Syndicate's Pawns

by Davila LeBlanc

  Jessie studied Varsin closely as she went about her task. The doctor had short graying hair with several streaks of winter white and a dour look to her. She was Kelthan and her appearance was the most familiar to Jessie. Of the new species that populated the universe, the Kelthans were the ones who resembled the Humanity as Jessie remembered it from her time of 2205 AD. Or what was now collectively known as the Lost History of her entire civilization.

  Doctor Varsin’s skin was of an odd shade of pale grey. Her eyes, like most of the Kelthans she had met, although that had been limited to Varsin, Captain Morwyn and his pilot Lizbeth Harlowe, were almond shaped and in Varsin’s case they were a dark earth brown. Her lips were full and her face lined. Jessie could not help but think that Varsin would have been quite lovely in her youth.

  Jessie sighed a relaxed sigh as Varsin massaged the tension out of her shoulders and arms. These regular daily sessions of physiotherapy were something Jessie looked forward to. They helped take her mind off the unsettling truth that she was not only light years away from Earth, her home—­now called Terra—­but that she was effectively alone in the cosmos. There were no other humans. But there was also no time to wallow in self-­pity when she had a task to focus on—­regaining her strength.

  “Your hands are like magic, Doctor Varsin.” Jessie closed her eyes as the pain of today’s session melted away.

  “I do not understand that particular word.” Marla Varsin paused. “Am I causing harm?”

  Jessie shook her head. “It’s just a . . . never mind, you weren’t hurting me.”

  Marla Varsin carried on with her task. The two of them were on the medical bay of the Jinxed Thirteenth. Inside were over two-­dozen copper-­colored cylinders. These were the carbon tubes, where the rest of the inactive crew was presently being kept in suspended animation. This was in order to preserve the ship’s limited life-­support systems. From Jessie’s understanding, these sleeping men and women had been the ones to rescue her from her prison on Moria Three.

  The captain had suggested they place Jessie in one of those tubes. It was Doctor Varsin who had argued against it, not really knowing what the effects would be on Jessie or her unborn fetus. The captain had conceded, remitting her to the care of Doctor Varsin and the Machina construct named Chord. They were to keep Jessie out of the way while the ship’s engineers went about the task of repairing the Jinxed Thirteenth from its battle with OMEX.

  And so Jessie’s day-­to-­day routine had been spent on physical therapy followed by linguistic lessons with Chord. It was infuriating to be unable to perform the basic task of communicating with someone else. Of course there were language softwares on the Jinxed Thirteenth, but all of them relied heavily on the Pax Common alphabet, which just this week Jessie had managed to grasp. She was also beginning to get a basic understanding of words like “hello” and “how are you doing?” This, ­coupled with her desperate need to catch up on what appeared to be over seven thousand years of Covenant history and culture, had managed to keep Jessie fully occupied.

  She had about seven to eight months to learn as much of the languages, cultures and new histories as she could. Then it would be on Jessie to teach her daughter how to fend for herself. Because she had been down the road of machine dependence and had already lost too much because of it.

  Jessie was thankful that today she could make her way down the halls of the Jinxed Thirteenth on her crutches. After each session of therapy Jessie could feel her legs and body getting a little stronger. The pain in her muscles was welcome against the cold.

  “You will only need a cane soon.” Marla Varsin’s tone was proud and friendly as the two of them stepped into the cantina. There were three tables bolted to the floor and a tiny kitchen space in the corner of the room. There they found Chord, patiently waiting for them. The Machina was silently staring out one of the portholes, observing the blue and green gas giant of Moria, which they were now currently orbiting. Jessie made her way over to Chord and sat herself down, keeping a respectable distance from it.

  Chord’s frame was humanoid in shape: two arms, two legs and a head. Its face was composed of a polymorphic metal, which was fashioned into the semblance of a face, two blank eyes, a nose and lips. When Chord saw them enter the cantina, its “lips” moved up into what appeared to be a smile. Although whether the construct before Jessie actually felt the emotion or was just imitating a smile to comfort her, was unclear.

