by A. R. Knight
Humanity Rising
A.R. Knight
Copyright © 2019 by Adam Knight
All rights reserved.
ISBN (ebook): 978-1-946554-30-7
ISBN (print): 978-1-946554-31-4
Published by Black Key Books
This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Any similarity between the characters and situations within its pages and places or persons, living or dead, is unintentional and co-incidental.
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Also by A.R. Knight
The Mercenaries Trilogy
The Metal Man
Wild Nines
Dark Ice
One Shot
The Riven Trilogy
Riven
The Cycle
Spirit’s End
The Rakers Saga
Rakers
The Skyward Saga
The Spear
Oratus
Starshot
Mind’s Eye
Clarity’s Dawn
Creator’s End
Humanity Rising
The Last Cycle
Discover More Stories
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To Kathy and Paul
Contents
1. Hold The Line
2. A Meeting of Claws
3. Deadly Arrival
4. Saving A Species
5. Departure by Design
6. The Galaxy’s Center
7. A Dying Message
8. Lay of the Land
9. Rough Landing
10. The Station
11. Rescued
12. Quell
13. Through the Streets
14. Sky Surfing
15. Moonfall
16. Carry On
17. To Save A Species
18. Inside the Walls
19. Breakaway
20. Going Hunting
21. Reunion
22. Break
23. The Mission
24. The Power Station
25. Broken Rescue
26. The Choice
27. The Last Sevora
28. Fate
An Excerpt from The Last Cycle, The Skyward Saga Book Six
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Also by A.R. Knight
Discover More Stories
Acknowledgments
About the Author
1 Hold The Line
I catch the black-glass spear, duck under the flailing claws of the furry creature and jab. The Flaum’s armor, meant to guard against the fiery death of miners, does little to keep the spear’s point from striking home. My enemy’s skittering hits a halt as I withdraw the weapon, and before it reconsiders whether to live or die, I hit it with a kick and knock the Flaum off the mountain cliff.
“Nice catch!” Viera calls from my right as she whips out one of her silver pistols and fires.
The bullet cracks over my left shoulder, and I whirl to see another Flaum, just landing on its magnetic boots and about to deliver a shot to my back, stumble away as red blooms across its chest.
“That’s your fault!” I shout, this time keeping my eyes on the landing craft above, but the attack’s reaching its end, and this shuttle, along with the other three scattered along the wide cliff, are turning and heading back to orbit.
They’ll return, though, in a few hours with a fresh supply, while we count our wounded and wonder how much longer we can last.
“If you stop breaking your spears, I won’t have to congratulate you for catching them,” Viera, in her deep blue-dyed leather armor, short-gray hair snapping in the breeze, says to me as I climb back to her level.
“Tell that to the blacksmiths,” I reply, glancing up to make sure the Sevora continue their retreat. “The armor we’re cutting through doesn’t break as easy as our leather.”
I take a quick count of our losses, and while we have a hundred warriors out on the ridge, more than a dozen are being helped away, with another four or five unmoving on the cold gray rock, between drifts of snow. They won’t be sent down the rope hammocks to Marilo - their bodies will be pitched off, same as the Sevora. You can’t bury someone in rock, and it’s too much risk to burn them.
“It’s always too many and too few at the same time,” I say, then shiver despite my own attempts not to. Ignos is heading towards darkness, and the mountaintops are always cold. “Does Avril have any idea why they’re not attacking at full strength?”
“I haven’t asked her, Empress,” Viera replies. “Maybe they’re scared?”
“They could raze us from orbit.” I start the walk to the ladders down.
It’s the duty of the Empress, or so I tell myself, to be the last one off the battlefield, but even as I leave the next shift of soldiers climbs their way over the lip. These warriors are tightly wrapped in animal skins, and bear packs of firewood on their backs. Ready to wait out the night.
“I’m grateful they don’t,” Viera says. “While this isn’t the best life, it sure beats death.”
“So far as you know.”
“Exactly.”
At the edge, with fighters streaming in and out beside me, I look into the burning forges, the bustling fortress of Marilo, capital of the Lunare and, at the moment, all of humanity. Heat rises up through the massive hole punched in the mountainside by the same aliens we’re now facing on a daily basis; the Sevora, creatures that take the minds and bodies of other species and bend them into slaves.
I had one in my mind once and thought it was a god. It couldn’t control me, and never figured out why. Now its friends are here to find out.
Or kill us all.
The rope ladders hang for a dozen meters, hooked in with long grapples bored into the stone. We lost a few brave fighters on the first expedition to set them up, but we couldn’t give the Sevora the option to camp out above the city, even with all the captured miners we have being used to defend that hole.
