‘That will never happen,’ Wyllym said.
Captain Ishiin looked at him thoughtfully.
‘Admiral Hedricks believes it will be possible someday,’ he insisted. ‘If we had a fleet of Archangels, he’d point them—’
Wyllym had heard enough.
‘If he thought it’d make him a hero, Hedricks would point a gun at his own mother.’
Captain Ishiin was stunned.
‘That’s classified, of course.’ Wyllym added, fighting through the pain in his limbs to stand. ‘Best kept secret in the damn Navy.’
7
THE PATHFINDER
Two gladiators, a man and a woman, clashed in a blaze of combat, unleashing a furious symphony of strikes and parries. Powerful muscles bulged beneath the milky-white flesh of the combatants as they danced, their bare skin exposed to the frigid cold from the waist up, save for the narrow strap that pressed the breasts of the female tightly to her muscular chest. Both combatants were armed only with Obyeran skythes in each hand: part knife, part plasma torch, the indispensable tool of spacefarers for centuries converted to deadly melee weapon.
Worn on the wrists, the skythe was a retractable amorphous alloy blade with an edge of nanoscale-sized teeth that could saw through metal as easily as bone. At the tip of the weapon was a suspended plasma arc designed to cut through wreckage or weld breaches shut; they carved white-hot arcs through the air as the fight raged on. Beneath the armoured hexglass dome high overhead, the crash of weapons sent menacing echoes across the rock amphitheatre; a deep, sizzling shriek that sounded like heavy cloth being ripped apart. The arena basked in soft beams cast down from orbital solar mirrors, each one a sun in the hazy night-time sky, as the bluish-yellow face of the ice giant Heracles gazed down on the spectacle.
Hundreds had journeyed to the surface to attend the match in person, and thousands more were viewing on the local net. The cameras capturing the event split their time between the combatants and the man who sat at the highest seat in the arena: King Masaad Obyeran, the Pathfinder, founder of the House that bore his name. The Rites, revered as they were in this culture, had drawn more eyes than ever before, since the warriors battling today were the King’s own son and daughter. To claim a Lightspear command, an Obyeran had to pass the warrior trials, and his children were no exception.
Masaad was old but unwrinkled, his pale flesh stretched across an iron jaw and high cheekbones that held the cradles of his amber-coloured eyes. Beneath his hood was a shock of thick hair, white as snow, long to the sides and back. He sat expressionless, gauntlets gripping each arm of the stone seat, unmoving since the contest began. The cadence of air exiting his mouth in long icy wisps gave the only hint that he was alive. He did not flinch, nor even blink, no matter how hard his children struck one another. He simply held his gaze, watching his bloodied, weary progeny back away from each other, circling, studying, anticipating each other as only twins could do.
It was his son Maez who erred first, feigning a kick and then launching a savage overhand that would have cleaved his sister from neck to crotch. But his daughter Myrha countered with a spinning backstrike, avoiding the blow and meeting the base of her brother’s skythe near the ground. The blade sliced clean through his wrist, and both hand and weapon caromed away. Yet even as streams of blood spurted out, he swung his hips and shoulders towards her in a continuous, fluid motion. Now his other skythe had a clear path to her neck, and she had no way to parry or dodge. All she could do was snap up the closest blade towards his heart, and hope it reached there in time.
But The Rites allowed no deaths, and the arena technology linked to their weapons ensured that striking a mortal blow was impossible. Just milliseconds before biting into flesh and artery, the blades vanished back into their sheaths. Blinding spotlights flooded over them as guardians converged to break the siblings apart. The contest was over.
King Masaad exhaled slowly, watching as a medic clamped a clear tube over his son’s haemorrhaging stump. When the blood made contact with the gelatinous substance inside, the container filled with pinkish-white foam. Maez grunted in pain, though his pride hurt more than his wound. The same was true of Myrha, who was furious with herself for losing what should have been a decisive victory. According to Obyeran Code, the siblings now shared the honour. Facing the podium, the combat master grasped their wrists, and raised them high overhead.