  “Jessie Madison, you look like you could use rest. This unit recommends that we postpone the day’s lesson.”

  Jessie refused to accept rest. Yes her mind was overloaded with data, and she was tired, exhausted, really, but she needed to learn. “I’ve slept enough, Chord.”

  Chord placed something that looked like a palm-­sized flashlight with various buttons onto the table in front of her. “This unit wishes to give you a gift, Jessie Madison. It believes that this will help you in your continuing education.”

  Jessie gave the black cylinder a curious look. “What is it?” She picked it up and examined her present more closely.

  “It is a codexicon.” Chord pointed to a button at the bottom of the codexicon. A light flickered on and the projection of what appeared to be some sort of computer screen appeared in front of her. “It contains all the data stored inside this unit’s memory matrix.”

  Jessie was happy to realize that she could recognize letters and navigational commands on the projected screen. In her hands was a veritable encyclopedia. This was indeed one of the best gifts anyone could have given her. She did not say anything. Had Chord been a human being, she no doubt would have been thankful.

  “That is very kind of you, Machina Chord,” Marla Varsin said, breaking the uneasy silence and attempting to mask Jessie’s apparent faux pas.

  “There is no need to say anything. This unit understands that part of Jessie Madison’s learning process will require her to do so without assistance.”

  Marla Varsin left the two of them alone in the cantina. Chord started projecting various holographic letters from its left hand. The right hand, Jessie had noted, was missing three of its fingers. The rest of Chord’s body was smooth and polished an almost pearly white except for a large brown metallic plate that had been welded onto the chest.

  According to Doctor Varsin, Chord had suffered these “injuries” while assisting with Jessie’s rescue. Three other members of the Jinxed Thirteenth had been injured as well. Two of them were in carbon sleep. The third one was a Wolver by the name of Phaël, whom Jessie had barely seen since her awakening. She had spent most of her time sneering at Jessie and giving her hateful looks and kept well away from her, as if Jessie were somehow infected with some sort of disease.

  When Jessie had asked Marla Varsin about this, she had explained that many of the Wolvers reviled the works of Ancient Humanity, claiming that it was their hubris that had brought about the Lost War. It was a war in which Humanity had battled Machines and lost. What had followed for the descendants of Humanity was thousands of years under the cruel rule of the false machine god known as the Pontifex.

  “Repeat the letters as they are called out to you,” Chord politely instructed, in its electronic monotone.

  “Yes.” Jessie repeated the letters back to Chord. The latter corrected her whenever she was wrong and congratulated her whenever she was right. All of this was on cue, as if Chord were following a preprogrammed lesson plan.

  An hour into the lesson, Chord was now naming the myriad galactic nations that made up the Covenant while highlighting them on the holographic projection of a stellar chart. Jessie could feel her mind slowly start to wander. All of this was very overwhelming for her and she was shocked to see how far the borders of Covenant Space stretched.

  OMEX had told her, back on Moria Three, that all of Humanity had been eradicated, that machines had risen up against their former masters and won. However, here she was in the depths of
space amidst her descendants. Where Humanity had once been a single species, there were now five: Wolver, Kelthan, Thegran, Darlkhin and Kohbran. Six if one chose to include the offspring of machine Intelligences: the Machina.

  Jessie wasn’t too certain what her thoughts and feelings on that particular topic were. One thing was clear to her: she did not like Chord, not one bit, and it angered her that this artifice was her only reliable source of information.

  This was also what was fuelling her desperate need to break the language barrier she was presently facing. Marla Varsin had assured her that there had been peace between both Machina and Humanis bloodlines for thousands of years. Jessie didn’t care. A machine mind had killed her husband, had tormented her and had done everything in its power to prevent both her and her unborn child from escaping Moria Three.

  The thought of being in such enclosed space with this mechanical creature so soon after her ordeal sent shivers up her spine. Jessie, for all of her minimal efforts, still couldn’t shake the feeling of mistrust she had every time she interacted with Chord.

  “Jessie Madison is distracted?” Chord’s question broke her train of thought. How long had she not been paying attention?

