The Guardians of Sol

by Spencer Kettenring

  The background noise in the apartment went down enough for me to actively realize that Rachel had gotten out of the shower. I hadn’t exactly given her time to clean up before dinner, but at least the dumplings and stir-fry had come off without a hitch. A few minutes later, Rachel sat down next to me in her pajamas with her hair still damp.

  “What are you doing?” She asked.

  “I was just upgrading our city and switching equipment while you were busy. Ready to join me?”

  “Deal me in,” She replied. I hit a few buttons on my control and her set up projected a control system in front of her as well as splitting the display into two distinct views. I think that anyone else would have had to have two consoles or risk having the system crash. My dear Rachel, on the other hand, loves to tinker so much that her system was powerful enough to handle at least two people playing completely separate characters in the same dynamic world. It only took a few seconds for her to log in.

  “So what adventure should we embark on tonight, Handsome?” she asked me.

  “Well, some of the villagers were complaining about a red dragon terrorizing the town and demanding tribute. I figured we could start off with that.”

  “Sweet. Just let me get some fire protection items and we’ll be off. Any idea on how old or how big the dragon is?”

  “Judging by the descriptions, I’d have to say at least a mature one. Possibly an ancient colossal. With the treasure from one of those we should have enough gold to turn our town into a full blown city. Maybe even turn it into a nation state, but that might require some new software patches.”

  “One step at a time. Personally, I want to see what I can make from dragon parts. I doubt any of it would be as awesome as the items I made from that thunder god though.”

  I laughed at that, and she looked at me funny. “You know that funny feeling you get when you realize how insane you would sound to someone who doesn’t know what you’re talking about? I just had some of that. Because obviously the first one anyone is going to think after killing a god is going to be ‘I should make a hilt out of their thighbone.’”

  “Are you calling me crazy?”

  “I’m calling you cute. Now let’s go get that dragon.”

  29

  January 5, 2290. The Forge.

  The Sentinel seemed somewhat displeased at the current state of affairs. The civilian assembly had voted unanimously not to give in to the Centurion’s demands; which was only as he had expected. Any other decision and the Sentinel would have exercised his right to veto it on grounds of security. The Asians had come to a similar conclusion and reaffirmed their alliance with the Confederacy. The Republics and Zulu nations, however, had welcomed the invaders with open arms. That wasn’t terribly surprising given that they had already been receiving technological upgrades from the Centurions. The remains of the European Union were something of a mixed bag. While most of the nation-states had elected to throw their lots in with the Guardians and the Confederacy a few had sent their submission to the extra-solar villains.

  Of course, Michael had been expecting the responses (didn’t mean that he was happy with them), but the thing that truly made him unhappy was the lack of movement among the Guardian fleets. It wasn’t that they weren’t reporting; in fact there had been no reports of any attacks at all. It was that every fleet, from Venus to Jupiter wasn’t mobilizing as fast as they should have been. Problems in the supply lines, troubles with personnel transfers, and other little things that had nothing to do with sabotage was slowing the process.

  “Telamon, what is the status of my specials battalion?” The High Sentinel asked his friend and bodyguard, who pulled up a screen on the holographic display.

  “First company is back at full strength; squad leaders are integrating their new recruits on their own. According to this, though, tenth squad seems to be getting complete armor upgrades including some experimental tech; their original armor is already repaired and combat ready though. Second company has its first three squads with complete armor and full recruitment. Squads four through eight have full recruitment and their armor is, on average, about eighty percent complete. Squad nine has partial recruitment, and the squad ten slot still stands empty.”

  “That’s mostly good news then. Make sure Ruiz knows that finishing Beta company’s equipment has a much higher priority than Ten Alpha’s new armor. Send Barak and my other hounds to each fleet to see what they can do to expedite their readiness. I want each fleet ready to jump to a hot zone as soon as we know about it.”

  “You do remember that I’m your chief bodyguard and not your secretary, right?” Telamon asked in annoyance.

  “I remember, but until I get another aide, you’re my go to guy. Now, send a requisitions officer to my office. I need to discuss fleet logistics and make sure we still have enough materials coming in for the Aegis and Saber-class ships we’re building in Von Braun city. That interception fleet is going to be important in any major battle.”

  “Memo sent. General Bennett or one of his aids will be over shortly. What else do we need to do?”

  The Sentinel moved a few panels around in his display. Finding a few that drew his attention.

  “Tel, what’s the status on my Citadel-class dreadnaughts?” Michael asked as he looked at Castigar readiness levels on the Forge. Telamon growled to himself as he opened the database with the information Michael wanted.

  “We’ve got one gearing up for its shakedown cruise; second one is still at least a month to completion. Third one is ready to begin construction.”

  “Good. What did the first one end up getting named?”

  “File calls it the Gate of Dawn. Odd. I thought that convention demanded the first ship of each class be named after its class.”

  “That’s never been a Guardian principle, Tel. Make sure the Gate has a decent escort during its shakedown. The Citadels are too valuable to risk this early in the game.”

