Ascension

by Nicholas Woode-Smith

  ‘So, my friends died for nothing?’

  ‘Never for nothing, my child. Never for nothing.’

  He looked down and returned to his model. Re’lien left and soon embraced the bliss of a bed-pod.

  

  ‘Why did you pardon my sister?’ Sola asked, as Winston glued a turret onto the top of his collectible squogg destroyer model. A finished United Exanoid Federation freighter was drying to the side.

  ‘Her potential. Great marks. Would be unfortunate to have such a prodigy wasted on the gallows.’

  Sola stared, sternly, legs crossed. ‘There’s more to it than that. Much more decorated war heroes have faced the gallows for less. And some with even more potential in the Order. Why my sister? Why save Re’lien?’

  Winston sighed and closed his glue-stick. Sola continued.

  ‘Great High Protector that you are, I still won’t accept that you saved my sister just out of some random generosity.’

  ‘You used to be a warpmancer, correct?’

  Stunned, Sola nodded.

  ‘My intelligence on the Kei Conspiracy suggests that you were in the upper brackets of power among your people. But you lost your powers.’

  Sola looked down. It still hurt. The void where her power used to be.

  ‘The footage of your sister’s…escapade…suggests to me that she has latent power equal, if not surpassing what you had.’

  ‘What do you know about warpmancy?’ Sola blurted, some Edallic arrogance coming to the fore.

  Winston laughed. But his eyes were sad. A void behind cheerful, laugh lined eyes. He had seen death. The void. He had looked into eternity and lived to speak of it. Maybe, not even lived. Something had died. Something important, and Winston was akin to a husk, carrying the memory of what he had lost.

  ‘More than you could ever know, or that I hope you will ever know. What I will tell you is that your sister, Re’lien, is a warpmancer, like you were. And she may have the power to continue where your lover failed.’

  ‘Kei…vokken Kei,’ Sola swore, but felt her eyes moisten. ‘It always comes back to him.’

  ‘The Godkiller Project was sound, Sola. Kei, more than any of us, knew what was needed to end Imperia.’

  ‘The Godkiller Project took away my powers and caused his death.’

  ‘One must die for their cause…’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Something from his literature. He was an interesting man.’

  Sola looked at the pile of books to her side, avoiding Winston’s gaze.

  ‘Yes. He was,’ she whispered.

  ‘But,’ she looked Winston in the eyes. ‘Don’t think you can use my sister to fulfil a dead man’s vendetta.’

  ‘I never use. That’s not how the Troopers function. We’re the defenders of humanity. Children of Mars. You have my oath that everything your sister does will be by her own volition. All I did was make sure she was alive to do it.’

  Sola looked him up and down. Her intuition didn’t work on him. She grunted, and sighed.

  ‘And thank you for that.’

  ‘Don’t thank me. Thank Kei. We all will when this is all done.’

  ‘I’m sure we will,’ Sola said through gritted teeth, and then left the High Protector to his hobby.

  “We tell ourselves that we fight for the betterment of humanity. That we sacrifice the comforts of Mars for a holy war. A righteous cause. The truth is much less selfless. We don’t die for our fellow humans from a sense heroism – but simply because we are bored, and death gives us meaning.” – Winston Mengel, Redefining the Trooper Mission.

  Chapter 16.

  Beginnings

  The hum of hover-car engines didn’t compare to the cacophony that erupted from genuine warp-drives. The explosive hum sounded like the roar of waves assaulting the coast, but amplified a hundred-fold. Blue heat emanated from the ship exhaust ports in waves. The wind sent their clothes buffeting.

  Sola and Re’lien had proceeded from Winston’s manor to a private starport in relative silence. This was not from animosity, or from a sense of awkwardness. Sola and Re’lien, considering the situation, were happy with one another. They had said all that had needed to be said, for now.

  Sola and Re’lien were alone at the starport. The pilot was still to arrive. Winston trusted the privately chartered pilot to keep this secret off the news. For the sake of law and order, Re’lien was to disappear from all but special Corps records. The Gans couldn’t be given fodder to recruit frustrated new xenophobes.

  Sola checked her wrist-tab. ‘Ten more minutes, and then you’ll be gone.’

