Aven Smith was sipping his tea when the yellow light on his dashboard started blinking. The light was a signal that someone had landed in the docking bay. Normally this would be no surprise, as Krag-Zot the Immortal would often fly in and out of the Word Lectorate ship with his personal fighter. Krag-Zot, however, was out of the system searching for new agents.
Speaking over the intercom, Aven spoke in flawless Krugari. ‘What is going on in the hangar? Is Krag-Zot back?’
‘No, Lector. It’s…it’s an Edal.’
Aven leapt to his feet. An Edal, here?
‘How did he get in?’
‘He had the pass codes. What should we do?’
‘Battle stations!’
With that, sirens erupted across the vessel. Aven hastily unlocked his gun cabinet, hands shaking. He pulled out a submachine gun and then ran into the hallway. Many of his Krugar were already in position, hanging from bars on the roof with two of their hands while using the others to hold pulse blasters.
Ahead of them was the door to the main hall. It was locked now, but if the Edal could have gotten into the hangar, he could get through this.
‘Everybody hold position. Only fire on my command.’
He didn’t need to remind them of protocol – they were better at that than he was. He said it more to comfort himself.
After the final rustling stopped, all was quiet. Quiet enough to hear the footfalls on metal as a figure approached the door. With a few beeps and a click, the door opened.
The Edal stood stunned as he stared at the forces arranged against him. But Aven didn’t give the order to fire. Instead, he stood up calmly and lowered his hand.
‘Stand down. He’s one of us.’
The Edal looked visibly relieved and approached Aven.
‘Lector, I am here to give a report.’
‘Better be good, Huin. You won’t be able to go back after this.’
‘It’s not good, sir, and that’s why I’m here. The Imperials are mustering a huge invasion force.’
‘When are they never?’
‘I don’t think you understand, Lector. They are preparing to invade Nova Zarxa.’
Huin was right. That wasn’t good.
James had just entered his apartment back in the Grag-Tec residences when he spotted Aven Smith standing in his room. He was shaking uncontrollably – his already pale skin reduced to that of a paper sheet.
‘Lector, didn’t expect to see you planet-side,’ James stated, dropping his guard-issue weapons onto the coffee table. He had come to expect this sort of thing from the Word Lectorate. Locked doors meant very little to them.
‘There’s been…a change of plans. We can’t wait any longer. We must make our move. Now!’
‘What is it? Speak up.’
Aven looked like he was going to be sick. ‘One of my spies has come back from Imperial Space. He was only meant to leave under the direst circumstances. And trust me – this is dire. A Martyr-led fleet is converging on Nova Zarxa. He gives us around one to two Zarxian months. Around seventy days, maybe less.’
James had to sit down at this revelation. He knew it was coming, but not this quickly. This changed everything.
‘What would you advise we do, Lector?’ James finally asked. Aven was also sitting now.
‘You will have to warn the planetary governor. I’ve heard of his corruption but even he should be able to see this threat. I have adjusted evidence here. It is the report my spy gave me, but adjusted to remove mention of the Word Lectorate.’
‘What should I say if they ask how I got this?’
‘Use your Grag-Tec connections. Ask your friends if you can claim it is from a scouting vessel. That’s believable enough…’
The door opened at that moment to reveal Marshal. He was surprised for a moment but then quickly realised the situation – or guessed it.
‘The Imperials are closing in?’ he asked, stone-faced.
James nodded.
Marshal sighed. ‘I knew this was coming. Aven, I trust you have given us sufficient evidence to show the Governor?’
‘If he doesn’t believe that, he’s an Imperial agent,’ Aven tried to smile but failed.
‘Then let’s not waste any more time,’ James stood up. ‘Marshal, come with me. We need to make an appointment with Dedelux.’
