Stars of Blood and Glory

by Joe Vasicek

  Then her vision clouded over, and the next thing she knew, she was perched on a cross-beam below a catwalk in some industrial complex, dangling over a vat of foul-smelling bacterial agents. Footsteps sounded above her, and she slipped the barrel of the gun into the space between the grating. When a tall, dark-haired man came into view, she brought him down with two quick shots. He fell heavily, his face only inches from her own. In his wide, dying eyes, she saw the same look of terror.

  Then she was standing over the lifeless body of a Federation politician, still twitching as the nerve agent finished its job. She rose to her feet and took a deep breath, reveling in the clean efficiency of her handiwork. The door hissed open, and an aide to the politician dropped her tablet, her face a picture of shock and horror. Their eyes met, and though Rina knew that she should kill the woman, she hesitated—not because of any compunction or remorse, but because it would mean spilling blood over a perfectly clean kill. Blood was messy, but life? Life was cheap.

  Kill them.

  “Rina?” Her vision shifted again, to the corridor of the Tajji Flame. A splitting headache made her feel as if her head would explode, but a she crouched and drew a knife from her boot. Relief swept over her in the form of a massive endorphin release, compelling her forward with the promise of ecstasy. It was the implant, no doubt—it would kill her if she tried to resist. It was already killing her.

  As she crept toward her target, the aging metal walls turned to rough stone and adobe, the cold tile floor to carpet and sand. The dim green lights slowly yellowed, and the hum of the ventilation system turned to the whispering of the desert wind. She rose to her feet and took a deep breath of the clean, dry air, all of her fears and nightmares gone.

  “Rina?” the voice called again, and this time, she recognized it. It was Mira, her older sister. She rounded the corner and saw her, smiling and waiting with arms outstretched.

  This isn’t real, Rina tried to tell herself, but her emotions overwhelmed her. Home—after such a long and terrible nightmare, she was finally home again. She smiled and ran forward, into her sister’s waiting arms.

  As they embraced, however, something warm and sticky trickled down the skin of her right hand. She looked down and saw blood, thick and dark—and messy.

  “Raa!” Mira screamed, her voice like an animal. In that moment, Rina realized that it wasn’t her sister, but the old cyborg, Roman. He lashed out and threw her against the wall, nearly knocking the wind out of her. Fortunately, her training kicked in, and she was back on her feet, knife in hand, racing forward for another attack.

  The old man stumbled, blood dripping down his arm. He grabbed her wrist as she came at him, but she twisted and slipped out from his grip. A rush of adrenaline surged through her and she slashed the knife across his side, slicing through his uniform and drawing blood.

  Kill them.

  The opening was perfect now for a kill-strike to the jugular. As the old man clutched at his stomach in pain, she watched herself lunge forward, seizing the opening.

  No!

  She hesitated for a split second, just long enough for him to reach up and block the strike with his cybernetic hand. The knife jammed between his prosthetic metal fingers and she let go, falling to the floor.

  Reality shifted again, and she was in a shuttle, the roar of the engines filling her ears as the forcefulness of the takeoff pushed her to the floor. She pulled herself up and stared out a porthole at the rust-red deserts of her home world. Familiar landmarks among the rocky plains and dusty mesas disappeared into the distance, while overhead, a series of fearsome explosions flashed across the sky, marking the end of the world.

  She gasped and found herself standing with a gun in her trembling hands. Roman struggled to his feet some distance away from her. Though the light was dim, she could tell from his grunts of pain and his blood-soaked uniform that he was seriously hurt.

  Kill them.

  “R-run,” she stammered, her voice weak. The gun rattled in her sweaty grip, but she couldn’t bring herself to drop it.

  “Al-Najmi—why are you—”

  “I can’t stop it!” she shouted, cocking the trigger. “Just—just run. Run!”

  Tears streamed down her cheek as she squeezed the trigger. The first five shots went wild as the handgun bucked like a wild animal in her trembling hands. But then her training kicked in, and she lost whatever remained of her conscious control. The bullets all glanced harmlessly off of his side—he’d turned so that his cyborg half faced her, shielding the more fleshy parts of his body. Relief flooded her—a different kind of relief than before—and she fell to her knees, the gun slipping from her hands.

