But Nhlappo had no more words for Banner.
She twisted the murdering bastard’s neck. Everyone in CIC heard his vertebrae snap.
She released Banner as his eyes glazed, letting him slump down into the chair.
Nhlappo stood back, looking confident and defiant. “Banner is dead,” she bellowed in her drill sergeant’s voice. “I claim leadership of the Wolves. Does anyone wish to dispute my right?”
She glared at the berserkers stationed around both CIC decks. Every Wolf she touched with her gaze dropped their weapon and bowed their head.
There was a sudden commotion over by one of the bulkheads. Strapped naked in his chair, Arun watched helplessly as Pilot Officer Columbine came near, her sidearm aimed at Indiya.
“I make no challenge!” shouted Columbine, for the benefit of the Wolves who were glancing at their own weapons. “But I’m not going to let that freak who murdered so many of my comrades get away so easily.”
Columbine marched over to Indiya, put her plasma pistol against the rightful captain’s head.
“No!” screamed Arun. “Don’t do it!”
“As if you’re in a position to demand anything,” Columbine sneered.
From her knees, Indiya glared defiantly up at the traitor.
Indiya’s dignity seemed to fluster Columbine. If she’d hoped to extract pleasure from the moment of Indiya’s death, she was to be denied it seemed.
Arun looked to Nhlappo for help. The turncoat Lieutenant watched with interest but did not intervene.
Columbine pulled the trigger.
Nothing happened.
Something flew down from the upper deck. It was a little flying robot with extra-large eyes. Nothing more than an AI toy, really, but Arun recognized him. It was Darius, the creation of one of Indiya’s friends, Furn.
“Missing something?” Darius taunted. He circled Columbine’s head, just out of reach, waving his own plasma pistol in the air. “I swapped your charge pack for a fake. Here’s yours, inside this pistol.”
Darius flew behind Indiya and started cutting through her cuffs. “It was I who locked the ship too,” said the AI cheerfully, “with help from my Father-Creator.”
“Furn?” Columbine was incredulous. “But I watched him myself. All the freaks were under guard, with at least three pairs of eyes on them every minute of the day. And thick gloves.”
“You did, but my Father-Creator has means of communication beyond your comprehension.”
Nhlappo suddenly sprang into action and turned to Arun. “Standby, Major. Columbine isn’t a threat. Heidi, status report!”
The Beowulf’s security system AI, who insisted on the name Heidi, brought up views from throughout the ship.
“Engine compartments secure,” said Sergeant Majanita in one screen.
“We met minimal resistance,” reported Gupta from another.
“Crew quarters on Deck 3 are ours,” said Hecht. “Still mopping up resistance from Deck 2. But it’s a forgone conclusion.”
“Hangars and all external airlocks are mine,” said Lieutenant Xin. “No one’s getting off Beowulf without my say-so.” She peered into the camera to get a look at Arun. She raised a teasing eyebrow. ”Welcome back, Major. It’s always a delight to see you.”
Arun remembered that he was naked.
Nhlappo stepped forward, blocking Arun’s view of Xin and the others. “I have control of the ship. Major McEwan—”
“One moment…” interrupted Indiya.
Nhlappo’s eyes narrowed. But Indiya had authority. “Captain?” she queried.
“Thank you, Lieutenant. I have one more act to perform before I feel we have control.”
Indiya got to her feet, and brought her hands in front of her, cut cuffs dangling from each tiny wrist.
“Pilot Officer Columbine. I accuse you of mutiny. The Major believes in trials. I am mistress of my ship and I also believe in trials. Yours has already begun. Do you have anything to say in your defense? Any mitigating circumstances? Any confusions of loyalty?”
“Go to hell.”
“I’m already there, Columbine. Took a one-way ticket when I destroyed Themistocles. I have considered your case and find you guilty. I sentence you to death.”
“No, don’t do it,” Arun shouted.
