The Coming Storm_A Pax Aeterna Novel

by Trevor Wyatt

  I am right in the control center of one of my fleet of merchant vessels. We are orbiting Sonali Prime and have just received permission to enter the atmosphere. Such permission is rarely given to large merchant ships. Large ships are relegated to the dockyards orbiting Sonali Prime. Small ships are able to land on the land-based docks on the surface.

  Small ships like the Terran agricultural ship. So central to my plans.

  However, true to his word, High Cleric Szaad succeeded in getting me the permission I needed to fly my large merchant ship into the homeworld, maintain a high altitude above all air lanes across the Capital Grid to one of the mining facilities on the other side of Sonali Prime, where I’m supposedly going to pick up a massive quantity of ore to sell to the Tyreesians on behalf of my company and the Sonali government.

  This is what the official logs say, for which Szaad and I signed.

  However, Szaad and I planned for the mission to go sideways. The vessel is supposed to be hijacked by a group of Terran Nationalists just after it’s been cleared for re-entry. Then it’s supposed to drive its way into the Capital Grid and smash into the densest populated area, where hundreds of thousands of Sonali will die.

  This was the plan up until three minutes ago when I received notification that High Cleric Szaad had been found and a Terran lady was about to take him out.

  Good thing we also built a contingency.

  And it’s my job to carry out that contingency.

  The plan? Kill everyone.

  I am alone in the vessel, and I am the only one who understands what needs to be done. I alone understand that except a statement is made the arguments would just keep on rolling out of the mouths of the unlearned and untaught. The argument that the Terran scourge is anything but a scourge.

  The Sonali race was never meant to born side by side with any race, especially not the Terrans. We are superior to them. Oh, vastly superior. Now, the blasted government and military that lost the war have us serving them. This is not the design of things.

  I remember once when we would meet a species for the first time. Our tests that determine their worthiness would dictate just how superior we were. Because Sonali are always superior—in every way. I remember going over the logs of how we responded to The Seeker and its captain, Jeryl Montgomery. How he quaked in his boots at the superiority of our vessels and the inferiority of his.

  Those were the days when we were truly completely Sonali, not these days where we have been corrupted by the Terran. Not these days when our children have become unnatural to the extent of even dreaming of changing a biological and spiritual process that predates spacefaring. Not these days that the brutal laissez-faire Terran Union corporations are making short works of Sonali businesses, including mine, and putting us out of business.

  The spread of Terran culture is a blight on our society. It has to end. Terrans have to be really seen for who they are. If it takes the death of the entire population of Sonali Prime to see it, then so be it. We will repopulate. We will grow. And we will be stronger again.

  “Merchant Vessel MMB 012, you are cleared for departure and atmospheric entry,” says a voice over the comms.

  “Roger that,” I reply.

  The magnetic clamps disengage, and the vessel is let loose in space. I engage the thrusters, guiding the ship away from the space dock towards the planet.

  “Computer, set course for the Industrial Layout,” I say.

  “Be advised,” the computer replies, “the approved flight plan does not pass over the Industrial Layout. Shall I contact the Docks Authorities to request a change in flight plan?”

  “Negative,” I say. “Just take me there.”

  The vessel pierces through the atmosphere and before long we are accelerating under the gravitational pull of the planet.

  The strap of the captain’s chair holds me still, though digging into my skin. The ship’s main engines come online as soon as we are in the lower atmosphere. With a jerk, our free fall is arrested. The computer plots the course, and we begin towards the Industrial Layout.

  “Computer, check our cargo’s structural integrity.”

  “Checking…” After a few seconds, “Terraformer is structurally intact. Ready for drop down activation.”

  “Okay, standby,” I say, remembering the pain it took to get this infernal device. Anyone who doubts how godless and deserving of death the Terrans only need to look at their terraforming technology. They take nature’s creation—the way it was supposed to be according to The Way. And they change it. Entire worlds are changed. To suit the Terrans. Atmospheres are changed. Mineral composition is changed.

