, the results were always the same: nothing. He felt nothing.
He turned off the water and reached for a towel. He already knew from the smell what he’d done. He dried himself, but the towel grew damp and sticky. He took a second towel and a third. Blood and pus matted the fabric to an unusable state. He reached for a fourth towel before pulling on his uniform again.
Moldark would visit sick bay. They would treat his burns. But they could not treat the pain inside his chest—the one that burned like a hot coal. He’d tried to douse it, but still, it raged—not the bright burn of new flames but the steady glow of old embers, the ones still hot even at dawn. That pain drove him now—not as Admiral Wendell Kane but as Moldark. The embers would carry him through the day, and he would fan them into flames again as the night drew near.
* * *
An entourage of no fewer than thirty Luma escorted Moldark and his large security detail to Elder’s Hall inside the Grand Arielina. He noted, once again, how beautiful Plumeria was. Like the fragrant flower it was named after, the city radiated life. Learning, knowledge, youth—it was the intersection of the best of galactic cultures and included none of the bad. At least, not in the parts of the city he’d been shown. But he knew the bad was on the planet somewhere. It was always lurking, waiting for those who knew where to look.
The entourage surrounded him as the hall’s large wooden doors opened to reveal So-Elku, master of the Order of the Luma, decked in ornate green-and-black robes. His tall physique, baldpate, narrow eyes, and meticulously trimmed wraparound beard gave him an air of sophistication.
“Admiral Kane,” So-Elku said. “We’ve been expecting you.”
Moldark spread his hands at his waist, palms up, parting the cape that closed around his hips. He twitched at the mention of the old name. The Luma master would learn of his new one in time.
“Come.” So-Elku motioned for them to enter.
Moldark noticed the man staring at his head, avoiding his hollow black eyes. Kane would have offered an explanation. The fool. Moldark said nothing. Kane would probably have said something about letting the Luma master live back on Ithnor Ithelia. There’d been a momentary battle between him and So-Elku, until Moldark realized that killing Awen and the others was a more pressing prize than dispatching the Luma master. Moldark convinced Kane to cease fire and give chase into the temple. Moldark had figured he might need the Luma master at a future time, which—as luck would have it—he did, as So-Elku would soon learn.
The pair walked to the center of Elder’s Hall, followed by their joint retinue. “Can I offer you something to drink?” So-Elku asked. “Plumeria nectar? Or… perhaps something stronger? Svoltin single malt?”
“No, thank you,” Moldark said.
So-Elku looked away from Moldark’s head then back again. “Begging your pardon, but your voice—I don’t know—has it changed somehow, Admiral?”
“It is my voice, as it’s always been.” Moldark tilted his head. “Has yours changed?”
So-Elku touched his throat. “No. But the wraps around your head, Admiral. Were you—were you injured?”
Moldark straightened his back, raised his chin, and took a deep breath through wheezy nostrils. “The medics say I will recover in time. It’s what they always say.”
So-Elku’s eyes narrowed. Moldark could tell the man wanted to ask more questions. That was good. Having the advantage in every exchange, no matter how trivial, was important. He liked to keep victims off balance, always guessing. That was how wars were won—not through mass casualties, as historians liked to purport, but through attrition, winning one exchange after another until your opponent begged you to stop.
“If you’d like a more private space, your security may wait outside,” So-Elku said.
“And leave me to your otherworldly whims?” Moldark shook his head. “They will stay.”
“Admiral, you misunderstand me. When we were last together, I was merely disappointed that you broke our agreement.”
“You still received access to your temple library.”
“Thankfully, yes. Had I not discovered the location by tracking my student’s mind, however, who knows how your troopers would have ravaged it.”
Moldark snorted. He disliked this Unity. It was something he could not control, and anything he could not control was a threat. “They have no time for your incantations, nor do I.”
“And still you killed my student.”
“I told you that discretion was costly, and the price was more than you could afford.”
“Yet I owe you nothing, since I delivered both Awen and the stardrive to you.”
Moldark blew a blast of air from his nostrils. “But you did walk away with something, So-Elku.”
“I’m not sure I follow.”
“From the library.”
“Ah. A small trinket, I suppose. Nothing more.”
“But a trinket nonetheless.”
“Something for my library, that’s all,” So-Elku said. “A book, as they were known in antiquity.”
“And books contain ideas. Powerful ones.”
“I suppose, though these only concern our pesky incantations, as you call them.”
“So you owe me, then,” Moldark said, licking his lips.
“Owe you? I believe we’re even, Admiral. And if I were you, I’d—”
“If you were me?” Moldark took a step toward the Luma master. “You can’t even begin to imagine what it’s like to be me, Luma. If you were me, perhaps you’d wonder why I haven’t killed you already.”
“Are you threatening me in my house?” So-Elku asked, looking to his fellow Lumanarias.
