Five Empires: An Epic Space Opera
Page 18
His mind a whorl of conflicting emotions, Michael followed the provost out into the flagship’s main hangar. Hundreds of filthy, exhausted corsairs stood before a makeshift platform. A tall, authoritative brunette was addressing her troops in warm tones.
Michael figured it must be Admiral Zhavar. Behind the Admiral stood two familiar figures in cobalt blue robes. Michael’s heart almost stopped when he recognized Councilors Follah and Achand. Struggling to contain his emotion, he allowed himself to be led up on the platform alongside his unlikely Nostroma companion. The Admiral glanced at the pair and smiled.
“Corsairs, I am now able to present to you the architects of the Cavan defeat,” she said glowingly.
There was a rousing cheer from the weary corsairs. Michael saw Captain Varosk clapping enthusiastically in the front row. Several of the corsairs nursed their customized breastplates protectively. In a way that meant more to Michael than the cheers and the bombast. It was a shame he wouldn’t be able to produce any more.
“Gentlemen, you packed quite a list of feats into a short space of time,” Zhavar said with a twinkle in her eye. “First, you gave a forlorn, broken battalion a reason to continue. Jake, you provided valuable intel on the Yeneri supply bases. Michael, you used one of these bases to craft armor for Varosk’s soldiers. Seems our early childhood recruiters missed one.”
The remark might once have delighted Michael, but right then he could only feel a queasy brand of fear. He knew his opportunity would come, and that he needed to grasp it with both hands. He would hate, no, detest himself if he missed the chance to avenge Emilia and make things right.
It didn’t matter that ‘making things right’ had no intellectual meaning at all beyond the execution of violence. It simply loomed as the inevitable culmination of his life. A life cut short by the machinations of a small group of very powerful people. And so it was.
“But matters didn’t end there,” Zhavar continued. “These two civilians, unburdened by duty, insisted on joining Varosk’s detachment, playing an integral role in the subjugation of an enemy tower mech. And then, that bomb…”
Laughter rang out among the soldiers. The method of the Cavan flagship’s demise was so irregular, so improbable, that it seemed set to become the stuff of legend in Aegisi military circles.
“Needless to say, none of us would be standing here if it wasn’t for these two men,” Zhavar said with genuine emotion. “The Cava05 intended to destroy us for good. Military Command has no doubt that Solitude would’ve fallen quickly had our Navy succumbed. As things stand, we now control two worlds and have manifestly strengthened our defenses.”
Zhavar threw a curious glance at Michael.
“We cannot offer Mr. Le Sondre anything other than our profound gratitude. We also hope that his involvement in this affair points to… improved relations with the Nostroma. As for Michael Danner, we understand he once harbored dreams of becoming an armorer for the Navy.”
Zhavar turned to address the forager directly.
“After consulting Command, I am proud to offer Mr. Danner that role he so cherished, effective immediately. Michael, you would honor us with your acceptance.”
Michael felt the eyes of every soldier in the hangar on him. He didn’t know what to say. His mind was more occupied with the Councilors standing behind Zhavar. They were looking at him with restrained smiles that gave nothing away. Did they endorse his ascension into the Aegisi Blue? Or had they been blindsided by Zhavar’s military discussions?
Either way, there would always be the shared knowledge that Emilia Danner had been sent to die. How could these powerful decision-makers allow him to live with that knowledge? If Michael innocently accepted his new post, would he receive a plasma bolt in the back when he least expected it? It seemed likely. But such considerations were academic.
The moment Michael had hungered for with every fiber of his being had arrived. And those marked for death were about to present him with the very instruments of their demise.
“I accept,” Michael stammered, his eyes locked on Zhavar nervously. He could feel Jake’s presence beside him, as if the Nostroma was willing him to take his reward and submit to his new life.
“Then come forward and claim the weapons of an Aegisi corsair,” Zhavar said grandly.
