Darenius stared, half-blinded by the intense light that burned a humanoid shadow into his retinas. But he dared not look away from that haloed figure as voices echoed through the room. They spoke all at once, in a hundred languages he could not understand, and in the Imperial Trade-Tongue.
“You maniacs! You blew it up,” a man wailed! “God damn you all to hell!” The voice rattled in his ears, charged with emotion – dread, grief, and a wailing sense of powerlessness that sat like a stone in his chest.
“I’ve seen things you people wouldn’t believe. Attack ships on fire off the shoulder of Orion,” another voice monologued, drawn flat with palpable mortality. The purple-blue fairy-light spun and glittered, and it left impressions of unfamiliar constellations and of shapes that smoldered in the black. “I watched C-beams glitter in the dark near the Tannhäuser Gate.”
Something in the imagined blackness shimmered, and one of the fairy-light shapes was ripped apart into burning pieces. “They fell. They fell as pebbles fall down wells. They were scattered as jackstones are scattered from a gigantic throw.”
All the while, the silhouette stood. Frozen as the stink of burning flesh and hair began to fill the room.
“It can’t be bargained with. It can’t be reasoned with,” yet another voice implored. Its words felt almost pleading as if it were desperate to convince Darenius that what it said was true. “It doesn’t feel pity, or remorse, or fear. And it absolutely will not stop. Ever!”
Finally, the silhouette spoke. “So that’s how it is,” the Human said, its voice echoed a hundred times in a hundred languages. “Then it seems our end is always self-made.” Its voice echoed with pain and horror. The depths of sorrow swallowed him. “Twenty years, all for nothing.”
It hurt Darenius’ head to try to listen to it, but the pain in his leg was forgotten. If he could have dared to look away from that burning light, he might have noticed the ribbons of light that danced around the wound in his leg.
He couldn’t look away as the halo of light finally died. He could vaguely hear the fusion reactors and their turbines as they performed an emergency shut down many floors below them. Darenius blinked his eyes, the purple-black afterimage took up his entire vision – perhaps permanently damaged. But eventually, his vision cleared enough, and he looked back at the Human.
No, there was no Human there anymore, only a charred corpse.
Its eyes, once so defiant – as if by nature it dared those it looked upon to witness it – were now smoldering pits in a charred skull. Hair and skin were charred red and black and burned into a stinking purple smoke. The head toppled forward on the charred flesh of its throat, and the flesh tore and cracked as the weight of the head dragged it down.
The crown shattered as it hit the floor, held together by a putty of boiled brain matter and cooked scalp. No spine connected it to the rest of the corpse.
The rest of the corpse soon followed, the legs stiff and nothing to maintain its precarious balance. A chasm of smoldering flesh split the carcass in two, though the entire rear of the body looked like it had been pulled from a fire. A pool of slag was all that was left of the spine, barely enough to hold the upper and lower halves of the Human’s corpse together.
Darenius sagged, equal parts relief and exhaustion.
Dead. The Human was killed. And just like the first time the army scientists had tried to take one of the Humans apart, its spine had burst into a fire so bright and hot that it had turned the rigid bones into ash. It was more than enough to destroy the metallic implants.
He almost wanted to laugh: Humans even died with spite.
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“Sir, orbital traffic is moving,” a sensor specialist barked over the hum of the INV Manifest Destiny’s various systems. Per the Captain’s orders, the sensor specialists and astrogation officers had begun to carefully monitor all activity around the station.
The Captain sat against the opposite wall of the Tactical Pilot’s station, where he could look directly up and see any other station in the hexagonal module. In microgravity, no surface was left unused – every wall had a purpose. The Sensors, Communications, Astrogation, and Electronic Warfare stations took up the other four walls of the hexagon. The remaining two walls that enclosed the densely packed command module housed the door and a large holographic display.
From the Captain’s station, the display’s carefully calibrated screen could present the illusion that the information it displayed extended into and beyond the room. The effect became increasingly broken the farther from the Captain’s station an observer got. Still, its effect allowed the person seated at the Captain’s station a commanding view of local space around the ship.
With several keypresses, the Captain changed the holographic display. The view zoomed in, the tiny triangles and squares that had represented every single ship in orbit around the ring-shaped station zoomed past his vision. In a single moment, the small symbols were replaced with detailed silhouettes of the ships within several hundred kilometers of the INV Manifest Destiny.