“I have line authority over Navy personnel, Major.” Indiya brought her gun to bear. “That was our agreement.”
“Then let me do it. Don’t have her death on your conscience.”
“One more will make little difference,” replied Indiya. “And if we’re going to carve out an empire, we will all have further burdens to bear.”
Indiya shot Columbine through the heart.
The most disturbing thing for Arun was that no one in CIC looked remotely shocked.
“Release me!” he said, no longer having the strength to shout.
Nhlappo hurried over and undid the straps binding him to the wheelchair.
Arun stood, and stretched his cramped muscles.
Nhlappo came to attention. “Sir. The Wolves are proud to serve as loyal soldiers of the Human Legion. We acknowledge Major McEwan as commander-in-chief of the Legion. Major, what are your orders?”
“Clean up the mess in CIC. Senior officers to meet in conference in the Captain’s Cabin in ten minutes.” He looked down at himself. “And Nhlappo.”
“Sir?”
“Better get me some clothes first.”
—— PART II ——
BLESSED
BY THE
GODDESS
Human Legion
— INFOPEDIA —
HISTORY OF THE LEGION
– The early Legion policy on the Civil War
It is easy to forget just how weak the Human Legion was in the early years of the Civil War, and how audacious the ambition of McEwan and other key figures. But the contemporary reader needs to consider this context when they learn that there were those in the early Legion who wished to declare loyalty to one side or the other in the Civil War. But which side to declare for?
On the one hand while the human Marines had little loyalty for the distant masters on the White Knight homeworld, many did feel the tie of allegiance to their unit, their officers, and even the Human Marine Corps itself, despite the brutality of the Cull and its treatment of those not up to the required grade. Yes, they were slaves – the freedom of their ancestors bargained by Earth as the price for White Knight protection centuries earlier – yet still conducted themselves with honor, and felt pride in their breast. To this faction of the Legion honor dictated that they should remained loyal to their former masters. After all, it was the rebels who had taken over the depot planet of Tranquility. The rebels who had murdered their own officers and slaughtered any human who did not come immediately over to their cause.
Another faction in the Legion wished to declare support for the Free Corps of the rebels, even though they had fought against the Free Corps in the Beowulf mutiny. Arun McEwan’s own brother, Fraser, had been proof that humans could be officers in this new Free Corps. And while that might not be much more than a gesture, it could be a step on the way to freedom.
But of the heart of the Civil War, of the conflict on the White Knight homeworld itself, almost nothing was known. Was this a simple power grab, or had the war been sparked by a religious or philosophical dispute? What were the names of the factions? Even that was unknown, which led to confusion in discussion about the two ‘sides’.
Arun McEwan used this confusion to his advantage by insisting on new names to describe the two sides in the Civil War. There was the Old Empire, the incumbent regime to whom their ancestors had been sold. And then there was the New Empire, who had seized control of Tranquility in alliance with the local Hardits, and converted Human Marine Corps units into the scarlet-uniformed Free Corps.
Other than the false promise of a few token junior officer posts in the Free Corps, Arun saw little to distinguish Old Empire from New Empire. By using such similar names for th
e two sides, he hoped to emphasize their similarity.
McEwan was of the faction that hated both Old Empire and New with an equal passion. However, while the Legion was still so weak, he was adamant that they must not declare for one side or the other, instead building their strength on the periphery of the war until they were ready to either declare for the likely winner in return for concessions, or carve out an autonomous region of their own.
Old Empire or New Empire? In his heart, Arun McEwan wished destruction upon both. He dreamed of a Human Empire.
— Chapter 04 —
The early evening sunlight cast golden echoes of the waves across the gently undulating seabed of the Sacred Grove. A red-speckled jetter puffed its way through the shallow waters, straining out the rich microscopic bounty that abounded in the archipelago.
