Sol grabbed the priest and lifted him above the floor. “Crazy old fool, I need to know what binds them together. What lies at the heart of this web?”
“I... am... too weak,” the Brethren said.
Sol took the chalice and filled it. He parted the priest’s lips. Almost choking the priest as he forced the blood down his throat.
Sacerdos reached into the whirlpool and scooped out a star. He flung it into the center of the seven constellations. His eyes rolled back into his head as he collapsed to his knees. His body shivered and spasmed on the blood red marble.
The last star morphed into a vast vessel sailing across the stars. A starship. A warship to be precise and by its design it seemed human to Sol.
“What is the name of this ship?”
Sol lifted up the priest and shook him.
“Speak, priest, or I shall slit your throat.”
Sacerdos opened his eyes.
“I know the Vanguard traitor, Sol Morlok,” chanted the Brethren. “As do you.”
Sol nodded with sorrow.
“Fyre of House Von Rha,” the Brethren chanted. “She is promised to you in marriage?”
Sol felt her betrayal like a dagger to the heart. His mind raced, searching for an explanation. It had to be a mistake. But if it were, then what else should he mistrust about the visions interpreted by the Brethren?
“She must die, Sol Morlok.”
“I don’t understand why these people are important, priest.”
“A prophecy is born,” the Brethren chanted.
“I must know what is at the center of the web you spin. What connects these disparate individuals?”
The priest reached out for a spiral of stars like a silk thread and pulled. He held aloft a vast and powerful spacecraft.
The Brethren sounded out, loud, deep and clear.
“Valiant.”
Sol felt his hands clench into fists. One final question dared him. “Show me this prophecy,” said Sol.
The stars above their heads seemed to chase one another until they collided. A white flash blinded Sol. As shattered stars fell like meteorites they converged into one final image.
Sol saw a vision of himself on his knees. His hands clasped a mortal wound in his chest. Behind him stood the love of his life. Fyre Von Rha. With her, stood a human male. The one the priest called Zen Dax.
He held a sword above Sol. The sword cut through the air in a violent arc and severed Sol’s head from his shoulders.
Unable to breathe, unable to look away, Sol watched the vision of his own head tumbling to the floor and rolling across the lake of Gaia’s blood. He swallowed hard and forced himself to breathe.
“With your death,” the Brethren chanted, “so dies the future of Vanguard.”
Sol stared at his trembling hands and turned to the choir of the Brethren. “I am sworn to save Vanguard,” he said. “How do I stop the seven falling stars from destroying us?”
The Brethren took a collective deep breath and chanted: “Destroy Valiant.”
CHAPTER 3 - VALIANT
“What do you think of her, Captain?”
Captain Hannibal Grint squinted at the two mile long warship, Valiant. Its sleek form eclipsed the sun like a butter knife slicing into a fried egg. Their tiny shuttle felt to Hannibal like an insignificant flying ant as it swept along Valiant’s deep canyons of gun turrets.
He knew it ought to be the defining moment in a distinguished career. His eyes should be welling up with tears. But his beard itched, and that meant only one thing.
Trouble.
Hannibal sighed.
“For a trillion dollars,” Hannibal growled, “you couldn’t get a paint job fancier than gun metal grey?”
Admiral of the Fleet Michael Finnean puffed on his cigar and suppressed his amusement at his old friend. He could remind Hannibal of the super sleek stealth nano-tech in the paint work. Or, the self-healing molecules that stretch, multiply and bind to seal hull breaches. But he knew Hannibal too well to play games. And besides, he was here as the bearer of bad news for the old space dog.
“You may be the people’s lovable war hero, Grint, but to me you’ll always be an ungrateful son of a gun sweeper. Maybe I’ll change my mind. Give the fleet’s prize flagship to some kiss ass pencil pusher. God only knows I’ve got too many of them. All with powerful parents I owe.”
“You do that, Admiral,” Hannibal spat, “and I guarantee the peace we fought so hard for will be over in three months.”
Admiral Finnean hated to agree with the old curmudgeon.
“Luckily for us both, I see past your wining personality, Hannibal.”