  Re’lien smiled, sadly. ‘We should be used to it.’

  Sola ambushed her with a hug, squeezing her close.

  ‘I never got used to it.’

  Re’lien surrendered and hugged back. When they let go, Sola had tears in her eyes.

  ‘The last few years, for all their ups and downs, have been the best I’ve ever had.’

  ‘Me too, Sola. Me too.’

  The elevator doors opened and the pilot appeared. He waved at them to hurry up.

  Re’lien held her sisters hands and they smiled, teary eyed.

  ‘Goodbye, sister.’ They both said, and departed for Terra know how long before they would reunite again.

  

  Re’lien was relieved when the pilot gave her the go-ahead to walk around the vessel. They had broken from orbit and were now in smooth sailing through warp-space. This was the first time Re’lien had been in space since arriving on Mars.

  ‘Can we stop by Venus?’ she asked the pilot.

  He laughed. ‘Only if you treat me to some stardust rum.’

  She grinned, excitement temporarily overcoming her dire predicament. ‘Why do you think I want to make the stop?’

  He laughed again and agreed.

  She went to her living quarters to get settled after that and found a box in the centre of the room. A note lay atop it. Paper. Untraceable on the Network. Easily destroyed.

  It was from Sola. With slight trepidation, and even more curiosity, Re’lien read:

  ‘My dearest sister. I didn’t want to ruin our farewell by telling you this in person. I want our farewell to be warm, unlike our last. I owe you that much.

  I saw the footage, and I’m sure you did too. I did not feel sorry for the thugs that you killed, but I did feel for you, my sister, who has been forced by a gift, or curse, to act as a reaper among the scum of the world. I know you must feel guilt for what you did. But even for all the years I may have been absent, I think that I do know you, sister. You hurt for what you did. But, as hard as it may be, I ask that you do not. Bury the guilt. Overcome it. Realise that it means so much more.

  Our people tell a tale, in hushed whispers that do not alert the censors of Imperia, of a spectre. A nightmare made manifest that forces its victims to embrace their darkest fears, their biggest guilts and their gravest despair. It is considered a demon by the Fringe preachers who risk discussing it. It is spoken about among the rural edal, who still hold onto our millennia old traditions, before Imperia turned us into slaves. They speak of it as a spectre. A welcome omen that brings justice to the world. A wraith that, through its own torment, beats down the monsters of the world and protects the deserving. A nightmare for evil. A force for good.

  I am a lady of science. I do not believe in Imperial, or pre-Imperial, superstition. But I do believe in the art of our people. The strongest warpmancers have natural auras. They tend to connect to some aspect of the self. My aura was a charm. I could, if I wanted, make any weak-willed fool fall in love with me. And before you get any ideas – Kei was no weak-willed fool, but I did fail to charm him the first few times we met.’

  Re’lien looked askance at the box, on which the note lay. She opened it before flipping to the next page.

  Inside was a glove, crafted of black leather and covered with a gauntlet of silver and lacquered crystal. An empty hole dominated the centre, surrounded by inlaid tendril symb
ols. Three runes snaked down the gauntlet. All but one had been scratched out: Peace.

  Re’lien continued reading, touching the cold glove that she remembered her sister wearing all those years ago.

  ‘I tell this to you, sister, because I believe you are also a warpmancer. The lucidity of your visions suggest that you may even be stronger than I once was. With that in mind, I believe you have an aura. An aura of fear. It is understandable. You have lived a much darker life than me. A life I cannot bear to even contemplate. Before I witnessed your acts, I couldn’t understand what you went through, and for this, I am sorry. But I think I understand as much as I can now. And I tell you – do not feel guilt for what you did. It wasn’t you. It was Imperia. It was monsters. But you aren’t a monster. You are the spectre that our ancient people longed for – a being that stands for justice. For righting wrongs. Do not destroy yourself for what you did, or what you failed to stop. Look to the future, and for what you can do. Not for me, for the free races, for the Order, the Corps, or anything else, but for yourself. Be the bringer of justice. The bringer of righteous fear. The one who forces the monsters of the world to weep. Or don’t. Be Re’lien. But know that you are powerful, my sister, and that no one will ever hurt you again.’

