“When you oppress the weak and poor of your own world, trampling their freedoms, there are consequences. For the oppressed and the oppressor,” the tarik leader said.
They video recorded their handiwork, which I have never watched despite its still being available in the archives. The power of the stark words in the reports, combined with my imagination, was enough: ritual slicing of orifices, disembowelment, emasculation, decapitation. One hundred thirty-two stab wounds total. You never know what you really believe until those beliefs are tested, in that moment when you put your life on the line for them. My parents believed in a loving and just God. And I forgave the killers. I forgave them.
“If you got business with them,” I leaned forward, letting him see the full bulk of my armament, “you handle it through me.”
“Stand down, lieutenant,” Novice Vidair said. “We’re all about meeting new friends.”
“Yes, heel,” Majorae Ha’Asoon said.
I regripped my rifle, doing my level best to resist the urge to cram the butt of it into his … its … inviting jaw.
“We would welcome a conversation of equals.” Majorae Ha’Asoon made a point of once again turning his back to me.
“Indeed. I look forward to it.”
Majorae Ha’Asoon bowed slightly then hopped on his beast. With a swirl of his hand, he led his men away.
“That went rather well,” Novice Vidair said.
“We need to prepare for an attack,” I said.
“I appreciate your hypervigilance, but that’s not the way to follow up a first contact.”
“Did we not hear the same thing? They are a colony, too. An entrenched one, from what I gathered. And we are a threat to them.”
“Lieutenant, nothing of the sort was said. Perhaps, we can establish a trade of some sort with them. Crops, maybe. We have much to offer them. And them us.”
“I know a scouting party when I see it. They were taking our measure.” I stared at him full on. “And make no mistake, I have killed enough people in the service of the Order to know how this story ends.”
“Then perhaps all of the blood on your hands has made you paranoid. We serve God’s will.”
That was the problem with many novices. They existed in a bubble of privilege. They were used to people deferring to them simply because of their special calling. People were done no favors by being raised up coddled. It made them soft. People needed to fight off things: germs, people, life. It builds you up. If you didn’t … I thought of Species A, the Derthalen as the Reviso called them. Not even allowed to name themselves.
“God’s will or not, this expedition will face troubles. My job’s to handle them.”
“You don’t understand, this could be the miracle from God that we were looking for.”
“Excuse me, sir?” I said, because “What the hell nonsense did you just spout?” would have gotten me court-martialed on the spot.
“You feared that Species A might not be cognizant enough to receive the Gospel.”
“A notion you dismissed.”
“Yes, before we learned of Species B. Perhaps we were meant to evangelize Species B in order to bring the message to both them and Species A.”
“But the Revisio are a virus.”
“Exactly. Imagine the Gospel spread by viral transmission. It would make our task so much easier and our stay shorter. The Lord’s ways are not our ways. Just like our ways have you obeying the orders given you. My orders.”
The Lord sure could bring out the stupid in some folks.
It all came down to the story we lived by. If the metaphor of that story could be changed, the individual could be changed. An ungodly people deemed less than human. Our people, holders of secret knowledge and power, could trade the Scriptures for land and resources. Evangelism encouraged by way of blaster rifles. My blaster rifle. The people traded one sin-soaked culture for another; forced to change their language, their names, their gods, their cultures. Suffer a slow death by assimilation. The story always ended the same way.
“Your … orders.” My set jaw began a slow grind, like I chewed on something distasteful. I peered down my nose at him. “Allow me to correct any misconceptions you may be laboring under: I’m not here to wipe your nose. I’m not here to diaper your behind. I don’t cook, clean, or sew. You think I sings and dances real good, too? You need to get out my face and let me do my job.”
Novice Vidair squinted at me. His facial tick intensified when he was angry. “Lieutenant, you are confined to your quarters for a day.”
“I thought I ‘always’ had permission to speak freely.”
“Until you cross the line. I give some people enough rope for them to hang themselves.”
His order probably saved my life.
§
This wasn’t how this was meant to be, but this was the only way it could end.
§
When I finally returned, they were all gone.
§
I tracked the trail of the attack party back to a series of looming structures, ominous shapes of deeper shadow in the night. I wasn’t even sure what my mission was anymore. I had ignored my action protocols. I hadn’t signaled the Templar Paton, not with a status update or report. I moved on instinct. I couldn’t call myself investigating the native culture, though the biomech sensors recorded and logged everything. Without knowing if my party was even alive, I couldn’t claim to be on a rescue mission. And if they were dead, the Order wasn’t about vengeance.
The Service, however, was all about God’s judgment.
Flexing my arm and wiggling my toes, I tested each extremity to make sure everything still worked. I craned my neck to each side, popping out the kings, certain that I should just name the knots in my shoulders since they accompanied me for so long. The pain focused me on the task at hand: I had bastards to kill. In Jesus’ name.