Hannibal scratched his chin. “When my beard starts itching I always know there’s a catch.”
Finnean swallowed hard and felt himself avoid eye contact with the constant hard stare that had a deserved reputation for incinerating the strongest egos of Admiralty’s ranks.
“I’m giving you a new First Officer, Hannibal. Name of Dax. Zen Dax.”
Hannibal shook his head firmly. “Too late. Already promoted my second lieutenant to XO”
“Then demote him.”
“Her.”
“Your problem, Grint, not mine.”
Hannibal scratched at his silver beard again. “Dax, you say?”
Finnean nodded as his light reactive contact lenses darkened with the sunlight. A dozen urgent Q-NET mails scrolled across his eyes, and he blinked to dismiss them.
“Don’t recognize that name from fleet war dispatches,” Hannibal said. “Who’d this Dax serve with?”
“Worried Dax ain’t up to receiving the honor of Firestorm Grint breathing down his neck?”
“You’re avoiding my question.”
“No, I’m not. I’m making it pointless. Dax didn’t serve on any ship. End of story.”
Hannibal flared his nostrils. “You’re saddling me with a pencil pusher to command the fleet’s last hope of preserving peace?”
“Put it however you like,” Finnean said and bristled. “My mind’s made up.”
“And for what? Because you owe pencil pusher’s daddy a favor? Or is it another kiss ass concession to the Vanguard? Is he one of their spies? Ye Gods, and by Neptune’s beard, if this is why you’re tensing up like break water...”
Finnean chomped on his cigar until Hannibal drew breath. “Officially,” Finnean said, “Dax has no war record.”
“And unofficially?”
“Dax’s war record was and always will be a necessary secret.”
“Don’t speak in space shanty riddles to an old space dog.”
Finnean found himself glancing over his shoulder even though they were alone on the shuttle’s observation deck. He rummaged in a pocket and clicked a small safe-talk device that jammed electronic surveillance for up to two minutes.
“This goes no further, Grint, right?”
Hannibal nodded.
“Dax volunteered,” the admiral whispered, “to stay behind during the Lupos occupation of Mars.”
Hannibal felt a shiver down his spine. His breath caught in his chest. He felt a need to turn away in shame. He calmed himself down with the seasoned practiced precision of tackling battle nerves.
“Was it worth it?” Hannibal asked.
“For a year, the Intel Dax provided was invaluable to the fleet at keeping those wolves at bay. Allowing us to eventually retake the Mars quadrant. Not forgetting his year organizing guerrilla resistance. He tightened their dog collars a notch or two, I can tell you.”
Hannibal recalled seeing footage of what the Lupos warriors had done to the civilian colony on Mars. It still gave him sleepless nights. He caught Finnean’s hard stare reflecting back at him in the vast window of the shuttle observation deck.
“And your boy?” Hannibal asked.
“Eventually captured by Lupos and inevitably tortured. Never gave up a shred worth a damn.”
Hannibal imagined the slavering jaws and razor sharp claws of those dogs of war and sup
pressed another shiver.
“Took us six months to get him back in a prisoner exchange,” Finnean said and took another puff of his cigar. The next piece of information needed a respectful pause before he offered it.
“The only thing keeping Dax going,” said Finnean, “was the prospect of being reunited back on Earth with his wife and young son.”
“So our hero gets a happy ever after?”
“Not exactly...”
Hannibal knew that dark look of Finnean’s.
“His wife and kid,” Finnean whispered at last, “were stationed at Fort Armstrong.”
Hannibal recalled with bitterness how the brave, but foolish human commander at Moonbase Fort Armstrong had refused to heed the Vanguard warning to disarm and surrender. The Vanguard deadline expired and the entire fort of fifty thousand troops and seventy five thousand civilians was wiped off the face of the Moon as an example to all other warring factions.
The explosion was witnessed by the Earth Defense Fleet a quarter of a million miles away. Earth’s twelve billion citizens lost the will to fight. The politicians fell in line.
The Vanguard Peace Accord was signed by the four races. No one dared, at least publicly, to oppose the Vanguard’s demands in the conditions of the accord.