King Masaad rose slowly, nodding his approval, as those in attendance crossed their fists in the Obyeran salute. The deeds of his son and daughter had been witnessed by all. Maez and Myrha climbed the stairs, steam rising from their bare skin. Both were orders of magnitude stronger than he had ever been. They were perfect creations; the unsurpassable specimens of humanity.
‘I am the proudest father who ever lived,’ King Masaad said. ‘You honour me.’
Guardians placed heavy cloaks over the shoulders of the twins as they approached. Myrha quickly bundled hers up.
Maez turned his away, motioning towards his stump.
‘“Honoured?”’ he growled.
‘The honour is ours, my King,’ Myrha said, ignoring her brother and bowing from the hip.
Over two hundred and fifty years of age, Masaad Obyeran was the oldest living survivor of the Tabit Genesis. He and his brothers, Al Khav and Alim, had been the founders of Arcwave Technical, an ancient corporation that had helped fund the Genesis project. The signature achievement of Masaad, a renowned nuclear physicist, was the invention of scalable aneutronic power. All industrialised machinery, from exomech suits to the Archangel, used Obyeran technology to produce energy. The breakthrough is considered the most critical enabler of sustainable habitats beyond the mothership and the human exploration of Orionis.
But thirty years after his arrival, Masaad, his wife Lyanna, and his brothers vanished from civilisation. They reappeared another three decades later, reborn as the self-appointed rulers of the icy moons of Heracles. Their settlement remained the most remote in the system, located some five billion kilometres from Tabit Prime. Masaad and Lyanna declared their independence from the Orionis government, stating themselves free both of rights and obligations to the colony.
House Obyeran was thus born, then just several dozen followers strong. The brothers established a dynasty by leapfrogging through time, entering hypersleep for decades on end as one brother after the next carried forward their mandate to build a culture free from the corruption of Orionis. Masaad ruled from the inception of their House in 2701 until the reign of Al Khav began in 2731; thirty years later, the reign of Alim began. Through it all, Masaad and his beloved Lyanna slept for sixty years, their lives entrusted to technology that placed their bodies in deep hibernation, slowing their metabolisms to a standstill.
King Masaad was now eighteen years into his second reign. All the brothers were loved, but Masaad’s return was heralded the most by the citizens. Al Khav was generous and a fearless warrior, but he lacked Masaad’s charisma. Alim was a brilliant strategist, but was known more for his temper than his intellect. Together they both deserved just as much credit for the colony’s prosperity as Masaad himself. But there was only one Pathfinder. And of the three brothers, only Masaad had taken a wife.
Every Obyeran knew that this contest between his children had become important for more reasons than just a mere starship command.
‘Call me “Father”,’ Masaad addressed Myrha. ‘Lightspear captains or not, you are my daughter and son. You both achieved your goal, no matter the cost. Even in death, you were both victorious. That is the Obyeran way.’
‘I’m not proud of my performance,’ Myrha muttered. ‘You fought well, brother.’
‘Have you named your spear yet?’ Maez asked, as the medic checked the tube covering his stump. The device would keep the nerve endings, bones, and tendons nourished and free of infection. A new hand would be grown in bioreactors and reattached within a month. ‘Vindictive Bitch seems fitting.’
Masaad had watched his son dominate every opponen
t in every contest, physical or mental, during The Rites, remaining almost blasé throughout. The same was true of his daughter, though she made less a show of it.
‘The Rites reveal weakness,’ Masaad said. ‘She exposed yours as no one else could.’
‘Think it’s worth losing a limb over?’ Maez asked, flexing his formidable arm at the elbow. The medic left without a word. ‘I suppose I’m fortunate to have kept my head.’
‘With one arm you proved your strength beyond measure,’ Masaad said. ‘Most would have crumbled, but you recovered and salvaged victory – a costly one, but victory nonetheless. Men will follow you, son. The House was witness. A limb is nothing for the respect you’ve earned.’
‘I took his skythe,’ Myrha brooded. ‘I should have won outright. What does that prove?’
‘You were flawless, right until the end,’ Masaad said, placing an arm around her waist. Her shoulders were too high for him to reach. ‘Strong as you are, no one expected you to win this contest. Yet you remained valiant.’
