As he approached Xin’s quarters, he barely noticed the absence of her Marine guard outside, or that her hatch was already open.
But those facts screamed their significance when he found her quarters to be empty. An itching fear insisted that this cabin wasn’t merely empty, it had been abandoned.
He placed a hand on her bed. It was standard issue, cramped, and not particularly comfortable, but it held powerful memories – not just of passion, but of contentment, of belonging, and of dreaming a shared future. The covers were neatly made up and secured so they didn’t float away; the bed was cold to the touch. Xin was not coming back.
What the hell was going on?
He shouted for his guard commander. “Cortez!”
His Marines had enhanced hearing, enough to hear him from afar, but there was no reply.
“Cortez, respond!”
When he was met again by silence, cold fear gripped him in a tight embrace. He wanted to reach for his gun, for Barney, to cry for help… but the fear froze his muscles.
Had the Hardits come again, slipping through Legion sensors despite all the upgrades they had implemented since the last time?
The last time…
Groaning, his mind flashed with visions of Tawfiq torturing his Xin.
Get a grip of yourself, Marine!
The horror of what they would do to Xin and his daughter unfroze Arun. He reached for Barney, deftly reinserting his AI into the slot behind his ear.
She’s gone, Arun.
I can tell that.
No, really gone. Arun, the Legion is breaking up. Standby… patching you into the comm network.
“Arun?” It was Indiya. “Are you fit to make command decisions?”
Was he? If Xin was in any danger, then damn right he was. “Yes. Go ahead, Admiral.”
“Good. I have approximately sixty ships refusing to obey orders. I suspect more will join them. Many more, maybe as much as a third of the fleet will split away if we let them. I have firing solutions. We can win this fight, but the tactical advantage is evaporating by the second. Do I fire upon the mutineers?”
“Have they declared their intentions?”
“Damn right they have. They’re broadcasting throughout the fleet, inviting all who will not accept the Cull to join them.”
“I don’t understand. Where can they go?”
“Mader zagh, Arun! It’s a chodding mutiny for frakk’s sake, we don’t have time for speculation. Do we enforce discipline, or do we do nothing and watch the Human Legion disintegrate before our eyes?”
A new voice interrupted, sourced by Barney as coming from Vengeance of Saesh. “We’re going to carve out a new freedom for ourselves. A true freedom, without the Cull.”
In spite of the circumstances, Arun’s heart lifted to be hearing Xin’s voice. “But Xin… you will be hunted down and killed.”
“By you?”
“No. Never. But you will die all the same. If not you, then your descendants. Our descendants.”
“Shut up, Arun. I’ve heard all before about the Trans-Species Union coming after us, but we are taking another road where they won’t follow. The option you never considered. One that can only work if the Legion splits. We’re going to leave the Trans-Species Union altogether and win ourselves a new territory, carved out of the Muryani Accord – out beyond the frontier. Hey, maybe we’ll bump into the Amilx. I’ve a suspicion they are in my future, but not yours, Arun. You will be dust years before we reach our destination.”
“But… Our daughter…”
Xin groaned, and Arun realized her words were cutting both ways. “I will tell her your name, Arun McEwan. I will speak well of you, and I will tell the truth – that her father died long before she was born.”
All this… he could have prevented all of this with a single word, even a hint that a freakish intervention by a mother ginquin to give succor to helpless human babies would have even further-reaching implications than anyone realized. But when the moment came to place his trust in Xin, he had failed her. And now it was too late.
Or was it?
“Indiya, where is Ambassador Sandure?”
Indiya hesitated, but her mind was sharp. She would figure it out. “He’s still loyal. On board Holy Retribution with me, and despite Kreippil’s jaw-snapping frustration, my senior subordinate remains loyal too. My flagship isn’t going anywhere without my say-so.”
