“What happened?” Ballis’s eye twitched as he looked from one person to the next.
Oromgol shook his head. The Keazil kept both her gaze and her gun trained on the warmech. Smoke began to pour out of it.
A cocky grin spread across Aiben’s face. “At first, all I could think of was how we were going to be sliced to pieces by that thing. Then it hit me. In all the years Lev-9 and Oand-ib had known each other, they must have cyberlinked at some time or other. I didn’t know if Lev-9’s systems were compatible with my nanomechs’ linking protocols, though. I let them scan for Lev’s signal and hoped he hadn’t encrypted it. When the nanomechs found it, they were able to connect. I stabilized Lev and initiated system repairs using standard cybermancer command interfaces.”
“I was able to break the encryption algorithms of the warmech and jam the up-link to its controller as you’d asked,” Lev-9 and Aiben said simultaneously.
“Sorry,” Aiben muttered. “There’s still a residual link.”
Lev-9 hauled himself off the ground. His cranial band sparked back to life.
Ballis nodded his approval, passionate cobalt eyes looking into Aiben’s with newfound admiration. He clapped the young man on the back. The Keazil and Oromgol exchanged curious glances with one another.
“Aiben is a cybermancer,” Ballis announced like a proud father to the two bewildered Mora Bentians. “In the Seven Guilds we pay people like him to cyberlink us through hypertransit. If the connections are right, they can also link with other machines and data systems. They even talk to each other that way as I explained earlier to Oromgol.”
“This is because of the small machines in your body?” Oromgol looked at Aiben.
“Yes,” Aiben nodded.
“Small machines?” The Keazil frowned, knowing nothing of Oromgol’s earlier exchange with Ballis. Oromgol quickly explained to her thoughts his conversation with Ballis.
Aiben squinted at the mechanoid. “Why didn’t you ever tell me about your cyberlink?”
“You never asked. Nevertheless, it was good I took the precaution not to encrypt my signal while we were together.”
Aiben thought the mechanoid would have looked smug, if he could have.
***
Several hundred miles from the remains of the charred warmech, Gormy Bonebender ripped off his telerobotic controllers in a fit of rage and flung them over the side of his hoverflyer. They skipped a few times across the treetops and then sank into the sea of leaves and branches.
CHAPTER 14
In the approximate center of the Zenzani Protectorate, a rocky, barren planet swung its way through space around a large yellow ball of fire. Morgoloth had the miserable distinction of being the first planet Magron Orcris had conquered. Although his invasion force had consisted of no more than three thousand loyal followers from the Zenzani homeworld, within several weeks, their fanatical vengeance had subjugated the entire population of two hundred thousand colonists.
Innocent of Zenzani oppression themselves, the inhabitants of Morgoloth had been at a serious disadvantage, having lost the ability to support their technology and defend themselves over several decades of hard, isolated colonial life. Magron celebrated his first victory by making Morgoloth the base from which he would build the Protectorate.
He gave the conquered people the privilege of building his victory citadel right where their main colonial city had once stood. The gargantuan structure now stretched over a mile in each direction, its obsidian stone pyramids and crystalline towers jutted hundreds of feet into the sky.
Supreme Commander Hezit walked across one of the many courtyards located within the outer walls of the victory citadel. He approached a flight of steps that snaked their way up along the stone facade to a tower far above. As he made his way to the top, he counted each step. Each one brought him closer to the man he called master. The steps were numerous, very narrow, steep, and low-tech. It took an almost uncanny concentration to climb them. The effort it took to reach Magron clearly spelled out the incredible ego of the man who ruled an empire.
When Hezit reached the top of the tower, he stepped out onto the marble terrace that encircled it, overlooking a training field within the walls below. Hundreds of Magron’s elite, personal shock troops were undergoing their rigorous training maneuvers over the engineered grass like programmed mechanical men. Along the edge of the terrace, press-ganged workers had erected a short wall. The solid frame of Magron Orcris stood by it. One booted foot rested on the top of the barrier while he peered out over his drilling troops.