One hundred kilometers was not far in orbital terms, and the INV Manifest Destiny was capable of responding instantly to anything within eighty kilometers. Determining the effective range of a weapon in orbital combat was complex, taking into account the target’s delta-V and acceleration profiles and things like bullet travel time or laser diffraction.
Every ship around Torus Terminal was civilian grade: slower, low power thrusters, and only what armor was necessary to stop micro-meteors – certainly not enough to stop a stream of 3-millimeter shells from the Manifest Destiny’s sniper coil guns.
No one in their right mind would deviate from their flight plan while the INV Manifest Destiny was on watch. Which made it extremely unexpected when so many of them began to change course.
“All vessels be aware, an emergency has been declared. New flight paths are being directed to you now,” the tower controller’s voice stressed.
“Get me more information,” the Captain ordered.
The communications officer listened carefully to his headset. “An ice hauler is reporting drive malfunction, sir. It’s an old nuclear-torch drive, the throttle is stuck open.”
The Captain adjusted his view until he could see the ship in question, quickly changing course as its massive engines fired. Several other ships were already changing course, attempting to intercept the ship to render aid.
Torch ships were brute force ships, virtually just a fusion reactor with a hole punched on one side of its magnetic torus. It produced power and thrust in spades using a relatively small amount of material: the same principle that powered the Manifest Destiny’s interstellar drive. Such ships were fast. They accelerated continually through their entire mission – accelerating toward their target, and then flipping at the halfway point to slow.
“Sir, that plume is pointed at the station,” one of the sensor specialists interjected. An instant later, their sensor data was pushed into his view. A massive false-color orange cone of hot, radioactive gas accelerated toward the distant ring-shaped station. After a moment, it was clear the cone was growing and would overlap a large portion of one side of the ring. Several flashing icons appeared where the cone was predicted to intersect with the station. “Tower informs us that there are workers out there, repairing one of the laser reflectors. If that plume hits them before they can get to shelter, sir …”
The Captain hissed out his displeasure. To abandon their overwatch was risky, but he wouldn’t be able to sleep if he did nothing. “Put us on low alert, we’re moving! I want us on an intercept course with that plume. Retract weapons and point our nose at them; our armor can handle it. We’ll put as much of the station as we can in our shadow,” he commanded.
The Manifest Destiny shivered, and a phantom weight overcame the occupants of the command deck as his orders were carried out. The corvette’s chemical engines fired, and a subtle buzz of the low alert echoed through the halls over the hum of the warship’s systems. There was a lurch as the ship spun, and the Captain felt as the weapons along the armored hull retracted into their bays, and blast shields lowered into place.
“Forty minutes,” the astrogation officer announced. “We’ll make it in time.” The officer’s estimates appeared on display as a glowing, arced line that intercepted with a ghostly projection of the orange plume.
Slowly, as they accelerated into their intercept and the communications officer explained to the station what they planned to do, the Captain relaxed. It seemed that so much of his work involved long stints of waiting, only for moments of panic to perforate the boredom. But now the situation was handled, and his crew knew their roles and could do it well.
Forty minutes later, almost to the half-second, the ship shuddered as it changed course again. A moment later, the ship began to groan as the armor was stressed. A hot plume of radioactive gas battered at the Manifest Destiny’s armor, impacting it and heating the layered armor. He wasn’t worried; it would take far more than an engine plume at this distance to truly harm the Manifest Destiny’s protective shell.
The civilian grade station – and the pressure-suited workers that scrambled across the surface toward shelter – however, would not fare so well under a similar assault. Even though it was even farther away than the Manifest Destiny, the workers were basically naked. The plasma would have cooled by then, probably, but the accelerated particles would punch straight through a pressure suit and wreak havoc on a cellular level. Even the surface equipment might be damaged.
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The Captain’s holographic display fuzzed slightly. The many icons went dim to indicate that the information they represented had not been updated in a significant amount of time. “Sensors?” he asked.
“Retracted, sir,” the sensor specialist replied. “There wouldn’t be anything to see anyway, that plume is too bright,” he groused.
“Radio is noisy, too, but we still have a line to the station,” the communications officer interjected. “They’re keeping us informed,” he assured him.
“What’s the ETA on those ships that went to assist the torch?” the Captain asked.
“Not long now,” the communications officer reported. “They’re starting their intercept, and the torch’s crew are trying to manually override the throttle.”
The Captain sat back and watched the tactical pilot as they caressed the controls. There was little to do now but wait, or maybe start on the paperwork that he would need to fill out about this incident. And repair requests, the armor would be fine, but the outer layers would be compromised by the heat. They were thin, meant to break up micro-meteors and bullets into plasma and dust before hitting the actual armor beneath.