Fort Armstrong’s day, each spring, marked the beginning of the end of the first galactic war.
Hannibal turned to face his lifelong friend and boss. “I can’t pin a medal on a shadow. I need a man who can look me in the eye and greet me with a firm handshake. Anything less risks your trillion dollars and my twenty five thousand serving men and women. So Finnean, the trillion dollar question for you is this: can Dax hold it together to be of any use to me?”
Finnean realized his cigar had gone out. He threw it to the floor and stamped on it.
“It’s your job to make sure he does, Grint.”
Hannibal wanted to rip off his own beard.
Finnean sighed as he reached into his jacket and took out another cigar. He sighed. “Look, Hannibal, when we got Dax back home to Earth, he was... well, a changed man, shall we say? You might want to go easy on him, but he’ll hold it together the same way we all do.”
“I still don’t like it,” Hannibal said. “And what if I make it a deal breaker?”
Finnean suppressed a smile behind the first cloud of fresh cigar smoke.
“Not my problem. Besides, I can always retire you, or... worse.”
He caught the momentary flicker of panic in Hannibal’s eyes before the old space dog got it under control. But he needed to leave a lasting impression on the rambunctious old Grint. Just to ensure he stayed in line.
“How about I give you a floating rust bucket to police fuel rod dumping in some flea speck quadrant, Grint?”
Hannibal’s eyes narrowed, but he said nothing.
“Remember that son of a gun sweeping loud mouth rabble rouser, Captain Lars Christensen?” Finnean asked. He knew with that he’d won the argument.
Hannibal’s throat felt dry and sore. He knew Lars Christensen. Solid as a rock. Damn fine man to have in battle when the odds were against you. He and Christensen were from the generation that always had to live on the edge and win at pushing at the frontiers. Or go down with their ship.
Christensen, he knew, should have ended up an admiral. Instead, ass kissers like Finnean ruled the gravity waves, so to speak. Hannibal got the point loud and clear. But not without a final all or nothing assault.
Christensen had been transferred to command the old rust bucket destroyer, Defiant.
May Defiant rest in peace.
“I still don’t like--”
Finnean let fly one last warning shot across the bow with an arched eyebrow. His next would take no prisoners.
Hannibal hesitated and let a smile break through his scraggy beard. “I still hate the God awful paint work.”
Finnean sighed and relaxed. His job here was done. He’d take a tour and then get back to the brutal world of fleet politics.
“And as for the Vanguard spies in the fleet and on Valiant, Grint, well, our boy Dax has a game to play there too.”
“Placate our new masters? Is that his main role?”
“Dax is loyal to the fleet. Beyond that remit he can do as he pleases, Hannibal.”
“Spy games? Didn’t we fight a war to stay free of all that grinding attrition of the soul?”
“Get used to it, Hannibal. We owe the Vanguard for bringing us to the table with the Lupos and Ursu.”
“Like we had a choice? Tell me, Michael, at what price does peace cost too much? Your soul? Or mine?”
Finnean rolled his eyes. “Tell it to the billion souls we lost in the war, because no one else is listening, Hannibal.”
“I don’t like it... but I hear you, Admiral.”
“Good,” Finnean said and reached into his jacket. “Cigar?”
Hannibal reached out and hesitated. “So what’s Dax up to right now?”
“He’s not on Valiant for shining your shoes, Captain. What do you think your spy hunter is up to?”
CHAPTER 4 - BAD NEWS
The shuttle docked with Valiant. Captain Hannibal Grint and Admiral Finnean stood under a blanket of crimson light. How like an old demon Finnean seemed in the glare of red landing lights.
Hannibal fidgeted with his uniform. Making sure his jacket covered up his Space Fleet insignia. His left eye felt irritated by his regulation contact lens. Ordinarily he’d consider the Interactive Reality feature a blessing.
With twenty five thousand crew member names to learn, it would scroll reminders of their identities whenever he glanced at a face. But the damn thing was making his eye wilt. He popped it out and thrust it into his pocket. He caught the admiral’s questioning glance.
“I want to slip aboard quietly,” Hannibal said. “Get a sense of the ship and how the crew operates without its captain.”
