Black Legion: 04 - Last Stand

by Michael G. Thomas

  Tissaphernes listened but said nothing in reply. The accent was again incredibly thick on the creature’s throat, yet his command of the language was greater and more precise than he’d anticipated.

  “The murder holes were my idea. Something we had on our own worlds before the cleansing.”

  That last word came across as bitterly as he might have expected. The Taochi were a proud race and one that had been difficult for the Empire to defeat. It had taken generations to complete and cost millions of lives, but in the end, the Medes had succeeded and punished the remaining Taochi by destroying their worlds and scattering them through the Empire. They were now a people with no home, but their traditions and strengths remained.

  “It is strange that Artaxerxes chose to elevate so many Taochi to his guard.”

  Arteshban Rostam laughed at this; something that annoyed the Satrap even more.

  “I do not see how.”

  The creature did not even use his correct title. If he had been a Medes or automaton, then Tissaphernes would have seen to having the creature’s head removed for his insolence. On Babylon Prime, he was just another of the senior leaders of the Empire, and drawing the blood of the commander of the guard would be suicidal for him.

  “Taochi have always been honourable. We fought, and we lost. We have never revolted and serve our new master well.”

  Tissaphernes looked at him, wondering if any of what the creature said was true. He knew they were indeed strong, brave, and foolhardy. But he also knew they were a proud race of warriors, and he had no doubt that with the right support they would instantly turn on their masters without a moment’s hesitation.

  Surely our great Emperor knows this as well? So why employ them?

  They continued along the open areas filled with gardens, water features, and pleasant paths until passing through another set of guarded gates. As before, they were protected by a large number of warriors but this time only thirty, and they were all Medes, with a Median noble commanding them. They were dressed in the same uniforms as the Taochi and all carried the long rifles common to the Imperial soldiers. The commander waved them through, without even sparing a glance in the direction of the Satrap.

  “Who else is here, and why were you sent to bring me?”

  The Taochi warrior chuckled to himself, and they moved on to enter the Royal Court of the Imperial Palace. The open space led to a massive set of steps that moved up to the second floor of the ancient Royal Keep, the heart of the place. It flicked an odd gold and crimson colour in the light of the sun.

  He knew the Emperor would be waiting inside the structure, but that wasn’t what had caught his attention. He stopped and found himself staring at the spectacle standing before him, much to his own annoyance. Arrayed along the great line of steps waited a formation of a thousand median nobles, all female, and every one of them stripped completely naked with nothing but the headgear of their homeworlds to distinguish them.

  “The display of respect and allegiance,” said Arteshban Rostam.

  The small group moved though the throng of Medes, and Tissaphernes found himself unable to keep his eyes from the great display of flesh that lay around him. He could see females of every age, shape, and colour and would have enjoyed nothing more than to spend the entire day in the open space and admiring their diversity. A shape on the steps drew his attention away from the naked flesh and sent a shiver down his spine.

  “Mitra,” he hissed under his breath.

  The Median warrior was bigger than Tissaphernes and would have rivalled even one of the mighty Terran warriors in stature. The figure was oiled and muscular like a wrestler. He was stripped to the waist and wore a plainly decorated cloth around his body. It was pale and lacking colour. His head was covered in a dull metal helm that looked a thousand years old. He stood to attention with his feet wide apart, and in his right hand a long glaive that stood four metres in height. The blade took up almost a metre of its length, and it glistened silver.

  “The Emperor’s Justice,” Arteshban Rostam said.

  The name was the colloquial term for the warrior responsible for both the personal bodyguard and executioner for Artaxerxes. The secondary role he had performed more than a hundred times, and it was rumoured he had never needed a second strike.

  Interesting. Why is he here when he was not present at Cunaxa?

  They pushed on to the steps and covered the ground quickly. Mitra moved nothing but his eyes, as they passed him and entered the large entrance to the main floor of the Royal Keep. No sooner were they inside, and the great doors creaked shut behind them. For a second, the Satrap sensed danger and reached for his belt, but he was unarmed.

