The Expanding Universe 4: Space Adventure, Alien Contact, & Military Science Fiction (Science Fiction Anthology)

by Craig Martelle

  Ultras held their breath ten times longer than humans. Tornahdo had trained to hold his five times longer. Pietas probably managed fifteen or twenty times.

  Twelve of them. In a vacuum. Against the Ultra called Bringer of Chaos. Whose motto was, "Pain is a warrior's ally." No number of chips made that doable.

  Tornahdo pushed past the pain caused by his traitorous thoughts.

  "You'll go in unarmed. Otherwise, there's a miniscule chance he'd awake and disarm you."

  Miniscule. Like an ocean was a miniscule puddle. He ignored the migraine-level headache.

  "Here's proof." The man activated a device on his wrist, and a holograph of a room full of lifepods popped into being.

  There wasn't a human alive who wouldn't recognize Pietas. Seven feet tall. Slim. White hair. White uniform.

  Seriously. Like he was the good guy.

  Painted on bandit's mask.

  Because yeah, the mask went so well with the good guy look. The sarcastic thought sang pain through Tornahdo's head. He pressed fingertips against one temple.

  Pietas clutched his chest, bracing himself on a pod. Slid to the floor. Out of sight.

  "You see?" The man shut off the view. "He's out."

  Sure he was. Tornahdo ignored the sharp reminder to avoid disagreement.

  "Pick up his body and put him in a pod. Each of you will carry a pair of wristlocks. Bind his hands behind him." The man gestured. "Questions?"

  The guy in front raised his hand again. "Sir, there's only twelve of us. If he wakes up, that's not enough."

  "No? Who agrees?"

  Three ghosts beside him also put up their hands.

  Without a word, the man pulled out a gun and shot them, one after the other, so fast, they all went down together. Headshots were final. No rebirths.

  The air went from thick to non-existent. Tornahdo did not so much as flinch. He needed none of that maniac's attention.

  He might not know the other ghosts, but if an enemy put one down like an animal, that person deserved his hate. Like him, his fellow soldiers had trained hard to hate. One slip and they'd be on him like the animals he seemed to think they were.

  Chip or not.

  The guy holstered the weapon. Had to be standard issue. Guns for Ultras set you on fire. "Anyone else doubt the plan?"

  Nope. No more fools present.

  The holographic fake-face fluttered, showing a flash of black clothing. He headed for the door, then pivoted back. Pointed at Tornahdo. Beckoned.

  Holy Mother-- He went, snapped to rigid attention and saluted. "Sir, reporting as ordered."

  "Memorize this." He showed him a number. Easy enough to commit to memory. "Got it?"

  "Yes, sir."

  He described the location of an important pod and instructed him to stay near it after entry. "Pietas wakes up, use that code. It'll activate an immolate switch."

  Immolate. Sacrifice by fire.

  "All you need to know is Pietas would die to protect this person. You threaten them with fire, he'll surrender. After he's in his pod, you repeat the code to reset."

  "HUA, sir!" Heard, understood, acknowledged.

  "Good luck." The door shut behind him.

  When Tornahdo turned back, the others faced away as if he'd caught them committing unforgiveable sin. They had to wonder what he'd been told.

  He cursed under his breath.

  At his first death, he'd been given last rites. Praying would do no good, but he dropped to one knee and crossed himself. A single prayer fit.

  "Hail Mary, full of grace." The stinging reprimand in his head did not deter him. "Pray for us now and at the hour of our death..."

  Chapter Five

  As ordered, Tornahdo illuminated the beacon on his chest. Not smart. Pietas would know from the level of brightness how many had entered the unlit room, but there was no sense saying so. Ghosts did what they were told.

  Maybe the next team would subdue the Ultra after Tornahdo's crew exhausted him. Assuming there were ghosts left who hadn't been shot by their own leaders.

  Inside, as instructed, he stayed near the back. Two of the eight closed in on the pod.

  Pietas lay on the floor behind it. His body showed, not his face.

  Tornahdo tingled with a fighter's high. The mix of anxiety and excitement kept his instincts on high alert.