Michael stepped forward as if in a dream. Councilor Follah approached him with a marine-issue harpoon and fully loaded bolt sheath. The newly anointed corsair accepted the weapons with what he hoped was good grace. He couldn’t tell for sure - his mind was throbbing at a thousand miles a minute.
Follah smiled thinly before withdrawing to her original position. There was a trace of chagrin in those eyes, as if the Councilor had been forced into doing something unsavory. Councilor Achand approached next, brandishing a marine-issue trident in his right hand. He passed it over to Michael and leaned in for a private message.
“My condolences, Mr. Danner,” he breathed. “Your sister was an impressive young woman.”
A strange calm came over Michael and he acknowledged the Councilor with a slight nod.
“She was, Councilor Achand,” he said in a surprisingly clean voice. “Her shadow looms large over all of us.”
Achand frowned. His eyes never leaving the corsair, he stepped back into position.
“Do you have any words for our victorious troops, Armorer Danner?” Zhavar said hopefully.
A black fever dream closing in on all sides, Michael turned to face the soldiers. He felt ridiculous clutching his new weapons to his chest, like some rookie on his first day of military training.
“As a forager I was always taught that actions spoke much louder than words,” Michael began, finding it disturbingly easy to address these people now that an inner darkness was driving his mind and body.
“In the spirit of that sentiment, I’d like to test my new weapons.”
Feeling the pregnant tension roll across the hangar floor, Michael placed his trident very deliberately on the stage and loaded the harpoon. He aimed the thing at a distant floodlight on the ceiling, familiarizing himself with the old-fashioned circular sighter. Satisfied he would hit his target, Michael spun on his heels and aimed at Follah’s throat.
He squeezed the trigger.
27
The bolt thwanged exactly where it was intended. Follah’s eyes widened in horror as a rivulet of thick blood dribbled down the front of her robe. Unable to breathe, she stumbled backwards and disappeared off the platform. Before anyone could subdue him, Michael had the trident extended and raised over his right shoulder.
“Big things have happened,” he said, his voice finally breaking. “I just want the little things to happen too.”
The forager hurled the trident as hard as his body would allow. Two of the three barbed prongs embedded themselves in Achand’s face and popped out the back of his skull. The impact was so brutal that the Councilor neck was snapped instantly. He crumpled to the floor, dead before he hit the ground.
It took a lot to shock a hardened corsair, but cold, suffocating silence held each of the soldiers in thrall. Zhavar was the first to move, drawing a high-powered pistol from a holster at her hip. She leveled it at Michael as if she were facing something unidentifiable but clearly dangerous.
Still coursing with dark energy, Michael released his weaponry and took the steps required to see him standing over Achand’s corpse. He wasn’t sure what compelled him to do it, but he spat a gob of saliva at Achand for good measure. The simmering hate in him had been released from its cage and all he could do was let it run rampant.
And yet hate, like pure joy, is nothing if not ephemeral. When he felt Jake’s languid hand on his shoulder and heard his deep, sonorous voice, Michael felt himself returning to the physical moment that was his life. His work had been done. The seed that had been planted several days ago had germinated spectacularly.
He was surprised to find that all he felt now was unadulterated relief. There was no darkness clawing at the edge of his mind. No
ill wind blowing through his soul. He could feel and appreciate the present moment in a way he thought he’d lost forever.
Only problem was, his life was now forfeit. He remembered the man who had traveled with him all this time, the lanky, rank, foul-smelling Nostroma called Jake Le Sondre. He felt a sharp pang of anxiety when he realized how dependent he’d been on this strange alien. He felt dirty by association and took an involuntary step away from him.
For his part, Jake simply stood there looking at Michael with something like sadness. But where everyone else in that hangar was frozen in shock, the equanimity of Jake’s eyes suggested he was somehow complicit in the violence that had spilled over.
The forager - for that was all he was, and all he would ever be - felt as though he was on the edge of something profound as he looked into Jake’s strangely vulnerable, naked expression. Before he could continue that train of thought an alarm resonated across the hangar floor.