“As a matter of fact, I am.” Moldark swished the fingers on his right hand, and thirty-two MX40 rifles wielded by thirty-two black-clad Marines were brought to bear on So-Elku and his escorts.
So-Elku looked around the room, examined the blasters, and regarded Moldark. “That’s it?” He chortled. “The leader of the rogue Third Fleet comes to threaten the Luma and their master, and you expect us to grovel at your feet with”—So-Elku counted with his index finger—“thirty-two blaster-bolt slingers?” He laughe
d again.
If So-Elku was looking for even the slightest hesitation, he wouldn’t find it. Instead, what he would find, if he had the stomach to keep looking in Moldark’s eyes, would make him scared. The Luma master was powerful, yes. But fear haunted the powerful and the weak alike.
One of So-Elku’s elders threw off his outer robe and clenched his fists. “Enough of this!” the man cried. He closed his eyes.
“Elder Fossman, wait!” So-Elku yelled. But it was too late.
Moldark felt the elder’s presence—this Fossman. The man’s soul was close, examining Moldark, probing from within that cursed Unity. The elder seemed eager, which suited the dark lord just fine—he was hungry for a soul that day, so he would feast.
“What are you doing?” Fossman asked, his voice suddenly tight with panic. He looked as though he was trying to wrest himself from some invisible strongman’s grip. “Stop it!” His eyes were still shut, head twisting from side to side. “Let me go! No!”
But Moldark wouldn’t let him go. His spirit lunged, partaking of the Luma’s life energy. He sucked as one might drain a piece of fruit of its juice before consuming the flesh.
Fossman shrieked, writhing in utter agony until he collapsed on the floor. So-Elku refused to watch the man’s demise, choosing instead to stare at Moldark—which was fine but a waste nonetheless. The spectacle was so grim, so satisfying, that Moldark wondered why anyone would want to miss it. Fossman’s body shriveled to that of a man twice his age in less than a few seconds. And moments later, his corpse became a leathery sack of sinew and wiry hair.
Moldark let out a deep sigh, exulting in pleasure. “Now, wasn’t that delightful.” Renewed power coursed through his veins, invigorating his spirit and tingling his body. The glossy leather squeaked as he stretched his body.
“Is that supposed to scare us?” So-Elku spat, but his eyes betrayed the slightest glint of anxiety. “I could disarm all your troopers and stop their hearts before they blink. Shall I give you a demonstration?”
“You could,” Moldark replied. “Yes, you could. But I’ve left orders with my ship to destroy this… whatever this place is,” he said, gesturing with a flitting hand, “if any of our vitals change in the slightest.”
“Your ship?” So-Elku choked out, curbing another laugh. “The one in the docking bay?” He stepped toward Moldark. “Look around you, Admiral. This isn’t the Republic Navy. This isn’t even Republic land or a Republic planet. You’re alone, and that ship isn’t going anywhere unless I say it is.”
Moldark smirked.
The Luma master raised an eyebrow. “What?” he asked, needy eyes darting between Moldark and his Marines.
“I’m afraid I misspoke,” Moldark said. “I apologize.”
“You see.” So-Elku clapped his hands, his mood lightening. “There you go. It’s nothing I can’t forgive—in time, anyway.”
“I said ship, didn’t I? How inaccurate of me.”
So-Elku squinted. “I—I’m not sure I follow.”
“What I meant to say was ships. My ships have orders to level this place if any of us are harmed. In fact, they’ll level the entire city.”
So-Elku’s smile faded. He looked to his other elders for assurance. They merely shrugged at him.
In a sudden burst of sound, So-Elku cackled like a wild animal, his head thrown back. “I’m sorry, Admiral,” he bellowed, wiping tears from his eyes, “but I’m afraid you’ve caught me on a day that I’m quite”—his laugh vanished, and he bared his teeth at Moldark—“impatient. I’m calling your bluff.”
“Very well.” Moldark turned and regarded the nearest trooper clad in black armor, whose helmet was shaped like a racing visor. The trooper dipped his head, paused, and returned Moldark’s stare.
The Luma master furrowed his brow and studied Moldark then looked at the ceiling. “Where is it, Admiral? Where’s the threat, the blast, the explosion? Where are all the reinforcements?”
So-Elku took another step forward, but Moldark didn’t budge. Instead, he interlaced his fingers and waited, watching So-Elku’s face intently.
“You’re a coward and a liar,” So-Elku hissed. “I’ve had enough of—”
A concussion from outside the Grand Arielina cut the Luma’s words short. The shock wave shook the walls and sent everyone but the Marines scrambling for cover. Ears rang as yells and screams went up from the elders, some of them tripping, others shielding their heads as debris fell from the newly repaired dome.
A moment later, emergency klaxons sounded outside the hall. Then the din of thousands of people shrieking in horror blew in on the wind of the orbital strike. The flood of noises filled the now dust-filled Elder’s Hall as people dove for cover.