He spent several minutes considering leaving to do his paperwork, it irked him to leave the chair during an incident, but these sorts of accidents were practically routine. He was of half a mind to lower the readiness level despite protocol.
But then the ship rocked.
“Rear docking ring is being engaged!” the sensor specialist shouted.
The tactical pilot cursed and attempted to compensate for the unexpected motion. And the Captain felt dread wash over him. It had been timed perfectly with the accident, the only moment they would have been virtually blind. There was only one possibility.
“Prepare to repel boarders!” the Captain commanded through a veneer of calm.
It was ridiculous, impossible, and yet the alarms began. Several officers unbuckled and left their seats, and they pushed off towards a locker near the entrance. The Captain followed them, his mind a race of thoughts.
The Human had control over a torch ship and at least one shuttle – possibly heavily modified to withstand the torch plume to make their approach. Owning a ship, or having the kind of influence to command one, was not impossible for a citizen of the Empire – but that would be considering generations of planning and collecting money and power. The creature didn’t even have a civil status, and it had somehow managed it in a few years? And that wasn’t even considering the Orbital Control Tower. How could anything less than an invading force gain control of that?
The Inquisitor had tried to warn the Captain about his prey, but the Captain had dismissed it. Clearly, the creature was a threat. Otherwise, it couldn’t have escaped Imperial custody and wouldn’t be worth the attention of the Inquisition. But he hadn’t even considered the possibility that he would be steering his ship into a trap.
Leaving only the communications officer and the tactical pilot in place, the rest of the crew moved to the lockers in the module. With the Captain’s access codes, the safe gave up its charge: concussion grenades, automatic pistols, and frangible rounds. Shrapnel was not desired, but a concussion grenade could stun and even kill in the enclosed spaces of a ship quickly enough. Other lockers in the ship would have armor and helmets, but the command module only had goggles and filtered masks.
Ironically, dust and smoke would be as much a danger as the bullets and grenades would. Typically, the ship’s robust life support systems would create drafts to pull in dust and smoke particles to be filtered out of the air. But during a firefight, the system would not be able to keep up, and the smoke and dust would not settle on its own in free fall. Such particles could blind a person if they made their way into their eyes. If the particles were big enough, the damage they caused could be permanent.
As the officers slipped the masks and goggled over their heads, a heavily accented voice rattled through the ship. “Attention, Imperials! Today you face the elite of the General. We have been forged in blood and blessed in the Singer’s light. Surrender, and you may live to die another day.”
The Captain growled under his breath. The audacity of these pirates was insanity. No Imperial vessel had ever been successfully boarded, certainly not during peacetime, and his vessel would not be the first. The Captain floated back toward his command chair and slammed his fist down on the intercom.
“The Imperial Navy does not negotiate with terrorists,” he growled into it, his voice echoed through the ship.
For a moment, there was silence, and the Captain wondered if he’d somehow scared them off. But then the voice returned with deadly calm, all the bluster of ‘blessings’ and ‘elites’ gone. What they said next was not a threat. It was a promise of violence.
“So be it.”
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Becoming alive was a strange mixture of waking and drowning.
Lungs burned as the fluid they were immersed in became oxygen-deficient, and the heart fluttered as it urged the body into motion. A hand – her hand – small and uncalloused, slammed forward against an invisible barrier. Her legs kicked, tangled in a braid of tubes and wires that ripped free from the flesh they’d taken root in a millennia ago. The fluid perforated with bubbles of other liquids, unable to mix even with the struggling of the body suspended within.
Mercifully, the barrier moved. It folded away at the touch, and the fluid frothed out of the seam as it lifted away. The liquid splashed into the cold air, a transparent and viscous mixture perforated with bubbles of blood and other fluids.
She tumbled out onto her hands and knees. She heaved and coughed, doubled over as the heavy liquid drained from her lungs and stomach. She shivered as the liquid’s warmth fled, and left her naked to the air.
Rainfall filled her ears as the coughing and retching finally came to a whimpering stop. She was oddly drawn to the sound, and though she hadn’t even opened her eyes yet, she knew where it was.
She coughed weakly as she sucked in a breath and struggled to her feet, both for the first time. She wobbled on unfamiliar knees but soon took her first steps. Her bare feet stepped into water that barely covered her toes, and she gasped as the water sprayed her skin. The rain was warm, and the water around her feet was warm like a spring. She sighed as the tension in her body melted away, massaged by the falling water and its warmth.
