‘But the others . . .’
Peter placed a hand on her shoulder. ‘Marrak destroyed the structure beneath the moon.’
Lucasta almost stopped breathing. ‘Europa’s gone? It can’t!’ She paused. ‘Where is everyone?’
Peter closed his eyes.
‘Tell me they survived. Peter, tell me it’s not just us!’ His lip quivered. She looked around. ‘Where’s Ximma?’
‘Lucasta I—’
‘WHERE’S XIMMA?!’
‘She . . . She didn’t make it out.’
‘You said she would!’
‘Well I was wrong. She’s gone, and so has everyone else. I made a choice. I picked you up and . . . and ran.’
A thunderous crunching sound broke upon the escape pod. Peter twisted towards the controls and keyed in a series of commands, before turning back to Lucasta. She tore at her hair, beyond hysterical.
‘Lucasta, listen to me.’
‘It was my fault,’ she whimpered.
‘No. It was mine. I’m so sorry.’ He took her face with both hands. ‘I have to go. There’s no choice now. We have to disappear.’
‘I’ll stay with you.’
‘No!’ he said. ‘You won’t be safe—not with me! But there is somewhere you will be. You will travel a small distance—to the greatest moon of Saturn—and there upon Titan you will stay, safe but secret. Until you receive my call. We will see each other again, Lucasta.’
She felt a tear roll down her cheek as she gazed up through the crystal screen. Almost beyond the outer crust of ice. What light there was waned rapidly into the dark of space.
‘I have a close friendship with a family on Titan,’ he said. ‘The Berenguers are good people. The general and his wife have a young son, Ruben.’ She looked down. Her home had gone. ‘Lucasta, listen to me! Go to Titan. Join them and watch out for them, especially the boy. I know that with your guidance and teaching there will be hope yet for the Systems. And Humanity.’
‘But not for the Iástrons,’ she said. Peter said nothing, and turned back to the controls. ‘I will do as you say. But my thoughts will always be with you . . . until that day. Until the day I receive your call.’
Peter turned back and held out his youthful hand, stroking her dark, furrowed cheek. He smiled sadly. She’d known him all her years, though she had grown old and grey, whilst he, with his night-black hair and impenetrable skin of radiant paleness, had not aged a moment. He reached behind his head and removed his necklace; it was silver, bearing a small, dark orb at the chain’s end. He handed it to his old student.
‘Well then, L . . . Lucasta,’ he said, ‘this is goodbye. B . . . But only for now. Take it. This necklace is to be cherished. I was given it a long time ago. It protects the bearer in uncertain odds and holds part of the gift I have carried for many years now. Take it and stay safe.’
They emerged from the white and blue-covered moon, drifting far, the giant form of Jupiter suspended below them. She leaned forward, but Peter shoved her back. A crystal screen shot out between them, splitting the pod in two.
‘This is where we part,’ he said.
‘No!’
‘This is goodbye . . .’
‘We can’t!’
‘. . . but only for now.’
A jarring thud sent tremors through the craft. Lucasta fell onto her side, shutting her eyes. When she finally found the courage to open them a small gasp left her lungs. And she watched, silently, as the other half of the craft drifted away. Peter’s palm pressed up against the glass, and she held up hers, watching as he disappeared, far off into the distant, lonely dark.
CHAPTER TWO
50 YEARS LATER
4262 A.C.E
INFINITE STREAKS OF fierce, gusting flame disappeared through the vessel’s viewing portal, replaced by an eternal canvass of blinking astral bodies. As his grand ship achieved its destination, General Ruben Berenguer surveyed the lone planet ahead—shrouded in the violet-hued light of three moons.
Several days it had taken to reach the planet Rotavar. Several days of serenity coaching, unsavoury nutritional supplements, and the most uncomfortable sleep imaginable. But it would be worth it if he found himself able to complete his task. Gazing at the image displayed on the far wall of the viewing platform, however, the General was not entirely convinced the profits outweighed the perils.