  

  Alarms blasted throughout the halls of Fort Nexus. Blinking blue and red. James awoke, groggy and a bit apathetic. The alarms rang constantly. Chancellor Peterson had them installed after the first Zerian attack just before the Battle of Nova Zarxa. They were meant to warn of impending terrorist attacks, but also served as warning for any form of danger. They had not served their intended purpose. Rather, they were rung almost daily without any real cause. In the days after the almost-fall of Nova Zarxa, Zonians and Zarxians alike had become increasingly paranoid. Traders bearing any resemblance to Zerian were confused with the corporate insurgents that had ravaged Nova Zarxa in the past. Fortunately, only a few of these innocent and confused traders were hurt. Unfortunately, some of those hurt were killed by an over-eager, trigger-happy and thoroughly paranoid Zonian guard. James ensured that such acts were punished appropriately. He didn’t need his ex-boss and somewhat mentor Don Marzio, or Danny Marzio now, to remind him that while Zonians were a free people, freedom didn’t involve killing innocents. A boss maintained law and order on their turf. And they ensured that justice was done. James, Defiant or whatever his title was now, ensured that justice was carried out in Nexus, capital of Nova Zarxa. Even if it meant killing his own people.

  As James lay, blinking his eyes as sirens blared and lights blinked, he felt that justice needed to be done on Darren Peterson for installing such a terrible device. But prudence overcame sleepiness and James got out of bed and got dressed. He looked at a disabled butler-syn in the corner. It had been a gift from the boss of the Ganru. It was meant to save him time and energy. The lord of a planet needed to focus on more important things, after all. James had disabled it after three days. He could get dressed by himself. He could feed himself. His wrist-mounted tab was good enough to keep him organised. He didn’t need any wannabe human syn babying him.

  James glanced at his FireBolt, placed on a wall-stand by his bed. He frowned. The sniper rifle didn’t receive much use in the confined halls of Nexus. He holstered his Aegis .45 and left the room. The halls were abuzz with admin staff, guards and all manner of the employees that were required to run a post-revolutionary government. Their loud muttering and exclamations rose even above that of the cacophony of the alarm.

  James caught a clerk by the arm. He was a native Zarxian who had helped fight for the Defiant during the civil war. A good egg, James wanted to think, but he struggled to trust anyone who could turn on their own. But many Zarxians had sided with the Defiant for a sincere desire to free the planet. James’ problem was distinguishing the freedom fighters from the opportunists.

  ‘What’s the alarm about? Insurgents, or someone trying to get out of work?’

  The clerk was pale, sweating. Fear washed off him in waves. James sighed and sent forth his aura of authority, calming the boy.

  ‘Defiant,’ he said, calming down a tad. ‘Imperial in the old Trooper hangar!’

  ‘Imperial? Only one.’

  James let go and the clerk continued running to whatever place a clerk was needed under these circumstances. In Galis, it would have been to the armoury. Actually, not. In Galis, you carried a weapon at all times. James’ gut told him that the clerk wasn’t headed to an arsenal and wasn’t carrying a gun. He was probably headed to a desk, to hide under. James clicked his tongue in irritation. Even the Zonians were getting soft. They were jittery, but growing complacent. Many had died in the battle with the Imperials and even the native Zarxians understood the necessity of warfare now. But none of them had had a decent fight for months. And without the constant threat of death, the memories of past wars came back to haunt the veterans of Zona Nox and Nova Zarxa. And without the forge of war, the civilians became soft, entitled and mean. As disgusting as it was James wished for a real war to shape his people once again, and not the incessant paranoid screeching of an alarm.

  But an Imperial in the hangar. That was something new.

  James walked calmly between the morass of panicking people. His presence wasn’t urgently needed. It never was. He was a war-leader. For the daily affairs of state, Chancellor Peterson and the hierarchy of Defiant soldiers and ex-Troopers took care of matters. He was just expected to inspect things. To show his face. To be the icon that his people needed. The Defiant.

  It was positively boring. But he made do. He spent most of his time catching up with friends and colleagues. Reminiscing about Galis City. Joking with old rivals about wars in which they had almost killed each other. Many would have envied his position, but James felt an intense claustrophobia doing nothing of importance – or at least of immediate practical importance. Zonians were a productive, if criminal, people and James felt un-Zonian being idle.

