Her view from the bullet cut out as the demolition charge detonated in the man’s hands. Nariko’s infrared vision whited-out in the blast of energy and she yelped in discomfort as she attempted to turn her gaze and shift her vision back.
When the echo of the blast settled the air became suspiciously silent. Nariko took a few moments to scamper out of the trench and affirmed that there were no survivors.
The Luminarch tests our faith. To some of us is given the most difficult test of all. To fight alongside his enemies but remain... she found herself unable to finish. These were not grizzled veterans, they were still kids and standing over their remains she could not help but feel like a monster.
Doubt is weakness, she reminded herself and made her way over to the burnt remains of the other soldiers, a tart acrid smell overpowering her senses. Having an enhanced sense of smell forced her to detect every single burnt hair and every inch of charred flesh. One of the men carried a manpack radio on his back that looked serviceable.
Nariko pulled it free from the fallen soldier and examined it. She knew from experience that these devices contained several layers of security measures. Failure to input the commands correctly would cause the system to destroy itself so that enemies could not use it.
Nariko knew what she had to do but she hesitated. She hated binding. It was disturbing and it was forbidden, but even more disturbing would be what would happen to her if confederate forces captured her. They would turn her over to the Confederate Marshals and they would spend centuries torturing her before they’d let her die and that was just the beginning.
To complete my mission, no sacrifice is too great.
Miles behind enemy lines, she could see no other option and she carefully touched her slender fingers to the manpack. Black fire erupted from underneath the skin of her hand and flowed around the surface of the device. Her head jerked back as a flood of images and memories blew past her like a monsoon. She lived out the entire life of the small machine. She felt herself being born on the foundries of Mitralieră, along with millions of her sibling radios among the mile-high factory corridors. She lived an infancy as her logic-engine and communications systems were taught by detached mechanical parents. She spent the long months in transit, as she was transported with hundreds of others here to Tridia, where she worked with her operator, Kris Jackoby and his squad mates. In the space of a heartbeat she felt every message that had ever been sent, every code-language that had ever been spoken and every encryption engine that the device had ever used. Finally her vision caught up with the present as she felt the power core explode near her, scalding her casing and burning her surface, her operator falling dead to the ground and the female warrior with the red eyes approaching her and placing her hand on her surface.
Nariko tore her burnt hand away and began gasping for air. Her stomach heaved and black blood trickled down from her eyes, ears and nose. The blood congealed almost instantly into dried drops on her skin. Nariko placed her hands over her chest in pain. She could feel the void where a piece of her soul had been left behind. Binding accelerated the effects of the curse.
It had only taken an instant, but it had felt like years to her and it took her a moment to remember where she was and what she was doing. It always felt like that. She now handled the device as if she had done so a thousand times before. She tapped the code runes in a sequence of thirteen, three and seven and then banged the sticky release lever twice with her palm. The radio came to life and Nariko pulled out the mike and switched to the theta band, code-talk epsilon, which was used in rotation with six other codes every other hour. The device obediently complied and a comm-line was opened to platoon command. She tapped a rune and lowered the signal quality, which would mask her voice somewhat.
Time to sow a little disinformation into their network.
“Be advised company command. Have positive contact six clicks south of Dirgemont. Estimate enemy strength 6 company. Moving west toward Fabrică. One survivor. Please advise.” Nariko imitated the thick Tridian accent with which Jackoby spoke. She had heard his voice a thousand times before and so it came easily to her. After a moment the response came in.
“Displace one click northeast. Contact 51st Coronan Grenadiers. Report to Jerricus Spaceport. Will advise 51st,” the voice said. The line cut out and Nariko breathed a sigh of relief. She was fortunate. If they had directed her to elements of Jackoby’s former company, it was likely that someone who knew Jackoby would spot her impersonating him.
Nariko shouldered the manpack and looked out toward the east. Through the dust she could make out the distant silhouettes of walking tanks. She would have to pace herself and only run as fast as a normal human could, or it would arouse suspicion. The fact that they were sending her to Jerricus meant that it still had not fallen. Until it fell, her division’s contract would not be fulfilled.
Nariko found a ration bar in the pocket of the jacket she was wearing and took a bite out of it as she took off east toward the storm. Some would call it dumb luck that the radio operator she was now impersonating happened to have an androgynous first name. She called it destiny.
Chapter Two
Jerricus Spaceport
In all of the universe there is nothing so damned as a traitor. For while the witch may be redeemed through servitude and the alien may be purified though death, there can be no absolution for the traitor. They are damned not only in this life, but in the life to come as well.
-Book of Cerinţǎ, Chapter 1, verse 1
Command Information Control (CIC), was located at the very heart of the city-sized Jerricus Spaceport and contained the rows of specially trained officers who monitored the incredible amount of incoming data and processed it into manageable chunks for the small command staff to interpret and utilize.
Colonel Justin Breech had allowed the external air intakes to be opened up and from the looks on the faces of his staff, he could tell that they appreciated a reprieve from the stale recycled air they had been breathing for the last two months. With reinforcements just an hour away the mood had lightened considerably and there was a wholesomeness returning to the room.