Masses of metal rose before him, drifting in unfathomable might and terror. They flowed forward like glistening bodies, the largest of which echoed stars in its mirror-like hull. It moved away from the rest; and from the backbone of that foremost, spiked vessel, the enemy watched with unease. The darkness of humankind had ever been greed and fear, and the worlds of each man fell apart that witnessed the terror of they whose ships blocked the way. For they were of the world Crilshar: dwelling place of the dark House of Dishan and its cruel, endless armies.
‘Push through!’ Ruben told his navigators as he stared into the face of darkness.
‘But General,’ replied the pilots on the large screen before him, transmitting from the centre of the vessel, ‘they are too strong and too many—’
‘I said push through!’
They hesitated again, glaring at the intimidating sight: black, spear-ridden vessels blocking any view of the planet behind.
‘You heard him,’ yelled Ruben’s captain, Ernesta Mendoza. ‘Don’t you dare slow us down!’ She nodded to her general and the pilots obeyed.
His ship continued.
The image on the large screen in front split in two and up flashed the image of a man, his face contorted into a twisted smile. His irises were red, the whites of his eyes not white, but a black deeper than the distant pits of the mining world, Ineri. Black-boned shoulders were disturbingly buttressed by pale, skeletal skin.
‘Who dares pass through a blockade of the Dishan?’ he said with a voice which rattled the walls of the General’s viewing platform. The creature’s tone was sharp, vicious, and entirely unforgiving.
Ruben knew the plan—it was his after all—but the count was short. He had no time to waste bartering words with a vulgar Crilshan. ‘You will abstain from hindering the path of this vessel,’ he said with a resilient authority. ‘This is the Quasar. You have no doubt heard of such a vessel, what it can do, and who commands it.’
The Crilshan scowled, said nothing to counter. Rigid moments passed before the man replied. ‘You may not pass into the Rotavarian System.’
‘Is that so?’
‘What my lord commands me is so.’
Ruben glanced at a nearby screen, charting the positions of the enemy vessels, before staring the envoy deep in the eye. ‘We have you at close range. If you are not prepared to allow us passage then you force me to take your vessel.’
Nervous faces filled the viewing post. Crew members looked to each other with mounting unease. Captain Mendoza stepped forward, her hand hung inches from the General’s relaxed limb.
The Crilshan grimaced again. ‘You yourself will be destroyed!’
Ruben nodded once. ‘If you knew anything of my ship and my crew you would know that we are willing. But know for sure that you will not survive. I promise.’
The screen flickered. The Crilshan moved as though debating the threat with nearby commanders. Dark filled the monitor. Nearby Crilshan vessels began to move aside. The enemy stood down.
* * *
Ruben Berenguer closed his eyes and sighed. His tall demeanour, the tidy cut of his ashen beard, but above all his general disposition, revealed a man quite obviously well-militarised. His slim livery of black and gold was appropriate for a senior commander and a man of his age, and he favoured his uniform over any other attire.
Captain Mendoza, on the other hand, was shorter and somewhat muscular. Her dark and gold armour was just as tight-fitting, but, as she often reminded Ruben, how else would he catch sight of her voluptuous curves?
Having moved from the viewing centre at the front of the ship, the two boarded the Quasar’s
shuttlecraft with a dozen hardened Guard and seated themselves quickly. Burning light soon filled the space all around them. This had better work, he told himself as he listened to the harsh sound of fatigued metal boiling on the outer surface of the craft. Entering the atmosphere of the Accentauriban colony known as Rotavar, to him the exterior threat was of no concern; it was the task at hand which caused him to perspire so furiously.
The Crilshan blockades in the Fourth System were growing. But he had dealt with commanders of such low calibre many times before, the very mention of his name or that of his vessel generally enough to discourage most enemies from picking avoidable clashes, even if that meant allowing him through a hostile line of Crilshan barrage-vessels—illegal as their blockade was. It was a freedom afforded to very few.
Mendoza sighed anxiously beside him and tilted her head back drowsily. ‘Nervous?’ she asked.
Ruben leered at her. ‘Me? No. You?’
‘Oh no . . . definitely not . . . no, no, no. This is exciting. No. What in Titan’s name is there to be nervous about?’