As the jetter shot across his face, the Listener Prime raised the outer flap of his neck gills, the equivalent of a human smile to the Littorane people. When the ring of coral that was the defining feature of the grove had been struck by disease, others in the priesthood had declared this disaster was a message from the gods, that the troubled times in the wider galaxy called for a new head of the priesthood, one who came from a different archipelago, where the coral still thrived.
But the title of Listener Prime was more than a formality. The high priest of the Littoranes listened more intently than anyone in the world. He heard the message that change was coming, and that only he had sufficient communion with the gods to guide the people through this time.
The jetter sped away, pursued halfheartedly by a family of rockfish, who had come to the grove to bask in the sun’s warmth, not to hunt. The Listener Prime raised his gill flap further at the sight. From the tiny fish and shrimps darting through the re-established coral he had transplanted from half a planet away, to the vibration of the burrowing worms he could feel in his feet, the grove was once again resonating with the sacred Song of Life… for those who could hear it.
Even with his soul so attuned to the sacred melody of existence, the Listener Prime still required assistance from his priestly servants.
Several priests listened to the ring of coral, rubbing their naked flanks along the unrelenting hardness of the branches, gently enough to avoid damaging the Sacred Grove but hard enough to absorb the subtle song of the coral into their bloodstream. The raw wounds to priestly flesh released purple ribbons that waved in the current before dissipating amongst the coral’s branches, adding their own contribution to the Song of Life.
Others had smeared food paste onto their teeth and invited shrimps and coral darters to feed within their gaping mouths.
Each priest concentrated on a single voice within the Song, absorbing the rhythm, amplifying it, retransmitting it. Every priest except one.
At the grove’s center the Listener lay half-buried in the seabed, with his limbs splayed out. In his more secular moments, the Listener compared his pose in the Ritual of Listening to a communication dish, receiving and amplifying the song beamed at him by his priests. With the Queen beginning to imagine her rule was unconstrained, and the war in heaven growing ever closer, the Listener’s mind was of necessity often dragged down into secular matters.
Dealing with the Queen, who thought her own counsel was superior to the priesthood’s, was a problem for another day. Today, the Listener sought guidance on his people’s role in the imperial civil war raging through the heavens. He had advised the Queen to be noncommittal, giving a halfhearted implication of loyalty to the incumbent regime, while not rejecting the advances of the rebels out of hand. The Littoranes had been permitted this position for so long only because of their great distance from the White Knight homeworld. But that was only a temporary respite. The time would come when the Queen would be forced to declare for one side or the other. Neutrality would no longer be an option when the civil war came to Littoran.
Neither White Knight faction cared about the Littorane people’s interests, nor even acknowledged the existence of the gods. What the people deserved was freedom and respect. After countless generations of slavery, the Mouthpiece of the Gods was now whispering that freedom was finally within their reach. The Listener had no idea how they might achieve that freedom.
Which, he gently chided himself, is why I am here to conduct the Ritual of Listening.
The Listener Prime closed his eyes and allowed his thoughts to swim away, becoming the instrument of the gods that he was born to be.
He dropped to a deeper level of the mind, becoming an unquestioning vessel for the gods, an aerial to receive their divine song.
He listened.
The tingling began at the tip of his tail, lingering there for a few moments before the sense of a direct connection to the gods shot up his spine and made his jaw hum like an overloaded power cable.
Perception distorted, becoming a bewildering maelstrom of offset realities and dimensions. Colors without wavelength, scents that fitted no chemical receptor. Worlds without end.
The priest was glimpsing the universe through the eyes of the gods. Others could do this. The experience sent many insane.
But the Listener Prime had earned his post. No one else living and sane could do what he now did.
The churning storm of perception calmed. He opened his eyes onto the Sacred Grove, and saw the little seabed clearing through a gaze blessed with temporary divinity.