“Sir, I have the latest casualty reports. Estimate ninety thousand dead in the fighting yesterday, times-two wounded or missing,” Lieutenant Daillia explained, raising her hand in a half-salute. “By all accounts the traitors’ airbase was rendered unusable and nearly all of their aircraft were destroyed while still on the ground.”
“The Luminarch has been most kind to us this day,” Colonel Breech said, taking a bite out of a peach. “We took quite a risk launching that counter-attack in the middle of that dust storm yesterday, outnumbered as we were.”
“Now, Colonel, we both know we have never concerned ourselves with being outnumbered,” Daillia replied smartly.
“That is true, I will give you that,” Colonel Breech said, sucking his teeth. “But there was something unnatural about dust storms that strong this time of year.”
“I heard the head cable-muncher objected to forcing the tanks through the storm.”
“Yes, he said that since there wasn’t enough time to perform all of the purification rituals on the air filters, it was better to abort the whole mission.”
“I heard you two almost came to blows over the issue.”
“You heard that did you?” Colonel Breech asked, a twinkle in his eye. “I swear that man is in more serious need of a woman’s company than any other man alive.”
Daillia scratched the back of her neck in thought. “Come to think of it, I don’t think I’ve ever seen him with a woman.”
“You know, there was a time when I thought he was celibate, but now I realize that he just has bad luck.” Colonel Breech said, chuckling to himself.
“The 51st Coronan Grenadiers fully deployed along the south ridge. Six days supplies, three days ammunition. Request material allocation,” reported a young man as he handed the Colonel a paper.
“Son, this page you gave me is blank,” Co
lonel Breech said, taking another bite.
Daillia flipped the page over in his hand.
“Ah, thank you darlin’,” he said with a smile. “What would I do without you?”
“I knew I shouldn’t have used all of my vacation time at the beginning of the year,” Lieutenant Daillia said coyly as she walked over to the quartermaster’s station and began working out the details.
Daillia had been with Breech since he was only a squad sergeant and she was one of the few people that knew that the only reason Breech had been promoted at the time was because, unlike most Tridians, he had been stationed off-planet for a brief time. It was considered by the higher-ups that this gave him a greater breadth of experience, which marked him out for leadership. Daillia didn’t really consider guarding the shrine of the Martyr of Casadrin to have given him much in the way of useful combat experience, but that was hardly a reason to question an increased salary.
Out of the corner of his eye, Breech recognized the silhouette of Lieutenant Helfter returning from the latrine and Breech noticed that he was walking a little oddly.
“I warned you those expired rations would have you blorchin’ for a week,” Breech chuckled to himself. With this war nearly over, Breech felt it natural to release some of the tension.
“Report explosions along the south ridge,” a young woman called out.
“Get me a channel down there,” Breech ordered, getting back to business.
“Sergeant Livius reporting,” came the voice over the line. “We’re going to need a medic down here. We’ve got at least a dozen casualties.”
“Report, boy,” Breech ordered.
“Not sure yet. We might have picked up some of those frakin’ time-delay mines when we went out to pick up that straggler, but I didn’t get a good look at it. Three of our tank engines went up and two more have stopped cold,” reported Livius.
Suddenly another line opened up.
“You have offended the spirits,” Preot Voeck accused nasally. “As I told you before, the rites cannot be rushed or ignored.”
“Let me ask you a question,” Breech retorted. “Are you able to speak to me without any loss of efficiency as you monitor and maintain the functions of this station?”
There was a pause.
“No, I am not,” Voeck responded.
“Then why do you seek to fail in the duty which you were given while at the same time attempting to perform a duty which you have not been given?”
Daillia was delighted to hear the high priest openly rebuked. It had been a thousand years since the Luminarch had begun the Great War of Emancipation, freeing humanity forever from its long slavery to the Ashtari, yet Technologists were still treated as collaborators, their allegiance still suspect. They had, after all, been the most favored slaves, instructed in building and maintaining the Ashtaris’ machines in the old empire. When she was honest with herself, Daillia considered their treatment to be somewhat unfair. The Confederacy absolutely depended on their occult knowledge and would cease to exist without it. Yet, try as she might, she simply could not overlook the fact that their ultimate allegiance was bifurcated.
“The Luminarch demands the whole heart, never a portion,” she reminded herself. Daillia said a quick prayer in her heart, repenting of her dark thoughts. She could feel the warm glow of peace and comfort come over her as the Luminarch’s spirit mingled with her own. She could hear His voice audibly in her mind. “When you control your thoughts, you shape your perceptions and sculpt your actions,” He reminded her.
“All service to Him,” Daillia said, clapping her palms against her chest.
Suddenly a low thud could be heard and the lights of the CIC flickered. Daillia could feel the vibrations of an explosion coming up through the floor. Colonel Breech’s coffee mug was shaken from its holder and came crashing down.
“Man’s teeth, find out what just happened,” Breech ordered, “and clean up this mess.”
The room came alive in controlled panic, hundreds of calls going out and coming in attempting to survey the damage.