“The basis of all Trooper power is that of security. The Troopers are not builders. They are not bureaucrats. They are soldiers. And like any enlightened military – they know better than intervening in the affairs of peace.” – High Protector Winston at the trial of multiple corrupt Trooper commanders
Chapter 12. Hated
Darren did not hesitate to give away his last tank of valathene. He had invested in the tanks with his Titan bonds after his Junker had finally landed in Nexus. The fuel was a common, but necessary, commodity on such a cold planet. He hadn’t managed to sell a single tank, but not for lack of trying. Every time he tried to sell the gas to those who could afford it, he was either ignored or chased away by Yellow Troopers. That left his only customer base being his fellow Zonians – who had no money.
In the beginning, the Zonians rented accommodation around the planet and looked for work to subsidise their survival, but that all changed once Dedelux ordered all Zonians into the lower hangars. Soon enough, all Zonians were confined to ghettos. Penniless and without any means of working for credits, the Zonians began to freeze. Darren gave up on offloading the gas for a profit and began handing it to those who needed it. It wasn’t like he was going to find a buyer when he wasn’t even allowed to go to the market.
‘You are a treasure, Mr Peterson,’ a middle-aged woman told him, accepting the small tank and handing it to her larger son.
‘I do what I must. We all do.’
The woman nodded, forlornly.
‘Who could think such a shining city would be so cruel?’ she added.
‘Titan shone.’
‘But the Underbelly was black. It was honest. We didn’t have much, but at least we had a reason. If we wanted something, we would get it. We didn’t have scumbags holding a gun at us whenever we tried to go to the bathroom. We were free.’
That was it, really. The poverty on Zona Nox was not unlike this, but it wasn’t oppressive. People bled, but they were free. They needed freedom to seek the opportunity to survive. On Nexus, they were forbidden the simplest of necessities. Not because they did not work. Not because they were lazy, or enemies. They were denied the very means to their survival because of what they were. Nothing else. But through this alienation, they had started to find comradery among old enemies. They were no longer Galisians, Red Sanders, Titans…they were Zonians.
‘Yellows!’
The shouts echoed across the camp. The guards came every once in a while, to make sure Zonians weren’t breaking down the walls of the hangar to steal electricity.
Darren nodded goodbye to the nameless mother and son. He didn’t fear that his lack of gas would result in starvation or frostbite on his part. You give to your community and they give to you. Credits or not, the Zonians would look out for one another. Even if they had never done so back on their homeworld. Struggle united. He packed his few belongings and sped off around the corner, attempting to stow away in a dark corner to avoid any confrontation.
As he retreated, he heard shouts. The shouts were incomprehensible, but angry. Darren heard crunching and crying. He stopped and started back, almost mindlessly.
‘You can’t do this! All I own is in there,’ the mother from before sobbed.
Yellows were tearing down her shack, not paying any mind to her possessions. Two Zonians held her back, shame in their eyes. Her son, around thirteen, had a feral look about him as he stood to the side.
There were three Yellows. One officer and two new recruits. The officer oversaw the destruction of the plastic hovel, his mask not betraying his sentiments.
As the shack was torn apart, a small picture f
rame dropped onto the floor. The son pounced to retrieve it, just to be hit back by the officer with a baton.
‘Stay where you are, scum,’ the officer spat. ‘We are evicting all you disease ridden rodents. Zots, all of you. Dedelux has been more than generous. Stay out of our way!’
Zonians jumped at the strike, but didn’t advance. Darren watched, his expression unchanging. The son’s expression didn’t change. He looked mad. His mouth sounded silently, ‘Dad.’
Darren didn’t say anything when the boy pulled a switchblade from his sleeve. In a second, the blade was buried deep into the officer’s throat.
A gurgled shout from their boss made the recruits turn. In a flash, the one recruit drew and fired wildly with his pistol. The boy was hit, and so was his mother and one of the men. Darren charged in, lifting a geradite rod on the way and then driving it into the gunman’s torso, just underneath the armpit. It didn’t kill immediately. Darren was caught staring into the eyes of the killer. It was a young man, brown hair with blue eyes. Fearful eyes, blind with tears. Darren didn’t know why he did it. Well, sure he did. You didn’t let murderers get away with that. You stopped them. You stopped them from killing again – but only by becoming a murderer. You killed to stop the killing, to be killed to stop the killing.