At first the climb was daunting - stepping up over and over again as sure death from the fall lies below, but it’s hard to be afraid of dying when it’s so often around you. We’ve all become numb by now.
At least the blisters on my hands have calloused over.
Viera insists on following me and not the other way around, so I make the descent, staving off the bone-weariness that comes after every shift. A responsibility I don’t have to take but do because when the survival of your race is at stake, rank isn’t something to abuse.
Marilo’s adapted to the life of wartime the way a warrior culture does; by tightening diets, getting the old, the young, and the unhealthy out of the city to one of the distant towns networked by caves to the Lunare capitol, and by coming to grips with the grim reality that they’re fighting to delay the inevitable.
“Another caravan left today,” Avril tells me when I meet the Lunare leader in Marilo’s capitol building, a spiraling feature with many levels overlooking a wide central space where, in more normal times, people like Avril would be proclaiming this or that to a listening throng of governors and officials.
Now it’s all but empty, save for our Shadows - guards appointed to follow us while remaining as inconspicuous as possible - and a few officials drafting orders or delivering reports. Avril’s sitting at the central table, looking just as ti
red as I feel, though her battles have been with logistics rather than invading aliens.
“Have we heard from the others?” I reply.
Avril shrugs. “Yes, and no. They’re making progress, but none will get to the boundaries for days yet.”
By then, who knows if we’ll even be around to receive those messages. We’ve been pulling together caravans of artisans, farmers, and what people we can spare and sending them to explore. To go to the edges of the map and draw it further, hunting for new places for humanity to take root if our current hold is pulled up.
Neither Avril nor I would see our species destroyed.
“Otherwise?”
“The city continues,” Avril says, and I think her hair’s even whiter than before, as if the stress is turning the Lunare leader slowly to snow, and when she suddenly smiles, the pale pink of her lips seems at terrible odds with the fire-lit dim of Marilo. “There’s even some hope. Several more merchants came in today, traveling back and selling wines. I bought a bottle. The hope is to open them when the fighting ends.”
“Or when the Sevora finally choose to break through.”
“Still no sign, then?”
The daily ask, and my daily reply comes with a shaking head. “The Vincere haven’t shown yet.”
If humanity is going to survive, we’re going to need outside help. A week ago, I’d sent the signal. T’Oli, a Ooblot who’d traveled across the stars to bring me back home, said the Vincere would hear the message and respond, but even it has no idea how long that might take. We might be flattened, or we might be saved.
“Then why are the Sevora playing with us?” Avril says. “They attacked with so much ferocity before, but now it seems like they’re just testing our lines, making sure we don’t forget about them.”
“I’ve asked the same questions,” Viera cuts in - she never leaves my side anymore, and I don’t mind. “Their corpses, though, don’t talk.”
“Does that have anything to share?” Avril points at the thing on my wrist, a dark emerald bracelet.
The Cache holds more information than I’d ever be able to peruse, and using it draws me into a kind of trance, as the knowledge I’m searching for floats like projections around me. It’s incredible, and dangerous, and I only use it when I’m alone or under tight protection. The Cache is also the reason my eyelids droop and my muscles sag - too many recent nights spent swimming through its endless oceans.
“It has no clear answer for why the Sevora are behaving like this,” I say slow. “But I’m still looking.”
The rest of my night passes in much the same way; passing discussions with other officials, an unsteady wander through the city to the haphazard room that’s been designated as my quarters, with my Shadows and Viera watching me the entire way. Eventually I collapse on the mat of clotted straw that serves as my bed.
It’s a far cry from the grand treatment I received when I was an Empress in more than name, and falls well short of the comforts I had in the various space ships and alien cities I’ve seen during my bumpy journey across the galaxy. The mat is, though, human. Made by human hands, with no hidden purpose other than relaxation, other than giving me the opportunity to lie down and, for just a moment, shut my eyes.
“Empress,” Viera’s voice, coupled with the grimy smell of scrappy coffee, brings me blinking awake.
Viera doesn’t need to add anything more than that. Routine kicks in and I’m up, reaching for and pulling on my own light suit of armor, pulling the leather over the Cache, which never leaves my wrist. I don’t wear a cape, but one of the priests from my old city, Damantum, took my emerald necklace with them when they evacuated. Last time, I left the jewels in the city because I was afraid of losing them.
Now I fasten them around my neck, the glittering ensemble the one concession I make to my rank, the one luxury I give myself.
T’Oli, a surprise guest, is waiting outside the apartment this morning. The creamy Ooblot looks mostly like a puddle with a pair of rounded sticks jutting out of it, though these sticks have eyes and the puddle follows me as we walk towards the rope ladders.
Marilo in the morning is the same as Marilo in the evening - a bevy of cookfires, moving bodies, and the occasional hawking of wares, though the trade now is less in gold and more in necessities. Up ahead, I can already see the shift changing underway as warriors climb and descend.
