The Guardians of Sol

by Spencer Kettenring

  "Good work, Mr. Simeon," Michael replied. "I'll see if I can't let you get some decent R and R before I send you out again. How is your cousin doing?"

  "He's good. He'll be near the top of his class when they graduate in a few months. His combat skills are probably equal to the third tier, his infiltration techniques are well above average, but his mastery of strategy and philosophy are stuck near the seventh tier. He'll be a good officer; he just needs to learn to focus."

  "You've mentioned that before. I'm sure he just needs a little more maturity," the Sentinel reassured his personal spy. "Tell you what, in a few years, once he's cleared his commando training, if he's still not quite where he needs to be I'll pull some strings to get him apprenticed to one of the spymasters. By then Joshua should have the makings of a good Hound himself, if not something else in the ranks."

  "I'm assuming that this is only if he continues to deserve it."

  "Of course, we live in a meritocracy. Nepotism just compromises everyone. Well if you don't have anything else for me, I suggest that you go get some food and sleep. And make sure you get your armor taken care of," Michael gestured pointedly to the armor-clad Venator, who hadn't had time to change out of it before reporting. "I'll send for you when I have somethi-"

  "Sir, someone has initiated an intrusion into Forge systems," The Sentinel's personal AI informed them. "My firewalls have held up against the attack, but it seems tailored to conventional Guardian operating systems."

  "What does that mean, Gabriel? Send an alert to Telamon and the Guard," The Sentinel replied, or began to as the lights went out. "Dammit. It's too late for that, isn't it?"

  "It would appear so, sir. Should I prepare your armament?"

  "Do it."

  "I can't raise anything on standard channels, sir," Barak informed the Sentinel. "Everything seems to be offline. Why is your AI still working?"

  "My armorer and tech guys are eccentric but efficient," Michael replied, moving to the back of his office. "My armory also runs on a completely separate power system. Gabriel, open my weapons locker."

  A hidden panel slid open to reveal a space half as large as the office, but filled with a large variety of equipment.

  "It seems that our guests have finally arrived. Follow me, Barak. I have your next assignment ready."

  The Sentinel walked into his armory and snagged an egg shaped device and an armored pouch large enough for it to fit in. He twisted the egg and put it in receiving mode.

  "Gabriel, mark this beacon and prep an alert for me once it's activated," he turned to Barak. "Take this; find the enemy transport, and one way or another follow it. Once you are certain that you've located the enemy fleet use the beacon and I'll bring down the might of every Guardian fleet at my disposal."

  "Yes sir. But if there isn't any power how can I even leave your office?"

  Hm... Connect your cipher to the computer port there. Gabriel, update Agent Simeon's AI with the proper firewalls and codes to bypass the enemy virus," Michael put his hand reassuringly on Barak's shoulder. "The power isn't out, the enemy has just made it seem that way. Your cipher should let you get around. I trust your abilities. I've got an emergency hatch at the back of the armory. Take it, and find me that fleet."

  "Yes sir! What are you going to do, sir?"

  "Me? Well it wouldn't do for me to meet our guests in anything less than my best dress, now would it?

  *****

  The updated cipher AI worked exactly as the Sentinel had said it would. Once Barak had gotten out of the emergency corridor the AI took less than a second at each door to circumvent the control of the enemy virus. The question was: where would the enemy have docked their shuttle? Was there more than one shuttle? If there were then his chances of finding them would be better.

  The armored pouch that the Sentinel had given him was synched up with his active camouflage, and Barak patted the beacon inside for reassurance. There were two docking facilities on the command block, one was four decks above, and the other was five below. The top one was closer, but gravity would help him get to the bottom dock faster. But what if that was the wrong one? Barak had not felt this much doubt since his first day at the academy. It was unlikely he would get a second chance to make the right choice, yet standing hesitant would guarantee failure.

