Dark Space- The Complete Series

by Jasper T. Scott

  To those who dare,

  And to those who dream.

  To everyone who’s stronger than they seem.

  “Believe in me /

  I know you’ve waited for so long /

  Believe in me /

  Sometimes the weak become the strong”

  —STAIND, Believe

  PART ONE

  Prologue

  —THE YEAR 3 AE—

  Destra Ortane sat on a flat and glassy black rock, warming her hands over a fire built with dried lumimoss and ice walker fat. Her hands were frozen despite the oversized gloves she wore. She was swaddled in ice walker skins and what was left of her clothes after wearing them for the past three years. As she stared into the flames, her eyes drifted out of focus and she became mesmerized by the fire. Drops of fat sizzled and dripped from the shank of frozen ice walker meat which Hoff had spitted on the sharpened leg bone of one of its kin. Destra’s stomach growled. There was never enough food on Ritan; this would be their first meal of the day, and her eyes were already scratchy and red with the need for sleep.

  On Ritan the darkness was absolute and the night never ended, making the light from their fire a strange and blinding sight. Their shadows made them appear ten times their size to any watching predators—but when all you know is shadows, how can another one scare you? She hoped the fire would be enough to drive away the giant bats and hungry rictans which prowled the endless night.

  Admiral Hoff turned to her with a smile. The ragged scar on his left cheek, an old rictan scratch, tugged one corner of his mouth down to make that smile crooked. “Now all we need is some barbeque sauce and baked tabers.”

  Destra smiled back. “Don’t forget the beer. I think I left some chilling in the fridge.”

  Hoff laughed and they both inhaled deeply, salivating with the smell of the roasting meat. Destra broke into a coughing fit before she could let out that breath.

  Hoff slapped her on the back. “Are you okay?”

  She nodded, still coughing. The sooty, noxious air on Ritan had done nothing good for their lungs. Most of the time they used improvised masks to filter out the soot and ash in the air, but now they’d lowered their masks for a while to smell the roasting meat and to share a few hours of each other’s company.

  Hoff looked away, back to the fire. He leaned forward to turn the spit and roast the other side of the walker shank. Destra watched with concern as the long, tangled hairs of his beard got too close to the fire and the ends began to curl with the heat. She was about to warn him, but he withdrew before his beard caught fire.

  Destra smiled, thinking how cumbersome that beard must be, but at least Hoff could hide the gauntness of his cheeks. She had nothing to hide behind, and every time she caught a glimpse of her reflection while sponge bathing in the nearby thermal marshes, she shuddered. Both of them were all skin and bones beneath their swaddling layers. Destra looked up from the fire as if to study the distant, steaming marshes along the horizon. It was impossible to see them, but she imagined she could see the bloody red glow of the lumimoss which grew up around the warm, thermal pools. Here, close to the marshes, the air was warmer—between ten and twenty below. They’d long since moved the Sythian fighter which had carried them to Ritan and set it down closer to the marshes, but being close to the marshes was a double-edged sword. Lumimoss, the favored food of the ice walkers, grew in those marshes, and where there were ‘walkers, there were sure to be bats and rictans hunting them.

  The fire hissed with a particularly large drop of fat, and Hoff tensed beside her. He snatched up their coveted rifle in one bony hand and turned to look behind him. Destra turned to look, too, but only their shadows could be seen dancing in the firelight. Hoff set the rifle down again and held his hands up to warm them over the fire. He had his gloves off and drying beside the fire since they’d gotten bloodied when he’d speared their dinner. They couldn’t use their projectile weapons to hunt anymore. Of the two Sythian rifles they’d found aboard the Shell Fighter, only one still had any charge left. The rifles produced small, seeking purple stars which could take down a rictan or a bat with one shot and scarcely the need to aim. Unfortunately, each rifle was only good for about a hundred shots, and in the three years they’d spent on Ritan, they’d used those up fast. Now what charge was left had to be reserved for emergencies only. After all, there was no telling how much longer they’d have to survive on Ritan.