  “Alright, that’s enough, Mike. I’m amending that note to requisitions so that Bennett brings you a couple of aides. I’m going to go do maintenance on my armor, and send a message to my wife. I suggest that you get some sleep after you meet with Bennett; going over our readiness info for the seventh time won’t do anything to speed a single thing up.”

  *****

  Tuning up the armor didn’t take Telamon very long; he hadn’t actually had too much call to use it in the last month so it was still balanced and lubricated perfectly. Far more interesting to the Greek was the letter from his Delilah. She had thrown in some shop talk about the business, and Telamon was surprised to find out that they had secured a contract supplying armor parts for the entire Corps instead of just the Spartan divisions. His youngest daughter was doing well in her lessons, and had apparently attracted the attentions of a neighbor boy. The twins were almost finished with their secondary school and were getting ready to begin their college careers at a university in the Oregon territory. Ajax was doing fine at the Agoge, nothing surprising there. Faye, Eric, and their children were all great. The biggest, and to some degree best, surprise, was the news that Hektor had joined the Tenth specials squad. How had that slipped by him? Telamon would have to visit the boy sometime in the next few days.

  An alert sounded on the old man’s com system. It was marked high priority from Michael. The text ended up being a plea for help dealing with General Bennett and the new aides. Telamon just smiled with no intention of returning to that office for a few hours. Of course, that left him with very little to do this morning. He decided to check in on their wolfish guest residing in the lower levels of the administration block.

  *****

  When the Spartan got off of the lift to the restricted level, a low growl sounded off to the side.

  “Settle down you glorified mutt,” Telamon told the Serult that the Shadowstealers had captured last year. It settled onto its haunches and whined at him. “Fine, come here, Allat.” The beast crept forward so that Telamon could scratch him behind the ears. All
at followed the Spartan all the way to the door of Vadasz’s rooms.

  Telamon could still remember the day when the Sentinel had brought Vadasz to the cage where they had been holding the Serult. The beast hadn’t calmed down no matter where they put it or what they fed it. The only thing that affected it were powerful tranquilizers and the veterinarians that had been brought in cautioned against excessive use of those if they wanted to maintain the Serult’s health.

  The moment Vadasz had entered the room the Serult stood still, its ears flat against its skull. The Farkas had bidden the guards to open the cage door. The Serult didn’t move, but let loose a whining growl as Vadasz stepped closer. The Farkas sent out a short series of barks, yips, and growls and the Serult flipped onto its side like a horse-sized dog. Vadasz scratched its chest and belly to establish a gentle dominance, then waved Michael and Telamon over to join him.

  The beast had not enjoyed that, growling quietly as they approached, but Vadasz growled right back and Allat quieted down. Telamon smiled at the memory. He had been so afraid for both Michael and himself, but Michael had just scratched the beast on the side of the neck and spoken soothing words. The thing could rip through them like tissue paper, but treating it like a dog had led to it acting like a dog. Vadasz had named it Allat, and now it roamed the halls of the level cordoned off for their use.

  Vadasz was housed in a security suite by himself. As he truly was a guest (the Guardians recognized that there was little they could do to actually contain him if he didn’t want to be contained) the doors to the suite and to the level were never locked to him, yet the wolfman seldom left. Instead he spent his time exercising with Allat, studying the files made available to him on the computer network, and conversing with the intelligence officers who occasionally stopped by.

  A knock came at the door, but Vadasz had already recognized the step of the approaching man. “Come in, honored Telamon,” the beast called. “What brings you to my little corner of your station?”

  “Michael was trying to turn me into his assistant instead of his bodyguard, so I decided to take a walk about. I haven’t seen you in awhile, how have you been?”

  “I have been learning much. I believe I have mastered several more of your planet’s languages. What I need, however, is to run. I need to run somewhere cool and open. I need to hunt. The treadmill that was installed is insufficient.”

  “I’m guessing it can’t take your weight or go fast enough for you? I’ll talk to Michael about it. We should be able to get you a shuttle down to the surface in a few days. Even at this time of year the Yellowstone reserve should have plenty of prey for you, and the snow means that it’ll definitely be cold enough. Allat might even be allowed to join you. I’m sure the mutt would enjoy the trip too.”

  Vadasz bared his teeth in an approximation of a human smile. The effect was more unnerving than reassuring, but Telamon returned the smile in the spirit it was given.

  “Tell me more about your homeworld, old hound,” the old man requested.

  “What more could you want to know? I’ve told you of our moon, A Novere, which shares Haza’s atmosphere. Both are habitable, though we had only just developed the flying machines needed to land upon A Novere when your cousins invaded. Haza possesses deserts and oceans, forests and mountains just as Earth and any number of other worlds do. I have told you of my people and some of our customs. What more do you want?”

  “Tell me about your actual life. I know you were – are – a leader,” Telamon grinned. “Who did you lead? Who did you love? What was your territory like?”

  “Hm, so nothing that the others would think important. Fine, my friend. On my world I am an Herceg – a lord or duke, if you will – and I led a few packs on the plains and in the forests of a mountain valley. Prey was plentiful, and my forebears and I made sure that the packs kept it that way. Life was good; we built, and grew, while maintaining a balance with the world. We had tournaments filled with skill and honorable combat. Before the Centurions arrived, my world had not seen a serious war in centuries, and the Pack Lords maintained the peace. My mate was a wonderful warrior in her own right, powerful, beautiful, and graceful. She bore me a litter of strong sons and one daughter. They grew fast and I was proud of them all,” Vadasz remembered wistfully.