  “I’m sorry,” she cried, the strength draining right out of her. “I’m so, so sorry. Please forgive—”

  Before she could say more, her reality collapsed into blackness.

  Chapter 17

  “There,” said Katsuichi, leaning forward as he stared at the swirling red and blue dots on the holographic projection. “That’s it. Order the fleet forward, full throttle.”

  “But sir,” said the gunnery officer, “there are more than six hundred kilometers between us and the Demon of Tenguri. Once we’re out in open space, the Hameji—”

  “It’s now or never. Tagatai’s not going to bring his flagship into the fray, and his fleets aren’t going to give us an opening any wider than we already have.”

  “Yes, sir. Forgive me.”

  “There is nothing to forgive,” said Katsuichi. “Forward!”

  The flashes and explosions outside spun wildly as the Divine Wind moved into position. On the hologram, the nearest blue dots broke away from the red ones and began to push through the red formations, pitching and swerving as the gap slowly closed.

  “My men aren’t going to hold if you abandon them,” said Colonel Webb, his voice tense. “And they sure as hell aren’t going to follow us on this mad charge.”

  “Then let the cowards flee,” said Kenta. “Where were they at Eyn-Gatta? At New Vela? If honor means nothing to—”

  Katsuichi silenced his bodyguard with a gesture of his hand. He turned to face the colonel and narrowed his eyes.

  “If your men will not stand, then at least have them draw as much enemy fire as possible,” he said. “We’ll reform on the other side once the Demon of Tenguri is destroyed.”

  “But you’ll lose half your fleet!”

  “Then so be it.” The true warrior fights as one already dead.

  “Sir,” said the countermeasures officer, “the Demon of Tenguri is deploying cluster mines along our trajectory and opening with heavy railgun fire.”

  “Move the fleet into tight formation and set up a heavy plasma screen to neutralize as much of that fire as possible. If we—”

  “Sir, we have multiple guided missiles incoming from the nearest three Hameji ships,” yelled the gunnery officer. “They appear to be nuclear!”

  Katsuichi frowned. “Can you take them down?”

  “Some, but not all. There’s—there’s too many of them!”

  “Hold the formation,” said Katsuichi, gripping the edge of his armrest. “Hold the formation, and full throttle ahead!”

  “Dammit!” shouted Colonel Webb. “Can’t you see? You’re flying right into a kill zone!”

  As if in answer, a brilliant flash filled the bridge with light. The officers gasped and yelped in surprise, while some fell to the floor. Katsuichi ducked to shield his eyes, waiting several moments to open them again.

  “Commander Sakaguchi has abandoned ship,” said the communications officer. “Ginza and Sagami are taking heavy fire—”

  “Sir, our fleet is under heavy fire!”

  “Intensify the forward plasma screens and accelerate full throttle ahead,” said Katsuichi, his heart racing. “Do not break formation!”

  “You’re insane!” shouted Webb. He took a step forward, but Kenta blocked him, a single hand on his sword.

  Another explosion filled the bridge with a fl
ash of overwhelming light. This time, the bulkheads shook and alarms began to sound.

  “We’re taking damage from the cluster mines,” said the countermeasures officer. “The field is too dense—we can’t possibly neutralize them all!”

  “All ships reporting heavy fire,” said the communications officer. “Taking heavy damage—can’t sustain it much longer.”

  “We’re almost within range of the Demon of Tenguri,” said the gunnery officer, sweat dripping from his forehead. “Just give us a few seconds—”

  “Sir, transmission from the Miyamoto.”

  “Put it on,” said Katsuichi, leaning forward.

  “Your Imperial Highness,” came Commander Takahashi’s voice as alarms blared in the background of the transmission. “It has been an honor flying with you.”

  “Miyamoto’s core reactors have gone critical. She’s breaking formation—going to blow any second!”

