Brilliant Starlight (Dark Planet Warriors Book 8)

by Anna Carven

  “Understood.”

  A sudden exuberant shout explodes from Ami as she throws crocro across the room. I frown at her and point at the toy. Pick it up.

  She shoots me a petulant glare, pushing out her lower lip.

  Ah, she is a stubborn one, just like her mother.

  “Assemble in the planetside dock in ten sivs in full assault gear.”

  “Sir.” Kalan’s answer is curt, but I catch a hint of eagerness in his tone. I suspect he will be one of the warriors who will go with me.

  I cut the comm and give my full attention to Ami. She wrinkles her nose and gives me a disdainful look, as if I’ve just done something incredibly stupid.

  “I know,” I say softly, ruffling her wispy hair. “Da is foolish.”

  I lift her into my arms, clutching her close to my chest. She squirms and kicks vigorously, then goes still, looking up at me. I feel a surge of pride. She has grown so much, and she is getting stronger every day. Abbey has fed and nurtured this child spectacularly well.

  “Babda.” This time, the word is accompanied by Ami’s hearty chortle.

  It’s almost enough to make me smile.

  I am foolish. I am also fortunate beyond my wildest dreams.

  As my daughter’s big, glittering eyes capture my soul all over again, I realize that I don’t want to leave this sanctuary. I don’t want to leave my family and go back down to cursed Kythia, but since I am mostly responsible for the destruction of the Empire, I am also responsible for cleaning up the mess.

  Duty is an inescapable fact of life, and enemies must always be vanquished.

  That is just the way the Universe churns.

  Chapter Three

  Abbey

  Tarak’s low voice reaches me through the darkness as I make my way through to the living space, trailing my hand along the wall. Silence’s walls are neither hot nor cold. The ship is constructed of a strange material that feels like a composite of metal, wood, and stone.

  It’s another one of those mysterious Kordolian things that everyone else seems to take for granted. I’ll have to ask Tarak about it one of these days.

  “Lights on,” I say as I step across the threshold, guided by the sound of Tarak’s voice. He’s had the Human-made lighting system installed purely for my benefit. He doesn’t need it, and neither does our Little Monster. Like her father, Ami sees just fine in the dark.

  Suddenly, the room is bathed in gentle light.

  I freeze. Tarak’s sitting in the corner with Ami curled up against his chest.

  A low, melodic sound emanates from his chest. I blink. No, I’m not dreaming… Big Bad is actually humming.

  I raise my eyebrows questioningly, my lips parting in surprise. Kordolians don’t hum. Tarak didn’t even know what music was until I explained it to him.

  He places a finger against his lips. Shh.

  Ami is asleep.

  Miracle of all miracles. She was so unsettled when Tarak was away, and there were times when nothing would work. At my wits’ end, I’d take her down to the observation deck and we would watch the stars until she finally fell asleep.

  I slide in beside Tarak, and he brings an arm around my shoulders, pulling me close. His long fingers trace up and down my bare upper arm, sending a pleasant shiver down my spine. “I have to go back to Kythia,” he says softly.

  “Again? You just got back.” I’m hardly surprised, though. Overthrowing an empire is hard work, even with half the former Kordolian Imperial Fleet at your disposal. Tarak says he’s not in charge anymore; he says he’s handed over responsibility of the alliance to the Five Commanders, but he isn’t fooling anyone.

  Even though he’s trying to convince himself he’s well into this semi-retirement business, everyone knows who really calls the shots around here.

  There’s a pecking order, and Tarak’s at the top.

  Well, almost at the top. The Little Monster sleeping peacefully on his chest is at the top, and she knows it.

  “I intend to make this a brief trip.” He meets my gaze, his eyes like burning embers. “After all, I have not yet had the chance to greet you properly, my amina.”

  “No,” I agree. “You haven’t.”

  The corners of his mouth curve upwards ever so slightly. “We shall have to remedy that when I return.”

