Alien Revolt (Clans of Kalquor Book 11)

by Tracy St. John

  Piras nudged his clanmate. Kila was on the receiving end of the warning tone that time. “I don’t think that will be necessary, Captain. Come along. The Holy Leader is waiting.”

  They turned to the door, and it opened. Under the watchful eyes of the guards, they entered.

  Piras was immediately struck by the tableau before him. Kila snorted softly, no doubt reacting to the scene.

  Copeland is exhibiting himself as a god. Or his idea of what a god would look like, Piras thought. He would have laughed, but it would be no way to start their relationship. Even though the admiral’s ultimate aim was to destroy the man and his forces, he had to treat the so-called Voice of God with grave seriousness.

  Not that it took much effort to consider the view with tremendous solemnity. Some of Copeland’s ‘props’ made Piras’s stomach turn. Any and all hilarity died a quick death as he took in the scene.

  He had to admit Copeland himself was awe-inspiring, at least in presentation. The man’s wavy hair was combed back from an aging but handsome face. The luxuriant tresses were so white as to be blinding beneath the spotlight which shone down from the ceiling. The robe he wore, a garment of flowing hem and sleeves, was also white. Or it had been, before years had conspired to age the fabric. It had a grayish cast, especially when compared to the Holy Leader’s thick mane of hair.

  Crystalline blue eyes regarded Piras and Kila with detached interest, the corners of which were marked by creases of steadily encroaching age. Yet for an Earther man in his seventies, Copeland appeared healthy. The glowing aspect of hair and lighting enhanced the vision.

  The massive chair the Voice of God sat upon was elaborate, no doubt the Earther equivalent of a throne. The carved arms, legs, and back shimmered gold, but there was enough wear on the detailing to show it was painted wood. Gold stitching embroidered the maroon velvet upholstery. Had Copeland been one inch shorter, his bare feet would not have been able to rest on the raised dais the throne perched upon.

  The alabaster walls of the chamber had the appearance of marble, but Piras doubted such a material would have been installed on a warship. No doubt it was a faux veneer designed to give the room grandeur. Portraits of the Holy Leader adorned the walls’ surfaces. Each depicted Copeland as handing down blessings to adoring followers, being uplifted by winged humans Piras had heard called ‘angels’, or standing in assorted tableaus that were no doubt meant to convey his sanctified position. It was another element which would have made Piras laugh had other items in the room not made it ghastly.

  A few jarring details took away from the aura of opulence. One was the simple table in a far corner where a uniformed officer sat, tapping on one of several computers. The second was the presence of armed guards, hard-looking men whose faces appeared as if they’d never laughed. A dozen of them glared in overt threat at Piras and Kila.

  Yet it was the final ingredient that made the whole scene repugnant in the extreme. As if to match the guards, like a madman’s collection of horridly paired sets, a dozen women knelt behind and on either side of Copeland’s throne. Robed in black, the gaunt creatures spanned a variety of ages and careworn states. They stared at the floor before them, their expressions ranging from deep sorrow to blank disconnect.

  The youngest of these women, clad in red and kneeling at the left of Copeland’s throne, was barely more than a girl. Piras was no expert on human aging, as much of the species rarely made it beyond half of a Kalquorian’s lifespan. Still, he was rattled as much by the female’s seeming youth as the bruises on her face. A few of the other women were similarly marked, and some of the elder ones were scarred. Piras knew he was seeing abuse. Had it come from Copeland himself?

  The women were silent and still, as if they were merely macabre decorations placed by some demented stylist in the Holy Leader’s design scheme.

  Piras’s notoriously nasty temper flashed red for an instant before he quelled it. He’d had to suppress many of his urges for justice in the past few weeks. He’d committed his share of evil acts as well, all in the desperate hope of ending the war and salvaging the Empire. He’d sent brave and honorable men to their deaths in order to save more lives. This was another one of those terrible situations in which he had to look beyond immediate wrongs to secure the greater long-term benefits.