‘My “victory” would have cost more lives than my own,’ she said.
‘That is true,’ Masaad said. ‘A desperate enemy can summon great force in a final bid to save himself. The Rites have taught you to never relinquish, not until the outcome is certain. Be thankful you learned that lesson here, and not in real combat.’
‘Yes, now she’ll lop off a man’s cock to win an argument,’ Maez sneered. ‘They’ll be queuing up to serve on your command.’
‘Next time I’ll take both his hands,’ Myrha growled.
‘You won’t have another chance,’ Masaad said. ‘From here on, you will both fight as one.’
‘I’m not so sure,’ Maez said. ‘Seems our lady Obyeran forgets we’re siblings.’
‘Seems you’re only half a sibling now,’ Myrha quipped.
Maez smiled, as he always did when he was enraged.
‘Sweet sister,’ he said, ‘if not for the safeties, there would be no heiress now.’
‘Maez,’ Masaad blared, loud enough to make the guards flinch. ‘Mind your words.’
‘Did that offend you?’ Maez asked, turning his towering frame to look down upon his father. ‘Tell me, what if I had done the maiming? Would you be carrying on about how she learned something important then?’
‘Stop it,’ Myrha demanded.
‘No,’ Maez said, holding his father’s glare. ‘I don’t think you would.’
He turned and walked away, towards the tunnel leading into the throne catacombs beneath the surface.
‘His pride will get him killed someday,’ Myrha muttered. ‘I shouldn’t have provoked him.’
‘Three minutes,’ Masaad fumed. ‘Three minutes separated your births, and you would think it was three decades.’
‘He’s still twice the man of anyone else,’ she said.
‘He needed to be humbled,’ Masaad scoffed. ‘I knew this would bring out the worst in him.’
‘Precisely what The Rites are for,’ she said, ‘I have no regrets.’
Long shadows followed the pair as they moved from the arena grounds. The landscape beyond the dome was barren, serene and mystical; a soft glow fell over the icy mountains, valleys and canyons, all glistening from the heat of the orbital mirrors. Works of art cut from the native rock jutted from the surface, lining Strength’s Path like ghostly giants; a crowd wearing survival suits had ventured beyond the safety of the dome and gathered around the work entitled Creation, depicting the old gods suffering at the hands of the Raothri; forbidding stone effigies of Christ, Buddha, and Mohammed shielded themselves from the four-winged demon towering above them, reaching down to take Earth.
The population of native Obyerans numbered just under forty thousand, yet they produced the industrial output of a colony ten times its size. Their pale, tall, muscular physique was unique to their genetically engineered amniosynth bloodline, a stark contrast against the diverse privateer population living among them. Many of those outsiders were staying over from voyages that took years to complete. Trade, the colony’s only connection to Orionis, was as much for information as goods. House Obyeran worked only with reputable privateers, refusing all business with Inner Rim corporations and cartels. Freighters arrived with ores, soil, Helium-3, and some manufactured goods like armoured glass and thruster modules. They left with Obyeran fusion cores, carbon nanotube cables, some luxury foodstuffs, and solar production technology.
But the real power of House Obyeran came from her fleet, which boasted none of the heavy warships that the Orionis Navy favoured so much. Instead, Masaad Obyeran had created the Lightspear. By itself, the corvette-sized starship was a technological marvel, built for resilience and adaptability. It could fly for a limited time without electronics; the ship’s vectoring engine pylons could be manoeuvred manually from the inside, and its Obyeran microfusion cores, unjammable in their dormant states, could provide thrust and power if need be. Redundancies were built into layers that accounted for almost any contingency; every Lightspear was built to serve a mothership’s mission.
Most importantly, the Lightspears were modular complements of each other. Two or more could physically link together, combining resources to serve a single purpose; to multiply engine thrust to push a disabled freighter, or to compartmentalise the functions of a larger starship to travel great distances; to fight as a single weapon; or to pool their manufacturing capability to repair a crippled ship more quickly.
