by Shae Mills
But the Laybren also had one more astounding power, that of deflecting most forms of radiation. Therefore, another very important application of the material was for a protective outer garment, originally worn exclusively by the military elite and later adopted by all the citizens of Iceanea. Designed initially for training in the harsh conditions of Iceanea, warriors wore the voluminous, flowing outer shrouds, which provided the extra protection required by the plunging temperatures. But for the warriors in space and on planetary battlefields, the Laybren shrouds shielded them from the radiation that the cosmos showered upon them.
In addition, this garment concealed the body and any weapons carried. Iceanean warriors were extensively trained in the fine art of reading body language, thus giving them an advantage over their assailants. The shroud made it impossible for the enemy to second-guess them by detecting any subtle muscle motions. And for an extra advantage, large hoods were added for enhanced protection, to obscure facial features, and for camouflage.
Tarn's muscles tightened, and he was overcome by a sense of foreboding as he watched the screen before him. A sudden distrust of Manza consumed him, and he leapt from the confines of his cockpit. Tan watched his Commander's flurry of activity but decided against asking questions.
Tarn's movements were swift and sure as he was powerful and well conditioned. He rounded the area where the trio would meet and crept up behind the girl. He hid in the shadows afforded by the large trees. He squatted, remaining motionless as he watched and listened from his clear vantage point.
Tarn's eyes narrowed as he detected the alarm and fear that washed over the woman's body when she first spotted Ilan and Manza. These beings were sickeningly easy to read, and it was obvious that they possessed very little self-control over their muscles, nerves, glands, and emotions. She did not have to speak. Tarn knew her state of mind. Her muscles betrayed her obvious horror, and the smell of fear was thick about her. She was undeniably transparent, and Tarn winced at the thought of such impotent self-control.
Although Tarn's knowledge of Calley's main language was severely deficient, he noted that her effort to talk her way out of her predicament was commendable. She thought fast, but she could not know how utterly futile her situation was.
Manza approached her slowly with the dart. "Damn you, Manza," Tarn muttered to himself. The darts were made for throwing, and a good warrior could pitch them accurately from up to fifty meters away from the target. Manza was deliberately disobeying direct orders, and Tarn stood, his muscles taut, his fists and jaw clenched. He held his breath. He could see the shift in her stance, and the aging Manza had ignored it. She was not going to remain idle at his careless approach.
Tarn drew his lazgun and glanced at the setting. He already knew, even before Manza acted, that he himself would have to remove the girl. He had ordered the men to dart her because he could be reasonably sure of the predictable short-term effects of the drug, even on an alien. The effects of the lazgun were not so easily determined, and even on a low energy setting, the percussion sometimes did irreparable damage.
But what unexpectedly jolted Tarn was just how soon he was forced to act. She was fast and strong for her small and obviously unconditioned body, and he knew immediately that she had once been trained, and trained well. Tarn was not nearly as close as he wanted to be when she turned toward him, and he was forced to fire prematurely. His lightning-fast mind determined her trajectory and noted the sizable rock in line with where her head would strike, spurring him into action. Tarn leapt with catlike speed to break her fall, realizing instantly that despite his valiant effort he would come up short.
The side of her head hit the rock with incredible force, and Tarn winced. Rage instantly consumed him. It had been a totally avoidable problem, and Tarn whipped back his hood, revealing his hardened features, ire oozing from every pore.
Suddenly, Manza knew he was in trouble. For a moment, no words were spoken as all three men looked down at the fallen woman. Tarn drew in several deep breaths in an attempt to contain his anger, and then knelt down beside her. He noticed the trickle of bright red blood staining the rock. Slowly and almost hesitantly, he rolled her over and looked into her serene face. Tarn caught himself exhaling in response to her strange alien features... or was it her extreme, exotic beauty? Almost involuntarily, his finger reached out and touched the cascading, light brown hair. Tarn noticed how eloquently it framed her soft, ashen features, and he flinched.
"I want to take her," Manza uttered bravely.
Tarn shot to his feet, once again overtaken by unchecked fury. But he was also staggered by unfamiliar confusion. The answer was simple. She was an insignificant alien, and her death was not his problem. They would leave her as an unfortunate accident victim, and that path was clear. It was logical, and it was their directive.
But Tarn did not speak. He could not speak. He looked down into her peaceful face, her limp form so vulnerable, and he sucked in a deep and measured breath.
"She is beautiful, isn't she?" ventured Ilan, his warrior's eyes carefully studying his Commander.
Tarn's mind reeled at the fact that Ilan had read his thoughts so easily and so accurately. His muscles tightened, and his glacial eyes bit into the two men as he turned and drew his lazgun. The Commander adjusted the setting once again, aimed at her head... and fired.
Chapter 5
Korba remained in front of his screen. The news was finally acceptable. The ship's repairs were finished, and the crews were on their way back to the battle cruiser. They had successfully cleared Calley's atmosphere with no further incidents and had once again gone undetected by any ground-based sensory equipment.
Korba's intercom was activated. "All four fighters safely on board, Commander. Awaiting any final orders."