  I hope one of those delayed benefits will be crushing Copeland’s skull, his surly temper snarled before retreating. Outside of clanning Kila and hopefully Lokmi as well, Fleet Admiral Hobato and Rear Admiral Tranis’s ruse to get Piras close to the Holy Leader had come with damned little reward thus far. The Dramok might have been all about duty to his Empire, one of the reasons he’d seemingly turned on it. Still, he was itching to enjoy a little compensation for his sacrifices. Taking the Holy Leader apart would be a decent start.

  Piras and Kila stepped up to the bottom of the dais. Piras’s sensitive sense of smell caught a whiff of a sweetish cologne overlaying the sour odor of unwashed skin. His nose wrinkled as he bowed in the traditional Kalquorian greeting to Copeland. He added another bow to the two men standing at the so-called Voice of God’s right. “Greetings, Holy Leader Copeland. I am Admiral Piras. This is the captain of my flagship, Nobek Kila.”

  Copeland inclined his head, his attitude seemingly benign. “Welcome, Piras and Kila. Dramok Sitrel has told me much of your bravery and ability to command your fellow Kalquorians. We are delighted to have you assist our holy war.”

  Piras blinked. Assist their holy war? Was he serious? Earth was a dead rock in space, its people scattered among colonies, space stations, and the few ships that had escaped. Copeland and the Earther battlecruisers remaining loyal to him were now employed to help the Basma’s war against the Empire.

  Piras shot a glance at the Kalquorian standing next to Copeland. He’d recognized the narrow visage of Dramok Sitrel right away, the man who was known to be the Basma’s right hand. Sitrel was apparently also the main representative for this part of the rebel fleet.

  The other Dramok bowed to Piras, his stark features pulled into an expression of irritation. In a placatory tone, he said, “We are delighted to help each other achieve our disparate but compatible ends. It is good to see you, Admiral.”

  “At last, we make our personal acquaintance, Dramok Sitrel.” Piras was not about express delight at the meeting. The sight of the man, with his beaklike nose and haughty demeanor, made him want to give his fist a personal acquaintance with Sitrel’s face. Unfortunately, cratering the thin-lipped traitor’s features would make no better an impression than cracking Copeland’s skull open.

  Such a pity.

  Unaware of Piras’s fantasy of an impromptu face rearrangement, Sitrel managed a smile. With his long black hair pulled tightly back in a braid, it was like staring at a death’s head. “I’ve read your report on how you escaped Kalquor when you were found out as a spy. The account has excited our forces. It’s incredible one vessel could remain almost unscathed after fighting its way out of a cordon of the Empire’s best destroyers. I told the Holy Leader you should have been annihilated. Yet you came away with no more than minor damage.”

  Piras gave him a modest expression. “All the credit goes to Captain Kila and his engineering crew. Their upgrades to the ship made all the difference.”

  Avarice lit Sitrel’s eyes. “Upgrades I hope you will share with the rest of us?”

  Piras glanced at Kila, who had managed to tone down his usual smirk to a politer version. The Nobek said, “Certainly. Along with the training to handle such power. It does take a careful, judicious touch.”

  Piras barely restrained a snort. When it came to speed and power, Kila was not known by any means for being careful. And there was no way in hell they were giving the Basma’s fleet any of the secrets that made Kila’s destroyer so dangerous.

  Piras smoothly redirected their attention to the planned offensive looming on the horizon. “I expect you have reports for me on the Haven and Rokan defenses? No doubt the Basma and the Holy Leader are eager
to get past the destroyers protecting those colonies. I need to know everything so I can plan our attack.”

  Copeland, who had shown little interest in the conversation thus far, waved one long-fingered hand dismissively. “I am not so concerned with the Rokan mining colony. It is Haven which must be taken down and its people brought to judgment.”

  Sitrel gave Piras a significant stare. “The Basma concurs with the Holy Leader, though we are still interested in Rokan for its resources. Haven is the main target, however. The Earthers and their hybrid children occupying Empire space must be removed with all haste.”

  “You plan to take custody of the Earthers and hybrids once we have claimed Haven, Holy Leader?” Piras asked. He knew the answer to that, but he wanted specific information as to Copeland’s plans for those innocent civilians, a great many who were women and children.