Two other Zonian men had come in and had tackled the other recruit to the floor. They had torn off his mask to reveal another youthful face, filled with fear. The two men pummelled it into the ground, until only a bloody puddle of mush was left.
‘Get on the ground!’
Darren turned to see a Yellow with a rifle pointed right at him. Darren knew he was shaking. His laser sight was ducking and diving all over Darren’s chest. Under his darkened visor, Darren knew that the Yellow’s face was slick with sweat and as white as void. He didn’t want to kill Darren. He didn’t want to kill, even to stop the killing. He wasn’t a killer. He was a bully’s lackey.
Darren put his hands up and slowly lowered himself to the floor. As he did so, he lowered his hands. The nervous Yellow didn’t notice. As fast as its previous owner, Darren grabbed the pistol and fired a single shot into the Yellows head.
When you mean to stop the killing, you need to be willing to kill. The cycle cannot be stopped. Only renewed. Zonians were the pinnacle of this cycle. They kept on killing. Killing each other. Killing others. Kill, kill, kill.
Those around him just stared, at him, the Yellows and the dead mother and son.
Darren ejected the cartridge from the pistol and counted the rounds – eight left. He inserted the cartridge back into the pistol and checked the chamber. Bullet in the chamber. Nine shots. Kill, kill, kill.
‘What you waiting for, lads?’
That seemed to wake them up. Screams were echoing from around the camp. The smell of gunpowder and plasma invaded their nostrils. They had been pushed around long enough. What Dedelux and his Yellows didn’t understand is that Zonians were rodents. They would push his people into the corner, forgetting that the cornered zot would bite the cat.
‘I’ve had a vokken ‘nuff of living like a pitslug!’
‘Yeah!’ the group shouted in unison.
‘Let’s go make those Yellows wear real Trooper colours.’
Darren had not been a fighter on Zona Nox. He’d been a store owner, the victim of the criminal enterprise, but he knew how to conduct violence. Zona Nox had been free not because it was peaceful, far from it. It was free because it was willing to use violence against violence. Its people had the will to be free. If freedom meant blood, so be it.
A Zonian picked up the rifle and joined Darren’s posse. Those unarmed had looted the Yellows of extra guns and batons. Armed, they approached the fires.
Lined up around the entrance to the hangar was a wall of black and yellow. Shields protecting the main body of the force as they closed in on the Zonians. Tear gas flew and shock lances were used to keep the protesters back. Multiple formations were closing in on the Zonians from multiple sides. Many Zonians of varied ages and genders screamed their defiance, but behind them were cowering children, the wounded and the elderly. The defiant were defending their weak while the Yellows herded them. Darren’s eyes widened. That was the point. The eviction squads were only meant to get the Zonians out in the open. From there, they were to be rounded up and shot. Dedelux was finally exterminating the scum.
‘Dixie,’ Darren indicated to the rifleman, ‘use that peashooter and make a hole in that wall. Rest of you, get ready to take advantage. Let’s bloody them up.’
Troopers in Galis had never tried to stop a riot. There weren’t ever any riots in Galis to begin with. People weren’t entitled on Zona Nox. You worked, you got fed. Nobody was stopping anyone from working, not in Galis at least. Here, things were different. Zonians didn’t know how to riot, but they did know one thing. They knew how to kill.
Killing is real simple. All you had to do was put something where it wasn’t supposed to be. A fist in a face. A bullet in a brain. A shiv in the gut. Zonians were a simple people and thus could elevate a simple thing, killing, to an art form.
Dixie lined up the shot and fired.
A shield-bearer fell and the wall broke. Rioters trampled over the terrified Yellows. Every fallen Yellow meant a better armed Zonian as shield, baton, lance and gun were turned on their owners. The Yellow snipers, previously hidden behind the shield-wall and waiting for the Zonians to have their back against the wall, were surprised when men and women found them and tore them apart.