  ‘The Imperial has been brought into custody and is being interrogated by Commander Yobu, Defiant,’ a guard saluted. James eyed him up and down. He wore the new kit. It was a hybrid design built from tech bought from and donated by Aegis and Grag-Tec. Full anti-kinetic plating. Custom face-plates with heads-up-display and respirators. He looked like a black and blue Trooper.

  James nodded and proceeded towards the surveillance room. Alex Yurgan, James’ friend from prison and now head of surveillance for Fort Nexus, stood behind a group of clerks as they monitored a veritable swamp of holo-screens, constantly switching between the incorporeal displays. Alex had his arms crossed and was holding a mug of coffee.

  ‘That the real stuff?’ James asked.

  Alex nodded and pointed at the coffee machine with his thumb. James retrieved a mug of black coffee and drank. His grogginess soon subsided as the vacaraptor grown coffee invigorated his system.

  ‘So, what’s the deal with this Imperial in the hangar?’ James asked, letting the mug warm his hands.

  ‘Not completely paranoid garbage,’ Alex put his hand on a clerk’s shoulder. The clerk was young. About as young as James had been during the siege of Galis. That seemed so long ago. ‘Whitty, change to the interrogation room,’ Alex ordered.

  Alex turned back to James. ‘Yobu should’ve begun by now. If it is a real Imperial, though, I hope he brings in someone else. Yobu is too…what did you say…’

  ‘Prudent. Yobu is prudent. He doesn’t let his anger cloud his judgement. Always thoughtful. Always rational. And if this is an Imperial, it is his right as commander of the Nexus Guard to interrogate such a high-value convict. And while I understand your point, wanting to see some ulyx or edal blood, we need information, first. And besides, with all the false alarms, I want someone with a clear-head interrogating the captives. Not someone who is going to mistake a guy with blue face-paint for an edal.’

  Whitty changed the holo-screen from one of the many hangars of Nexus to a small, dark room, dominated by a geradite table and a single light. Yobu sat
alone at the table. The Imperial was yet to arrive. Erryn Kolheim, the hotshot pilot and no-doubt the best flier in the Defiant fleet, sauntered into the room. Alex rolled his eyes. This was definitely against protocol. James didn’t know what Alex had a right to complain about. James and him had met each other in prison, after all.

  Erryn said something to Yobu and his face went red. Alex bent down to turn on audio, but James stopped him. He found Erryn’s antics amusing, but not enough to invade their privacy. The audio would be enabled only during the interrogation.

  Erryn laughed and then took a place behind Yobu, leaning up against the wall. Seems she wanted to watch the proceedings. James didn’t mind. Erryn could handle herself if things went sour. The railgun revolver by her side added to that assessment.

  Finally, the door to the interrogation room opened. It wasn’t an Imperial. Or was it? It didn’t wear the silver and white uniform of Imperia. No shining embroidery. No glowing plate-mail. This so-called Imperial was unlike any Imperial James had ever seen. She, for it was a she, wore a dark-grey and crimson double-breasted military coat. The Trooper Order sigil was emblazoned on her right-breast. Under it was a symbol James had never seen before. A dove, circling a globe.

  ‘That’s a Diplomatic Corps uniform,’ Alex muttered. ‘But…she’s an edal.’

  The edal wearing Trooper garb sat. Under a dark-grey beret, she had a raven black pony-tail. Her long, pointed ears, flanked her Trooper non-combat headwear.

  Alex turned on audio and Yobu spoke.

  ‘Welcome to Nova Zarxa, Diplomat…’

  ‘Re’lien en Xerl. Diplomatic Corps, Extos III division. Reporting for duty.’

  The edal girl spoke perfect Standard Terran, with a tinge of the Martian accent James recognised from Nathan. But that was an after-thought for James, as he stared into Re’lien’s holoscreen eyes. The girl’s eyes held an intensity that made him curious. A veil of secrecy that only compelled him to want to uncover the truth.

  But above all – James had seen her before. Seen her in one of his fevered, too lucid, dreams.