  “My Lord, in here, I will be your protector.”

  Even through the thick accent, the Satrap could detect the sarcasm. The warrior pointed inside the structure. It was a large rectangular building with a single long table running down each side near the walls; enough space for a hundred guests on each side. At the far end were three steps and another table that face back into the hall. Behind this was the throne of the Emperor, raised a metre from he ground so that all might see the greatness. The seat was empty, at least for now.

  So, I am summoned and find everybody else is already here, apart from him.

  The tables were filled with scores of people, and as he moved along its length, he quickly recognised them. Most were high-ranking dignitaries of the smaller territories of just a few worlds. There were regional clothing differences that marked them out to the trained eye. It was the few so-called heroes of the battle at Cunaxa that appeared to be receiving the greatest attention. Halfway along the hall he stopped and looked at a dozen Terrans and Medes who were busy sharing war stories and drink. In the centre of the group was the Zacynthian warrior Mithridates.

  That self-congratulatory thug, his achievement was nothing.

  There were some who said it was the mercenary that delivered the blow that killed the rebel Cyrus. The story went that as the rebel moved to attack the Emperor, this lowly Terran leapt out and stabbed Cyrus with a bayoneted rifle, but that wasn’t the way Tissaphernes recalled the story. As he remembered, the Emperor had thrown a device at the enemy and mortally wounded Cyrus. The foot soldiers had merely finished off what he had done himself. The Terran spotted him and called out something, but Tissaphernes chose to ignore him and instead proceeded further along the hall. He finally reached the last section and relaxed a little upon finding their positions rose in importance to match his own.

  “Your brothers,” said Arteshban Rostam.

  He pointed to where a single seat remained from the seventeen on this side of the hall. There were eight seats on the one side and the other nine facing them. A mixture of male and female Medes from across the Empire were there, exchanging niceties and dining from a line of identical golden goblets. He approached his seat and sat down only to find a Mulac directly opposite him. They were an odd group of pirates, mutants, and raiders that had settled in some of the border regions of the Empire. This one was sitting with the Median Satraps, however, and that unnerved him, as these creatures were no Medes.

  “You must be Tissaphernes,” said the Mulac gruffly.

  “Must I?”

  The Mulac snorted with amusement, but a low ding sound from behind him stopped him from speaking further. The hall hushed, and every head turned to face the throne. In walked Mitra who then stepped to the side and waited as patiently as he had done so on the steps. In chorus every single guest rose to their feet and lowered their heads. The golden form of the Emperor in his long flowing silks approached his seat and lowered himself. He wore the finest gold with strips of black and amethyst sewn into the material. Once he was comfortable, he indicated for them to return to their seats.

  “Satraps, warriors, and governors of the Empire.”

  The voice of the Emperor was clear and perfectly enunciated. No amplification circuits were required, as the acoustics of the room were perfectly attuned to spread his word to eve
r corner.

  “I have brought you together to deal with a problem of great proportions.”

  Tissaphernes watched his Great King speak and began to feel a mixture of irritation and anger build inside him. The mention of a problem was a concern to him, especially as he had heard nothing of the other Satraps being summoned to deal with the problem. As he understood it, the fight against the rebels led by Cyrus was to be dealt with by him, and now he anticipated the announcement of an attempt to defeat the Black Legion.

  “We have a threat assembling on our border, one that threatens a hundred worlds, and I require all of my noble Satraps to assist in defeating it.”

  Tissaphernes was very surprised to hear this.

  What? The Terrans are hardly going to threaten a hundred worlds.

  “The Satrapy of Mudrya has been turned against the Empire by the outlaw Amyrtaeus of Sais.”

  This news shocked many in the hall, but Tissaphernes was only surprised it was not the Terrans that concerned the Great King. He had seen the reports on Amyrtaeus of Sais for the last few years. The outlaw had fought a successful guerrilla war against Medes rule in Mudrya for years.