  Jessie winced; perhaps it was time to just lie down and rest. She closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose. Chord rested its hand on her shoulder in an act of comfort.

  “Don’t you touch me!” Jessie pushed the hand away. Chord did not resist her. She glared into Chord’s blank eyes. The lips on its face were straight. Had she somehow offended it?

  “You are mistrustful of Chord because of past trauma. This unit understands that the experience faced at the hands of OMEX must have painted Machina in less than flattering colors.”

  “I don’t need a diagnosis.”

  “If Jessie Madison desires to call an end to the day’s lesson, that is quite acceptable.” This was delivered in Chord’s infuriatingly polite mechanical tone.

  “Yes, I desire that very much.” It was what she said, but it was not what she desired. What Jessie desired was a friendly human face; a person to hold her and tell her that everything would be all right. Chord did not argue with her. Instead Chord got to its feet and left Jessie alone in the cantina.

  “This unit will fetch the doctor for you.”

  “You do that, machine.” Jessie’s last word was an almost venomous hiss. Part of her was vainly hoping that this would somehow hurt Chord’s nonexistent feelings. Chord gave her a brief confused look. Then without adding another word, it turned and stepped out of the cantina.

  CHAPTER 2

  DOMIANT

  The Elvrids of Uldur have often relied on the use of various psychedelic plants to perform their rituals and spiritual practices. The teachings and uses thereof remain to this day one of the most tightly kept secrets in the Infinite. It has not prevented certain more ambitious Sefts from entering the smuggling business. Many of these plants, once crudely processed, can produce very powerful and addictive narcotics. The most recent of such designer drugs from Uldur is commonly known as “Frost.” The control of the smuggling routes and markets in which the drugs are sold is played out in the shadows. As of this report countless are the lives that have been lost in these secret wars and unless those responsible can be brought to face justice, we can expect to see countless more.

  —­Etrica Malaz Nem’Troy, Covenant Auditor,

  13th of SSM–11 1440 A2E

  13th of SSM–10 1445 A2E

  Ever since his exile, Domiant Kuaro Nem’Uldur had found very little that gave him any sense of joy. Now, as he was being treated to the pleas of mercy from the captives before him, Domiant found he felt something closely resembling that emotion. And because of this, he made it a point to savor the moment for what it was.

  “Do what you will to me, just spare my son.”

  The hardest part of the day’s task had been dragging the unconscious bodies of Somner Zin, his son Pleto and his brother Vint into the ship’s airlock. This was to prevent blood from spilling over into the Althena. It would also make the ensuing disposal and cleanup that much easier. Now Domiant Kuaro Nem’Uldur patiently waited for what could only be described as a torturous ritual to play itself out.

  The three captives were all that remained of the Zin Triad, third rate smuggling contractors operating out of the desert world of Zerok. Up until three months ago, they had been under the employ of Domiant’s Seft: Kuaro. The agreement between Somner Zin, the man who was presently pleading for his son, and Ynarra Kuaro Nem’Troy, the Prime Matriarch of his Seft Kuaro, Domiant’s family, had been a simple one. They were to smuggle shipments of Soma Divinorum, or Diviner’s Herb as it was known amongst the Elvrids, from forever green and verdant Uldur to the cursed industrial cloner nation of Lotus.

  From there the merchandise was meant to be processed into Frost and would have yielded a handsome profit for Seft Kuaro. But instead of delivering on their side of the bargain, Somner and Pleto had chosen to take their payment, steal the Seft’s priceless produce and sell it, keeping all the profits for themselves.

  Being Kelthans, Somner had figured there was no way the Living Green–worshiping and not so tech savvy Wolvers of Uldur would be able to retaliate against them. And while it was true that Prime Matriarch Ynarra Kuaro Nem’Troy was lacking in many of the cutting-­edge technologies offered throughout the cosmos, what she did have was an extremely well-­maintained information network and ruthless reputation. Two coded messages on the Elusive Frequency were all it had taken for Ynarra to discover where Somner and his crew had been holed up. It had taken only one more to secure the transport vessel Althena and a crew for Domiant and his sister, Sopherim, to deliver Seft Justice to those traitors.