As ever, Selat Teeloo stood behind him, scratching at a patch of decayed flesh along his arm with a long gnarled fingernail. Magron’s battle armor refracted a thousand little sparkles of sunlight from its dark sheen. As he turned his attention from the training field at Hezit’s approach, a splash of small rainbows jumped off it, twisting the sun’s harsh light with his movement.
Hezit enshrouded himself in a deceptive cloak of charisma. He had used it many times in his rise to power for luring cybermancers to Magron’s cause. His friendly smile, calm eyes, and smooth child-like face hid the utter corruption that lurked inside him. Success among the ranks had fed the ravenous appetite of his own ego, which had driven him to become second only to Magron in the Protectorate’s chain of command.
“Ah, Supreme Commander Hezit.”
“My Lord.”
“Are the preparations underway to meet our guests?”
The thunder of discharging energy cannons and the hum of hovering battle vehicles mixed in with the men’s words. Eerily, a bark from one of the drill instructors far below them punctuated every sentence.
“Yes, Agar Hegirith, everything has been planned appropriately.”
“Good, I want to make sure that we give them the best reception possible.”
“They’ll be astounded by the welcoming committee you’ve ordered to meet them.” Hezit smiled, tipping his head in deference to his master.
Several months ago, representatives from Tain-Balmor, the virtual governing corporation of the Merchant Guild, and representatives from House Feillion, the oldest and most prestigious of the Noble Houses, had contacted Magron Orcris and sued for peace. They claimed the government of the Seven Guilds had made a mistake by not being willing to negotiate with him. The two powers had made it known they were ready to bring their political pressure to bear to correct the error if Magron was willing to bargain with them. To their surprise, Magron had accepted the offer.
“After all, I have nothing to lose and everything to gain by helping to tear at the political fabric of the Seven Guilds,” Magron had told Hezit. “It would be very much to my advantage to let such influential entities into my space.”
Hezit hadn’t disagreed.
“What is our next target?” Magron asked, pleased that Hezit would take care of the formalities.
“Bel Euridius. My transport leaves in just under two hours to rendezvous with the Ma’acht Vor and the rest of the fleet.”
“Are you in need of my talents, Supreme Commander?” Magron said.
“No, Agar Hegirith. The Bel Euridians do not have cybermancers among them. They are poor and far out in the Fringe Worlds. Our forces are close enough to their system that the Seven Guilds will not be able to send adequate troops before we have already overtaken them.”
“They are an excellent target then. I commend you on your choice. Let me know as soon as the newest member of our empire has joined us.”
“Yes, my Lord.” Hezit couldn’t keep the narcissistic pride from spreading across his face.
Magron turned his attention back to the troops and dismissed Hezit under a shower of rainbows.
The Supreme Commander threw an uneasy glance at Selat Teeloo before departing. The half man, half creature unsettled him. I’ll have to have that fetid dog killed some day, he thought and then hastened to leave. Selat bore his rotten teeth in a gruesome smile in return.
Once the Supreme Commande
r was out of their sight, down the winding stairs, Magron spoke. “Have you heard from Nairom yet?”
“No,” Selat hissed.
“I hope that we have not been wrong about his loyalty,” Magron said.
“Oh, we haven’t, that I’m sure of.”
On the stairs below, Hezit’s nanomechs picked up the conversation. They knew he had heard them.
CHAPTER 15
Geth Atregis, Fleet Admiral of House Feillion’s Navy, stood on the bridge of Queen Tenok, surrounded by people on the night-shift sidestepping one another and poking at all manner of flickering displays. He was going over in his head the part he would have to play in the days to come. As commander of the Noble House’s largest battle cruiser, he would be an integral part of the mission to Morgoloth and needed to concentrate on that.
His thoughts of the mission were criss-crossed with the pain he felt at the news he had received about the capture of Lady Feillion. Word had reached him several hours ago that Protectorate forces had invaded Besti and seized her the day before while she was fleeing the cybermancer’s Citadel.