  It’s worthy of extinction of their race.

  And they shall all die once their evil weapons are exposed to the galaxy.

  We’ve planned this for a while. I think back to how I had gotten my hands on Terran bombs. I had gotten information from a space pirate of some world near the Terran’s border with the Outer Colonies that the Terran explorers had failed to terraform. The space pirate had also told me that the Terrans had abandoned most of their medium to light ordnance because it was damaged. Their plan, however, was to come back for the weapons later. They just never did.

  I immediately assembled a team to go steal it. The space pirate had glossed over the important fact that there was a small ten-man outpost on the planet. My team dispatched of the Terrans quickly, though had lost one Sonali. They brought the stolen piece of ordnance aboard this vessel, where we spent the better part of one month fixing for eventual use.

  Then we used it on the land-based docks. My security clearance had gotten us the cover to plant the Terran bombs. Sonali police forces—though dimwitted—were able to see the clues we left. They did exactly as we wanted, locking down all vessels and allowing us access to their cargo. This gave us the chance to “borrow” the terraformer and bring it aboard as well.

  The hope was never to use it. But should the eventuality arise, we wanted to be ready.

  It appears this eventuality is around the corner.

  “Computer, how long to the layout?” I ask.

  “One minute,” the computer replies.

  “Why am I not getting hails from the authorities?” I ask. “Are we yet to deviate from our laid out course?”

  “We have sir,” the computer replies, “But it appears the police officers are all focused on some incident on the Sacred Temple. No one is looking at you.”

  “Great,” I reply, “But we will still need a distraction. Get ready to self-destruct.”

  “Complying,” the computer says. “Self-destruct in five minutes.”

  “I unstrap myself and hightail it out of the control center. I make my way to the main entrance bay. In one of the racks is a breather, which I grab in one hand.

  “Sir, we are getting a transmission from space dock,” the computer says over the overhead speakers, “they want to know why we have deviated from our charted course.”

  “Ignore them,” I say and get ready to release the Terraformer the moment we are flying over the Industrial Layout. I want the terraform in the epicenter of the layout. Otherwise I will not be able to achieve total perfusion of the terraformer’s activity.”

  “Affirmative,” the computer replies.

  The terraformer is a massive piece of technology that occupies the central hold of the haulage vessel. It occupies the entire hold, which is about the size of a stadium.

  The vessel slows to a stop and then jerks upwards a little as down drops the Terraformer. I hear a loud noise that causes the ship to vibrate in the air.

  I tap the button of the hatch. The hatch opens to show me the Industrial Estate’s farm of skyscrapers spread out before me. As I look at the scene, I am almost sympathetic to the Sonali homeworld.

  We are hovering at about thirty stories in the air.

  “Set us down near the terraformer,” I say above the rush of wind in my face, “I need to make sure everyone dies.”

  “Complying,” the computer
results. And this is one of those days I am happy AIs don’t have morals.

  The vessel descends until it is only hovering at about five yards off the ground.

  “Computer, go somewhere far from here to explode,” I instruct, “but not so far that there isn’t critical damage.”

  “Affirmative,” the computer replies. There’s a pause, and I wonder to myself if it had feelings if it would say, “Good luck.”

  That’s the last thing I think before I leap out of the open hatch onto the ground.

  The Terraformer is about thirty stories high and stands on three massive towers that stretch for more than two third of its height. The rest of the terraformer is a roundish control center, where most of the terraforming action takes place. Underneath this center is a wide, round hole that spews out particle beams into the ground that begins to change its composition.

  On the round control center are six hatches interspaced evenly. These hatches open for tentacle-like structures and latch into the ground.

  All around me, people are beginning to gather, though they keep their distance. They are looking at the terraformer with surprise and amazement. Some are even taking pictures.

  The police haven’t responded yet. But I know it’s only a matter of time before someone realizes what this is.