Lightspear captains were required to be just as versatile as the vessels they commanded. Competition among native Obyerans to become crewmembers began in academies that pushed their genetically enhanced mental and physical endurance to its absolute limits, and those who persevered attained a near spiritual devotion to their ships. This competition was called The Rites. At the beginning of the programme, a cadet was introduced to the ship they would later call their own – if they passed. They trained with the vessel, learned her inside out, and by graduation every crewmember could operate every part of her, just as her modular design required.
A Lightspear was crewed by just seven, and The Rites decided who among them would be its captain. Every two years, the captains would compete against each other for the right to be called a lance commander. Among those, Myrha and Maez were the latest to earn that rank.
‘He was right about one thing,’ Masaad admitted. ‘If he had hurt you … that might have been more than I could stand.’
‘Best keep that to yourself,’ Myrha cautioned.
‘I know,’ he said, as they approached a statue that was taller than all the rest. ‘But you remind me too much of her.’
Reaching nearly as high as the armoured glass ceiling was the likeness of a beautiful, robust woman with long, flowing hair. Surrounded by Lightspears, her muscular arm pointed towards the stars, leading them into the heavens.
‘She would have been so proud,’ he said.
Myrha gazed up at the likeness of her mother.
‘I wish I had known her,’ she said.
‘You have her courage,’ Masaad continued, with sadness in his voice. ‘And her strength.’
Though her death was served by pirates, it was House Alyxander that Maez and the rest of House Obyeran blamed for the murder of Lyanna Obyeran. She had died the way she always lived: nobly serving others. Pirates had attacked a privateer outpost on KC-185, an asteroid between Zeus and Heracles, and Lyanna’s ship – a pre-Lightspear corvette called Dauntless – had been the closest vessel that could assist. Ever the bold and fearless captain, Lyanna destroyed two pirate corvettes and led a boarding party inside the outpost to rescue survivors. But she took a serious wound during the battle, and refused treatment while civilians remained aboard. By the time the last one was evacuated, Lyanna had slipped into shock.
As the Dauntless crew worked furiously to stabilize her, more pirate ships closed in pursuit. The nearest outpost with the necessary surgical facilities was owned by House Alyxander, which had brokered a fragile détente with those same pir
ates, who had an affiliation with Ceti. House Alyxander considered Obyeran a weak House of little relevance; certainly not worth incurring the wrath of bloodthirsty criminals who had just watched Lyanna Obyeran cut down many of their own.
Under a pretext of keeping the peace, House Alyxander refused to allow the Dauntless to make port, leaving Lyanna Obyeran to die of her wounds in space. Her crew also died, fighting the pursuing pirates to the last man.
Masaad was certain that his wife would still be alive had she been aboard a Lightspear. Every Obyeran wanted a war to avenge their queen, and Masaad yearned to give them one. But he refused. Soon, they would finally understand why.
‘Whenever Maez comes here, his heart grows darker,’ Myrha said, really feeling the chill now. Even with the solar harvesters illuminating the dome, the ambient temperature inside was hovering at -15 Celsius. ‘He dreams of leading the fleet against House Alyxander.’
‘To avenge the mother he never knew,’ Masaad said. ‘Vengeance is a convenient outlet for violent tendencies.’
‘You don’t trust him.’
King Masaad drew a deep breath.
‘Maez is a weapon whose power can be harnessed for great good,’ he said. ‘Yet I fear the day we should ever unleash it. Without guidance, his wrath could be ruinous. He has loyalty and compassion for those he trusts, but he is too quick to anger. That is why I intend you to succeed me.’
Myrha gasped.
‘Father, I—’
‘Don’t act surprised,’ Masaad scoffed. ‘No one else will be, least of all Maez. He will stand by your side as the protector of our House, but all Obyerans will call you Queen.’
She felt as though the ground were shaking beneath her feet.
‘Near the end, much of Earth looked like this,’ King Masaad said, waving towards the lifeless mountain ranges beyond the dome. ‘I was born on a world with no hope. Look at us now. We live in bubbles and tunnels and caves … we were not meant for this.’
The Tabit Genesis Page 7