Having lost nearly an hour finding a suitable blaster rifle, I crouched behind a fallen tree. No breeze moved the leaves. I detected no sounds of birds or any other night life I had gotten used to; as if the structure’s very presence stilled all life to a respectful silence. The main building seemed carved from the very mountain itself. With its massive foundation and heavy fortifications, it could have been a temple or a citadel, the high arch of its entrance and formidable walls meant to convey a mixture of awe and intimidation.
Twin sentries patrolled the main archway. The entranceway lit by a series of torches, illuminating an area leading up to it that provided no cover. Even at full sprint I couldn’t cover that distance and subdue the guards without raising an alarm. I skulked through the dense forest, circling the castle. At its side, a rivulet emptied into the lake below. Perhaps it was simply an underground stream, or a natural sewage line, either way my heart stuttered at the prospect of wading through it to make my entrance.
The force of the water’s current slowed my progress, each lugubrious step an act of determined will. Steadying myself against each tunnel wall, the water rose past my thighs. My visor digitized my surroundings as much as it could through murky dimness. The lights on my biomech suit didn’t penetrate the pitch. The cramped space pressed in on all sides, with no way to measure when my journey would end or if my progress would be halted by watery death. But I kept walking. Faith buoyed my steps. I had to believe in something, have a hope to grasp onto. No amount of faith could still the apprehension that gripped me as the water lapped my helmet. I only had a few more steps before the water overtook me. I couldn’t help but rethink my plan. It made sense why this passage wasn’t well-guarded. Only a fool would chance this.
Water filled the entire passageway. The biomech suit continued to circulate air as the emergency supply automatically kicked in. A timer on my visual display counted down how many minutes of air I had left.
I continued to march deep within the compound. Scant seconds of air remained. Shafts of light stabbed the darkness ahead. I gulped one last breath of air. The passageway opened into a bay of sorts with a grat
e above me. I punched handholds into the wall to scale my way to the top. I bashed though the metal mesh and pulled myself up. The biomech suit was designed to augment its occupant’s efforts, but the work began with my own exertions. I collapsed, sprawled out along the floor while my re-breather unit replenished itself.
The room was a mechanical closet of sorts. Heat baked the room, a cauldron of molten metal rotated. Levers and switches cranked away. The way the cauldron revolved, its contents’ heat could be used to warm the complex or be hurled as a distance weapon. I left it for the structural engineers aboard the Templar Paton to puzzle out. The floor was connected to the walls, rigged to fall into the antechamber below in case of emergency. Advanced thinking. It began to make sense, even to my simple infantry mind. The Revisio, no matter how advanced, how evolved, couldn’t just drop tech into this world. Life on their own planet precluded them from building anything. To build they had to have, well, thumbs. They were essentially advanced minds. They may have evolved the Derthalen, but it would take a while to get their technology to the point where they’d have the tools necessary to advance their world. But it wouldn’t take long. Within a generation or two, they’d rival us. I could only imagine what they’d do on our world with our tools and technology.
Scrounging a loose bolt, I tossed it against the door. I listened for a few moments before I retrieved it and threw it again. A guard opened the door. I expected as much. It stood watch against anyone going into the room, not coming out. I yanked him inside. Another soul I would have to pray for. Later.
Flickering pools of amber from torches created puddles of shadow throughout the long hallway. The biomech wasn’t designed with indoor stealth in mind; however, it was built to carry armaments. I crept along the shadows as best I could, setting a charge as I went, praying none of the natives decided to turn down this way. I followed the sounds of garrulous chatter and laid two more charges. I may have lacked Samson’s strength, but blowing a support wall would collapse a room or two if it came to that. I hoped my escape wouldn’t come to another trek through the crawlspace. I took a measured breath then plunged into the room.
The room ran the length of a banquet hall, ringed by long tables. Behind them, male and female Revisio wore simple tunics of animal skins. In the center of the room, game roasted on spits. Musicians played in the corner while two women danced. Guards stood at attention by each table. My entrance halted the revelry. I fired once above Majorae Ha’Asoon’s head. My blaster scorched the wall before I trained my weapon on the leader. “Where are my people?”
“Is this more of your diplomacy?” Majorae Ha’Asoon sipped from a tall cup, unflustered.
“You have our diplomat. I, on the other hand, am not …”
“… very diplomatic. Do they not have manners on your home planet? You barge into our great hall uninvited and accuse us in our home.”
“Our rules of etiquette don’t extend to those who lay siege to a peaceful camp, destroy our property, and make off with our people.”
“You talk to us of peace? You come to this world, armed, with no regard for our plants and animals. You comport yourselves in the way of your world, imposing them on ours.”
“As you have with the Derthalen?”
“This is our moon. Our dominion.”
“I’ll ask one last time, where are my people?”
“We have … exchanged ideas. They have been welcomed into our tribe. There have been some … complications.”
“They better be unharmed.”
Majorae Ha’Asoon nodded, and a member of his guard departed. The others shifted positions, not grouping to surround me, but taking up more defensive postures. I eyed the nearest exit. Majorae Ha’Asoon’s attention focused on my weapon, studying my suit with the glint of greed in his eyes.
