Hybrid Saga 01 - Hybrid

by S M Briscoe

  And it was his army. He answered to a very select few in the highest ranks of the Sect hierarchy, and even they knew and recognized the full extent of the power he held and how thin the line was that separated them. Of course, the only true power he served and would ever kneel before was that of the Gods. His unconditional loyalty to Them was the only reason why he would tolerate his newly arrived guests.

  Already irritated by their unwelcome and unnecessary presence here, and growing more so by the moment, he waited for them to disembark from their unmarked personnel carrier. Unaccustomed to being made to wait for anyone, he was not enjoying the experience. They had been docked at the local security bay, which had been requisitioned for Sect military use only, for over a standard hour, choosing to remain onboard their vessel until he had personally arrived, most likely to maintain an air of mystery about themselves while at the same time asserting their authority. He was not impressed.

  Sprays of compressed gas began to vent from the pressure seals around the transport’s entry hatch and the locks disengaged with a series of thuds. Slowly, the boarding ramp opened and lowered into place on the deck. Durak noticed, and tried to ignore, the rise in tension among his officers as the vessels’s occupants began to appear from the opening, a dozen of the fierce looking beings stalking down the boarding ramp to take up guard positions at its base. Unlike his own uniformed and heavily armored soldiers, they were clad in simple functional garments and a single piece of dark torso fitting armor which was organic in appearance. Segments of durable cresche endoskeletons, if he wasn’t mistaken. As well, they were armed quite simply, with staffs and other bladed weaponry. Definitely not the advanced, state of the art fire power his troops were equipped with, but he had to admit they looked no less formidable for it.

  A race of reclusive warriors, the Rai Chi were the self proclaimed chosen people of the Gods, believing themselves superior to all others. Ordained as such by the Prophets; a secretive cult of mystics who acted as liaison for the Gods and conversed only with the Overseer of the warrior caste; they carried out the supposed personal biddings of the Gods. Durak did not question their mandate or their special status, as it was not his place to do so, but his acceptance of the matter did nothing to lessen his irritation with them.

  Operating outside of any established chain of command or rule of law, and reporting to no one, they moved with complete autonomy, executing their missions under a veil of secrecy. To his mind, they were little more than glorified assassins. Truthfully, it wasn’t their missions or how they performed them that bothered him. He of course had his own secret police and elite special forces that carried out similar missions on a regular basis. Assassins also had their place. He had frequently recruited their services when such work needed to be done. What irritated him was that the Rai Chi did not operate under his command. He oversaw and was responsible for deploying all aspects of the Sect military to ensure the stability of the Dominion. It was rather insulting that these warriors were permitted to act without his approval, or at the very least, his input. Of course, if it was asked, he would have no choice but to voice his true opinion of them. They were no more than an fading echo from an ancient era, forgotten or unheard of by most. Relics from an earlier age, long past its prime, their services insignificant next to the might of his military.

  Once the last of the warriors had taken up their guard positions at the ramp base, Durak’s attention moved back up to the small portion of the ship’s interior hold that was visible beneath the underbelly of the hull. After a long theatrical moment, two additional sets of feet came into view as they descended the ramp. These warriors were similarly attired, but with additional and more elaborate armoring. A dark cape fell from a set of shoulder gauntlets on one of the two, covering the warrior’s back as well as one arm. It was a ceremonial garment in appearance and served to identify him as the most senior of whatever ranking system these beings followed. The second warrior would then fall as some version of a first officer.

  Durak remained where he stood, not moving forward to greet the warriors as they reached the deck. They could come to him. Their summoning of him had been enough of an insult. Though he was obligated to cooperate with these Rai Chi, he was also determined to make them fully aware of his resulting displeasure.

  If they had taken notice of the obvious gesture, they betrayed no sign of it, continuing their march towards him, the warrior contingent following to form a defensive half circle perimeter behind and to the sides of them. To his relief, Durak’s troops remained rigidly at attention, showing no further signs of tension as the Rai Chi approached. He grinned internally with pride. It was not only himself who felt so strongly about the situation. His troops were no less pleased and were taking it upon themselves to stand firm for their commander.

  The Rai Chi commander and his first officer came to a halt in front of him, the former surveying the lines of Sect troops with a steely gaze before returning his attention to Durak.

  “High Commander,” he spoke, in the Rai Chi tongue. Durak of course knew and spoke the Usan language fluently. It was an ancient dialect, ordained as the holy language, in which the Gods’ words had been translated into the many scriptures. It was also the only language the Rai Chi would speak. As with many other things, they felt it beneath themselves to utter anything less than the holy tongue. Though Durak felt it a pleasure to honor the Gods by conversing in the ancient language, he also knew that limiting oneself in such a way put them at a disadvantage. The Rai Chi’s superior view of themselves, and refusal to accept or partake in anything that was not of themselves, was a weakness in Durak’s eyes. If you could not understand your enemies, you could not truly know them. If you did not know your enemies, how could you defeat them?