  I jog over to the closest leg. I’ve already programmed in my desired atmospheric composition of the world. All I have to do is activate it. I run a last-minute integrity check. The result comes back as positive and asks me for permission to proceed. I tap yes, and a countdown from ten begins.

  I turn and make a mad dash across the Layout away from the machine. As soon as I hear the massive, ground shattering thrum of the machine, I attach the breather to my face. Quickly after, I hear screams of all those hapless souls who stand in amazement too close to the machine. Without looking back, I run off into the night.

  No-One

  “Unfreeze transmission,” I say.

  The holographic projection unfreezes. They’ve been on hold for a minute.

  “What’s going on?” Admiral Shane asks. He sees the look of confusion on my face and realizes that something has gone terribly wrong.

  I gaze at his face and everyone in the room with him. All of them who are several hundred light years away on Earth is anxious to know what’s happening.

  Well, I am as well.

  “I just got a report of mass death by asphyxiation all across the Capital Grid,” I say. “It turns out this Temple is not the final play.”

  “Looks like it’s back to work for you, Anika,” Admiral Shane says in his officious voice. Now I know he’s not just my longtime friend, but my boss. I have my orders, and I intend on executing them to the last word.

  “Yes, sir,” I say. “Computer, end transmission.”

  The holographic projection vanishes, plunging the main worship hall into an eerily silent darkness.

  I grab my pistol from where I had kept it by my side and holster it. Then I head over to the High Cleric and take his assault rifle from the ground. I check the charges. It’s still at about seventy percent. I am impressed—I look around at the destruction this piece of weapon had created, and I’m doubly impressed.

  I grip the handle, pulling the butt home to my right shoulder blade and aim. The sights are perfect, and the weight is perfectly distributed. I look again at the weapon, surprised at its impressive architecture and design. I conclude that High Cleric Szaad should have had no reason to fail in killing me.

  This weapon is just too crafted perfectly not to have given Szaad an unfair advantage. But alas, no matter how great the tool is, if the wielder isn’t any good, it doesn’t matter. I am lucky that Szaad was a lousy shot. Otherwise, he would have killed me instantly. In spite of this, there had been some close calls. There’s an old 20th Century Earth saying that I remember from my pre-Third World War cultural training. “If the glove doesn’t fit, you must acquit.” It was apparently quoted by a noted cultural leader. So few records survive from that time, but this one does.

  Well, Szaad, the glove really didn’t fit. And so you acquitted me of my life. Because you had me. And you blew it.

  For a few seconds, I relieve the firefight. I shiver as I realize just how close I had come to death and for what reason? The Sonali?

  I sigh.

  With the assault rifle leading, I began to trace my way out of the main worship hall, through the anteroom and the hallway onto the landing. It’s dark in the Temple. I call up my nanites, which gives me enhanced night vision. I make my way down the stairs to the grand main lobby. I approach the exit cautiously.

  Even though the computer has assured me that there isn't anybody in the Temple or for a radius of one kilometer, I know there’s danger everywhere. Why else would Sonali be dying all across the world?

  I exit into the courtyard. I see afar off; there is a column of smoke rising up into the air and flashes of blue, red and green stroking the horizon. I drop my aim as I begin to suspect what might be going on. There is a slight tremor in the air, and I can feel the change in the atmosphere through the nanites.

  Fear stabs at my heart. I glance at my aircar. It’s totaled at the flight of steps. I look around the courtyard. There are no vehicles.

  The nearest vehicle is a kilometer away. I jog out of the courtyard and head towards the depot. As I pass the outlying buildings, I see dead Sonali bodies littering the ground. I see some with life ebbing out of them, grabbing their throats out of suffocation.

  There are some who are still alive, but who are using breathers, much like the one on my face. It’s understandable why the people living in the outlying Sonali settlements of the Capital Grid—sometimes the desert storm can ravage this place, and they’ll need a breather to live through the sandstorm.