Security reasons had forced him to break communications with Feillia Prime before learning whether or not they were putting together a strike force to find and rescue her. Such communication could compromise the task he had to fulfill when reaching Magron’s capital on Morgoloth. Even if he had been able to ascertain House Feillion’s plans without threat, he still wouldn’t have been able to lend aid due to the responsibilities he had to his current mission. That was what gnawed at his insides like an unwanted and voracious parasite.
Until just over a year ago, right before Achanei had gone to begin her training with the Cybermancer Guild, Geth had served as Lady Feillion’s personal combat trainer, tactical mentor, and oft-times friend. He had been instructing her how to defend herself from the very first day she left her mother and walked across the palace grounds on her own.
A young man, clean-cut and serious, decked out in the dull-black, gold-piped, high-collared uniform of a lieutenant in House Feillion’s navy, shattered the admiral’s thoughts with the crisp broad accent of Feillia Prime’s southern continent.
“Admiral, Mr. Tain has requested your presence for a meeting aboard the Merchant One.” He handed the admiral a hardcopy of the request on an ultra-thin sheet of smart paper that shimmered with live information.
“Thank you, Lieutenant.” Geth nodded the man’s dismissal. The officer dipped his head in reply and returned to his duties. The admiral watched the lad go and garnered pride in his disciplined manner.
Geth scanned the multi-colored glyphs of the hardcopy, which someone had arranged in the form of an agenda. He touched a couple with a finger to display more information and then crumpled the paper up in his hand. He eyeballed the port holo-viewer where a facsimile of the immense ship, Merchant One, hung in virtual space. He considered throwing the crinkled up ball into the coherent light beams of the hologram, but decided against it for reasons of decorum. He was Fleet Admiral, after all.
Geth despised having to work with Tain-Balmor. The corporation practically ran the Merchant Guild, having saturated it with Guild Masters in their employ. They dealt with every other situation in a similar manner. Their modus operandi was to throw unlimited money and resources at a problem until they had overwhelmed it like it were just another business transaction.
Being the commander of a military fleet, Geth couldn’t allow himself to see this mission in, what he thought, was such a limited and unrealistic scope. Unfortunately, Tain-Balmor was the only corporation in the Merchant Guild in possession of ships in the tonnage class they had needed for their trip to Morgoloth. The admiral banished the wadded-up agenda to the bottom of a pocket and headed towards the lift that would provide him direct access to the docking bays.
***
Merchant One was a massive container ship, a giant hollow hunk of metal with a small crew assembly clinging to its side, pushed through the void by powerful nuclear engines. It was the mobile headquarters for the president of Tain-Balmor, Jolen Darrius Tain VIII.
Jolen had risen to occupy the top executive seat of the mega-corporation when his father, Jolen Orfilien Tain VII, had named him successor from his deathbed. In the ensuing ten years, Jolen VIII had guided Tain-Balmor through its most profitable period in the one hundred and fifty year history of the company. His success hinged on his penchant for taking risks in untried but ultimately profitable markets. Jolen invested funds that pushed the envelope of current technology, positioning Tain-Balmor at the forefront of innovation. That same love of risk-taking had hurled him into his current predicament.
One standard year ago, representatives from House Feillion had approached Jolen with a proposal to charter one of his large tonnage vessels for a mission to Morgoloth. Instead of leasing the ship to House Feillion’s navy outright, Jolen paid for the best mercenaries he could hire from the Expeditionary Guild to crew the vessel and persuaded House Feillion to enter into a partnership with him. It was the biggest risk he had ever taken using company resources and he hoped the results of the mission would pay off for Tain-Balmor.
It had been a year of planning, preparing, making contacts, and gathering intel to make sure he and his associates wouldn’t take a loss. When the war was over, his company would be in a perfect position to help pick-up the pieces of ruined economies all throughout Guild and Protectorate space.