Xin laughed. “I’ve known a lot of people with their head stuck up their ass, Arun.” Xin sounded almost cheerful. Dammit, she was reminiscing. Already! “You weren’t like them, Twinkle Eyes. Your head was always stuck in your dreams. I always loved that about you. I have no idea what the Bonaventure signifies, nor what it means for you to have seen an alternate version of Sandure, but don’t use those enigmas to kid yourself that I’m ever coming back. I hope your mystery ship gives you such intoxicating dreams that you can lose yourself within them. Goodbye, Arun.”
She severed her connection to him.
“Troop transports are lifting off from Athena’s surface,” said Indiya. “Whole divisions are declaring for Xin. Make your call, General McEwan. Do we fire on the mutineers or not?”
With the crystal clarity that came from his brain augmentations, that allowed him to record sensory data for future reference, Arun remembered another crunch meeting with Indiya and Xin 135 years ago in 2566, when the fledgling Legion had fled Tranquility in Beowulf. They had been so ignorant of interstellar politics, of the long laid-plans of the Hummers, but the Reserve Captain had seen deeper than anyone.
He could hear her words with piercing clarity, from all those years before. Xin was to be the leader, she had told them, the inspiration that many would follow. Decades had passed since then in which Xin had inspired the Legion’s armies, but it wasn’t until today that the old Jotun’s words had born their bitterest fruit. As for Indiya, she was to be the great captain, a master strategist and tactician in the art of war.
And his role? The Reserve Captain named him Decision Maker, telling him: “History will admire Xin Lee, study Indiya, and blame you.”
Arun slammed his fist down onto the curved upper surface of his chair. Everything he did… every agonizing decision, every battle fought and the friends who had died in them – was any of that even real? It felt as if he were following a frakking script.
The Reserve Captain had been right. History would blame him. His name would be reviled, just as he had cursed President Horden’s name when growing up, and billions of people across the galaxy still did. Horden had sold the human race into subservience and slavery by signing the Vancouver Accords. Centuries later, history would judge that Arun McEwan had repeated that betrayal in the Treaty of Athena.
The accusation against him wasn’t fair, wasn’t even true, but since when had history ever cared for the truth? To be blamed by humanity was his inescapable fate.
And he would embrace that fate, because doing so would help to conceal his great secret. If becoming the most hated man in history was the price to protect innocent people, then that was a price he was prepared to pay.
He shook a tear free from his eye. All he wanted was to be with Xin. Just a few years of happiness. Was that too much to ask?
“Arun!” shouted Indiya.
He took a deep breath, but his lungs didn’t seem to be working because he couldn’t get enough air. He gulped down another breath, and another, before he could finally speak. “Let them go.”
“Say again.”
“We’ve already lost them,” he snapped. “Let them at least depart in peace.”
Arun felt the familiar sense of cogs whirring in his mind, his organic planning computer spooling up to recalibrate itself in a cold, new universe from which Xin was absent, one in which they still had to retake the Earth and the other Terran Worlds in the name of the Emperor. Arun could smell the hot metal and knew that with such a huge change to its assumptions, when his planner computer seized control of his mind he would be nothing more tha
n an organic support environment while it operated at full capacity. That could take days.
“Indiya, are you still there?”
“Here, General.”
“Secure our assets.”
“Already in hand. There’s a thousand games of chicken going on right now as each side dares the other to fight as we divide up our assets. But we got there first, mostly, and Xin’s faction are as reluctant to fight as you.”
“Good. Indiya, I can smell the hot oil in my head, and don’t know how long I’ve got before I lose consciousness. I’ll need you to unstick my brain, but deal with the separation first.”
“Roger that. Good luck, General. Indiya out.”
Arun could feel his eyes rolling back into his head, as if they were connected by chains to the imaginary brass drive wheels turning in his head. Arun fought back, and with a cry of rage, hauled himself back into the here and now.
“Not yet!” he yelled at the empty passageway.
There was one thing he had to do first.