  Katsuichi swallowed and took a deep breath. “No, Commander. The honor has been mine.”

  Commander Takahashi bowed, and the transmission abruptly ended. The blue dot that represented the Miyamoto flashed out of existence, while a flare of light through the windows marked the commander’s passing. Katsuichi’s heart sank, and an awful taste rose in his mouth

  “Sir, the shock wave from the Miyamoto has cleared out the last of the cluster mines. Our ship has taken heavy damage, though—armor at less than 50%.”

  “In range!” bellowed the gunnery officer. “Sir, we are in range!”

  Katsuichi clenched his fists so tightly his arms began to shake. He rose from his chair and stared at the hologram, now showing the shrinking cluster of blue about to collide with Tagatai’s flagship and the small fleet that surrounded him.

  “All ships, open fire!”

  * * * * *

  Abaqa frowned as the sound of gunshots reverberated through the bulkheads as if from a great distance. In her seat at the command chair, Danica perked up and frowned as well.

  “If all else fails, we can go down in the shuttles,” said the pilot, oblivious to the noise. “They’re both sublighters, but if we can wait out—”

  “Did you hear that?” Danica asked. “It sounded like gunshots.”

  “Boarders,” said Yuri, his eyes widening. “Oh, hell.”

  “It can’t be,” said Abaqa. “Those barnacle-pods are only for important targets like command ships. Besides, they wouldn’t attempt a boarding until our ship was disabled.”

  “Roman,” said Danica, leaping to her feet. “Stay here, and alert me if anything changes.”

  “But Captain—”

  “That’s an order.”

  Without thinking, Abaqa rose from his chair and ran to the door to join her. “Hey!” shouted the pilot. “Where are you going, Hameji?”

  “If there’s trouble, she’ll need help.”

  “From you? Get back in your seat, dammit!”

  Abaqa shot him a dirty look. “I gave my word. Do you think I’d go against it?”

  “Enough,” said Danica. Without another word, she took off down the corridor at a run. Abaqa hesitated for a moment, then took off before anyone else on the bridge could stop him.

  He followed the captain around a corner to a hatchway and a narrow stairwell. The lights had gone out, plunging the place in shadow. He hesitated for a moment before going in with her, but she pulled out a pistol from her belt and slipped inside. Not wanting to be left in the darkness, he followed her.

  “Roman?” she called out, an uncharacteristic hint of worry in her voice. “Roman, can you hear me?”

  “Yes,” came the old cyborg’s gravelly voice. With her gun still at the ready, Danica kept her back to the wall and stepped through the hatchway on the lower level.

  “Are you all right? We heard gunshots.”

  “Come quickly, Captain.”

  They rushed forward into one of the officers’ quarters. The first thing Abaqa noticed was the small pool of blood on the floor. Danica gasped in surprise and covered her mouth—Roman’s uniform was bloody and he had a fairly sizable stab wound on the lower part of his shoulder, but he barely seemed aware of that. In his arms, he held a frail, unconscious girl, his prosthetic hand supporting the back of her head.

  “What happened?” Danica asked. Roman’s eye fluttered, but he didn’t seem to be losing consciousness—he managed to stay upright as Danica tore off a strip from his uniform and wrapped it around his shoulder.

  “The Gaian girl was assassin,” he said. “She was planted in our unit to strike at optimal time.”

  “An assassin?” said Danica. “But why? Who?”

  “That is what I am trying to discover.”

  Abaqa folded his arms and shook his head. “An assassin from some breakaway faction—no wonder your planetborn alliance can’t defend itself.”

  “I do not think she is Federation,” said Roman. “Her datalink implant is not same design.”

  “Well, who else but the planetborn would resort to such dishonorable tactics?”

  The old cyborg ignored the jab, while Danica finished up the dressing and saw to the gash in his side. The girl slowly tensed, then her fingers began to twitch.

  “I think I have something,” said Roman. “It is signature code, but it is encrypted. One moment …”

  “What’s wrong with the lieutenant?” Danica asked. “She looks like—”

  “She’s dying,” said Roman. “Here—code is 636-TG. It is not found in our database.”