“Cava05?” Zhavar said into her com.
Zhavar’s eyes widened in horror. “Milkmen? Out this far?”
There was no answer.
“You heard the call, corsairs,” Zhavar said in a booming voice. “Battle stations!”
The soldiers sprinted across the hangar floor, knowing their roles inside out. Captain Varosk and two corsairs remained.
“Michael Danner,” he said softly. “You’re coming with me.”
Michael was certain a small cell awaited him.
The Tranquility rocked with the shock of repeated hits on the primary shield, which had only been reinstated hours before.
“How the fuck did they get so close?” Varosk said bitterly, glancing over to the closed hangar doors as if a cadre of Milkmen might enter at any moment.
Michael knew next to nothing about these ‘milkmen’. As a boy growing up they’d been more like a legend than a real species. The milkmen supposedly originated from a human civilization that had slowly, over thousands of years, been mutated by solar flares from Orsa III.
Beyond that, they were rumored to possess a unique outlook on their position in the grand scheme of things. They were extremely insular and did not permit travel into the Orsa sector.
For all these reasons it was difficult to grapple with the concept of the milkmen being near Cerulean at all, let alone attacking the Aegisi flagship.
“Captain, you need to leave,” Jake said to Varosk with an uncharacteristic look of horror. “Trust me, you don’t want to be anywhere near this hangar if any milkmen push through.”
“I can’t do that, Le Sondre,” Varosk sneered. “I just witnessed high treason and I intend to uphold Aegisi law.”
Michael saw nothing but grim determination in the captain’s eyes.
“Do what you will, Captain,” he said, not caring what happened to him now. “My work is already done.”
“That’s the thing,” Varosk said cryptically, his gaze turning to the Nostroma. “Was it your idea, or his?”
Michael blinked. Now that was unexpected. Before he could process Varosk’s multi-faceted question there was a wet thud at the hangar doors. Everyone turned in alarm to see a rectangular opening in the middle of the left door. Michael braced himself to be drawn toward the vacuum of space but there was no change in air pressure.
Instead, the rectangular opening seemed to quiver before admitting a white-skinned man. The intruder rippled with muscle and was completely naked. His beady eyes zeroed in on Michael’s position. His gait was slow but rhythmic. It gave the impression that not much could stop him.
Michael was unable to suppress a feeling of profound hopelessness. Even Jake appeared spooked by the milkman’s presence.
Captain Varosk was clearly caught in two minds. In the end he tried to manage both concurrent situations.
“Arms at the ready,” he murmured, and his corsairs drew their blaster rifles. The Captain kept his own blaster pointed at Jake’s head.
“You know this alien, Nostroma?” he asked tightly.
“Only that he’s supremely dangerous,” Jake replied. “I’d have your men put their weapons away.”
Varosk sniffed and did no such thing. Jake shrugged and watched languidly as the milkman approached. The man’s body had some kind of translucent quality. Michael could see his heart beating under muscle and bone. Other areas of his body - his thigh, his shoulder, sections of his head - were also see-through. The transparent patches were actually roaming around his body. The effect was deeply disturbing and seemed to put Varosk and his men firmly on the back foot.
“Stop there,” Varosk called when the albino man was thirty yards away. “You have entered a military warship without authorization and I will need to detain you.”
The Milkman stopped and regarded Varosk with mild surprise.
“I am called The Brawler,” he said in perfect Foundation. “We are here to take control of this ship. You cannot stop us.”
Varosk clearly didn’t know what to say to that.
“Stay where you are and we won’t kill you,” the captain warned.
“Kill me?” The Brawler asked, clearly perplexed by the notion. “That is not an option open to you.”
“How do you view our options?” Varosk asked, perhaps trying to gain some intel on this strange being.
The Brawler resumed his unhurried walk. “Limited,” he admitted.