"Send Tarn to me at his earliest convenience," replied Korba, his voice low and imposing. "I want a full report on the incident pertaining to the transport."
"Yes, my Lord."
Korba rose almost wearily. Because of the distance travelled, the trip overall had been long and demanding, not so much physically or militarily, but mentally. Korba detested such missions. At least the physical involvement of unrelenting war was stimulating and kept his mind alert, but these types of operations, for the most part, were simply time-consuming and tedious. And now, instead of heading on to the next conflict, he had to endure the long trip back to his home planet.
Iceanea was a cold and desolate planet, third from its aging star in a system of four. It had been populated by an unknown group of travelers long ago, and no significant recorded history existed. Speculation indicated that the original inhabitants had been slaves whose services were no longer required or whose usefulness had been spent. Others said they were runaways from some of the original penal colonies set up on not-so-distant planets. Either way, few of the original settlers survived the harsh climate of Iceanea, and those who did were well hardened and conditioned to adversity.
At some point in time, the original group had split into two warring factions that had roughly divided the planet in half. The southern group occupied a habitually frigid land of constant twilight, darkness, and extreme cold. Centuries of random breeding and extreme environmental conditions had produced a powerful and resourceful group, yet their peoples remained relatively diverse in their traits and features.
In the North, the large planet was basked in nearly continual sunlight, and the seasonal changes were much more extreme. The majority of the original inhabitants had stayed north as the splinter group moved south. And by sheer numbers alone, the northern people had kept the South at bay during times of war. So for untold thousands of years, the two distinct groups of denizens continued to exist undisturbed on the inhospitable planet.
That was, until approximately ten Iceanean centuries before, when the Empire discovered the planet. Previous to that time, the Empire had been a hodgepodge of loosely connected planetary systems that had united mostly for economic reasons. But the winds of change we
re in the air with a new Emperor who had illustrious plans for the galaxy and all it had to offer. Isis Sedan was considered a great man for his organizational skills and patient diplomacy. His rapidly expanding Empire thrived and existed in relative peace and tranquility for approximately a century until a group of ten planetary orders decided that Sedan's power was too centralized. What had once been a system of cooperation and harmony rapidly became fragmented and torn by war.
The son of Isis decided that if the Empire was worth saving, he would have to establish stability, and that meant securing a sizable and effective army. Select men, women, and technology were placed together and trained under his guidance and competent eyes. The technology provided by the Telesians gave Sedan II a distinct jump on his adversaries, and the Empire exploded in strength and scope. But the dissenters did not disappear, and their constant uprisings could not be quelled; over the next century, opposition to the Empire grew.
Emperor Sedan III was even more militaristic and determined than his father to keep things in order and to fulfill his grandfather's dream of a united and peaceful galaxy. But with Sedan III, this end became an obsession, a goal to be reached by any means, and his hand was often unfair and brutal. As a result, more chaos than order ensued and resistance to the Empire continued to grow.
Sedan III's son was another matter, and possibly the first significant ray of hope in the whole messy affair. He learned from his father's brutal mistakes and made good use of diplomacy in winning back some of his allies. But about that time, the Empire's enemies, now collectively known as the Risinean Order of Planetary Enterprises, or ROPE, were aggressively beginning to flex their muscles. Ordinarily, ROPE worked by deception and infiltration, enacting relatively peaceful acquisitions of useful planets, the operations executed discretely. Now, with new and potent technology, their tactics were changing, and at times their takeovers were barbarous and ruthless. Control and incorporation of planets, goods, and peoples into their organization was done by force, and the number of innocent civilizations being destroyed, crushed, and oppressed by ROPE was growing exponentially.
Emperor Sedan IV eventually realized that the need for an aggressive and powerful military force was urgent, if not for Imperial expansion, then for protection. Sedan IV became familiar with Iceanea just over four millenniums after the Empire's formal establishment. He had visited the northern people on a diplomatic tour and was impressed by their physical strength and massive intellects. He immediately saw their value to the Empire, and a deal was struck: men and might for the military, and in return, the Empire would provide them with its wealth and technology for all time. A selective breeding program that had already been successfully implemented on the Emperor's home planet was immediately instituted on Iceanea. Soon, the most intensive and advanced genetic engineering program ever mastered was in full swing using the superb northern Iceanean specimens as seed stock, and the results were astonishing.
And so it began. Almost ten centuries ago, the greatest fighting force the universe was ever to experience had been born. Korba was the ultimate end product of this program, and now in this period of the Empire's reign his name was known, respected, and feared throughout the galaxy by both ally and foe. He was the Emperor's Overlord, the one Commander who oversaw all the training of the Empire's Warlords when he was not in the battlefield. He worked with cold, calculated efficiency in all matters of combat. He was not a tool of diplomacy or compromise. He was used as a last resort when all avenues of political rhetoric had failed. Thousands had died by his hand; countless billions had died by his word. The black-haired Warlord's dealings with troublesome planets were final and ultimate, and he simply never failed.