“Mr. Tain, it’s already twenty minutes past the requested start time.” The mechanoid’s voice had a soft electronic timbre to it. Jolen knew Balmor-6 had been programmed to sound soothing, instead of exhibiting some trait from voluntary or even learned behavior. The mechanoid had been designed a century and a half ago to emulate the human, Ubaad Balmor, who co-founded Tain-Balmor along with the company’s original patriarch Jolen I.
“Unfortunately, Admiral Atregis isn’t a businessman tied to the rigor of schedules like we are. Though I suspect he believes his duties are as important as ours are. I’m sure he’d be on time if we were planning an invasion.” Jolen said this last bit sarcastically, hoping to evoke some kind of reaction from the mechanical being.
Balmor-6 sat quietly in his chair. Jolen couldn’t help but wonder whether the original Ubaad Balmor had been so devoid of life, or if it was the mechanoid’s own programming that kept him from engaging in superfluous conversation.
Ubaad Balmor had been a renowned robotics engineer whose influence in the field of mechanoid sciences was still being felt more than a century later. He had been one of the main proponents for mechanoid rights, which lead to the Free Accords. Many still believed the desire for free will among mechanoids was the direct result of Ubaad’s talents, though there had never been any proof of that.
Terminally ill, Ubaad constructed the first Balmor mechanoid and began to imprint his own personality, knowledge, and memories into it. After his death, Balmor-1 continued to serve the company. Five successive improved mechanoids followed, each one having the artificial intelligence matrix of Ubaad’s mind transferred to its new mechanical host. Although the Balmor mechanoid was as intelligent as any, no one could say for sure how much of Ubaad’s real essence remained in the robot that had evolved over the many decades.
“Well, if he’s not going to show...” Jolen began to rise from his chair, forcing one of the miniscule administrative mechs buzzing throughout the large conference room to scuttle out of his way. At that same moment, the door to the meeting room swished aside and Fleet Admiral Atregis strode in followed by a yeomen who was busy trying to balance sheets of smart paper in his arms.
The aide looked young and scared compared to the admiral’s steel composure. Many years of experience in business negotiations took over and Jolen extended his hand across the table to clasp the admiral’s as he stood. It looked planned.
“Admiral.”
“Mr. Tain.”
Geth tipped his head in deference, as military men often did when there was no rank to salute. Then the tw
o sized each other up. They were both very different in how they dealt out their authority, and each one knew the importance of understanding the person with whom one had to work. Jolen Tain was a man of slight build, shorter than average, but a pair of bright, penetrating green eyes made up for his deficiency in stature. Those eyes could create a calm and hypnotizing gaze. A curly shock of jet-black hair accentuated the mesmerizing affect.
Admiral Atregis, in contrast, had a face that one had to struggle to remember. His features were common and dull, wiped expressionless by years of military life. His presence, however, was large and over-bearing, and left one with the feeling that they stood before a man who held their fate in the palm of his hand.
“I’m glad you could make it today,” Jolen lulled.
“The notice was short and there is docking protocol to observe. I couldn’t have been here sooner.” Geth replied, far from apologetic.
“Yes, well no need to worry. In fact, I was just commenting to Balmor-6 here on your reliability.” Jolen struck a sort of half-smile and waved dismissively.
Geth was now staring at the mechanoid as if to garner affirmation, and Balomor-6 looked from the admiral to Jolen and back again, but declined to utter a sound. Geth nodded his head and then with as much doubt edged into his voice as possible without sounding overly insulting, replied, “Yes, I’m sure you were Mr. Tain. I appreciate your faith in me.”
“Then please, let’s sit down.”
Jolen spread his arms out and threw on his best placating face. This would be nothing more than another meeting where they would discuss the market pressures to his business. The different nature of those pressures was what forced a need for the admiral’s council.
Geth signaled his aide who pulled out a chair for the admiral first, and then dropped into the one next to him. The yeomen, a man in his early years whose cheeks were shadowed with the signs of a heavy beard if allowed to grow, removed a sheet of smart paper from his stack. He smoothed it out on the table, bent his head over it, and pecked at it with a finger. Several of the room’s administrative mechs hurried over to distribute drinks and additional pre-imaged prints to the men seated around the table.