Terrified, one of the corsairs opened fire. Never breaking stride, The Brawler stopped the plasma bolts with a raised hand. With the other he sent a jet of solid clear material soaring into the attacker’s chest. The Brawler pulled the gel snake free and it fell to the ground with a wet slap.
The corsair fell to his knees, clutching at his chest. With a start Michael realized that the man’s heart had been attached to the gel snake. Leaving the heart behind, the sticky substance recoiled itself into a small abscess under the Milkman’s wrist. The second soldier didn’t even get a shot in, his head lassoed by another gel snake released by The Brawler. The poor man’s head was almost ripped off before the gel was retracted.
Varosk directed his pistol at The Brawler and let off several shots. They all pinged into the milkman’s muscle-bound torso but didn’t do any discernible damage. With a quizzical expression the invader approached Varosk, who stood his ground bravely. The milkman stopped just short of the veteran soldier and placed a hand on his chest. Varosk’s torso seemed to flicker for a moment and Michael could’ve sworn he saw the Captain’s heart beating.
Varosk sank to his knees, his face a mask of agonizing pain. Jake held Michael firmly by the shoulder and shook his head. The forager fought every urge to attack the milkman as Varosk underwent some kind of metamorphosis. His skin became deathly pale and began rippling with strange bubbles.
Grunting, the captain tore off his clothes until he was as naked as The Brawler. His entire body was milky white with clear blotches that moved around. His barrel chest looked like it had caved in. His rib cage had either folded in or dissolved altogether. His beating heart was very close to the clammy, pallid skin.
“Go and rest, brother,” The Brawler whispered into Varosk’s ear. Michael looked on with intense dread as the Captain calmly made his way across the hangar floor toward the rectangular opening The Brawler had created.
The forager’s breath caught in his throat as the horrifying milkman turned his beady gaze on him.
“You have the First Catalyst,” The Brawler said as if inspecting the wares of a spare parts kiosk.
“I have him,” Jake said in a voice filled with wonder. “Both Councilors are dead and the Aegisi control Cerulean.”
The Brawler nodded. “Then we no longer need him.”
“No,” Jake said firmly, standing between Michael and the fearsome milkman. “I still need to be pointed to the next Catalyst. He might have information.”
“Nostroma, you of all people should know that you can’t force these things.”
And with that the milkman strode right up to Jake and planted a fist in his stomach. The Nostroma doubled over in pain. The milkman followed with a vicious two-hander across his jaw, then sent him flying with a front kick to the ribs. The Nostroma landed awkwardly and slid across the polished chrome floor, dispatched as if he were a sickly whelp.
Michael took an involuntary step back. If this ‘milkman’ could do that to Jake Le Sondre, he stood little chance. The mutated human was on him before he could even raise his arms in self-defense. His assailant simply placed a hand on the forager’s chest and left it there for a second. Michael dropped to one knee, feeling his ribs and breastplate sag like wet paper.
The sensation was hideous. Michael felt hot bile rise in his throat. Struggling to breathe, he lay back on the hangar floor and tried to focus on the distant floodlights. He knew instinctively that the milkman had already made his attack and that he would soon be dead or some unthinking automaton in the service of these mutants.
But then he felt himself being pulled across the floor.
“Away from me, he won’t Alter,” he heard the Milkman protesting.
“I’m taking him with me,” Jake said. “You do your fucking job, I’ll do mine.”
“So be it,” the Milkman said after a pause.
Michael must’ve have blacked out for a time because the next thing he knew he was being piled into a cramped room. An escape pod. Despite Jake’s urgings he insisted on laying himself down on the floor. He could hear Jake strapping himself in and muttering. Multiple alarms and sirens sang shrilly in the corridor beyond the pod bay. Distant explosions rocked the Tranquility.
Michael’s breath now came in ragged gasps. His chest rose and fell unnaturally, as if the internal organs had been corrupted. He clutched at the floor as agonizing pain rolled through his body. He knew his life was leaving him. It was now as inevitable as a star’s supernova.