  It had taken Hoff months just to figure out how to send a comm message with the Sythian fighter, and then he’d had to precisely aim his distress call at the nearest gate before it could be passed on. They had no way of knowing if it had been aimed correctly, or if it would be passed on from gate to gate as a distress call should. If there were human survivors anywhere, and the gate relays hadn’t been disabled by the Sythians, then it was theoretically only a matter of time before someone heard their call and came running.

  Theoretically.

  Destra had to remind herself that a delay was to be expected given the distances involved. Hoff estimated it would take six months for their message to get from one end of the galaxy to another while travelling along the space lanes at superluminal speeds. That meant it should have taken a year at most for someone to have heard their call and come running, making their rescue more than a year late. There’s a disheartening thought for you, Destra thought.

  Making matters worse, the Sythians had almost certainly heard their distress call by now. Fortunately, Hoff had been smart enough to not encode their coordinates in the commcast. He’d merely said they were on Ritan—something any human would understand, but which no Sythian would figure out.

  “Dinner’s ready,” Hoff said.

  Destra nodded and waited for him to serve her. Fat dripped, hissing in the flames as Hoff used his hunting knife to cut off a piece of meat for her. He passed her a small sample while the fire continued to hiss.

  And then it growled.

  Hoff’s head snapped up and his gaze met hers. Destra’s hand touched the pistol at her side—it would be good for two or three more shots—and then they both slowly turned to see three pairs of red eyes glinting at the edges of the firelight.

  “Hoi!” Hoff yelled in a voice which trembled from weakness as much as adrenaline. Rising to his feet, he brought the rifle up to his shoulder and said, “Get out of here!”

  More growling.

  The lithe, six-legged rictans wouldn’t be able to see them against the blinding glare of the fire, but they could smell just fine. One of them stepped out of the shadows, its teeth bared and dripping with drool as it snarled at them.

  “Hoff . . .” Destra whispered, her eyes on the wrinkly, hairless black hide of the beast. These rictans, unlike the ones on Roka IV, where Destra had grown up, had developed thick folds of fat to keep them warm, making them appear twice as large as they should.

  The rictan which had stepped forward now took another step toward them, muscles rippling with every step. The other two followed the first into the flickering firelight, and Hoff shook his head. “This pack must be very hungry. I wish I didn’t have to waste the charge, but we need to scare them off.”

  Destra heard the trigger click, and then click again. She turned to Hoff with wide, terrified eyes. “What’s wrong?”

  “Damn thing! It’s not working. Des—use your sidearm!”

  She drew her pistol and aimed. Her arm shivered and shook as she squeezed off a shot at the nearest rictan. A blue-white stun bolt flashed out and hit the beast high on its shoulder. Limbs jittering, it collapsed to the icy ground. The other two hissed and hesitated, unsure whether they should run away or charge. Destra took aim on another one to help them make up their minds.

  Click.

  The pistol beeped and a red light came on at the back. It was empty.

  Destra looked up to see the rictans advancing once more, growling in unison. “Hoff . . .”

  “Des, just shoot them!” he said, fumbling with the alien rifle.

  “Hoff!�
�

  “What?!” He looked up to see her dangling the pistol by its trigger guard to show him the red light.

  “I’m out,” she said.

  Hoff whirled around to find his spear, sending powdered snow hissing into the fire. And then the rictans pounced. Destra felt the sharp bite of teeth as the first one seized her arm. She cried out as it dragged her to the ground. The second one seized her leg, and she screamed again.