This was the Zonian way. It was brutal. Red Sand, their desert, was the colour of their philosophy. Nothing was won without blood, sweat, or both. When you lived on the frontier, with Xank, Sylith and pirates at your doorstep, you learnt to become acquainted with blood.
A young woman had torn the helmet from a Yellow and was smashing his head in with it. Her face was covered with blood and rage. Darren knew her and knew that the corpse lying beside her was her sister. He now knew why he killed. Why they all killed and had been killing their entire lives. You push anyone too far, and they’ll crack.
Zonians had bled their entire life. On Nova Zarxa, they bled every day without anything to show for it. It was time they made someone else bleed. And they did. For every one of their dead, they killed ten times that amount. There were no half measures for a Zonian. You killed or you died.
They had cleared the hangar and were pushing out. Yellow reinforcements retreated at their approach, finally locking them into the tower. The Zonians didn’t waste time banging on the door. They barricaded it themselves and set a guard. They counted the weapons and tended the wounded.
There was no rejoicing but a sense of relief was felt among all the sons and daughters of Zona Nox. They were no longer slaves to the whims of Dedelux. They threw off their shackles.
They were free.
“Countless news networks exist within human space. Many of these have differing opinions, agendas and topics. The Trooper networks report on security matters, Aegis deals with technology while every planet has their own (if not multiple) main global news outlets. But with all this news, people still find it almost impossible to find the truth.” – Lorenzo Gerola, Journalist
Chapter 13. Governor
It had become easy to gain an audience with Dedelux after Marshal gave his identity. There were many fans of his accomplishments, even here on Nova Zarxa. Ganymede was a distant, but still vivid memory for many. Even after the Grag-Tec letter of admission given by Quok had failed, Marshal won them entry.
‘What do you think he’ll say,’ James asked of Marshal.
‘I don’t know for certain. I don’t like him but I don’t need to for him to give the order to prepare defences. We need him to call to Mars for aid. Winston will send the host if he does so.’
Marshal looked concerned. He had every right to be with an Imperial invasion on the way, but James sensed that there were other reasons for his mood.
The double-doors to Dedelux’s office were ostentatious. Heav
ily varnished red wood made up most of the surface, with gold inlaid into gaudy patterns along the edges. A mural of Dedelux himself stood central in the doorway.
Marshal pushed both doors inward as he entered the office. Dedelux looked up from his desk, a look of surprise and irritation on his face.
‘What is the meaning of this?’
‘We come with dire news,’ James said, making his way in front of Marshal. ‘An Imperial fleet is on the way to Nova Zarxa.’
Surprising Marshal and James, Dedelux laughed at this. It was a sick laugh, filled with contempt.
‘What proof do you have of this outrageous claim – Troopers, I presume?’
James threw the documents that Aven had given onto Dedelux’s desk. He explained as Dedelux paged through them.
‘Grag-Tec ships picked up that information just a few sectors away. They’re closing in.’
Dedelux stared down at the pages again and then discarded them into a bin by the side of his desk.
‘What…’ James started but was interrupted.
‘I am not a fan of soldiers taking on missions that I have not assigned to them. I have made it abundantly clear that this is my planet and, therefore, I am in charge.’
‘Sir, I was not acting insubordinately. I was delivering information given by my chartered employers at Grag-Tec.’
‘Maybe it is high time those corporations lose their protection,’ Dedelux whispered under his breath. James was only able to hear it due to his Tetsushisen abilities.
‘I will not have my command influenced by corporate mercenaries! These documents are negligible.’
Marshal piped in with all the fury of a gunship. ‘You aren’t talking to any two chartered Troopers, Governor! You’re talking to two battle-forged Veterans. The Troopers are built on experience – how many trenches have you lain in? How many times have you pulled the trigger? Those documents are proof that YOU need to call for aid from Mars. We can’t afford to lose this rock. You have the power to save your so-called planet. If you like your position so-much, then listen to reason!’
Rise of the Defiant: Book Two of the Warpmancer Series Page 8
