“I don’t know much,” Vurgaiqaunx began, “and what little I do know about them is only because they contracted me for a… certain task.”
My virtual eyebrows climbed at that one. “Wait, you’ve actually been in contact with the Brotherhood?” I said in surprise. “What was the job?”
“They wanted information,” he explained, making a gesture that was probably the equivalent of a jittery shrug, “so I provided it to them. That was all.”
Anything they were interested in had my full attention. “And what was the information?” I pressed him.
His eyestalks started going wild again. “Please, you have no idea what they’re capable of,” he whimpered.
“I might surprise you,” I demurred. “What did they want to know?”
Vurgaiqaunx looked about furtively, as if worried they might overhear. “They wanted to know about the Wi’aaz,” he answered, just above a whisper.
That one blindsided me. “The Wi’aaz? Are you certain?”
“Of course I’m certain!” he hissed. “Do you think I would confuse something like that?”
Screensaver me, the image my new friend saw on his monitor, adopted a bland expression, but elsewhere my mind was racing. The Wi’aaz were an unusually exotic race, located in a single system far off the beaten path. They’d undergone extensive genetic manipulation over the millennia that allowed them to survive in hard vacuum without a suit for hours at a time. They’d modified their lungs to act as a pressurized air tank, as well as hardening their skin to shrug off most solar radiation. The Wi’aaz system was filled with space habitats and hollowed out asteroids as they had moved off their homeworld en masse, preferring to live in space itself. They’re reclusive to a fault, actively shunning most overtures sent their way. They bothered no one, and no one bothered them in return. So why?
“What did they want from you?” I pressed him.
“An item had come up for sale at one of the more exclusive auction firms,” he explained. “Someone contacted me anonymously to secure it.”
“What sort of item?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” he answered, putting his hands up in defense as I scowled. “It is true, I swear it! Even the seller did not know what it was. They listed it as an archaeological artifact, age and provenance unknown.”
There was only one reason I could think of why the Brotherhood would be interested in an ancient artifact. Given their involvement with the Katabasis mission, it could only mean that it dated back to the Precursors, almost a billion years ago. If that was the case, and they believed it to be the key that unlocked their homeworld…
“And did you purchase it for them?” I prodded; even more certain I was on the right trail.
“No,” he replied, “I never had the chance. The Troika stepped in and shut the sale down, before confiscating it for themselves.”
Of course they did, I thought, more certain than ever my theory was correct. The Troika wanted that world bad, bad enough to kill for. They’d been searching for a way in for millennia, ruthlessly eliminating the competition along the way. It was the reason I’d assumed the Katabasis murders were at their orders, given what I’d witnessed aboard the Gyrfalcon mission, forty years later. They were convinced the world was a treasure trove, filled with ancient and powerful technology that would make their position impregnable forever.
What they feared was someone else getting there first.
No one knew much about the Precursors, not even the Oivu, the galaxy’s preeminent merchants, so it didn’t surprise me that there might still be devices and relics of theirs still floating around. If they were still looking for a way past the powerful Guardian that blocked all entrances, searching the cosmos for clues made perfect sense. Maybe somewhere out there was the key that opened the door.
“So what happened next?” I continued. “They couldn’t have been happy about losing the artifact.”
“They wanted me to discover how it was being transported, and where,” he said nervously. “It took much digging, but I pinpointed the shipment’s location just before it lifted.” Vurgaiqaunx shuddered at the memory. “I wish by all that is sacred I hadn’t.”
I raised an eyebrow at that. “Why?” I asked, suddenly curious.
He looked me dead in the eye. “Because that ship was lost, with all hands,” he said hoarsely.
I slowly nodded in realization. “You think the Brotherhood was responsible,” I said at last.
“And you do not?” he hissed. “You would not be here if that were so.”
He was right; I did believe it. It fit their pattern all too well. “Was that your last communication with them?” I wondered aloud.
“No,” he informed me, more shaken than ever. “They contacted me one last time, weeks later, and sent me a single image.” Once again, his desperate eyes found my virtual ones. “It was a photo of a ship, taken somewhere in the depths of space, its hull breached on multiple decks.” I must have looked distracted, as he leaned into the camera until his face filled my view. “They attacked the Troika!” he said shrilly, on the verge of hysteria. “No one does that! Only a madman would take such a risk, knowing full well their promise of retribution.”
“In fact, there’s an Alliance building and growing as we speak that dares to stand up to them,” I pointed out somewhat smugly.
“The Alliance,” he sneered. “Mark my words, the Troika will grind them into dust soon enough, just as they have those who have gone before. They are nothing.” He shuddered once more and looked away. “What makes the Brotherhood of Shadows so dangerous is that they fear no one, not even the Troika itself. They hide in anonymity and can strike anywhere. Until their final missive I did not even know their name, and I wish now they had never told me.”
Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
“An odd sentiment for an information broker,” I mused.
“Fool,” he snapped, “are you really so obtuse? As long as they remained anonymous, I was safe. There was nothing I could tell those inquiring after them… those like you… for I knew nothing about them. That anonymity protected me, like a shield.” He shuddered yet again, looking fearfully over his shoulder. “By telling me their name they have marked me, made me complicit in their crimes… and one day they will decide I am a loose thread that must be cut. I have deleted every bit of data that even remotely implicates them, and still it is not enough! One day they will send someone for me, no matter how carefully I tread, and that will be the end.” He glared back at me once more. “Imagine living under the sentence of death, day after day after day.”
His confession rocked me back on my heels. I didn’t doubt Vurgaiqaunx’s words for even an instant, not with the raw terror that bled out behind them. He was a haunted, hunted creature, and part of me pitied him.
Not enough to swap places, of course.
“And that’s all you know?” I asked gently.