  “The leaders of my Kibris-Finiqyah Armada have failed in their duties and have been captured by Amyrtaeus.”

  He looked out to his stunned audience as they waited to hear his orders.

  “Each of you will provide a division of ships and a siege army within one month to join my Royal forces under the command of Arteshban Rostam.”

  The noise coming from the hall was a mixture of shock and horror. The Arteshban had almost been accepted by most as the commander of the forces on Babylon Prime. The idea of the feral monster being placed in charge of a mighty invasion force was something very different. The creature moved from a position to the side of the grand podium and knelt down alongside Artaxerxes.

  “God King, I will bring Mudrya back to your control, and Amyrtaeus’ head will be placed on a pike as a warning to all traitors.”

  The Emperor nodded happily at this, but his expression remained impassive. He indicated for the warrior to stand and then continued.

  “The Satrapy of Mudrya will suffer the Great Pain upon completion of this war.”

  That drew an even stronger reaction. Even Tissaphernes was surprised to hear of the old punishment being used. The Great Pain was a measure used rarely by leaders in the past, whereby cities were selected at random and razed to the ground, with its inhabitants forced to burning along with the city itself. It was a cruel, barbaric punishment and only ever used against worlds that revolted.

  “The traitor has already taken control of the regions of Kibris and Finiqyah and added the territories to expand his domain to threaten the Core Worlds. You will do everything in your power to assist in this campaign and to ensure nothing like this ever happens in your own territories.”

  He then concentrated his look towards Tissaphernes with a glare that seemed to burn through his skull. It was one of the few times he had truly felt nervous.

  “Lord Tissaphernes.”

  He lifted himself to his feet and bowed.

  “God King Artaxerxes.”

  The Emperor smiled at this and then continued.

  “What news of the Terran fools that dared move on Cunaxa? Must I intervene again to remove them from my domains?”

  Tissaphernes could feel his face starting to flush.

  “No, my King. I have made use of Ariaeus and Phalinus, as you requested.”

  The God King nodded and indicated for him to return to his seat.

  “Good. I have little interest in what happens to them, provided they leave my Empire. Chase them, or destroy them, just move them from the Core Worlds.”

  He lifted his hands to encompass all of the Satraps and military commanders.

  “If these, or any other rebels enter your territories, you will offer them nothing but scorched earth, blood, and pain. Do you understand?”

  A great chorus of agreement echoed out of the hall, and only Tissaphernes watched on in silence. He moved his mouth to mimic the others, but his mind was on the Terrans, and as he reminded himself of the Emperor’s words, he could see that the great campaign he imagined had been transformed. Following Cunaxa, he expected the pursuit of the Terrans would give him the greatest honours. Now it seemed the Emperor’s only concern was his Core Worlds. Once they were safe, it was for any of the Satraps to deal with, and that galled him more than anything else.

  So, he thinks this Amyrtaeus of Sais is the real threat? I’ll drag the ruins of the Titans to Babylon Prime and show him my value.

  * * *

  Planet Larissa, Core Worlds

  The dromon dropped down into the thick atmosphere with a series of rough vibrations, shaking the craft from front to back. The exterior flashed and burned, but the armour and light shielding did its job to protect the vessel, and in just a few minutes, they were through and heading for the surface. A final vibration marked its descent as the spoilers and airbrakes deployed on their lowest setting. The airspeed dropped substantially, and then the journey changed as quickly as the vibrations had started. The internal screens showed a wide panoramic view of the planet below for the passengers to examine.

  “Seven minutes,” said the pilot half-heartedly.