  “It is a pleasure to meet your acquaintance, Shu’ma Chi-Kem,” Durak returned cordially in perfect Usan. Though the Rai Chi did have a ranking structure, it was not something that was utilized as a title. The warriors simply knew who their superiors were, and all Rai Chi addressed one another by their full names out of respect. Not doing so would be a great insult. One that would result in the spilling of blood. Though he was frustrated with their interference in his military affairs, he knew better than to insult those who had been sent under the wishes of the Gods . . . supposedly.

  “I am sure,” Shu’ma answered, apparently having registered Durak’s not so subtle hints to the contrary. “You have captured the heretic?”

  Straight to business. Good. Durak wasn’t sure how long he would be able to remain passably pleasant. He nodded once. “We have.” He didn’t add the rest of what he was thinking. That he had done so without them.

  “Where is she?” Shu’ma demanded.

  “On a guarded shuttle,” Durak answered, pausing. “En route to my command ship in orbit.”

  Shu’ma’s displeasure was immediately evident, as Durak assumed it would be. His lips curled back into a snarl to show his clenched teeth as he echoed the statement. “To your command ship. And why was she not brought here?”

  Durak smiled inwardly again. He knew fair well the answer to that question. Durak did not intend on simply handing the traitor over to these warriors so that they could return with her, claiming victory before the Gods. This was his mission and he would show everyone the err in judgement it had been to supersede his power in this way.

  “Unfortunately,” he began, “the shuttle was already underway when communique of your arrival came through. I of course diverged to personally greet you here, but I’m sure you understand that for the needs of security, the heretic’s shuttle continued on. Had you only arrived earlier, other arrangements could have been made.”

  Shu’ma’s glare did not subside. “Of course. If only we had. As we were . . . tardy in our arrival, we will return with you to your command ship, at which time the heretic will be turned over to me for return to the Homeworld.”

  Durak actually felt himself flinch at the audacity of the warrior. He had, for all intensive purposes, jus
t given the High Commander of the Dominion military a direct order in front of his troops. Under any other circumstances, any being who had attempted to do the same thing, apart from the few most highly ranked of the Sect hierarchy he did answer to, would have been dead before finishing the poorly conceived sentence. His troops appeared visibly stunned, whether a reaction to the warrior’s demand, or for the fact that he was still breathing, Durak didn’t know.

  Momentarily unsure of his next course of action, Durak stood frozen, glaring back down at Shu’ma, the warrior a head shorter than he. He could, as his baser instincts told him, tear the warrior’s head off with his bear hands and let his blood spill out onto the deck for the remaining Rai Chi and all of his troops to see. Logically, he knew that this would be the end of him, only possibly militarily, but most assuredly in the eyes of the Gods, which was all that truly mattered to him. If it was the Gods’ wish for these warriors to be here, murdering them would only serve to damn him. But how could he allow himself to wilt before this simple warrior? Were the Gods testing him? Testing his faith in Their judgement? If it was their wish to have these beings command him, he could not disobey.

  Durak felt torn between his belief and his pride. Two things that had never come into conflict before. Always sure in his duty, his choices were simple and no one dared question them. His loyalty was to the Gods. He did not question Them.

  The bay had become deadly quiet, so much so, that when a sole set of boot clad foot steps began to hurriedly approach his position, the resulting echoes resembled cannon fire as they bounced across the large dock. When they stopped next to him, Durak managed to pull his glare away from Shu’ma to glance down at the officer.

  “Sir,” the officer began, pausing to catch his breath. “Incoming transmission from the prisoner shuttle. They have come under attack.”

  Durak’s expression must have been terrifying, as the officer took a step backwards. “Come under attack by whom?” he demanded.

  “Unsure, sir. Last communiqués reported that support craft had broken off to engage one or more targets in pursuit. We’ve since lost contact with both the shuttle and its support.”

  “Where is the shuttle now?” Durak growled.

  “Unknown, sir.”

  “What of the transponder beacons?”

  The officer shrank visibly before him. “The support vessel signatures have . . . vanished, sir.”

  A vanishing transponder signal was the equivalent of a destroyed vessel.

  “And the shuttle?” Durak asked between clenched teeth.

  “Transmitting,” the officer replied, obviously struggling to keep his composure. “But, static in location. Patrol ships were dispatched and found it. It was removed from the shuttle.”

  Durak’s mood dropped to an all new low as he caught the infuriated look from Shu’ma. He resisted the urge to kill the officer for giving him the news and instead took a moment to collect his thoughts.

  “Do we have any idea where the shuttle is?” he asked, speaking slowly and deliberately.

  The officer glanced around at the nearby faces, as if looking for help before speaking. “No, sir . . . but, we do have a possible lead on the attackers.”

  “Go on,” Durak demanded.

  Appearing relieved to not have been killed yet, the officer continued. “Shortly after losing contact with the shuttle, we received a report of another attack . . . from the support craft escorting the prisoner tram.”

  “What?” came a small, but loud voice from somewhere just behind Durak. Turning, he found Traug, who he had forgotten was even present in the bay, staring at the officer in concern.

  “My prisoner tram is under attack?” he asked.

  “Yes,” the officer nodded in response.

  Durak stepped between the two and began shouting commands to all of his surrounding officers. “Direct all gunships to move in on that tram and capture the attackers! Alive if possible.” He turned back to look at the officer who had delivered the news.