  If the enemy had control over the computer systems then they would have had to access a command console soon after they arrived or they would have been discovered. Barak wasn't as familiar with the layouts of the Forge as he perhaps should have been, but he did have the excuse that he rarely spent more than a few days here at a time. The man stopped next to the entrance to the maintenance tunnels and thought.

  Both of the docking bays had computer consoles in their control bays, but those wouldn't have the access priority to upload or control a program like the one running on the Forge, possibly on more than this block. It occurred to Barak that the admiral of the navy kept his office on the same level as the upper dock. Up it was.

  He encountered no difficulties in the maintenance tubes, and came out of them a few junctions away from the admiral's office. Now he began to see bodies. There were dockworkers, Vindicators, pilots, and more. Barak peeked into the admiral's office. There were two men dressed in armor like he had seen in the security videos on the colony. He knew that he should move on to their shuttle, but if they were still controlling things from that command console it would be best if he helped his fellow Guardians by killing the men.

  The further man was working the console while the second alternated between looking at his companion and keeping watch. Barak moved while the man on watch had his back turned. Completely silent, he moved the length of the office in seconds until he was adjacent to the man.

  One of Barak's daggers snaked out and slammed into the man's power supply, stopping him cold. Barak left his small blade where it was and leapt onto the desk before the other Centurion could react. Swiftly, if not quite as swiftly as a true Swordmaster, Barak buried his sword in the man's skull through the visor.

  The Hound retracted his sword, cleaned it, and replaced it in it’s sheathe. The dagger he also retrieved, but only after making sure that the power supply and motor functions on the sentry's armor were completely disabled and that the man could breathe. The Centurion would make a nice treat for the other Venators on the station.

  Barak did what he could to shut the enemy program down, but he didn't have the time to do it properly. The way to the docking bay was clear; the enemy hadn't left any guards outside of the bay, but had left one outside of their shuttle. The shuttle looked like a larger version of a standard combat shuttle, which meant that there should be plenty of space for Barak to stay hidden. The only problem was that guard. If the man died, then anyone returning would question it, and that could make their actions more unpredictable. Sneaking directly past him wasn't an option either as even the active camo gave off a motion shimmer that could be seen by a careful enough observer, or the right sensor. Barak pondered how to create a distraction that would bear investigation, but would also be easily dismissible once found.

  Obviously, the old throw something the opposite way trick wouldn't work, but perhaps a variation of it would. Barak slipped into the bay when the guard's back was turned. There were several ships and shuttles in the bay aside from the enemy transport. At least one of them had been in the midst of refueling and maintenance. It would not be hard to rig something there to... do... something.

  The fuel line was still connected to the shuttle in maintenance. There were plenty of tools around that Barak could throw, but that wouldn't work. Instead, he turned the fuel flow down to one percent capacity, and loosened the connecting valve to the shuttle. Then he moved away and waited.

  After several minutes, the loosened fuel line began to leak, dripping. The noise was not loud, but it was enough to get the Centurion guard's attention. Barak secreted himself in one of the compartments. He would bide his time. He would keep the Sentinel's trust. He would complete
his mission.

  33

  January 12, 2290. The Forge.

  Telamon was not in a good way. His vision was blurred. His helm had been torn from his head. He was bleeding, but he couldn't see exactly where from, or exactly how bad. The enemy had turned on the emergency lighting, and everything was painted in its bloody light.

  The Sentinel's Guard had been prepared, of course. Everyone was in full armor and positioned as defensibly as was reasonable in the anteroom to Michael's office. The man himself was in some sort of top secret meeting and his aides had been exiled to do their work at their desks outside. Arka had been telling some crude joke that Telamon was only half listening to when the lights went out.

  The aides immediately began trying to get updates from their computer terminals. Unfortunately, those had gone as dark as the lights themselves. Telamon went to check on Michael, but the door to his office was locked tight. At least his friend should be relatively safe. The old soldier turned to the half dozen Spartans waiting for his orders.

  "I want three shields up front, two lances behind. Makros, you're with me at the rear for fire support. Maintain range, no javelins. I don't want any accidental holes in the bulkheads. Until we get the all clear from the Sentinel or the Council nothing gets through us or that door. Understood?"