No hammocks this time, I note; either there’s no wounded, or there wasn’t an attack last night.
“They’re pulling back,” T’Oli says as we walk.
“The Sevora?” I allow myself the slight flutter of hope. “Why?”
“Panic,” T’Oli replies. “Something’s going wrong on their homeworld. They’re being careless with their communications, leaving them open and I’ve been able to listen on the shuttle. I’d say there’s no clear leader left up there.”
“I didn’t think the Sevora were supposed to panic,” Viera says. “Isn’t that their whole deal? Order and control above everything? Boring as dirt?”
“They like to act that way, but the Sevora are as full of passion as we are,” T’Oli replies, its Ooblot skin forming the sounds by smacking against itself, as the creature has no mouth. “On Vimelia, Clarity’s Dawn saw more success playing the slugs against one another than pushing forward by ourselves. A rival is a rival, no matter the species.”
“If they’re losing control,” I speak slow, thinking through the possibilities. “What happens if they give up on us?”
“Oh, they’ll probably burn this entire planet,” T’Oli says. “It’d be trivial, and safer.”
“Then we need to evacuate,” I start to speed up my walk. “Get everyone deeper into the caves.”
T’Oli laughs, a strange, barking slap. “I wouldn’t worry about it - they’ll superheat the atmosphere. We’ll all die, no matter where we go.”
Well, so much for that hope.
2 A Meeting of Claws
They were made. Grown, one by one in hanging hatcheries, to the designs of beings who sought to, who did, use them. Claws, talons, tails and razor teeth, all chosen for their murderous efficiency. A plan that has worked well, has instilled the creators with all the power they could want.
Yet the Amigga want more, and the Oratus, their creations, would give that to them.
Except for Sax. Except for Bas and the growing numbers realizing that a galaxy under the control of a species with no respect for natural life makes for a dangerous, deadly place to live.
Sax stands, with his midclaws resting on a long, round silver table in the middle of the frigate’s sole meeting room. The table itself is polished clear, and it’s hard enough that even the unnatural metal of Sax’s claws doesn’t scratch it. The sound of those claws, though, makes Sax wince. Reminds him of who, of what he is not anymore.
Around the table, white circles align every one-and-a-half meters, waiting for their occupants to give them life. Sax’s own rises all three meters with him, supporting his legs and meeting his back while leaving a gap for Sax’s tail. It’s a gesture that shouldn’t be necessary, but given that Sax’s gray scales are routinely interrupted by patches of interwoven titanium, there’s plenty of reason for the Oratus to be tired.
Across Sax’s chest, six vents separate wide and gulp in recycled air, touched with a bit of flowered scent from the surface of Solis, the planet not far beyond this ship’s hull. As he finishes his deep breath, a circular door on the left shunts open, revealing a sole guard and her miner. The Flaum, small, furry and with her two claws hands wrapped around the handle of the weapon she holds, leads in a trio of other Oratus.
The first, golden-scaled and confident, gives Sax a nod as she enters. Rav’s the lead officer on this frigate, a three-letter Oratus like Sax who chose command over getting her claws dirty. She’s the only reason Sax is still alive, and Rav is probably hoping Sax can convince the two Oratus following her not to destroy this ship and everyone on it.
The second Oratus bears deep blue scales
, except for a series of scars cutting across his chest that have since healed into ridged black lines. His beet red eyes catch Sax’s, and while they widen in recognition at the face that’s been blown across the galaxy’s wanted screens, the Oratus doesn’t pause or demand Sax’s immediate arrest.
The third, and oldest, bearing weathered brown scales, does stop when she sees Sax. Her look, though, and the slight baring of her razor teeth, is long and thoughtful. She keeps her claws at her sides, her tail placid on the floor behind her. Sax is looking for signs, but sees none.
“So you weren’t lying,” the brown one says to Rav, still standing in the doorway.
“Please, Cacia, sit,” Rav says.
Sax freezes. A five-letter Oratus? He’s never met one before, and knows there has to be less than a dozen in the entire galaxy. What Cacia would have done to earn those letters, he can’t...
“Stop,” Cacia says to Sax, and the Oratus catches himself, lowers his tail back to the ground. “I’m not worth getting all worried about. Just like you, I earned my letters doing my duty. Unlike you, I plan to keep them by doing the same.”
“I told you that’s what she’d say,” the deep blue one, who’s made his way to the white platform across from Sax and sat down as it conformed to his body, says. “Cacia’s never going to turn on the Amigga.”
Rav, seated on Sax’s right, giving the nearest seat to Cacia, shakes her head. “I think, Hul, she’s going to surprise you.”