“See if you’re inheriting a well-oiled machine? Perfectly understandable,” Finnean said and watched the shuttle’s gravity fluctuations toy with his cigar smoke. “If they keep me waiting any longer I’ll manage a perfect spiral. You itching to find your lieutenant and break the bad news to her gently?”
“Captain’s prerogative.”
The door unlocked with a series of dull jolts from within the door’s inner mechanisms. Hannibal felt a succession of waves rolling through his stomach. Finally, a long hiss signaled the adjustment of climate control and air pressure equalizing between the shuttle and the Valiant. With landing protocols completed, the blood red light turned apple green.
They stood aside as the door opened inward to the sound of a shrill whistle. A Boatswain’s pipe calling out a formal greeting. Hannibal shot Finnean a dark look.
“We can’t always get what we want in life,” Finnean said and chomped on his cigar as he puffed out his chest full of medals. “But we damn well better get what we deserve, or someone gets a kicking.”
Hannibal glanced out into the hangar deck at the hundreds of rows of officers and ranks lined up for a formal salute.
“Suck it up Hannibal,” Finnean said out of the side of his mouth as his cigar bobbed up and down in time to the marching music. “You’re their hero, so act like it.”
“I hate ceremony,” Hannibal growled.
“It’s for them as much as you. They need to believe in you. And you need every trick in the book to win their hearts and minds. You’ve no time to take the slow and easy path to respect.”
Hannibal’s heart missed a beat. “What have you not told me?”
“Later. For now, enjoy.”
“Is this anything to do with that new First officer you dumped on me?”
“Later means ‘not now’, Hannibal.”
“If you have information Valiant is in danger...”
He bit his tongue as Finnean nudged him out of the airlock and onto the deck. A young female lieutenant in ceremonial whites marched up to them. She kicked her polished heels together and fired off a crisp salut
e.
Hannibal recognized the icy blond with high cheek bones and a demeanor that could freeze the tropics.
She introduced herself as Commander Oksana Blok. “Welcome aboard Valiant, Admiral.”
Hannibal caught the meaning in Finnean’s sideways look. Now wasn’t the time to break Blok’s heart. But he knew she was as smart and observant as the best of them and he sensed she was already becoming suspicious of their silence.
Finnean moved on down the lines of officers. Hannibal sighed and whispered to Blok, “We need to talk. Later.”
Her eyes popped wide, but he gave her full marks for recovering her composure quickly.
Finnean stopped before a group of Space Marines and their female captain.
“Who do we have here?” Finnean asked as he pointed his cigar at the female captain.
Blok quickly scurried on the heels of the admiral. “Admiral, may I present Captain Argyle Valkyrie?”
“How many ship to ship boarding operations you commanded, Captain Valkyrie?” Finnean asked.
“Twenty five, Admiral,” Valkyrie said and cleared her throat. “All in combat simulators.”
“Toughest simulations in the galaxy, eh, Captain?” Finnean said as he glanced at Hannibal with a mischievous glint in his eye.
Valkyrie flushed red. Hannibal noted Valkyrie’s head drop a fraction. All so Finnean could shine his ego. Hannibal wanted to spit.
Hannibal stared at Valkyrie. His beard trimmer was older than her. An irritating feeling began to dawn on him. Finnean had neglected to mention he had given Hannibal a crew of green horns.
Hannibal glanced over at Valkyrie’s cyborg sergeant. His name tag read: Van Cleef. A giant of a man who seemed to wear his battle scars as medals.
“Who did you last serve with Sergeant?”
“Captain Christensen of the Achilles, Captain, sir,” said Sergeant Van Cleef. “Before he was transferred to Defiant.”
“Good man, Christensen,” Hannibal said and shot Admiral Finnean a quick look of defiance.
“The best, Captain,” Van Cleef said.
Finnean choked on his cigar and moved on.
Hannibal wasn’t done yet. He turned back to Argyle Valkyrie. “A marine officer shines by relying on the support of her sergeant, wouldn’t you agree, Captain Valkyrie?”
Valiant (Jurassic War Universe Book 1) Page 3