  “Is it big trouble?” I ask, placing a hand on his powerful thigh. He brings his hand up to the side of my face, threading his fingers into my hair as I lean against his bare shoulder.

  “Nothing we cannot handle.” As always, he’s scant on the detail, but there’s a dark little undercurrent in his voice that makes me uneasy.

  “You’re not allowed to get hurt or die, remember?” Considering he’s a nanite-enhanced super-soldier, I’m well aware that scenario is a very remote possibility, but I can’t help but worry. That’s what happens when someone is irreplaceable.

  A wry snort escapes him. “Do not worry, Abbey. I would not do something so irresponsible.”

  I turn to look at him, and for the first time, I notice something… interesting.

  “Hey,” I whisper, my eyes widening.

  “Mm?”

  “Your hair.”

  “What is the problem?”

  “No problem. It’s just that… you didn’t have those dark bits before.” Tarak keeps his silver-white hair neatly trimmed in a distinctly military buzz-cut. Lately, however, he’s allowed it to grow a little longer on top, and it appears to be darkening at the temples.

  “Dark bits?”

  “Here. And here.” I run my fingers over his hair at the temples. Despite its sharp appearance, it’s incredibly soft; softer than Human hair. “When was the last time you looked in a holo-mirror?”

  That’s the other thing about Kordolians. They aren’t exactly obsessed with their appearance, which is a little ironic, considering they’re so strikingly attractive.

  A slow, satisfied smile spreads across Tarak’s face. That isn’t the reaction I was expecting.

  I blink. “This is a good thing?” Damnit, he’s as perplexing as ever.

  “Yes, my love. It means I’m aging.”

  “Oh.” I soak up his appearance, revisiting every line, every hollow, and every prominence of his magnificent face. I’ve come to know his hard, proud features like the back of my hand. When he’s away, I see him in my mind’s eye. When he’s here, I savor every damn inch of him. He isn’t exactly the warm, cuddly type, but he’s my Tarak, and he’s imprinted on my consciousness like a vivid tattoo.

  “Oh,” I say again, realization dawning on me. That tiny smattering of dark hair is actually quite monumental. “You know, some people would actually be disappointed to realize that they’re not going to live forever.”

  As Tarak looks down at his sleeping daughter, he exhales slowly. “Of course this development pleases me. Until now, I did not know whether the machines inside me had the power to overcome the body’s innate clock. The worst torture of all would be to live with the knowledge that the Empire’s experiments have made me deathless. I need to grow old with you, Abbey of Earth. ”

  Ah, this impossible, infuriating, sweet, mystifying man.

  There’s a simplicity in the way he says it, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. His words strike a deep chord within me, filling me with warmth. This isn’t the frantic, sensual heat he stirs inside me, although that’s never far from the surface. No, this is different. It’s the feeling that nothing in the Universe can come between us, ever.

  But now he has to go.

  “Then you’d better make sure you come back in one piece,” I say lightly, trying to mask my trepidation. I know Tarak is virtually indestructible, but still, Kythia is Kythia, and there are bad things and bad people down there.

  The one and only time I visited Kythia, I was accosted by a pleasure worker, hunted by an assassin, chased by an Imperial destroyer, and almost killed when I fell into a giant volcanic crater.

  Thank Jupiter the Prince has quick reflexes a
nd managed to save my ass while Tarak was busy taking down giant enemy spacecraft.

  “I always come back to you,” Tarak says, placing his large hand over mine. “Don’t ever forget it.”

  As if in agreement, Ami murmurs happily in her sleep, and I close my eyes and snuggle against my very busy, mostly indestructible, and (thankfully) not-so-deathless mate, enjoying this brief and precious moment.

  Soon, he’ll have to return to that icy hell of a planet and face the demons that have plagued his people for so long.

  I don’t want him to go. I want him all to myself, but I know that’s impossible right now. He’s right in the midst of a coup, and he has responsibilities to fulfill.

  So although I worry, I tell myself I shouldn’t.

  After all, it’s Tarak we’re talking about here.

  Who better to fight demons than a demon himself?