  Blinking tears, she saw Hoff loom over her with wild, feral eyes, and his spear held high. He thrust it down into the rictan which was gnawing on her leg. Destra heard the animal yelp and hiss, its paws scrabbling to get away. Hoff pulled the spear out with a grunt to turn it on the next beast, but the uninjured rictan leapt up and knocked Hoff to the ground, sending the spear flying from his hand. He cried out, and then came the rictan’s muffled snarls. Hoff’s sharp cries of pain gave Destra the strength she needed to drag herself along the ground with her good arm and reach the fallen spear. She lifted it in a trembling hand, aimed, and thrust with all her might into the rictan’s belly.

  It threw its head back and howled. Taking the opportunity, Hoff picked up his hunting knife and slit the beast’s throat.

  Suddenly, all was silence but for the crackling of the fire and Hoff’s ragged breathing. Destra dragged herself up to his side and gazed down on his contorted face.

  “Hoff . . .”

  “Help me . . . get it . . . off,” he gasped.

  Together they managed to roll the dead Rictan off his chest. Hoff shuddered and let out a muffled cry as the adrenaline left his body and his injuries began to make themselves known. Destra’s own pain diminished as she took in the state of his injuries. The snow was dark red with blood, and Hoff’s belly glistened blackly with it, but Destra couldn’t tell how much of it was his and how much was the rictan’s.

  She shook her head, and looked around quickly for something to bind his wounds, but there was nothing besides the furs and clothes they were already wearing.

  “Hoff, where are you hurt?”

  He was choking on blood, trying to say something, but unable to get it out. “De . . .”

  “I’m here, she said,” pulling off her gloves to find his hand and squeeze it tight. It felt slick and cold. “I’m here, Hoff. I’m not going anywhere,” she said.

  He nodded once, and then looked up at her with another crooked smile. He winced and opened his mouth to say something, but no words came out. A second later, the determined light in his gray eyes went out, and his crooked smile faded.

  Destra sat there staring at him for a long moment. Her wounds burned; the cold crept; and the firelight flickered and dwindled. All the while her mind screamed and railed impotently against Ritan, and the Sythians who had driven them to it. She felt numb and so very, very cold. Hoff, her only friend and companion for the past three years, had just given his life to save her, and now she was alone.

  Alone on Ritan, waiting for a rescue which would never come.

  * * *

  As Hoff lay dying, his thoughts drifted in lazy circles, seeming to become some separate part of him, which was isolated from the pain and the suffocating feeling that he couldn’t breathe. Above him hovered a friendly face, twisted with fear and anguish, her dark, overgrown hair pasted with sweat and grime in a gritty mess across her forehead. She screamed at him, trying to bring him back from the brink, but Hoff knew it was too late. He’d been here many times before. He was cold; his thoughts were becoming increasingly abstract, time seemed to be racing and crawling to a stop all at the same time. Staring up at the impenetrable black clouds overhead, he had a premonition of the oblivion which was coming for him. Not even a single star shone through to light the way. Hoff tried to say something to Destra, but found himself choking on the words. Something warm had obstructed his airways, so he lay still and stopped trying to fight it. He shut his eyes and disappeared into his thoughts.

  Images came unbidden to his mind’s eye. Images of the earliest things he could remember—until now locked away in some distant corner of his mind. Somehow at the end, the beginning always became clearer. Hoff marveled at it, feeling as though he were just about to solve some great mystery about the universe.

  It was a scene of incredible beauty. In his mind, he saw himself standing on a grassy field, shielding his eyes against the glare of a bright yellow sun. That sun was already high in a clear blue sky. Green grass and bright purple flowers grew rampant on the field where he stood. In the middle distance a wall of dark green trees swept up the sides of a soaring mountain in the background, the peak of which was wreathed in wisps of cloud and covered in thick glacial ice. To his left—on the other side of a shimmering, lavender-colored lake—lay a towering, dome-topped fortress, shining white in the sun. It was the summer palace.

  That scene came straight out of a children’s story book, and Hoff recognized the world immediately. It was the lost world of Origin. Hoff felt his spirits soar with wonder and excitement. . . . He’d actually been to Origin! How had he forgotten that?