  Beside Pietas, a ghost stooped. The change in lighting angle showed the Ultra, limp on the floor. When turned, the body flopped. The ghost pressed two fingers against the throat.

  With a jerk, Pietas yanked the man down while thrusting a hand up.

  A pierce of mindless fear stabbed Tornahdo. He'd faced that snap of terror before. It meant two things. First, the Ultra was controlling their emotions. Second, the chip was worthless.

  Pietas tripped the next ghost, jabbed an elbow into his neck.

  Another spurt of fear and confusion.

  All that training. Days of suffering, learning control. For nothing.

  Pietas flashed into speed mode.

  Tornahdo's world moved in slow motion.

  A blur showed where the Ultra had been. Pietas halted, braced both hands on a pod and kicked a pair of ghosts behind him.

  They flew backward. Slow.

  Momentum carried the Ultra straight toward Tornahdo.

  Stumbling out of the way, Tornahdo went down in a tumble, taking out the ghost beside him, who knocked down the last two.

  Tornahdo rolled to his feet, out of range of those long arms and carbon-hard fists. He scrambled to the closest pod, entered the code.

  Nothing. Disoriented, he'd picked the wrong pod. Like one of those dreams where he ran in slo-mo, he struggled toward the next.

  Beams of light arced through the room, each marking the presence of a ghost.

  Pietas dropped, came up behind a ghost--snapped his neck. Went for the ghosts he'd kicked. Took them out by jumping on a neck, kicking a head.

  Five dead.

  The code failed again. Tornahdo oriented his slow-moving body toward the next pod.

  The Ultra rolled, popped up behind a ghost, broke his neck. Dusted off his hands.

  Six dead. The light beams no longer moved.

  Another failure. Tornahdo scanned the room. A set of three pods sat near the door.

  He couldn't see where Pietas was, but he could guess where he was going.

  Tornahdo braced himself, extended a fist.

  Pietas ran right into him.

  The Ultra danced backwards, shaking his head. He touched his lip, stared at the blood, met Tornahdo's gaze. Gave a nod.

  Tornahdo and another ghost charged him.

  Using the other ghost's momentum, Pietas turned and slammed him headfirst into the wall. The ghost dropped flat onto the ground, dead on impact.

  No one alive but Tornahdo.

  He ran at nightmare-speed; groggy, sluggish, slow. The only thing fast was his heart--and the enemy. When Tornahdo reached the last pod, he entered the code.

  Immolate flashed in red. A swift prayer of thanks shot from his heart straight to heaven.

  Pietas darted toward him.

  Hand poised over the go-switch, Tornahdo mouthed, "Don't make me."

  Whoever slept in this pod, the threat of perma-death stopped Pietas. In a room full of air, he'd be panting. Here, his chest caved. He suffered more than Tornahdo.

  The Ultra staggered. Time returned to normal.

  Tornahdo patted the wristlocks, motioned to the floor and pointed to the button. Shook his head in warning.

  Gazes locked, they faced each other.

  An eternity later, Pietas dropped to one knee. Placed his hands behind him.

  Pride sang throughout Tornahdo's body. The reign of Ultras was over.

  Chapter Six

  Charon's Boat, Enderium Six docks

  As the victor and the only human ever to lay hands on Pietas, Tornahdo deserved a promotion. What he got was duty guarding the Bringer of Chaos in stasis, locked inside a prison cell only big enough for the U
ltra's pod and Tornahdo's bunk.

  Pietas and half a million other Ultras who'd either surrendered or been captured were being exiled to a planet on the far edge of the galaxy. Sempervia, whose name meant "ever-living." Fitting, for immortals.

  Tornahdo still drank Ghost Formula Six, but the crew gave him access to the mess deck with real food and real coffee. Day by day, he drank less "ghost juice." The chip's influence lessened.

  The less it controlled him, the more his own thoughts and desires resurfaced. With them came resentment at being confined to a cell, guarding a sleeping enemy who would eventually rise and kill him.

  To pass the time, Tornahdo spent full days cataloging and organizing a knapsack issued when he came aboard. They'd filled it with survival equipment. Were they dumping him on the planet with the Ultras? If true, that gave him odds of living at what? One in ninety-nine billion?