  Abaqa gasped, and his legs went weak. “Stars of the deep,” he said, his stomach falling out from under him. “That’s—that’s—”

  “That’s what?”

  “That’s Tagatai’s personal ID tag.”

  Danica and Roman both looked up at him and frowned. In the cyborg’s arms, the unconscious girl started going into spasms.

  “Hameji,” Danica muttered. “They probably wanted to place her close enough to strike the Rigelan royal family.”

  It can’t be true, Abaqa thought to himself. Yet even as he leaned against the wall for support, he knew it had to be. 636-TG—that code was known to everyone across the Hameji fleets. And the kill order—she must have received it when they’d jumped in to New Vela. The implant would have connected covertly to the Hameji network and uploaded its report before waiting to receive orders. But to think that Tagatai would stoop so low—how many of his other rivals had been killed by such cowardly, backhanded means?

  “She needs help,” said Roman. “Her implants are killing her, but she does not have enough strength to reject them.” He laid her gently on the floor and pulled out a cord from the base of his neck, where the cybernetic enhancements included a neural socket.

  “What are you doing?” Danica asked, her voice betraying her alarm.

  “I must make direct connection to save her. It is only hope.”

  “But—”

  “I will be safe, I promise. In your time, it will take only seconds.”

  The girl’s spasms had gotten worse—her whole body was stiff and shaking as if she were about to have a seizure. Roman pulled the cord down to the jacks at the back of her neck.

  “Good luck, Sergeant,” said Danica. She saluted him, and he nodded solemnly back, his hands already full. Even though it was just a nod, it carried the weight and authority of a salute.

  Tagatai, Abaqa thought, still dizzy as Roman plugged the cord into the back of the girl’s neck. How can it possibly be true?

  * * * * *

  Roman swam in a sea of raw data, all physical sensation stripped from his consciousness. It tore his awareness in every direction, leaving him no center around which to settle. By sheer force of will, he struggled against it, seeking patterns in the chaos. As he found them, his cybernetic mind translated them into feelings analogous to his physical senses, orienting him within space and time.

  Suddenly, he found himself standing in an empty, dark waste. The data was not far from him—invisible streams still streaked around the edges of
his consciousness—but for now, his mind had wandered into an island of simulated reality within the digital realm.

  “Rina!” he called out, stumbling through the darkness. If he was right, this was a part of the girl’s subconscious. She could not be far.

  A tingling sensation in his right side made him glance down and pat his chest. His prosthetics were gone, and his body was much younger—almost fifty standard years younger, back when he had first enlisted in the Gaian Imperial Navy. He looked again, and saw that he was wearing the uniform of the Tajji revolution—the olive green fatigues which he had taken upon defecting shortly after the wars in the New Pleiades. The darkness shifted, and he was in space, staring down at the brown-green steppes and rolling hills of his beloved homeworld.

  Our subconscious minds are struggling to connect, he thought to himself as he sped downward toward the surface. I am here because our memories share some correlation. The all-too familiar longing for home and family swept over him like a flood, and he found himself floating over a sea of glass—the planetary dome of his childhood, as seen from above. He looked down and saw the factory town where he was born, monorails weaving between the industrial centers and outlying settlements nestled against the hills and forests. A lump rose in his throat, and he felt an overwhelming desire to go down there—but he knew that he would never find Rina that way. No, she would be somewhere else in this dreamscape, sharing a similar memory.

  In the deep blue sky overhead, soundless explosions flared while tracers arced down to the surface of the planet. Roman’s body tensed—it was the Gaian Imperial Navy, crushing the revolutionaries in their last desperate battle for independence. Somewhere up there in orbit, he would find the battleship on which he’d fought on that fateful day. Perhaps, if he could go up there—if he could just change a few small things, reliving the battle the way it should have been—

  No, he told himself. The girl—you must save her. Ignoring his youthful longings, he pointed himself east, to the desert where the free nomads roamed under the open air.