He grinned, swiftly wiping away a creeping bead of sweat from his forehead. Now drifting through the uncommonly thick night-time clouds of the world, the reality was he felt more than a little uneasy, even if he couldn’t reveal it. In due course the misty veil of vapour cleared to reveal a view resembling a cloudless night sky: an enormous, black city boasting a multitude of skyscrapers, shimmering lights emanating brightly from each of them. Peering out of a small porthole he could make out half a dozen cities on the landscape, stretching to the horizon far beyond, each separated by vast, desolate tracts.
‘So this is Rotavar?’ Mendoza said, shrugging her well-built shoulders wearily. ‘I don’t like it.’
* * *
Prickly sweat spilled from every aperture on Ruben’s body as he marched down an exposed runway. His captain nudged close behind and the elite guard trailed farther back still.
‘Furka!’ swore Mendoza, trotting up alongside. ‘It’s blistering hot!’
He chuckled. ‘You should see it in the day. The northern cities of Rotavar get a mere point-three-four discs of rainfall a year. In some areas it takes a decade to fill a single cup.’
She scoffed. ‘Then why are so many people out here?’
‘Don’t forget that Rotavar is a third generation colony. It’s strategically important to the Samosian Queendom.’
‘Evidently not important enough to fight the blockade currently choking it to death,’ she said.
Ruben smiled at her, shaking his head. The sturdy captain had once led a charge of early recruits at a ramshackle legion of Crilshan soldiers, only to find that she was the only one striking. What impressed him most was the fact that Mendoza, having realised she was running alone, continued on. She fought off thirty Crilshans before help arrived, and Ruben promoted her a week later. They had remained close ever since. The point was: although a brave woman, Mendoza could find the energy to moan at the most inconsequential of matters.
They both gazed ahead and stopped. As an undeclared rule, trumpets would sound and mighty drums roll to signal their arrival; but this time it was not so. It was the middle of the night and in the furtive silence the Rotavarian Defence Force had assembled to meet their guests and act as escort.
So much effort, he thought. So much risk and they really have no idea of the true nature of this visit. Pity.
‘Your coil, sir?’ asked one of the allied soldiers as they were halted by a line of emerald-clad men. The General nodded, taking from his waist-strap the traditional blade of his Guard. An electric-casting, hard-coiled weapon, the coilbolt had been used by his people for centuries. His was unique to his position, and it had always been—or at least for as long as he could remember—tradition for the host world to examine and ensure the authenticity of the visitor’s weapon. There were too many biologically-altered impersonators these days; but such a blade, which only worked for whom it was made, could never be replicated.
The soldier handed the coil back to Ruben, who ignited it so as to prove his identity. Sparks of sapphire littered the ground and a low hum hung in the late-night air. ‘Thank you, General,’ the soldier said; he bowed and allowed the entourage to carry on down the runway.
In the distance a man dashed towards them. He too was dressed in light emerald armour and a dark green coat. ‘Rotavan!’ he said, out of breath, saluting the two. Ruben returned the salute. Mendoza managed a grunt and a lacklustre wave. Panting, the soldier said, ‘My name is Chief Aleksey Vasily of the Rotavarian Defence Force. If you’ll permit, we would like to accompany you to your sleeping quarters and see that you settle in.’ Ruben nodded in agreement, but the chief continued: ‘May I say what an honour it is to be in your presence tonight, sir!’
‘No, no, no,’ the General said. ‘The honour is mine, Chief . . .’
‘Aleksey Vasily,’ he repeated, deliberately slow.
‘Okay, greetings are over,’ Mendoza grunted. ‘Where do we sleep?’
Chief Vasily led them all down in steady formation. It took twenty or so minutes to reach their destination—just beside the raised hillside structures that made up the government quarter—and being understandably exhausted, they were left to their own devices for what remained of the early morning.
The unpleasant sound of Mendoza’s snoring in the room next door echoed through as Ruben sat upon his bed. He closed his eyes and activated the circular device on the wall beside him. This particular appliance was connected to the transmitter in the centre of the Rotavarian capital, which in turn relayed the transmission to the Quasar, currently in orbit, and from there through each free world in the occupied Systems of humanity. The Crilshan forces had taken control of all orbiting Rotavarian satellites and the blockade had been jamming—and continued to prevent—any communication leaving the colony through all such means.