  “I offer no apologies to you, Somner of the Kelthan Seft Zin.” When he spoke, Domiant Kuaro Nem’Uldur’s tone was incredibly commanding. The inner door to the airlock had been left open to better torment his victims before the door would be sealed and they were dispatched. The three men tightly bound and hanging upside down, their eyes wide with fear and apprehension in the sterile airlock, reminded Domiant of cattle about ready to be slaughtered. Given what was about to transpire, he found it a more than fair assessment of the situation.

  “None of you will be surviving this,” Domiant added with a tone of finality. And with that he made himself comfortable, sitting on one of the many heavy crates in the cargo bay.

  Two women were in the cargo bay with Domiant. One was his older sister, Sopherim Kuaro Nem’Troy. Sopherim’s look and arsenal starkly contrasted with their location. She was taller than Domiant, her chin sharp, her eyes yellow hinting on gold. She wore a loose fitting black blouse with a deep V-­neck. Her hair, dark black, was done in a long braid that went down to the small of her back. Blue, orange and red beads were woven into the braid, and clasped around her wrist was a plain jade bracelet with a spear-­beaked crane carved in it. Looped inside a brown sash at her waist and sheathed in an even plainer brown scabbard was a long curved blade. Its name was “Pax Slayer” and Sopherim had earned her right to wield it after besting three other challengers for it in single combat.

  Notched leather bracers with various knives were strapped over her shoulders. A quiver filled with long arrows hung off her side and a bow was held in her hand. Sopherim’s stance was alert, ready and cold. Whether she looked forward to or was repulsed by the task about to be performed it was not betrayed on her face. Unlike Domiant, whose entire body was covered in a thin layer of black hair except for his face, Sopherim’s was a mixture of browns and blacks.

  Hooded and covered in a long black cloak that went down to her feet, their other companion stood well away from both Domiant and Sopherim. Her entire body was covered, but what little parts were exposed had been more than enough to unnerve the three prisoners—­and Domiant himself. The skin of her hands was khaki green and possessed a scale-­like quality to it.

  Howeve
r it was her eyes, the only part of her face visible from beneath her hood, which Domiant found most troubling. They were large, a mixture of aquamarine blue and emerald green. The pupils were not round like most Humanis; rather they were serrated, with small black dots that reminded Domiant of a gecko. Her name was Zanza Ai Karai, a Kohbran mind lector, and, despite her troubling presence, a most valuable piece of talent to have working for him. It was still a mystery to Domiant what strings his mother had pulled in order to secure the likes of Zanza for this mission.

  Like most Kohbran, she reminded Domiant more of a reptile than Humanis. While Zanza had her uses, neither he nor Sopherim had ever allowed her too near to them. Given enough time and contact with a subject, a mind lector could glean even the deepest of secrets from anyone. It was why the Kohbran were often mistrusted throughout the cosmos and completely shunned in the reviled Pax Humanis.

  “I would like to get this done sooner rather than later, little brother.” When Sopherim spoke her tone was dispassionate, much like her demeanor. Domiant had spent his early years in life studying the languages spoken in Covenant Space and was fluent in both Pax Common (or PaxCom) and Confederated Kelthan; his older sister could only speak in their native Wolven. Sopherim’s trade-­off for her lack of linguistic and academic expertise was a fluency in Wolver martial arts and weapons. Fortunately for them everyone else serving on the Althena spoke only PaxCom, something their mother had no doubt set up on purpose.

  “Right you are, Sopherim.”

  Sopherim nodded, and in one perfectly practiced motion, she notched an arrow in her bow and drew back the string. As a Blade Dancer, she had killed countless beasts for slaughter and had a near surgical knowledge of the body. “Which one do I send to the Great Huntress?” Sopherim might as well have been asking about the weather for all the emotion she displayed.

  “Mister Vint.” Domiant flashed Sopherim a wolfish grin; it was not returned. Upon hearing his name, Vint’s eyes went wide. Sopherim notched her arrow and he started to struggle and squirm against his bindings. There was no hope of escape, though. Sopherim had expertly tied the knots herself.