  "Yes sir!" the men replied. Telamon grinned, itching for a fight. He had a feeling that he wouldn't have to wait long to get it.

  That feeling was right. After a few minutes the outer door of the anteroom slid open under its own power and the first attackers charged through. The shields knocked them aside and struck sparks with their swords. The lancers behind them managed to put one down. The second wave came in, and almost got past the first two lines. Makros and Telamon struck them down with micro-impact spikes and molecular laser cutters. Telamon was beginning to feel disappointed in his foes.

  Then the shields dropped to the floor. The lancers fell to the floor only moments behind them. The hair rose on the back of Telamon's neck, and he jumped and rolled to the side. He was out of the direct line of the entrance when Makros joined the other Spartans on the ground. Telamon extended his spear and swept it under the leg of the first Centurion to come back through. As the man's back hit the floor the old soldier pushed one of his knuckle blades through his enemy's faceplate. The spear twirled around to pierce through a second enemy's chest.

  Telamon was just about to disassemble his third opponent when his armor went dead. Instead of falling to the ground, he was hoisted up. Something lit the area enough for Telamon to see a little of his surroundings through his visor. Someone adjusted the angle of the visor so that he could see the man holding him up.

  The armor was more curved and ornate than any Telamon had yet seen. It was far more predatorial and hawkish than the others. The man sported very few spikes in his armor, but each piece of plating flared elegently and there was no doubt in Telamon's mind that it was perfectly capable of shredding unprotected flesh. The man may have tried to say something, because his head visibly dipped in a sigh. A hand ending in sharp talons took firm hold of Telamon's helmet and ripped it abruptly from the rest of his armor. The jagged edges cut into the old man's face as they passed over it. He glared at the man holding him up as the Centurion's other hand screeched deeper into Telamon's chest piece.

  "I bet that you are surprised you're still alive," the man told him in a surprisingly beautiful voice. "Don't be. I want a witness for what happens next and you earned your life. For now."

  The old Spartan was passed to an underling. To Telamon's side, another Centurion picked up one of the cowering aides, and casually, brutally, ripped the poor kids head from his body. The other aide was simply impaled on one of the cruel recurving swords of the invaders. His men were dispatched just as disgustingly. His Spartans should have died in true battle. They should never have been in a position to be butchered. Arkadios, Makros, Demitri, Aris, Petran, Niko. They would be avenged; if this piss poor coward wasn’t lying that Telamon would survive to be a witness.

  The Centurions passed through the doorway to Michael's main office, the infernal device opening at their approach. Somehow they had obtained complete control over the Forge's systems. A few feet inside the Centurions stopped, and Telamon was dropped against the back wall in such a way that he could see everything. The reason the bastards had stopped was swiftly apparently.

  In his almost throne-like chair, the halves of his desk to either side, sat the Sentinel in his full combat armor. It was sleek, silver and gold, and somewhere in size between Vindicator and Castigar standards. Michael had one of his legs crossed over the other and his fingers steepled. Telamon grinned. His friend certainly had a flair for presentation when he felt like it.

  The leader of the Centurion pack gestured, and one of his men held up a device toward the Sentinel. They began to move forward to attack the man. The Sentinel stood up, and his would be assassins stopped in their tracks.

  "Were you expecting that device to do something to me?" The Sentinel asked rhetorically. "My armorer certainly has a more artistic sense of design than other manufacturers. I thank you for not killing my head bodyguard. I just hate to think of how long it would take to properly train a new one."

  "My superiors never told me that you had a sense of humor," the Centurion captain replied, gesturing again to his men. "It is fortunate for the universe that we are here to assure that no one else need suffer through it."

  The four other assassins drew their weapons and attacked the lone Guardian. Michael stepped into their circle as calm as could be. The first attacked, and died as Michael drew his own blade and riposted in one smooth motion. The other three attacked at once. Michael split one from navel to nose, half-piriouetted to the side and took another's head. Continuing his motion his blade passed through both the weapon of his last attacker and the man himself. All four died in less than five seconds.