  Then the scene was abruptly ripped away. Back was the angry black sky of Ritan, and a blurry image of Destra’s face. Hoff’s heart was beating hard and slow, while his chest burned fiercely. The pain grew more distant as numbness crept in. He forced himself to focus on Destra’s anguished face. She looked so scared, so distraught, and so alone that he wanted to do something to comfort her. Everything was numb, and he found that he couldn’t move, but with one last, monumental effort he managed to force his lips into a brief smile before he drifted away on a tide of utter darkness.

  But that was not the end. A light appeared, distant, but growing nearer and brighter by the second, as if he were racing down a long, dark tunnel. Hoff felt himself being pulled toward the light, faster and faster, until it loomed impossibly bright, and then he heard a familiar voice. “Hello, Hoff,” it said. And in that moment, he understood that he’d been wrong—about everything.

  RESCUE

  Chapter 1

  —THE YEAR 10 AE, CURRENT DAY—

  Ethan Ortane lay staring up at the ceiling of his cell. The lights on the brig had been turned down low for the Defiant’s night cycle, which was already half over. The steady hum of the ship’s reactor should have lulled him to sleep by now, but instead he lay awake on his bunk, listening to the tick-tick-ticking of old fans and the whooshing of barely warm air from the ship’s air cyclers. Based on the number of night cycles since he’d been revealed as a holoskinner impersonating Supreme Overlord Altarian Dominic, Ethan had already spent almost two full days in the brig.

  Not long after he’d been put there, Alara had come to visit her father. Ethan had been surprised and pleased to find that despite the slave chip in her brain which suppressed all her memories and replaced them with memories of a life she’d never lived, she had recognized him. He remembered seeing her come striding in, about to walk straight by his cell until she’d noticed him staring at her. She’d walked up to him and they’d had a brief conversation through the bars of his cell, passing written messages back and forth on her holo pad.

  I remember you. . . . We used to fly together. You were the overlord all this time?

  Ethan nodded.

  You said you loved me. Is that true?

  He hesitated before nodding again.

  What were you doing impersonating the overlord?

  He gestured for her to pass the pad to him through the bars, and she turned her body to shield the movement from the overhead holocorder. When he was done writing his message, he turned the pad so she could see.

  It’s a long story. They’re going to use a probe on me when we get to Obsidian Station, so you’ll find out then—assuming the information isn’t classified.

  Alara’s violet eyes flew wide and she typed, I’m going to get you out.

  He shook his head.

  I love you, Ethan. I don’t remember much, but I do remember that. I can’t leave you here. I’ll find a way.

  Hearing that, he felt
sorry for her and gestured for the pad again. He couldn’t leave her like this—pining away after a man she could barely remember, a man who was going to die for his crimes—so he wrote: You can’t help me now. I know you love me, Kiddie, but you want something I can’t give you. My heart still belongs to my wife. It had been true, but a callous way for him to tell her, as if he were throwing her love in her face and slapping her with it.

  The next thing she wrote was. You’re married??

  And then the door to the brig swished open and a burly corpsman came bustling in with the warden, neither of them looking amused.

  “Hoi, get away from that prisoner!” the corpsman said. “You’re not authorized to speak with him.”

  Alara turned. “I wasn’t speaking with him. I was just trying to decide if I recognized him from somewhere.”

  “And?”

  “It’s just déjà vu. Being chipped makes it hard to decide what’s real . . . and what isn’t.” She glanced back at Ethan as she said that, and he felt her words stab him through the heart, making him wonder if maybe he had more feelings for her than he was willing to admit.

  Now Ethan shook his head, rocking it back and forth on his pillow. It didn’t matter anymore, because it was too late, but he was beginning to think that he’d been a fool. Ten years had passed since he’d even seen his wife, Destra. That had been before the Sythian invasion and the subsequent exodus to Dark Space. The chance that she was even still alive was very slim, so why had he waited for her?