The present Emperor was revered by all he served and protected and was known throughout the Empire as the Lord God Emperor, Ticees. He was a nephew to the original Sedan lineage, and he was a carbon copy of the fourth Emperor. Korba and the Emperor's other prized Warlords, Dar and Toran, were his right-hand men and the hub of his entire military force. All the Warlords, nearly 100,000 in all, were used when diplomacy and political avenues were exhausted; but at present, only Ticees's top three were being actively employed against any possible ROPE uprisings in this remote and volatile sector of the galaxy.
Until this time, Ticees's policy toward ROPE had been one of mere suppression. But now this was about to change, and in the future his objective would be to eradicate the group. Only then could the dream of the great Emperor Sedan I be truly realized and the galaxy genuinely united in peace and cooperation.
Korba glanced about the massive personal Command Center as he took in all the information provided by the readouts, screens, and displays. All operations appeared to be in order. He reached over the main console, and suddenly an array of monitors jumped to life. Hidden cameras, body sensors, and infrared scanners were located in every room of the ship, and the Warlord regularly checked corridors, engine rooms, airlocks, and the main Bridge, but he rarely intruded upon private quarters.
Korba took one last lingering look and then shut the screens down. He turned and walked toward his sleeping quarters, taking advantage of the brief opportunity for a break before Tarn's arrival. Korba knew that his First Officer would probably wish to freshen up first and take a last-minute look over his report before his debriefing.
Korba stretched his young yet seasoned body and then ran his thumbnail from his neck down the center of his jacket to his waist. From there he drew both thumbs around his body until they met at his backbone. The skin-tight military uniform peeled open along the invisible seams traced by his fingers, and he removed it.
The Warlord took a deep and cleansing breath as his massive chest expanded, his taut bronze skin stretching flawlessly over dense, iron-hard muscles. Regardless of the lightness of the fabric, Korba always felt a sense of release from its confines when he removed the military garment. He did not know if it was a psychological release from the duties of war associated with the black garb or an actual physical reaction to the near-living second skin.
He tipped his head back, and his long, blue-black hair slipped down his powerful back nearly to his waist. All the warriors wore their hair long, either shoulder-length or more in the front and longer still in the back. It was out of necessity on the frigid planet of Iceanea. One did not always wish to wear a face-and-head protector for travelling short distances in hostile weather, and unfortunately, sometimes circumstances found a person unwittingly pitted against the elements with no protection. The Iceaneans' long, coarse hair prevented instantaneous freezing of the ears and protected sensitive facial and neck skin from the devastating cold.
Indeed, it was their only natural protection from the climate other than their high intelligence, for they were otherwise totally devoid of body hair except for their eyebrows and lashes. As a result, some had speculated that they had originally come from a very warm planet, but the fact that all Korba's early ancestors were very pale-skinned refuted that theory. However, over the centuries, the northern people had developed relatively dark, swarthy skin tones in response to the intense glare reflected off the snow and ice that surrounded them nearly year-round. Unique receptors in their eyes not only increased the production of the pigment melanin, but the UV exposure detected through the pupils alone was enough to activate the coloring body wide. It was a beautiful, rich, bronze tone that accented their fierce azure-blue eyes.
Suddenly, Korba's intercom came to life. "It's Tarn, my Lord. May I enter?"
Korba hesitated, a bit surprised at Tarn's promptness. He pressed the switch that allowed entry from the outside corridor into his Command Center. Korba rounded the door of his sleeping chambers, noticing immediately that his officer was still dressed in his full flight gear. Tarn had not even taken the time to disarm himself from the multitude of weapons that accompanied each man into battle.
Korba waited patiently as Tarn threw back the hood of his shroud and removed his flight helmet. Then the officer peeled off the protective head and face garb
that kept his hair tightly in place. Tarn ran his hand through his thick black mane and exhaled sharply, his stance effusing disquietude. Korba could read immediately that not all had gone as planned. "There was a problem with the mission, Tarn?" Korba ventured cautiously.
Tarn met his Commander's eyes. "There still is a problem with the mission, Sire," he stated guardedly. Tarn fought for control of his waning composure. What he had to report to the harsh and unforgiving Warlord was not going to be easy, and Tarn knew that his rank, if not his very life, was on the line.
Chapter 6
Dr. Stose entered the private sickbay area where he met Manza. "You said you had a patient for me. Where is he?"
"Well, to begin with, it isn't exactly a he," said Manza excitedly. "And secondly, she's a very special patient, but her presence must be kept between you and me."
Stose stood silently as the sickbay doors opened and Ilan walked in carrying a shroud-draped body. Stose's mind instantly filled with questions, but he would hold his inquiries until he saw the mystery patient. Ilan looked ill at ease as he carefully laid the body on the main examining table.
Manza moved quickly to remove the shroud. "Please hurry, Stose. She has a severe head injury, and time is of the essence if she is to recover."
"I see," said Stose as he warily eyed Manza. He stepped up to the body. Manza pulled back the concealing shroud to reveal the ashen face; the girl's hair and eyebrows had been grayed by the effects of frost. Stose's eyes widened as he tried to shake himself out of his sudden stupor. "She's in deep shock," he commented flatly.