  "I don't suppose that you've seen any or many blades like mine," the Sentinel said conversationally to the last Centurion. "There was an armorer a few decades after the Chiron left the system. He was uniquely talented but left no real notes as to his process or work. Before he died, however, he did manage to create eight monomolecular-edged swords of spectacular make. Seven of them are in the hands of our best Swordmasters. The first created will forever be held by the Sentinel."

  "An interesting history lesson. Was it supposed to do something for me? Awe me or intimidate me?"

  "Oh I just like to hear myself speak sometimes. Feel free to indulge a 'deadman' with a history lesson of your own. The Centurions are an offshoot of the Guardian Corps. How did you fall so far in less than two centuries?"

  "You say that like what we are is a bad thing. We're uniting every solar system we come across under one banner. In unity is strength, and there are far darker and more dangerous things out there than the Century empire. Well. Time to die then, yes?"

  "If you've nothing better to do," Michael shrugged.

  From the accumulated efforts of a lifetime, it only took the space of a breath for the Sentinel to sink into the self-induced state of hyperawareness that made true Swordmasters so dangerous to even heavily armored opponents.

  The Centurion burst into motion. The only other being that Telamon had ever seen move faster was Vadasz. Michael was not Vadasz. He brought his blade up to block the first blow, but the Centurion had already retracted it and spun around to attack from the flank. The Sentinel extended a staff behind his back that slammed into the man's side.

  Such a light hit shouldn't have done much, but it shattered the plating on the right side of the man's stomach and spun him around on his heel. Michael brought his blade up to strike. The assassin easily slapped it out of his opponent's hand and it skittered across the room to stop near the entrance.

  The Sentinel began to bring his staff around to block, but too slowly. The assassin slammed his palm into the swordmaster's chest, throwing him across the room. The enemy charged in again. Michael got off a plasma
bolt from his staff, the angle too wide. Golden talons rent protective plates to reveal the more sensitive inner workings of Michael's armor.

  Shaken, unprepared for the sheer power of his opponent, Michael nonetheless kept fighting. So close to his opponent, he unleashed a volley of micro-ordnance from compartments around his shoulder plating. The Centurion managed to defy all odds and dodged the entire payload. The move threw the Sentinel across the room once more, though this time he did not manage to stay on his feet. He struggled onto his knees, then his feet, his staff supporting him.

  A thin golden blade shot out and pinned the High Sentinel to the wall; piercing the thick plating around his shoulder as if it were no more than air. The assassin stalked slowly towards his prey, his blade spooling upon the hilt back into something more substantial. He took off his helmet and attached it to his belt. The face revealed could have been studies of manly perfection, if the artists had chosen to use plant tones instead of flesh ones. His skin was a rich olive green, his eyes were lavender purple, and his hair was a dark chestnut. He leaned in close.

  "The Ekai are proud to serve the Emperor. Your so called ideals are pathetic against the call of honor. Die knowing your insignificance."

  The Sentinel began to laugh but coughed up blood. "All you've done is given my brothers a martyr. Your fleets will never conquer this system."

  "It doesn't matter," the man sneered. "We will conquer it or destroy it. Either way it will serve our needs."

  With that, he pulled a twin to his other blade from it’s sheathe and plunged it into the High Sentinel's heart. Telamon's cry of pain and disbelief covered another, quieter, but just as emotional sound that issued from near his motionless body.

  Christoph growled and dove for his father's fallen sword. The young Swordmaster rolled to his knees and swung the monomolecular edged blade. The Guardian's movement caught the Ekai Centurion's attention, and as the man reoriented himself to face the new threat the incoming blade sheared through his thigh. As the assassin fell to his side, Christoph dodged the double bladed riposte and cut off one of the offender's arms at the elbow before quickly pinning the remaining limb with his father's sword - his father's vengeance.