  Not that high, once Pietas got free.

  Months of work, training to beat this Ultra and Pietas would likely kill him anyway. The kit was pointless.

  Tornahdo kept himself fit with exercise and ran through everything he knew about combat. Practiced martial arts. Imagined himself drawing back a bow, shooting game.

  Out of boredom, he accessed the ship's limited library in all languages he knew. He read every word in a useless first aid manual. Immortals healed in seconds. He'd be lucky if he needed it once. He learned how to make jam with every fruit in the galaxy, grow and harvest corn, sow pinto beans and legumes, and make basic repairs to farm equipment he'd never see or use.

  The only thing less exciting was rolling a straw inside out. Could be done, if you were bored enough. Tornahdo had been. Twice.

  If this was peace, why did people clamor for it? It wouldn't last. Not for him, anyway. Once they landed, he'd either be fighting or running for his life.

  After a shower one day, he caught site of the corps symbols on his uniform. With his fingertips, he outlined the black part of the mark. The rounded top and arm of the urn made the white shape resemble half a ghost. Why hadn't he noticed that pattern before?

  A fierce impulse rose within him. Kill Ultras. Hate Ultras. Destroy Ultras.

  "Whoa... Where did that come from?" He turned the shirt inside out and put it on.

  A shiver ran across his skin and he rubbed his arms. Since boarding, he'd lived with the skin-crawly sensation of walking through a graveyard. Specters lived on this vessel and the chill of their passing sent shudders over him. In Terran mythology, Charon ferried the dead to the underworld. Charon's Boat had an apt name.

  To distract himself from such morbid thoughts, he whistled. Lips of steel, his abuela had sworn. She'd called his music bouncy, alert, happy, chipper. How he missed her company.

  After breakfast one morning, he launched into a tune she'd taught him.

  "For the love of all that's holy, will you shut up!"

  He whirled around. That's what he'd said to those orderlies months ago. Surely, one of them was mocking him. But the area around his cell revealed no one. Someone had said it. The only person in the vicinity--

  Tornahdo's pulse ratcheted to heart attack level and he swallowed, throat tight.

  By slow degrees, he pivoted toward the lifepod.

  Layers of steel and copper supposedly stopped every psychic gift of an Ultra and prevented telepathy. Had Pietas spoken?

  Wiping sweaty palms on his pants, Tornahdo approached and then slid back the faceplate.

  The Ultra squinted, face screwed up, avoiding the stab of light.

  "You-- you're awake?"

  Pietas looked right at him. Recognition lit his gaze. You.

  Tornahdo slammed shut the plate. Smacked the big red panic button on his cell wall. An alert screamed throughout the ship. "Security! Security! Prisoner Six-Six-Six is out of stasis! I say again, Prisoner Six-Six-Six is out of stasis!"

  The most dangerous Ultra in the galaxy was awake.

  ***

  During interrogation, Tornahdo answered the same questions. He had not changed settings on the pod. He had not spoken to the prisoner. He had not released locks on the pod.

  If they were filming the cell like they said, they'd know.

  Why would he let that devil out? Especially since he'd been the one who'd fastened Pietas's wristlocks. Who'd want that monster loose?

  Finally, they assured him Pietas was in stasis again. It was safe to return. They escorted Tornahdo back to his cell, unlocked it, stood aside.

  The moment he entered, he knew every single thing they'd told him was a lie. His only question now was how far back the lies went.

  Pietas wasn't in stasis. The pod already immobilized the Bringer of Chaos, but now it had been double-wrapped in chains. Why, unless they feared him freeing himself?

  Which meant Pietas was awake. Had been all along.

  Which meant he was being tortured, and not to hurt him--he was being tortured to death. Daily. Had been the past twelve-plus weeks.

  Tornahdo had captured him. That made him responsible.

  He'd tortured enemies, yes. Sometimes, they'd cave and talk if you threatened. But when you got what you needed--you stopped. No reason to keep torturing. He killed a spider if it bit him but not by pulling off all its legs and watching it suffer.

  Mercy had a place. God forgive him. He crossed himself. Kissed his fingertips. Even for Ultras.