“That is all,” he confirmed. “Now go. You have what you came for, and I kept my end of the bargain. Leave me be and allow me the dignity to live out the time I have left before they kill me in peace.”
There was nothing I could say to that. I silently withdrew the way I’d come, leaving him to wallow in his misery, contemplating what I’d just learned while riding the data streams back to the spaceport.
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I opened my file once more, pursuing the names as I hitched a ride on a Bamidh merchant vessel. Chikere had been the sole Protean representative on the Katabasis mission, just as Samara had been on mine. Her records were sparse, which didn’t surprise me. The Protean Clan has always been secretive, though less so as of late since their Troika connection has come to light. I don’t know what will become of them. Will they reform into something new, or is this the end of their clan? Even for someone with my skills, the answer to that question is shrouded in mystery.
At first glance, I assumed she’d been another Wetworks assassin like Samara, but on sober reflection, I realized that made absolutely no sense. If that had been the case, when Maggie’s Master had started systematically murdering the rest of the crew, she would have easily dispatched him, had she possessed those skills. The Tinker Daniel Schnoebelen had been a middle-aged man with no combat skills to speak of. He wasn’t a warrior, far from it, and no match for someone trained in the deadly arts despite his murderous compulsion. Maggie’s description of her final confrontation with her Master had illustrated the image of a man barely holding on, as alien coercion turned him into a twitching, gibbering puppet… an easy target for a trained assassin.
Instead, I suspect she was likely an intelligence operative, performing much the same role as I do myself. Depending on her skill set, it would be quite conceivable for her to avoid confrontation with the lethal yet unstable Tinker. The Proteans had likely sent her to gather as much information as possible and then brief her superiors upon her return.
I really wish I had more data on her. I’d send a request, but given the current state of the Protean Clan…
Instead, I flipped forward to her death. Chikere died fifteen years ago, from “Malignant Apoptosis”. I had to look that one up. As it turns out, Apoptosis describes the natural deaths of cells. All cells live for a certain period and then are programmed to die based on their individual DNA. Millions of your own cells are dying as we speak. It’s nothing to concern yourself over, as millions more are being born to replace them. Every few years, your body will completely supplant every living cell with brand new ones, ensuring your continued health.
Malignant Apoptosis is a vastly different animal. It’s when cells mutate, dividing and dying at an accelerated rate. It’s cancer’s first cousin, but instead of living forever as some nightmarish version of its programming, it instead triggers a cascade effect that sweeps through the body like a tsunami, sending billions of cells to an early grave, in much the same way a lethal dose of radiation will. From what I’ve gleaned from my studies, it’s an ugly way to die.
In recent months additional information has come to light from the Proteans, little of it flattering. We’ve learned just how steep the rejection rate is for their treatments, far higher than was ever reported. It’s not quite playing Russian Roulette but considering some of the mutations and rejection traumas we’ve uncovered, it’s not something I’d have ever undergone. Given the extensive therapies involved in their treatments, it’s no wonder that Malignant Apoptosis is so common among their rejects.
Only here’s the problem; Chikere wasn’t a reject. She’d survived for over thirty years after her treatments, and it wasn’t until the very end that there were any signs of trouble. Which brings me to my next problem…
If a Protean’s treatment fails, it generally does so within the first year. After that, the rate drops off sharply, according to my research, enough so that if they’re still alive and healthy after two years, they’re pronounced a success. Does that mean it’s impossible to develop Malignant Apoptosis three decades later? No, of course not. Nothing’s impossible… but the odds are incredibly low.
So low, in fact, that when put together with the other deaths, I can only wonder what took us so long to see the pattern.
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Who is the Brotherhood of Shadows?
My mind keeps returning to that question, with no resolution. How have they lasted as long as they have under the Troika’s rule, without being betrayed? Where did they learn of the Precursors and their homeworld?
How close are they to finding it?
Those questions haunt me, taunting me. If I still needed to sleep, it would be completely disrupted. I feel as if the answer is right there, staring me in the face, only I can’t see it. I’ve run a hundred scenarios in the simulations, using various data points while hoping to find an answer there, but that too mocks my efforts. I feel that if I could solve the How, the rest would flow like water, but…
I sat up like a shot, leaping to my feet as the answer came to me.
How did they learn of the Precursors?
To the best of my knowledge, there were only two original sources: the Troika, who had their sticky fingers in every single pie in the galaxy, and the Oivu, who knew just about everything and sold it at a healthy markup. Both ancient and powerful, both committed (until recently, at least) to giving one another a wide berth. Assuming I’m correct, from which of the two would they have learned the secret?
The Troika I dismissed almost immediately. They shared information with no one, guarding it jealously, quick to crush any species that might conceivably threaten them in the nebulous future, while falsely promising solidarity among themselves. Only an idiot would believe for a second they’d learn anything useful from them. I couldn’t even imagine a scenario where the Troika gave up that data without one hell of a fight, and any fight with them, outside of the Alliance, would be both short-lived and extremely painful. I just couldn’t see it.
The Oivu, on the other hand, would gladly sell to anyone offering enough coin for the secret, with the only problem there being that they weren’t cheap. On the Gyrfalcon mission, it had cost us the knowledge that the Tu’udh’hizh’ak were a race of telepaths, hiding their gifts behind their servitor race, the Chell. It’s possible that we overpaid, but somehow, I doubted it.
We could ask the Oivu easily enough, and they’d gladly tell us… for a price. I suspected that paying it would bankrupt the Avatar Clan, or at the very least leave the cupboards bare. Still, it was possible.
All right, then. Assuming the Brotherhood had learned of the Precursors via the Oivu, that at least was a place to start. They must have coughed up one hell of a fee, just as we had, and moving that kind of weight around, whether it be credits, goods, or knowledge, leaves a trail.
Find that trail, and we’re halfway there.