With Arun’s eyes still open, Barney replaced the input to his optic nerve with the feed from a security camera in one of the nearby troopships, one that thankfully had remained loyal to the Legion, even though it carried part of Xin’s Army Group Sky Strike. The camera was hovering through an infirmary used by the 7th Armored Claw. A Wolf soldier was undergoing a medical checkup, her bare torso covered in crazy whorls of violet and black, and with concentric circles around her eyes that made her look surprised, or perhaps farseeing. The checkup was routine for someone newly transferred to that unit, and the medic – a Wolf herself – was performing a thorough check. Nonetheless, her attention was clearly distracted by the dramatic events going on outside the ship, and not on this unremarkable soldier sitting on the infirmary bed. It was becoming the fashion for Wolves to go around as naked as their officers would permit. Going sky clad, they called it. Actually, it was more than fashion, Arun corrected himself; it was a symbol of belonging, the distinction that bound them together. The alien skin parasite that a mother ginquin had transmitted to Romulus and Remus, and was now not merely embedding itself into their epidermis, but was restructuring them at a cellular level, a development which had fascinated the Khallenes. And with their DNA constantly changing, the Wolves played havoc with the usual bio security systems the Legion relied upon to identify individuals.
It was just as well the medic was distracted, because she didn’t notice one thing that made this particular Wolf unusual. Scars and prosthetics were openly displayed by Wolves as badges of honor, but this particular Wolf wore long and rugged pants that concealed her legs down to her feet. Arun didn’t need her to fully remove her clothing to know that this Wolf had long ago lost her left leg from just above the knee.
Arun kept the Wolf in sight until he could resist no longer, and he was finally captured by the great machinery in his head as it sought to answer the critical question.
What next?
— EPILOGUE —
“Banished, you say.” The Emperor’s face maintained its serene beauty. “A third of your armed forces has vacated this system because you have banished those individuals whom you felt displayed inadequate affection for my Imperial Person? Not executed. Not put to death. Banished. You do realize, General, that these disloyal elements took a significant portion of your military hardware as they fled to their… banishment?”
“That is correct, Your Elevance.”
When the Emperor summoned Arun back to the Citadel, seeking an explanation for why so many Legion ships had left Athena’s orbit, the White Knight probably intended to intimidate him. If so, it wasn’t working. Arun’s youth had been spent catching it in the ear from his superiors. This was a vacation in comparison with managing the fallout of Xin’s split.
“It is as good a story as any available to us,” said the Emperor. His Elevance’s attitude had cooled considerably since the ‘tour’. Arun had little doubt which of the two aspects was the more honest. “Henceforth I shall officially refer to the faction led by your former mate as criminals banished according to your local laws,” the Emperor continued. “Truth has no relevance in interstellar politics, McEwan. Perception is all, something you have demonstrated an understanding of over many years. With the newly elevated status of your Legion rabble, the eyes of the galaxy watch you more closely than ever. Others will strive constantly to paint their own truth over your actions. I tell you this now because it is clear to me that there is one power in particular who watches you like a cunning predator. They have sent me a message to pass on to you. “Following your ‘banishment’ so closely, this is not a coincidence; the timing is a message in itself.”
Arun said nothing, standing attentively, if not quite at attention, in the Imperial audience chamber.
“The transmission is by direct FTL-link from your homeworld,” the Emperor explained. “My technicians have verified the source.”
He waved a hand theatrically, causing a virtual screen to appear before Arun’s face; on it were displayed stylized words. The spelling and script were strange to Arun, but intelligible nonetheless. The words were written in what Arun had been brought up to call the Human language, but he now understood was one of many human languages. One called English.
Strength through victory! Victory through strength!
Those words… Arun had heard them before.
Before he could remember their source, the image changed, showing an ornate desk behind which sat a human female who looked sturdier than a space rat, but lacked the bulk and robustness of a human Marine. She smiled at the camera as if inviting the viewer to study her. Arun was intrigued by the immaculate state of her hair and make-up, and the way her earrings glittered under the diffuse artificial light lent glamour to a pretty face devoid of scars. If the Emperor spoke the truth, this was the first human civilian Arun had ever seen.