  Copeland’s tranquil smile morphed into a sorrowful expression. “They must be brought before me to face judgment for their sins. For their brazen disregard for what is sacred.” He sighed, as if disappointed in the people of Haven. “You must understand I do not wish to be harsh. It is always painful to punish them, even for their wicked deeds. I love my children, but transgressions against me must be dealt with—severely.”

  “I understand.”

  “With your help, we shall burn away their sins and cleanse the universe of their evil. We will purge not just your empire, but all creation. The abomination of our races mixing must be eradicated.”

  It was clear to Piras that Copeland was talking extermination. Like the Basma, he was determined to slaughter people for the crime of falling in love and having children. Two different men from two different cultures had arrived at the same murderous plot.

  Piras had assumed the part of someone who agreed with such a mindset. He, Kila, and Kila’s entire crew were there to play along until they could dismantle this part of the Basma’s forces. Ultimately, they hoped to bring both Copeland and ‘The Basma’ Dramok Maf to justice for their crimes against the Kalquorian Empire and Earth.

  As far as Piras was concerned, Copeland’s tyranny and fanaticism had been the true source of Earth’s demise. The Holy Leader had been complicit in the scenario which had resulted in the massive detonations beneath the major cities.

  His Kalquorian counterpart Dramok Maf was every bit as intent on obliterating Piras’s people by consigning them to extinction. Both monsters deserved the most severe penalties that could be meted out.

  Piras shoved aside his ardent dislike for the two who had brought so much misery and death on their people. He kept to his role and said, “I will need to work with your fleet to guarantee our success, Holy Leader. You have a liaison for your military forces who can coordinate with us?”

  Copeland nodded to the Earther soldier standing on the other side of Sitrel. The stocky man had remained silent up until now, though his thin, angular brown eyes were bright with interest. As Piras had spoken to Copeland and Sitrel, he’d been acutely aware of the black-haired man’s pinpoint attention.

  Copeland introduced him. “General Borey Nath is in command of my forces. He will supply you with whatever information and tactics he deems necessary for the task ahead. I have instructed him that it is my will he render aid in any way possible. He, above all my commanders, knows my desire for the successful capture and cleansing of our lost sheep.”

  Borey Nath. Piras knew the name, as most of those in the Kalquorian military did. Nath had been one of three Chiefs of Earth Forces during the war. He was recognized as a brilliant tactician, the kind of man soldiers rallied around no matter the peril of their situation. Unlike many of his ilk, Nath had been one of those who had shown mercy, especially to civilians of any species who found themselves caught in the crosshairs of the fighting—even Kalquorians.

  Piras’s respect was genuine when he bowed to Nath, though he wondered how a man with the general’s reputation could countenance attacking Haven. The Earther offered a slight smile and bowed in return.

  Piras was struck by the notion that Nath bore more than a passing resemblance to the young woman who’d crashed into him in the corridor. Same eye shape and color, same black hair, same round cheeks—though the woman’s face had been an oval. Nath’s tended towards a squarer contour. Were they father and daughter, perhaps?

  “A pleasure, General Nath. I look forward to accomplishing our mutual interests,” Piras said. He relegated his curiosity to the same corner as his temper.

  “As do I, Admiral Piras.” The general’s voice was light, almost gentle. A pleasant, soothing tone, as if they exchanged observations about the weather rather than death and war. His expression was polite, showing none of his inner feelings.

  If he was like most Earthers loyal to Copeland, he no doubt felt disgust for Kalquorians. Yet Nath hid well any aversion he experienced. Piras’s respect went up a notch. With his own infamous temper, he often found such control difficult to maintain, though it was indispensable given his current mission. War made for interesting bedfellows, and espionage made one a gifted actor or a dead man.

  “When would you like to go over our combined resources? I’m still waiting for detailed reports on the condition of my fleet.” Piras gave Sitrel a pointed glare, reminding the other man that Kila’s ship needed to be tied into the destroyers’ shared computer system. “Until I have that, I worry our strategy will be difficult to finalize.”

  “Completely understandable,” Nath said. No ripple of emotion disturbed his quiet countenance.

  Sitrel, however, appeared disappointed. “You don’t have the information yet? I told the destroyers to report to you as soon as possible so we could get on with this.”