Voeck’s voice came over the line again, but labored this time, as if he was in great pain.
“Someone has poisoned the spirit of the main generator. It is not venting its waste properly and has eaten through the exit lines of the cold storage tanks, one of which has been silenced.”
“Who has?”
“The enemy within...” Voeck trailed off.
Suddenly Breech became aware of the soldier cleaning up the spill at his feet with a mop.
“Who is this?” He asked out loud, “This area is supposed to be controlled.”
The soldier stood up and saluted with the sign of the vulture, crossing hands, thumbs linked.
“Sir, Private Kris Jackoby, radio operator, Blue Squad, Omar’s Platoon, Tridian 243rd, reporting as ordered,” she said smartly.
Breech turned to the two constables standing sentry at the door.
“I ordered this area sealed. Get her out of here,” Breech said, relaxing.
“But you ordered her up here yourself,” one of the constables explained, holding up a data slate. “I have the electronic signature right here.”
Breech opened his mouth to protest but the woman was already on top of him. Daillia realized too late what was happening and before she could fully draw her pistol, the woman had snapped the handle off of her mop and plunged it into Breech’s throat. A horrible gurgle left his body as the woman pulled out the broken metal and, quick as lightning, she grabbed Daillia’s hand and pointed her hand toward the constable in the doorway and forced Daillia’s finger to pull the trigger. The constable fell to his knees, gripping his deeply wounded chest. The staff in CIC scattered and took cover behind desks and chairs and began pulling out their own pistols.
The woman thrust her hand upwards, breaking Daillia’s arm at the elbow, she then rushed the second constable moving her body to one side as if she sensed his intention to fire, his bullets flew cleanly past her instead impacting into the chart table in the center of the room.
Daillia fell to her knees and fought past the pain, switching her pistol to her good hand, but the woman had already landed a high kick to the neck of the second constable. A sickening crunch sound emanated from his broken spine as the woman shifted her weight and landed in a crouch.
Daillia and several of the staff members opened fire on the woman, but she had already rolled to one side and the bullets pattered harmlessly against the thick blast doors that sealed off CIC from the rest of the station.
In a single motion, the woman scooped up the constable’s rifle and fired it into the halo lights in the ceiling. The lights exploded with a blinding flash and Daillia was forced to cover her eyes in pain. A rifle fired from somewhere to the left and three women dropped near the navigation station. Daillia uncovered her eyes, but could see only darkness. A rifle fired again, this time from the right and four men dropped near the encryption station.
Her eyes still adjusting from the flash, Daillia thought she saw a rifle muzzle flash directly in front of her, as three more staffers died. Daillia fired her pistol to where the flash had come from, but hit only bulkhead.
Another muzzle flash, this time from the far corner and four men at the logistics station went down. Daillia and others fired at the corner, but hit nothing.
Her eyes finally adjusting, Daillia could see the outlines of the stations from the illumination the monitors offered. A rifle fired. It was close, right at her feet. Daillia looked down and instinctively kicked where the shot had come from, but hit nothing.
Sweat was now pouring down Daillia’s face. Her pistol shook in her hand as she spun around, looking for a target. A staffer hiding behind the security station gurgled a scream and then all was silent.
Daillia saw Lieutenant Helfter hiding behind his chair. Pointing her weapon this way and that, Daillia stumbled over to him, but when she touched him his body fell forward limply, a pen shoved through his eye socket.
Everyt
hing was terrifyingly quiet now. Broken monitors sparked and buzzed. All around the bodies of her friends lay lifeless, their fresh blood pooling on the floor. Distantly Daillia could hear the banging sounds of security guards on the other side of the blast doors, unable to open them without authorization from the colonel.
Daillia moved to run for the command chair, but her feet were kicked out from under her. She hit the floor hard and a boot stepped on her hand, crushing the fingers as they gripped the pistol.
Daillia screamed in agony as the boot ground her crushed fingers further. Daillia looked up and saw the woman standing over her. In the glow of the monitors she looked like a demon, her bright red eyes shimmering like blood.
“Who are you?” Daillia asked as the woman raised the rifle up to her temple.
“My name is Nariko Amano. I am a Senshi of Correll,” Nariko said, pulling the trigger.
With the last of the staff dead, Nariko wasted no time. She walked up to the command consoles, which sprouted with severed cables and tubes. She got down on all fours and began searching underneath the console. After a few moments, she pulled out what she was looking for. A dusty manual interface. Nariko looked at the size and complexity of the system in front of her and hesitated. She had never bound herself to anything this big before and if Voeck had survived the blast below he could cause trouble for her.
Doubt is for the weak. Nariko placed her hands on the console, bathing it in black fire. The fire ran along cables and conduits until it flowed across the entire CIC room.
Chapter Three
The Gobin Bluffs
It is the finding of this council that it will be impossible to determine with any accuracy which planet humans originated from. Therefore, the Luminarch’s birthplace, Dinafarǎ, shall be renamed Terra, as the spiritual origin of the human race.
-Excerpt from the Council of Ascunde official report 17.11.1735rl
Heart of a Traitor Page 2