Rousing music began to play in the background, underpinned by drums that beat out a marching rhythm. It was an overture, a deliberate ploy to monopolize an audience’s attention that swiftly climaxed in a fanfare of trumpets.
The woman cleared her throat and began. “We interrupt our scheduled transmission to bring to you an announcement that comes directly from the Office of the Great Leader. The end of martial law is in sight. The Great Leader has selected a human Governor of Earth, who will lead the transition to civilian administration. Although our Governor Elect is still many years away from Earth, we can nonetheless go to him live. Standby…”
The screen cut to homelier surroundings: a compartment of a starship. Floating in the zero-g, and dutifully looking into the camera with no enthusiasm whatsoever, was a man Arun had held in his arms as a baby, a man whose features were obscured behind the vibrant patterns of an alien skin parasite.
“I am Governor Elect Romulus. Await my coming with diligence and obedience. As individuals, your lives have little value, but under my rule I shall offer you efficiency and purpose to harness your pitiful lives. Together we shall transform the Earth and the liberated Terran Worlds until we are of some small worth to the New Order. One scent! One people! For the glory of the Hardit Empire. That is all.”
The Emperor flicked a hand and the video stopped.
“General McEwan, this upstart calling himself Romulus is an affront to my honor and the reputation of the Empire. There can be no banishment for this individual. You must destroy him and then–”
“Wait!” Arun cried, little caring that he had interrupted the ruler of the White Knight Empire. He didn’t attempt to hide his anger. “You already knew the Earth had fallen to the Hardits. That’s why you offered to add the Terran Worlds to the Human Autonomous Region!”
“I have no need to justify my decisions to you, human. What matters is that you gave your bio signature to our agreement. The Earth is part of your region of autonomy, which means that you are responsible for its economy, military readiness, and its continued loyalty to me. If you wish to retain the pitiful freedoms you have earned in this trea
ty, then you must fight for the Earth and win. And you must do so in my name.”
— PRECEDING EVENTS —
This, the fifth volume in The Annals of the Human Legion is self-contained, but readers may benefit from a reminder of the preceding events.
In the year, 2565AD, Arun McEwan is a 17-year-old freshman cadet raised on Tranquility, a depot planet of the Human Marine Corps, the military organization set up from a portion of the million human children given to the White Knights five centuries earlier in the Vancouver Accords. In this period, human military personnel are kept ignorant, separated, and specialized, a policy enthusiastically followed by the Jotuns, at least officially. These six-limbed aliens act as the Marine Corps officers, but are slaves of the White Knights just as much as the humans.
Conspiracies abound in Tranquility’s two depots: Detroit and Beta City. The potential of two cadets, Arun McEwan and Xin Lee, to become pivotal historical figures has been foreseen by the Night Hummers (an allied race who can see into the future). One shadowy faction of Hummers and their allies pin their hopes on these adolescent humans as a means to win freedom from the White Knights. With extreme caution, they nurture and protect the valuable humans, extending their conspiracy to include the nest of social insectoids called Trogs, who live underneath Detroit. Arun McEwan befriends a Trog conspirator whom McEwan names Pedro.
While demoted to the lowest human status — that of the Aux — McEwan uncovers an operation to smuggle military supplies out of Detroit to arm an uprising by a race of miners and technologists: the Hardits. Chief Aux torturer is Tawfiq Woomer-Calix, but McEwan survives her cruel treatment and organizes an act of defiance by the human Aux slaves, although his comrade, Hortez, is left behind, presumed dead.
Fearing their wider conspiracy is about to be uncovered, the Hardits launch their uprising early, to the disgust of their human and Jotun co-conspirators. The plan had been for these rebels to act together to seize the entire star system as an opening act in a wider civil war starting up across the White Knight Empire.
War Against the White Knights Page 32