“What have you done?” So-Elku cried, his face twisted in disgust and covered in gray dust.
“I believe that was one of your second-year student dorms,” Moldark said above the mayhem. “You’ll want to double-check, though. Sometimes my battleships need a practice run before they get the targeting right.”
“Are you insane?” So-Elku seethed, spittle flinging from his lips.
“Quite possibly. But the question you should be asking, Luma Master, is whether or not I’m serious. And let me assure you, I am very serious. Now”—Moldark began pulling on the fingers of his gloves—“I’d like to have that Svoltin single malt. I need you to do something for me.”
4
Magnus’s new eyes were getting clearer every minute. By the time he’d dried off from his shower and dressed, he was able to focus on things about three meters ahead. His new eyes were starting to feel less like giant rocks in his skull and more like—well, more like nothing. More natural, though they would always be anything but natural.
The news of his operation under Valerie’s supervision had certainly disturbed him. His new bioteknia eyes meant the end of his career in the Corps. But, at the end of the day, he could see again, and he owed Valerie a debt for that.
One of Abimbola’s Marauders escorted Magnus from the shower facility across the compound to a makeshift armory. Magnus didn’t know where on Oorajee they were yet, but this new hideout was nothing like Abimbola’s headquarters in the Dregs. That place had been immense and secure, secluded from the outside world like a tomb. Here, a patchwork of canvas tarps and corrugated metal kept the sun at bay, while stacked shipping crates created rooms and vehicle bays throughout the thrown-together warehouse. Suddenly, Magnus wondered about the cleanliness of the operating room where his procedure had taken place. Never mind. He shook his head, realizing his blurry vision was probably for the best. I don’t even want to know.
The guard left Magnus in the armory and told him where to find Abimbola when he was kitted up. Magnus nodded and heard the door close behind him with a whine. The space was constructed of two massive shipping containers, hollowed out and welded together, with bright light pads attached to the corrugated ceiling. He shielded his eyes and gave them a second to adjust then walked to three tables in the center of the room. On them sat his armor, or what was left of it. Abimbola’s Marauders had cleaned it and laid it out, along with a selection of supplementary pieces.
Magnus sighed. He stood before the first and largest table, dressed in a standard black military hauberk tunic, fingers touching the blast marks in what remained of his Mark VII suit. The plates were riddled with charred holes and rough furrows left by blasted sand. If this was the best of it, he wondered what the worst looked like. Gone were the shoulder plates, left bicep, right bicep, and forearm enclosures. The left thigh enclosure, kneecap, and right shin guard were also gone. Both original gauntlets were missing as well as his mag boots. A few pieces were replaced with old Mark IV armor; he’d have recognized the mottled-green coloring from the Caledonian Wars anywhere. The other missing elements had been filled by components he’d never seen before—alien, he was pretty sure. Some were iridescent magenta while others were matted blue. They appeared to be trimmed to size, which made him wonder how big their former o
wners had been.
His original helmet would have been a sight for sore eyes had it been functional. The visor was punched out and the battery compartments and AI module gutted. The slits he’d cut for air vents, back when their escape pods landed, now looked like burnt-out gashes from mizlasaur teeth. He wondered if it wouldn’t be better to just wear a bandana and some eye protection. Maybe the helmet belonged on Abimbola’s wall after all.
Magnus moved to the next table and, to his surprise, found his MAR30 blaster, MZ25 pistol, and duradex combat knife, all intact. “Remind me to thank his gods.” He picked up the larger weapon, and his hands ran across it instinctively, searching for anything out of place. Aside from a few dents and blackened streaks, the weapon remained a beautiful specimen of Republic engineering. He had to give them credit—they’d built this platform to last.
Magnus flicked on the primary-status holo-display and noticed that a fresh energy magazine had been installed. The weapon whined as it sprang to life, humming against his skin in his ungloved grip. It felt reassuring. All three firing systems displayed green indicators. Magnus racked a charge, pulled the blaster to his shoulder, and activated the HSD—holo-sight display. The series of mesmerizingly beautiful information-rich targeting reticles, vector indicators, and systems-status symbols glowed down the rails of the weapon. Magnus aimed at a utility shelf across the room, knowing one trigger squeeze would make quick work of it—as well as anything in the next room. He flicked off the safety and hovered his index finger over the trigger. The HSD read Missing for his helmet lock.
“That’s not happening anytime soon,” he remarked as he looked over his carved-up Mark VII helmet.
Magnus flicked the safety on, powered down, and set the MAR30 on the table. He reached for the MZ25. The pistol had been cleaned but showed more damage than the MAR30. A finger-sized chunk of the handle had been gouged out, replaced with a hastily sanded weld. The top of the barrel also had a gouge repaired with a weld.