  Tornahdo covered the ghost symbols on his uniform, and using the boning knife from his survival kit, removed them from his uniform. When he tossed them into the recycler, the compulsion to hate Ultras disappeared with them.

  Coincidence? Yeah, right.

  That the corps had planted thoughts in his head he didn't doubt, only how many others lurked there. If it took the rest of his life, he'd root out and destroy every single one.

  Those in charge had told him not to speak inside the cell. Why, unless they knew Pietas could hear him? But they didn't tell him not to whistle.

  By varying length, he buried a message in the pattern of songs that only someone who knew ancient codes would comprehend. They said Pietas knew them all. Surely, he'd understand the meaning behind two short tunes followed by a long one, then another short. It was one letter. He'd go through the entire word, one letter at a time, for as long as it took for the pattern to appear.

  After the sixth time repeating the whistled code, a single tap came from inside the pod.

  Tornahdo swallowed, torn between panic and glee.

  Had Pietas figured out the code? Even if he had, that didn't mean he'd believed the message.

  After going back through the entire pattern once more, Tornahdo got a single tap. The letter I in response to F-R-I-E-N-D.

  He could not release this Ultra--no, this man--but he could let Pietas know he was no longer his enemy. That he wanted no part of a system created by cowards and liars who would entrap an immortal inside one of these tubes and let him die over and over.

  No wonder he'd felt the slither of ghosts. Perhaps Pietas wasn't the lone Ultra not in stasis.

  Tornahdo traced his fingertips across the welded-shut faceplate. The others weren't his responsibility. Pietas was. Maybe he couldn't free him, but he refused to let a fellow soldier die alone.

  They were a year out from Sempervia. How many more times would the Ultra die?

  Pietas had no choice but to endure.

  Neither did he.

  If the corps knew he'd changed sides, they'd kill him. If Pietas got hold of him, he'd kill him. Didn't matter. He must make this right.

  Enemies or not, they were bound for exile, but they would survive.

  Together.

  Follow the Bringer of Chaos as he journeys into the dark: https://kayelleallen.com/chaos-series/

  Author Kayelle Allen

  Kayelle Allen writes Sci Fi with misbehaving robots, mythic heroes, role playing immortal gamers, and warriors who purr. She's a US Navy veteran who's been married so long she's tenured.

  Darkened Skies

  Chancerian: 3
/>   By Drew Avera

  Thrust into a life or death situation, the next decision Tawny makes could cost her everything.

  Under the cover of half-collapsed tents sagging in the midday hustle of the open market, Tawny hid as they searched for her. Exactly who they were was a mystery she didn’t have time to solve, but their lack of uniforms forced her heart to pound faster. Uniforms came with a certain set of guidelines, rules of engagement and a relative sense of honor. No uniforms could mean anything, any punishment, and it scared the crap out of her.

  Stealing wasn’t a death sentence by law, but who was to say these men with their big guns were on the right side of that law? Her fingers tightened around the device she’d taken, careful not to lose hold of it as sweat drenched her hands. This was her only ticket out of here and the situation had gone south much sooner than she expected. Too soon to be a coincidence.

  “Their backs are to you, girl, cut through here and take to the roofs,” an old woman hissed, her whispered voice hardly carrying over the sound of a launching craft miles away. The dull roar was a welcome friend, because the deafening silence that followed made her feel uncomfortably exposed.

  Tawny blinked, unsure of whether to trust the old lady or not, but the sound of shouting forced her hand. She darted from under the canvas drapes and disappeared into the shadows, looking back to thank the woman, but she paid no mind to the orphan, instead keeping her eyes nonchalantly affixed to the happenings of the market and the lack of money exchanging hands during the greatest depression in Jhont’s history. The year previous was a close second.

  As Tawny climbed the stairs, she felt the ground quake as a nearby ship lifted from the deck. The rumble caused her body to vibrate uncontrollably as she desperately tried to cover her ears despite her hands being full. It was futile. The varying distance of the grounded crafts could mean the difference between knowing a ship was departing to potentially losing your hearing, or what hearing you had left. For Tawny, it was a fine line. The constant ringing in her ears required an accompanying sound to lessen the effect, lest she be driven crazy.