  Chapter Four

  Tarak

  We approach the Flatedge from the Vaal side, running swiftly across the ice. In front of me, Kalan and Rykal are dark silhouettes against the crimson horizon.

  I can see them, but no-one else can. The holographic scramblers we’ve attached to our foreheads ensure that anyone watching the ice plains will see nothing but ice. Our motion and heat signatures are different matters altogether, but I’m banking on the fact that rebels rarely possess sophisticated surveillance equipment.

  We run in silence, heading for the low-lying structures of the outer Flatedge.

  A grim mood has descended over us, because Flatedge is burning.

  The dark sky is lit up from below in gradations of flame-colored hues. Orange bleeds into red. Red seeps into darkness, turning violet. Violet merges with the blackness that is Kythia and everything around it, becoming nothing but darkness and stars.

  Since when have I become an observer of such inane details? Abbey sometimes jokes that there’s a suppressed poet inside of me.

  Ha. We Kordolians do violence and chaos, not fucking poetry.

  I thought we were the only ones instigating chaos on the Dark Planet, but it seems others have decided to join the party. As we draw nearer, screams drift through the air, punctuated by a barrage of plasmafire.

  It’s a war zone.

  In my territory.

  Who would have the fucking audacity to start a war when martial law has been declared across the entire planet?

  I will find them and I will deal with them. I cannot tolerate such insubordination. Chaos spreads like a malignant disease if kept unchecked.

  “Stay together,” I say through my comm as we cross into the outskirts of Flatedge. “Follow the trail of destruction and hone in on the conflict. We’ll trace this beast to the top and cut off its head.”

  “Sounds reasonable,” Rykal grunts.

  I close the distance between us, keeping my assault rifle pointed in front. We pass a bombed-out cluster of slums, dodging burning debris and a spill of toxic looking sludge. The original residents are long gone.

  Now and then, we pass bodies. The dead are Kordolians. I recognize them as ordinary Flatedge dwellers by their plain grey garb.

  My anger rises. The people here are powerless. They’re the quiet ones, existing in Kythian society without any claim to wealth or title. They have no influence, no purpose. They have been deemed physically unsuitable for the military and intellectually inadequate for the scientific corps. Their existence is a colorless one; they survive only by the grace of the Empire.

  From somewhere in the distance, a faint, forlorn voice reaches me.

  A crying child.

  Then, before I can narrow in on the location, the sound is gone.

  Kaiin’s hells. Someone is going to pay for this.

  We run in single-file, penetrating deeper into the heart of the slums. The thoroughfare becomes narrower, splitting into a maze of winding streets. Pungent smoke hangs in the air, and I’m glad for the protective respiratory filter that is built into our helms.

  We follow the sound of the plasmafire.

  My sixth sense alerts me to imminent danger, and I leap out of the way just in time to avoid a ball of fire that drops from above. It shatters as it hits the ground, blue-green chemical flames spreading out in all directions, engulfing the surrounds.

  Kalan’s swearing. Rykal’s squeezing a shot of plasma-fire off into the night sky. The flames are licking at our legs, and my nanites go to work, repairing the damage to my skin as excruciating, searing pain shoots through my legs and feet.

  I look up. There’s a figure on the roofline. Half-blinded by the intense flames, I can’t make it out clearly, but it’s distinct enough to present a target.

  I raise my assault rifle and fire at it.

  The figure drops behind a wall. Fast.

  I fire again, destroying the wall. The figure is dodging out of the way, lunging, rolling. Nimble.

  I walk out of the flames, heading towards the building. It’s a dark, windowless affair only several stories high. A flat-walled roof-port is situated at the top. Kaiin knows what the purpose of this grim looking structure is. It appears to have been long-abandoned.

  I keep my eye on the roof-line, watching closely for any sign of movement.

  There.

  “Fuck you, Imperial scum!” Another firebomb falls from above. The voice belongs to a young one; it sounds as if he’s little more than a child.

  Oh? What brat is this? When I catch the whelp, he will wish he could crawl back into his mother’s womb.