  Larissa was one of the richest agricultural worlds the Terrans had ever seen, even when compared to the richest rural worlds back in the Terran territories. It was the only habitable planet in the current star system, yet produced enough food for half of all the key worlds around Babylon Prime for which it was responsible. A dozen stations circled the planet to assist in loading and offloading supplies, people, and equipment. Half of the Terran fleet remained in orbit while the rest waited in a holding pattern further out in space, all waiting and ready for signs of the Medes and their warships that were expected to arrive at any moment.

  The Terrans had already made a dozen jumps prior to arriving just three hours after a massive Median convoy had jumped out, leaving the world completely free of Imperial security forces, apart from a single antiquated Median heavy cruiser. The ship had survived less than ninety seconds when the Legion ships attacked it. The black shape of the wreckage entering the atmosphere was now visible from the dromon as it continued downwards.

  Only the regional security units, local police, and an armed citizenry remained to protect against pirates and marauders. These had all wisely stayed out of the way as the Terran ships moved into position. Though just as significant as many of the populated worlds in the Empire, it couldn’t have been more different that the rest. The surface was devoid of great cities, and most transportation was conducted using solar powered aircraft and large ground trains that used magnetic-levitation tracks that criss-crossed the fertile world.

  “This place looks boring as hell,” grumbled Glaucon.

  Xenophon chuckled at his friend. The two had visited scores of worlds, and even he had to admit this place was one of the least interesting he’d ever seen. Even so, after spending so much time in space or fighting on planets like Cunaxa, it would be nice to set foot on somewhere more peaceful. His own family had large rural holdings on Attica where there was still a great deal of arable land, even quite close to the capital.

  “It will get a whole lot more interesting if that ship comes down anywhere near here,” replied Xenophon.

  “It won’t make much of a difference,” added Roxana, “Almost the entire surface of this world is water or farmland.”

  She’d been silent for the duration of their descent from the fleet. Of them all, she was the oldest though only by a few years. She was tall, even bigger than Xenophon, and her thick auburn hair and grey eyes had caught the attention of many of the other Terrans, both male and female. Even so, she’d been nothing but the most committed of the Legion, and her knowledge and skills were second to none amongst them.

  “True. Just don’t forget what our luck has been like recently.”

  Tamara groaned and attention quickly shifted
to the young woman who was barely older than a girl. She rubbed her aching leg and grimaced. There was no obvious sign of injury as her uniform and armour covered it up.

  “I thought you’d healed up?” asked Glaucon.

  Tamara said nothing and just shifted her shoulder before returning to her leg.

  “What’s the news from Artemas?” Roxana asked.

  Xenophon felt a pang of concern at the mention of her name. Sending her ahead with an unarmed entourage had worried him greatly. The only concession had been to allow a party of unarmed Laconians to go with her. He had no doubt they were all deadly warriors, but even an automaton could kill a Laconian if timed correctly and with good weaponry. The entire situation unnerved him.

  “She says the local trade council is ready to see us. That’s all she said.”

  Roxana pointed to the window.

  “Is that it?”

  Xenophon craned his neck to look down at the Trading Post. It was not much bigger than a large town, but the number of landing platforms was greater than the number of buildings. He counted eight separate sets of tracks leaving the place in every direction.

  “Yes, that looks like the Trading Post.”

  He glanced down to his belt and checked his weapons. On one side sat a slimline pulse pistol. It was a modest affair and fitted with a small capacity magazine to reduce the overall size. If they hit trouble, it wouldn’t last much longer than thirty shots, but that was more than enough for what they needed; he hoped so anyway.

  On the other side was a pouch containing a traditional Terran kopis, a front heavy chopping blade favoured by close combat veterans, as well as all Terran spatharii. The Medes were ever fearful of the Terrans and their reputation for carrying a wide assortment of close ranged weaponry. He forced himself to not smile as he looked at the handle of the weapon. It was not something he normally carried, but a simple trade with one of the Arcadians three days before for some power cells had found him its new owner. He reached down and pulled it from its sheath. The weapon’s grip was a pale brown, hard yet comfortable to hold. It was some form of antler, but he had no idea from what animal.