  “There is no problem with a slight delay,” Nath interjected before speaking to Piras again. “I have requested the latest ship-readiness reports from my captains, and will hopefully have specifics by late tomorrow afternoon. Would that be acceptable?”

  “Thank you, yes. I hope to have my reports then as well.” Piras hid his relief. He’d been afraid the Earthers would rush him into attacking Haven’s defensive fleet right away. The longer he could stall, the better the chances he could keep the little farming colony safe.

  Copeland seemed to share Sitrel’s impatient mindset. “No more than the shortest of waits, yes, General?”

  “Of course, Holy Leader.” Nath’s calm face turned to Piras once more. “The sooner we help you claim these territories—and we, our people—the better.” He darted a peek at Copeland, the first ripple in his thus-far perfect composure. Perhaps Nath wasn’t so keen on punishing the Havenites after all.

  If that was the case, Copeland knew nothing of it. The Holy Leader gave Nath a pleased expression, like a master with a well-trained pet.

  “Agreed,” Piras added, earning his own gaze of approval from Copeland. Again, the urge to smash the man’s head sang in the admiral’s heart.

  He noted Sitrel appeared put out. The traitor’s comments had barely gained notice. No one except Piras had given him the least bit of attention.

  It was no wonder. Dramok Sitrel seemed far from the distinguished aide who had once served at Maf’s side on the Empire’s Royal Council. Next to Nath’s immaculately polished uniform and quiet strength, Sitrel looked like a beggar. His clothing was shiny with wear in spots. The fact Maf had sent him as his mouthpiece for such a meaningless assignment was further evidence of a fall from grace.

  Piras was taking pleasure in the traitor’s obvious unhappiness when screams drifted into the room. Kila automatically went on alert at Piras’s side, his fierce gaze going to the open but guarded doorway at the back of the chamber. It was from there the sounds of someone in great distress floated in. Sitrel also jerked with startled reaction before relaxing back into his pout. Even Nath reacted. His pleasantly neutral expression tightened for an instant so his lips and brows drew inward, creasing his face with dismay. A moment later, it smoothed out once more.

  Only Copeland showed no reaction, except to turn his g
aze to the man sitting bolt upright behind the bank of computers. In a lazy tone, he asked, “Has it gotten to that time already?”

  The man hurried from the table to kneel at Copeland’s feet. “Yes, Holy Leader. I would have told you, but I thought this meeting took precedence.”

  “Right you are. But our business of this initial consultation is concluded, and I must attend to the sinner as he suffers his penance.”

  As he spoke, the screams continued, high-pitched shrieks of agony. Piras would know the sound of torture anywhere, having made such an uproar himself in the not-so-distant past. He had just healed from the wounds inflicted on him by Fleet Security after they’d found him out as a supposed traitor. Had Kila and Lokmi not pulled him out when they did, Piras’s mission would have ended on Kalquor.

  In the Empire, torture was a last-resort method for gathering intelligence. However, in his capacity as a spy, Piras had been implicated in the deaths of many brave and loyal Kalquorians. Their bereaved relatives working within Fleet Security had not been overly worried about protocol when they’d interrogated Piras. He didn’t blame them. He had no use for turncoats either.

  His stomach still roiled to hear evidence of such brutality. Somehow, he kept his expression impassive. Kila recovered as well, but it was jarring to see him without the mocking smile he wore instinctively. Those who knew the Nobek would understand the absence of a smirk was a sign that something was very wrong.

  Copeland wiggled as if he were a small boy about to enjoy a treat. He told Piras, “The greatest pain of the savior is keeping his people on the path. A lesson I will be glad to sharing with those on Haven who have offended me with their wickedness. Good day, Admiral Pira and Captain Kila. Be blessed.”

  He made a strange motion towards them with his hands. Piras guessed it to be a symbolic benediction of some sort. Then Copeland rose from his throne. With a swirl of his once-perfect robes, he glided to the rear doorway. He did not acknowledge the kneeling women he passed as he went, though a couple scrambled awkwardly to get out of his path. His assistant followed on his heels. The women rose and waited for the red-robed girl who had knelt closest to Copeland to lead them out.