  The bomb hits the ground and explodes, erupting into a firestorm of blue and green. I evade the flames by running along the wall. Rykal and Kalan have disappeared from sight.

  “Search for an entrance,” I bark. “Kalan, take the east side. Rykal, approach from the west.”

  “On it, boss.”

  The flames scatter as a gust of wind whips through the narrow passage. I run the length of the wall and locate a disused service entrance around one corner. Entry is simple. I raise my plasma rifle and shoot at the battered doors.

  One bolt of supercharged plasma is all it takes to burn through the flimsy metal. I make my way inside, aware that this may very well be a trap. “I’ve breached the south entrance,” I inform my men. “Rykal, double back and cover me. Kalan, fire a few distractions at our little enemy on the roof. Don’t kill him. I’m going to look for a way to the top.”

  So what if it’s a trap?

  If I were a regular infantry soldier, I would be stupid. If I were a Second Division commando, I would be arrogant. If I were anything but a First Division warrior, I would probably be walking to my death right now.

  But I am fully aware of my capabilities and my weaknesses, and even if this is a trap, they cannot kill me. Not when I have Callidum-impregnated nanites coursing through my black veins.

  I would not take such a risk if getting killed were a real possibility, but it takes a lot to bring me down.

  You’re not allowed to die, says Abbey. Ha.

  I am not so irresponsible that I would disobey the orders of my mate. She can be somewhat fearsome when she is upset.

  The interior of the building is filled with well-used articles of daily life. A battered, grease-stained cooking unit sits idle in one corner. Mismatched tables and chairs are arranged in a haphazard manner, with several of them knocked over, as if upset by a sudden storm. The floor is covered in dirt and debris; I kick aside an empty Sylerian cartridge as I head towards the stairwell.

  Ah. This building may have once served another purpose, but it has been taken over by the destitute, those who have succumbed to the temptation—or perhaps it is more of an escape?—of the highly addictive Sylerian.

  Rykal appears behind me as I scan my surroundings, my senses stretched taut. I make a simple gesture with my fingers—cover me—and head for the stairs. He follows, keeping a respectful distance as he guards from behind.

  A powerful boom shakes the walls. That would be Kalan, firing his plasma cannon. It’s just the diversion I need. I rush up the st
airs with my plasma rifle raised and Rykal covering the rear.

  We ascend several floors, passing squalid sleeping quarters. This building may have once been a hive of activity, but it’s long since been deserted.

  As we reach the uppermost floor, an interesting piece of graffiti stares back at me from the dark wall.

  Fuck the Empire!

  It’s written in silver. The script is crude, but anger bleeds through it. Beneath the messy words is a rather… interesting piece of art.

  Rykal laughs out loud. “That’s a piece of work.”

  The silver-and-red image depicts the Empress in a rather… compromising position.

  I remain silent. There’s no point in mocking a dead woman, even if the picture is sadly not too far from the truth.

  Because of Empress Vionn Kazharan, I used to dread my trips to the Palace of Arches. Aside from the fucking intolerable nobles and their ridiculous pretensions, I was forced to endure her constant advances. She was a promiscuous creature who didn’t take ‘no’ for an answer.

  Too bad for her, my version of ‘no’ is absolute. I am not the sort to be coerced or threatened, and she never had her way with me.

  There’s only one being in the Universe who can bend my will.

  No, make that two.

  Kalan’s plasma cannon roars again. Someone is shouting. We reach an opening in the roof; a giant hole that reveals the glittering night sky.

  Then smoke drifts across the opening, obscuring infinity.

  There’s no staircase leading up onto the roof. There isn’t even a ladder.

  I signal to Rykal and we move towards the gap. An exposed structural beam stretches across the hole. I run towards it, clutching my rifle in one hand. My strides become wider and wider, and then I leap. I grab onto the beam with my free hand and place my rifle on the wide structure. Then I pull myself up with both hands, quickly retrieving my weapon as Rykal watches from below, his finger on the trigger.