The liquid, unable to mix with the water, washed away. The bleeding stopped from where tubes and wires had ripped free from her body, and that also washed away. Finally, clean and refreshed, she opened her eyes to a golden light.
“Noli Timere,” a voice echoed like thunder through the dim halls.
She smiled and felt pride blossom in her chest. “We did it,” she coughed in a hoarse, never before used voice.
She stood in the warm rain and stared up toward the sunset-gold light. Steel beams crisscrossed in an almost-organic pattern above her, and the light shone through. She could almost convince herself that she was standing in a forest at sunset in the summer rain.
The moment passed, however, as she realized how quiet it was. She turned away from the light and the water, to the rows of other pods that lined the strange chamber.
Why were they dark? Shouldn’t they all be waking? Shouldn’t there be a crowd of newborns standing beside her, exultant, full of life? There were bodies in the pods. She could read the blue-purple fairy-light that glowed at her approach: they were healthy, ready to be born. So why weren’t they?
Then she heard it, the telltale hiss of released seals. She spun toward the sound and spotted the opening pod immediately. She burst into a sprint on wobbly legs, soon exhausted but quickly arriving at the opening pod. A man coughed and heaved in front of it. Heavy fluid flowed from the pod and off his back into the pool at the center of the hall.
Finally, he took a shuddering breath, and anticipation bloomed in her. She wondered what she would say to him? What would he say?
But then he screamed and kept screaming.
She jumped as he clutched at himself, apparently unaware as his fingernails dug into his skin and dragged bleeding furrows into his face. She jumped forward as she realized what he was doing to himself, heedless that they were both nude as babes, and wrapped her arms around him. He struggled as she pinned his arms against his chest. When he kicked and writhed, she was forced to wrap her legs around his and squeeze as hard as she could.
The massive, slick fluid of the pod made it challenging to keep her grip, but eventually, his struggling faded. His screams died in a whimper. When he finally spoke, the first Human words she heard made her heart ache.
“There’s no point to any of it at all,” he sobbed. “So much blood. So much pain. What’s the point?”
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The marines surged through the airlock, with Turin’eh and Kanen’eh at their head. The gunfire started soon after that. Once they were through, the other crew worked to fortify their retreat with barriers and entrenched weapons. They were no warriors, not like the General’s marines, but they didn’t need to be to turn their shuttle into a fort. And with the doors jammed open, the other ship would not attempt to force an undocking – not unless they were willing to destroy their cold engines that were so very close to the shuttle.
Sheh’teh stayed behind as well.
The light of God had faded some time ago, and Sheh’teh had grit her teeth and got to work rather than go to the sobbing Human. She left the Singer in her straps to cry, and perhaps it would be better to allow her some time to process what she’d seen. Instead, Sheh’teh had prepared the warriors. It had taken all of her strength, all of her faith to ignore the Singer.
Her crying was so familiar. It hurt her in a way she’d almost forgotten, a wound more than twenty years old. But finally, with the soldiers on their way, she gave in to her maternal urges and jumped toward the Singer.
She floated through the not-fall and ‘landed’ softly over the Singer’s seat. One set of hands held her steady while the other pair gently pulled the Singer from her harness. And just like one of her kits, the Singer curled against Sheh’teh’s chest. Her tears pooled over her eyes strangely in the not-fall, only breaking away to float as wobbling bubbles on occasion.
Sheh’teh felt a small conflict about comforting a Human in such a way. They were noble and enduring beings – not children. But it was clear the Singer was in pain, not of the body, but perhaps of the soul. And as strong fingers clutched at the fur of her breast, and the sobbing slowly came to an end, she knew that she’d decided correctly.
“They’re all dead, Sheh’teh,” the Singer croaked into Sheh’teh’s chest. “It wasn’t even our fault, not really. But it doesn’t matter, none of it matters anymore. They hate us, Sheh’teh,” she whispered, and the sobs started again. “They hate us.”
Sheh’teh shivered despite herself and held the Human tighter.
When the light of God had shone through the Singer, she’d sung for them. Music, unlike anything Sheh’teh had heard before, had manifested around the Singer. But the things she sang about had left Sheh’teh haunted. Somehow she understood the music, though she was certain it had been in no language she had ever spoken. The words had wormed their way into her brain nonetheless.
Fire falling from the sky like rain. Ashes like snow. A sun turned black. And death. Death but no blood, hardly any blood. Only glass and scattered stones. And those terrible words:
Noli timere.