Several minutes passed while he sat in silence. Then without warning the projector, also positioned upon the wall, cast an image into the middle of the room and the beautiful face of his niece was at once smiling before him.
‘Anna, my dear,’ he said, almost welling up. ‘How are you?’
‘Relieved, you silly old man!’ she said. ‘I’ve been waiting by the image-link for hours, worried to sickness! Are you there now? Did you pass the blockade?’ She was sat on her bed in a pale nightgown, her knees tucked tightly into her chest.
‘We passed the blockade.’
‘How?’ she asked.
‘The same way I always pass, my love. Where’s your sister?’
‘In her workshop, as usual,’ she said, sweeping long auburn tresses over her ears. ‘Busy working on her silly pet.’
Ruben laughed and stole a moment to look upon Anna’s heart-rending face. Guilt flushed through him. Having spent so much of his niece’s childhood away among the Systems, fighting and aiding other worlds, he knew there was so much he had missed. Anna hadn’t wanted him to go to Rotavar this time either, and he knew he had his priorities very wrong, but he could not refuse an order from the higher power on his home. He did not have a choice. Titan needed him.
‘How will you return?’ Anna asked. ‘Surely the Crilshans won’t let you pass again.’
‘If they know what is best for them, they will,’ he said. ‘What worries me is tomorrow. I don’t even like speaking to the mob of hungry politicians we have on Titan, never mind other worlders.’
‘Don’t be silly,’ she said. ‘Nothing scares you.’
‘I wish that were so.’
‘You’ll be fine.’ She smiled. ‘Just speak from your heart.’
‘I will.’
A knock sounded on his bedroom door. Was it time already? He looked back at his niece’s image.
‘I wish I could be there with you,’ she said.
Another knock. Ruben stood. ‘So do I, Anna. Focus on your studies at the Institute and soon enough you will be. Soon enough.’
CHAPTER THREE
RUBEN STARED AT a life-si
ze image of himself, hovering frozen in the middle of the darkened room. He backed up and sat in his chair, positioned in front of a curved metal desk. On the other side sat a second man, his outline only visible through the diminishing glow from the skylight overhead. The motionless duplicate began to move, and stepped up to a pixelated podium.
‘We have been through much, Rotavar and Titan,’ spoke Ruben’s copy. ‘Yet, through all the trials the Four Systems have thrown our way, we have endured . . . and more, we have thrived!’
The sound of cheering and rounds of applause filled the dark room. The image of the General smiled and said, ‘I still remember my first visit to this beautiful world. My father brought me here as a child, and I recall being amazed at the blueness of the sky . . . the softness of the sand in the streets. Unfathomable splendour is what called me back here.’
Another applause of approval. ‘Two-thousand years ago man ventured out into the stars, hungry for knowledge and enlightenment. But what they found was war . . . and conflict. No peace. The unity now known so far away on Earth is not shared with us—their colonial friends. But I promise you, it soon will be. Before long, we too will have peace.
‘However, there is much we have all yet to do. Remaining steadfast is one of them. And I refuse to lie to you: hard times are ahead. I am sure you are all aware of the tribulations occurring within the Systemal Alignment at this very moment. I am here today, proudly, to say that no matter how hard times become, Rotavar and Titan will always remain the closest of allies, especially in these times of difficulty. Titan is forever your friend and will always stand by you—’ The image stopped dead.
‘And we know the rest,’ said the man behind the desk. Prime Minister Edgar Mokrikov leaned forward and touched the table. The window-shutters lifted, the lights in the room went on, and the real Ruben Berenguer twisted in his seat, watched the image of himself disappear, and nodded his head. ‘They still eat out of your very palm,’ Mokrikov said with a smirk. ‘If only I could have them gorge on my words, being prime minister would be much more straightforward.’
‘Listen to them,’ Ruben said, ‘and they just might.’
Mokrikov laughed, adjusted his long silken suit, cobalt blue. ‘Do you know what they call you here? The Lone General. Tall and kingly. Standing there with his proud bearing and honourable message. We both know the purpose of your visit.’