The guard led Novice Vidair to the area just before Majorae Ha’Asoon. The novice averted his gaze, studying the ground. It had been not even half a day since the attack, but the novice’s belly distended. His face gaunt, flushed with a grayish pallor, his eyelids had swollen shut. Wizened fingers dug into emaciated arms, scratching at the red splotches that ran along them.
“Are you okay, Novice Vidair?” I asked.
“They infected us.” He upturned his hands. Maroon pustules blossomed on his palms like tumescent stigmata. When his eye spasmed, the muscle contraction tightened his entire face.
“We didn’t know what effect our introduction would have on your kind,” Majorae Ha’Asoon said.
“You mean, as you force yourself on us,” I said.
“Your kind no longer embraces change.”
The full implications of what he intimated settled in. Perhaps we had evolved as far as we were able. I swept the room with my rifle, stilling the slow encroachment of the guards. Their movements were subtle, professional. “We resist you.”
“We’re the future. We build. We create. We define. We have no need of your God. Or your Order. We have studied your Scriptures, and one ‘truth’ intrigues us.” Majorae Ha’Asoon returned to his meal. He waved his knife about, light glimmering from its edge. “Your chosen people were called to wipe out nations and peoples before them. That is where we find ourselves, one story destroying the one that came before it. That is the ‘gospel’ message you have brought us.”
I watched the glint from the knife. And thought of my parents.
The first shot of my blaster burned a fist-sized hole in the center of Majorae Ha’Asoon’s chest. My next shot took off a quarter of the nearest guard’s head. I fired and fired, backing toward Novice Vidair. Before I could turn to shove him toward an exit, he leapt on my back.
“Too late for us.” His fists slammed into my neck attempting to divorce my head from my body. My biomech suit shuddered with the impact of his unanticipated strength. “We are joined. Not one of them. No longer us. We order you to join us.”
I reached around and flung him from me as if tearing off a shirt I no longer wanted. Veins thickened and bulged along his neck. Peering with overly vesseled eyes, blood trailed from their corners like thick tears. He raked fingers across my suit, desperate to open a gash.
I raced down the corridor, pursued by a mad clamor of hoots and cries as the guards were let loose from their leashes. Backtracking to the room I entered from, I barred the door and disabled the room-dropping mechanism. My people had been biologically compromised by a hostile contagion. The Revisio had genocidal intent toward the Derthalen. Nothing remained of this mission except judgment protocols.
“They know not what they did.”
I placed my remaining charges around the massive cauldron. Synchronizing the timers, I gave myself a thirty-second window. I no longer cared if that allowed me enough time. God would see me through if I was meant to labor on. I dove for the grated opening into the waiting water. The torrent whooshed me along, flushing me from the compound like so much unwanted waste. The vibrations of the explosion rattled the passageway. I prayed the rough tunnel’s integrity would hold, as the only death I imagined worse than drowning was being buried alive while I drowned.
The hillside shook, its contraction excreting me toward the lake. I dug my biomech enhanced hands into the earth until I came to a halt. The remains of the building collapsed on itself. I doubted there would be any survivors, but I would wait. Each step became more difficult as the extensive damage to my biomech suit caused power loss. Eventually, it would be inoperable. I would salvage what I could, but I needed to send one final report. With my suit compromised and the vector of the Revisio’s transmission unclear, I submitted myself and this world as under bioquarantine.
From the cover of forest undergrowth, I could study Species A, the Derthalen. A pod of them groomed one another, the adults sheltering the young. No one escaped agents of change. If God was already at work in their culture, as we purport to believe, then these people have earned the right to find their own way.
As have I.
About the Author
Maurice Broaddus is the
author of Buffalo Soldier, as well as the Knights of Breton Court urban fantasy trilogy: King Maker, King’s Justice, and King’s War. He is a co-author of the play, Finding Home: Indiana at 200. His fiction has been published in numerous magazines and anthologies, including Asimov’s Science Fiction, Lightspeed Magazine, Cemetery Dance, Apex Magazine, and Weird Tales Magazine. Some of his stories are collected in The Voices of the Martyrs. He co-edited Streets of Shadows and the Dark Faith anthology series. You can keep up with him at his web site, www.MauriceBroaddus.com.
“Warrior of the Sunrise” was originally published in The New Hero: Volume One (Stone Skin Press, 2013)
“Rite of Passage” was originally published in Space & Time Magazine (November 2008)
“A Soldier’s Story” was originally published in Vampire Don’t Sparkle (Seventh Star Press, 2012)
“The Ave” was originally published in Horror Literature Quarterly (November 2007)
“Family Business” was originally published in Weird Tales Magazine #338 (January 2006)
“Read Me Up” was originally published in the What Fates Impose (Alliteration Ink, 2013)
“Cerulean Memories” was originally published in Book of the Dead (Jurassic-London, 2013)
“The Electric Spanking of the War Babies” was originally published in Glitter and Mayhem (Apex Books, 2013)
“The Valkyrie” was originally published in the War Stories (Apex Books, 2014)
The Voices of Martyrs Page 22