  At the depot, there are no aircars waiting. The depot is a small building with seven bays for air cars to park. I can see through the buildings, and there’s no life form in there. It’s deserted. I can’t see any car as well. I look at the narrow winding road as it cuts through a partially arid land onwards to the Capital Grid.

  I heave a deep sigh and continue my walk. I’m too far from my safehouse where an extra vehicle is waiting for me. I pull out my miniature tablet and look for all residences that are registered in the area as being owned by Terran. Being the Capital Grid, there’s a greater frequency of Terrans in this part of the planet than anywhere.

  I find the closest set of coordinates and minutes later, I happen upon a large mansion right on the side of the road. There’s a green, lush lawn, which is a stark contradiction to the harshness of the environment.

  The house belongs to a Noah Axel. Apparently, he’s a Managing Director at StarTech, leading up the Sonali Prime headquarters. After the war, Terran corporations began to aggressively expand out of the Union, looking for new markets in foreign space.

  I head to the door and knock.

  A screen appears on the exquisitely carve d door, and I see an equally exquisite looking Asiatic human woman, who doubles back when she sees me.

  Yeah, I know. I look like crap. First, I still look Sonali.

  Second, I look like I’ve been dragged through Hell. And those Sonali adjustments are starting to probably wear off.

  Whatever. I don’t care if I look like shit. You would too if you got into a firefight with a mad priest.

  “How can I help you?” she asks as though talking with me exposes her to germs.

  “Can I come in?” I ask.

  “No,” she replies.

  I wait for an explanation, but she doesn’t give me. Though she gives me that I-don’t-have-to-explain-to-a-stranger-why-she-shouldn’t-come-into-my-house look.

  “Ma’am, people are dying out there,” I say. “I need to help them.”

  I realize that I need to make her realize something.

  “I’m Terran too,” I say, taking a small blade and making a small cut on my forearm. Red blood seeps out, and I show her. Sonali bleed blue. The woman gasps. Bu
t it doesn’t alter her stance.

  “Sonali people are dying,” she corrects, “and no you don’t need to help them. You’re lucky you have a breather. Find somewhere safe and hide until the Terran Union Ship that’s on its way here arrives.”

  I bang my fist on the door and says, “Lady, if I don’t stop the entire populace from dying they are going to pin this on all Terrans, and no ship is going to be making it alive out of Sonali space.”

  The woman looks shocked. “You mean no rescue?”

  I shake my head. “Not if I don’t get what I want.”

  “Look, even if I wanted to, this house is hermetically sealed,” she says. “I can’t break the seal without risking the lives of my family.”

  “I just need a car,” I reply. “That’s all. Just a means of conveyance.”

  “You can take our car,” she replies.

  I hear a sound behind me. I turn to see a secret door in the lawn open up and a beautiful red aircar float into the air, stopping about one yard in the air. The doors open.

  “Keep her safe,” the woman says.

  I don’t even look at her again. I jump into the aircar and stop short on the passenger’s seat. The seat is obscenely comfortable, with fluffy wool lining the edge. The dashboard and the entire trim has a touch of pink.

  I shut the door. I yank the control stick forward, taking the air car up to the air-lane in seconds. I make a direct beeline for the Capital Grid and suddenly come upon a city unto imminent destruction. All across the landscape, there are great fires and explosions. Once I come lower, I can see people losing control because of asphyxiation and driving into other cars. I see buildings sinking into the ground as the soil texture changes. I see bodies littering the entire landscape.

  I traverse across the different Estates, and as I edge towards the Industrial Estate, the death and massacre and destruction intensifies.

  I hear the familiar hum first, and this is what sucks me into one of the darkest memories of my life.

  I was ten years old when it happened. Terran separatists were launching another set of attacks on the Terran Union border worlds in a bid to secede and join the Outer Colonies. Everyone knew they were being funded by the Outer Colonies, but the government didn’t care about stemming the violence. The Terran Union had a policy of jealously guarding even most remote and lowest of value worlds. After a while, separatists began to try and destroy them rather than trying to claim them and secede. Their choice of weapon was the terraformer.