The speckled jetter returned, dangerously close to the predatory rockfish. The Listener Prime watched the basking fish spring into life, fighting over the doomed jetter which was ripped into floating fragments of flesh in a burst of blood. But the sights and sounds of this kill were faded, dim. Simultaneously he saw a stronger image of the same fish ignoring the little jetter. That reality won dominance, the alternative fading into non-existence, luckily for the foolish jetter.
The Listener Prime’s body throbbed with power. He could feel his mind stretching further in distance and in time. He began to see what had not yet transpired, and what would never come to be unless the future was nudged onto new paths.
His comm chimed.
The many worlds centered on the Sacred Grove imploded, all of them, shattering against the Listener Prime’s mind. He gasped, drawing the sea into his lungs, making him choke.
It took many draughts through his gills until his mind and body cleared enough to speak.
The Listener Prime bared his triple rows of teeth and acknowledged the call on his collar comm. “If you value your skin, this interruption had better be worthwhile. Speak!”
“Your Eminence,” came a humble voice clipped with compression distortion – which meant this must be relayed from an FTL link. “Deep Listening Station 271 has detected a multi-layered lightspeed transmission directed at our world from a starship inbound from the outer system, having passed Perimeter Two.”
The functionary spoke without hesitation even though fear entwined through every one of his words. He was right to fear the wrath of his master, but the Listener had been pulsing with the song of the universe. This news was neither interruption, nor coincidence, but a part of that song.
“What is your name?” he asked.
“Religious Attaché Stenoo, embedded in 3rd System Defense Division.”
“Then, Religious Attaché Stenoo, may I convey my blessings upon you, your family, and your spawn, even though my blessing is but a speck of dust in comparison with the favor of the gods, because it is they who have chosen you to speak for them.”
Stenoo was too stunned to reply.
The Listener didn’t have time to wait for him. “How long before this lightspeed transmission reaches our world, and the Queen’s ears?”
“Six hours, Your Eminence. Our translation and analysis will be available momentarily.”
Time enough to think. What does this message contain? Is it the answer to the war in heaven? Freedom? Perhaps this was his chance to replace the Queen with her far more respectful niece.
“Translation ready, Your Eminence.”<
br />
“Go ahead.”
The Listener sucked in a deep draught of warm air through gills and… and heard nothing.
“Where is my message?” he thundered.
“Forgive me my presumption, Your Eminence, but…” Stenoo sounded distracted. An unforgiveable insult. Who could be more important than the highest priest of them all? “I request you stand by while I acquire an information update… It’s. No! Song of the Gods! No, it can’t be!”
“Control yourself, Stenoo, lest I withdraw your blessings and transform them into curses. Explain!”
“It is them, Your Eminence. They have returned.”
“Who? Speak clearly.”
“The monsters. Those who wrought the Year of Sorrows. Voice analysis matches those from recordings made three centuries ago. They have returned to punish us again. What have we done to deserve this?” The attaché hesitated and remembered his function. “Shall I alert system defense command?”
“Hold!”
The song of the gods was infinite in its complexity, and could be playful in ways difficult for most mortals to distinguish from cruelty. But he was the Listener Prime. This alien visitation was a message from the gods. He calculated trajectories in his head. If the inbound ship was at Perimeter Two, it was about eight days away. Three if they pushed it. Ten if they didn’t. Not long, but time enough to prepare.
“Negative, Stenoo. Do not fire upon this ship. The evildoers within may be godless themselves but they unwittingly serve the purpose of the gods.”
“Acknowledged, Your Eminence. The Queen’s people will be receiving the transmission within a few hours. I doubt they will note the connection to the Year of Sorrows. Shall I provide the Queenfolk with the message earlier, and should I alert them to the presence of the monsters?”
The Listener thought quickly. Decisions made in haste would determine the fate of his people, maybe their very existence. But in haste they must be made. “Yes,” he told Stenoo. “The priesthood is duty bound to advise and support the nobility with the Queen at their head. Our roles and titles may differ, sometimes our opinions too, but we are all servants of the people. We must share everything we know.”
Human Empire Page 4