  “Then the Centurions decided that my valley had minerals they desired. They captured me, and my pups, burned the rest,” he continued bitterly. “My children they turned into Serult, the mindless, soul-wounded abominations like Allat. I served the bastards as long as I did because they threatened the destruction of even more packs if I did not. Now they believe me dead, and I am free to act against them. Tell me, have they overtly revealed themselves yet?”

  “They broadcast their ultimatum a few weeks after we defeated the Europeans, just like you predicted. That was almost two weeks ago and we still haven’t seen or heard a peep from them yet.”

  “Then you must be even more vigilant. They will strike soon. The next few days are likely critical, though they change their tactics with every system. I am sorry I cannot be of more assistance to you. If I tell you to guard your leaders more carefully, they are just as likely to attack your shipyards. If I tell you to guard your sensitive facilities they may strike at your leaders, or your civilian populations. These men are cruel, cunning, and evil. Know that when the time for action comes, I will be by your side with a sword in hand.”

  “I appreciate that, Vadasz. Has your grandfather’s sword been returned to you yet?”

  “No, and I find the lack of it… disturbing.”

  “I’ll see if I can’t track it down for you,” Telamon checked his com, which was full of increasingly desperate messages from Michael. “I suppose I should go save Mike from a bureaucrat. I’ll try to stop by more often, if you don’t mind.”

  “It is always good to see a friend,” Vadasz gave one of his sly grins. “Even if you are… human.”

  30

  January 12, 2290. The Forge.

  Christoph was not looking forward to the security briefing that his father was making him attend. The old man seemed to be up to his tricks again – trying to get him to become more than the squad captain he loved being. Still, more information never hurt when dealing with a new enemy. Though from what he had heard, the bastards they were looking for were the descendents of colonial Guardians. How much faith could you put into a rumor though? Perhaps Vadasz had decided to volunteer some more information. All these thoughts and more were running through the man’s head when the lights in the admin block began to flicker and fade. After a few moments, the emergency lighting blinked on, filling the hallway with bloody red light.

  The Swordmaster noticed that the hallway was completely empty. Not such a big thing when all of the lights were on, but much more noticeable in the dark. Hand on the pommel of his sword, he continued on to the boardroom where the meeting was supposed to be held. Blackouts like this were very rare, but Christoph figured that it was scheduled maintenance he hadn’t gotten the memo for. Then the emergency lighting flickered off. That shouldn’t happen. Ever. Power for each block had triple, even quadruple redundancies. At least the gravity plating was still online; it ran on a different power system.

  Christoph felt a rumble vibrate through the floor plating. Then another. Timing and frequency suggested explosions. Checking that his sword, gun, and knives were properly stowed, he closed his eyes against the darkness and began the run to his father’s office from memory, never hitting a wall or missing a step in the emergency stairways. As he ran, he donned the battle mask that was a normally hidden part of every uniform and activated the thing’s limited sensor suite.

  *****

  The intermittent explosions were getting closer, and Christoph could tell because the vibrations were beginning to have an actual audible component. His foot caught on something in the middle of the hallway, tripping him. As he fell, he made a mental note to keep a closer eye out for obstructions and obstacles. He rolled on his shoulder and ca
me to a stop on his feet. Christoph took a moment to backtrack and felt around for what he had hit. He touched cold metal. A little more investigation revealed that the obstacle was a suit of power armor; the chest had been ripped open, likely by some sort of blade. He felt a circular shield attached to the arm. Thankfully the helmet seemed to be mostly, if not completely, intact. Christoph found and activated the emergency release on it. He did a quick run-through of the block layout and saw that he was only a few minutes away from his destination.

  “I’m sorry, brother, but I need this far more than you now,” the man apologized to the Spartan’s corpse as he gently removed the helmet.

  He slipped it over his own head and supplied an override code to make the AI grant him access. Once it did he tried to tap into the Spartans' communcations network. It was completely silent, eerily so. There was no telltale static from a jamming signal, just silence. Of course, the helmet didn’t seem to actually have any power for the systems that he wanted to use. He checked his own, less secure com system… The same silence as the dead helmet. Was there some other disruption, or were all of his father's guards dead or otherwise incapacitated? Either way he needed to hurry. He took a moment, however, to close the Spartan’s eyes and mutter a prayer to whatever gods might be listening. Christoph checked his surroundings and moved on towards his father’s office.

  He passed several more fallen bodies, each more mangled than the last. All of them were Spartans or non-specialized Guardians. Most of them were out of their armor, mostly assistants and administrators, it looked like. Even so, this kind of massacre was unheard of in Guardian history. The most unnerving part was that were wasn’t a trace of any dead or wounded enemies. These Spartans were King’s Guard, how could they have been taken so unawares? If all of the armors truly were dead then there might not even be footage of the assailants to recover later.