  “Contact Trycon Security. We’re issuing an immediate lockdown of all Trycon airspace under emergency Dominion authority. Nothing is to get out.”

  “Yes, sir,” the officer answered, turning to leave at a brisk pace.

  Turning back around he caught sight of Shu’ma’s first officer and half of his warrior contingent stalking off across the bay towards his personal support gunships.

  “Where are they going?” he asked of Shu’ma, who’s angry gaze remained locked on him.

  Shu’ma nearly spat back his response, which was meant convey to Durak that his play had been noticed and that it had failed.

  “To do what you were unable to accomplish on your own, High Commander.”

  * * *

  Refugees of all races sat huddled together, packed tightly from wall to wall in the overcrowded hover tram. The mood of everyone aboard was grim, the fear so thick in the air, Elora could almost taste it.

  She had spent so long trying to avoid this very fate. To make a life for Ethan and herself where they didn’t have to fear it. The last few days with Jarred had seemed like her first real chance for starting that life, and ironically it had lead her directly to the very thing she was trying to escape.

  And Jarred was gone. Executed right before her eyes . . . and it was her fault. She had guilted him into taking them with him. Guilted him into helping Orna and bringing her here. All of this was her fault. She felt sick, nauseated by what had and what was happening all around her, but most of all, by what was to come.

  “Elora?” Ethan was sitting close beside her on the floor of their crowded tram car and she looked down at him.

  “What’s going to happen to us?” he asked. “Are we going to be slaves?”

  “I don’t know.” she answered, honestly. Elora put her arm around Ethan and pulled him in closer to her. She really didn’t know what was going to happen to them and it was that uncertainty in their fate that truly terrified her.

  The tram began to tremble slightly, probably from turbulence of some kind, and Elora held on to Ethan more tightly. As the turbulence became more intense, groans and cries of distress reverberated through the mass of refugees in the car, the sounds quickly being drowned out by the loud, thunderous clap of an explosion. The tram shuddered violently as something hard began raining down over the top of the car, making loud crashing sounds, and the lights began to flicker off and on. The sounds were mixed with the fearful screams of those within the car and Elora hugged Ethan to her, hoping this wasn’t the end.

  Then, as suddenly as the turbulence had begun, it ended, the lights returning to normal. For a long moment, Elora just sat still, listening. Had there been an explosion on the tram? They seemed to be fine now. What had just happened?

  “What was that?” Ethan asked, staring up at the ceiling of the tram.

  Also staring up at the ceiling, Elora could only shake her head negatively, her heart still racing. “I don’t know.”

  Chapter 13

  Following the skyrail’s power nodes, it didn’t take Jarred long to catch up to the hover tram. It would be heading for a docking port, he knew, where the refugees would be loaded onto the Trill’s waiting freighter. He would have to board the tram, locate Elora and Ethan and get them off before it got there.

  He didn’t think it would be too much of a problem, at least not after he dealt with the tram’s two patrol escorts. One was flying escort on either side of the tram, so for his plan to work, he would have to take them out simultaneously, or risk another long pursuit that he didn’t have time for.

  Jarred dropped his Stinger into a position that would allow him to come at the tram from a lower angle and set himself up for a run at the escort on the left side. Moving in slowly, he came in under the patrol ship, matching the other’s speed when he was directly beneath it. Ascending, he moved up to within arm’s reach of the ship and retrieved a grenade from his belt, keying the timer for sixty seconds before carefully attaching it to the hull.

  Dropping
back down, Jarred dipped under the hover tram, moving into a similar position as before beneath the second patrol escort, and retrieving another grenade, he keyed it for thirty seconds. Attaching it to the ship’s hull, he then came up beside the escort and passed by its cockpit, grinning at, and saluting the Gnolith pilot as he hit the accelerators.

  As expected, the patrol craft began to give chase, the second appearing out from the opposite side of the tram as well. Now, all he needed to do was lead them a safe distance away from the tram before they detonated.

  The escorts opened up with bursts of laser fire and Jarred had to veer off hard to avoid being hit by their crisscrossing volleys, launching into a series on evasive maneuvers. The patrollers stayed on him and pressed the attack, working their shots with one another’s to cut down his mobility, and to that end they were succeeding. Jarred had to admit that these pilots were much better than the last two.

  Pointing his nose down, and punching the throttle, he sent the Stinger into a hard dive, jinking, juking and dodging as his attackers poured super heated fire down at him. Just a few more seconds. Jarred reversed thrust and pulled his nose up hard, quickly throwing full power back to the engines again, the gut wrenching maneuver sending him rocketing into a steep climb.

  The patrol craft were about to do the same when the first grenade exploded, blowing one of the ships apart. The second patrol craft flew out from behind the flames and wreckage, managing to stay with Jarred a few seconds longer before it too detonated, blowing debris out in all directions.

  Jarred let out a relieved breath and changed his course to intercept the tram. Leveling out, he glanced at his rear display, and had to look twice before realizing he was still being followed. Reacting on instinct, Jarred cut the Stinger’s throttle and repulser pads, causing the hover bike to go into an immediate free fall.