Chapter 1: Hunted Tyrant
Veketon rose from the futon and slowly pushed the cover aside, careful not to disturb Quennin’s blissful slumber. He’d spent the last two hours trying to fall asleep, and at this point staring at the ceiling only served to aggravate him further.
Pale light illuminated his personal residence onboard the Fellerossi command ship Vengeful Ascendant. A large conical prism hung from the ceiling, caressing the high walls and wide floor with a soft blue glow.
The light intensified slowly as automated systems detected its master’s needs. Through his neural link, Veketon canceled the morning routine and returned his residence to its original gloom.
He ran a hand roughly across his face and massaged his eyes.
Why am I so restless tonight? he thought. The answer eluded him. He’d felt a growing sense of anxiety these past few days that refused to subside. Despite his strict mental discipline, he’d found his mind drawn repeatedly to the day of his death twenty thousand years ago.
Why do I obsess over it now?
Dendolet, Balezuur, Xixek, and so many others. He even missed Ziriken. Their names and faces haunted his waking mind. They were gone, all of the Original Eleven, all of his original companions, gone forever.
I am the last of our order …
Veketon had not come to terms with their true-deaths, not yet. For twenty thousand years, the Original Eleven had worked from beyond death to see their plans and ambitions fulfilled. Perhaps they had once cared about their followers, but death and time had chilled their hearts.
Veketon’s rebirth into a clone body had made that abundantly clear. He and his companions had stagnated for twenty millennia while the societies they created evolved beyond them.
And eventually rejected them.
I am the only one left now, the only one to be reborn by our combined science.
Alone …
Veketon shook his head. No! Not alone. Not anymore.
He looked down at Quennin S’Kev’s slumbering form. Her long, fiery red hair was tousled around a pale and delicate face. The futon’s sheer covers hugged her body’s sensuous curves. She was tall, fit, and so very beautiful, but what had drawn Veketon to her were not these crude physical things.
No, it had been her warrior spirit, her sense of honor and duty, and her devotion to her comrades that had pulled at his heart.
Or so he liked to pretend. Her beauty was undeniable, and Veketon found himself smiling as he gazed at her peaceful face. Softly, he brushed the backs of his fingers across her cheek. Quennin moaned quietly and pulled the covers tighter.
Veketon ignored the youthful fire building within his clone body. He left their bedchamber and entered his personal dressing room. The door closed softly behind him, and the lights ramped up to daytime intensity. Fellerossi servants had already laid out several choices of attire, each neatly folded and arranged on a black crystal table.
Veketon selected his white combat slipsuit and dressed. When he finished, he linked with the wall screen and activated its mirror-mode.
A young version of Jack Donolon stared back at him: dark brown hair framed a thin face with gray eyes above a tall, muscular frame. Veketon doubted he would ever grow used to the man’s face as his own, but it was a small price to pay for this cloned body’s power.
Still, not everything was the same. He had grown his hair much longer than Jack ever would, and it now formed a tail stretching halfway down his back. For some reason, the simple change made bearing the face easier.
Veketon finished fastening the slipsuit’s collar. The form-fitting suit flexed over his body like a living metal weave, adjusting itself to match his physique and applying subtle pressure around his limbs.
Content with his appearance, Veketon picked up his sword’s scabbard, fastened it to his waist, and left the private dressing room.
The corridors of his residence brightened to daytime, and wide windows to his side presented a grand view of the entire complex. Veketon’s residence within the command ship resembled a many-part crystalline chandelier with each section joined by translucent walkways.
The entire structure floated within a hollow sphere with the top half of the sphere’s walls hidden behind a simulacrum of planetary life, its fake sun rising over the horizon.
Veketon stepped through an open doorway and descended a slender walkway. The milky glass surface sang with each step. Ahead, the path branched to either side, and the right-hand walkway ended in a square platform. A rich flowery aroma filled his nostrils.
Two Fellerossi servants tended the floating garden, each garbed in loose orange robes with a diagonal swirl of black across their chests. The entire complex was a gift to him from the Fellerossi and served to showcase some of the material and gravitic techniques he had taught them.
Both servants rose from their work and bowed deeply until he passed. Veketon did not acknowledge them. He turned left and hurried down to the sparring chamber, eager to be rid of this growing anxiety.
I must not obsess over my death, he thought, entering the sparring chamber. I cannot afford to show weakness. Not now.
A wide circular space opened before him. Red gridlines broke up the dark blue floor. Concentric light rings provided overhead illumination but did not reveal the various dark shapes pressed against the chamber walls.
“Activate,” Veketon linked mentally.
The sparring chamber’s systems hummed softly.
Veketon drew the sword with his left hand, closed his eyes, and concentrated. Chaos energy flowed through his body, and the shunts in his slipsuit amplified the effect. Vents along his limbs and torso exhaled bright blue waste energy.
He snapped his sword out, and the blade’s curved single edge ignited, casting fierce blue light across the room.
“Execute base-line training program,” Veketon linked. “Standby to upgrade.”
A humanoid automaton dislodged itself from the wall, brandished a harmless training blade, and charged him. While unable to kill, the training blade would certainly sting if it hit an unarmored human.
Veketon dipped subconsciously into the extra-dimensional sea of chaos energy, and time warped around him. His reflexes accelerated, and his strength augmented. He dashed towards the automaton, crossing twenty meters before the machine could complete another full step.
Veketon swung his sword upward, cutting through its skeletal torso. Hissing pieces of the machine clattered to the ground. A second automaton activated, raised its training blade, and sprinted at him.
In the inner calm of battle, Veketon’s mind wandered to the seraph pilots who hunted him. While the bulk of his Alliance enemies remained near Earth, a few pilots had pursued him all the way across the galaxy. The two leaders of that small band stood out in his mind.
Jack Donolon: a pilot so powerful that Veketon had chosen him as his genetic and chaotic progenitor. The man who would one day become a bane as powerful as Vierj.
And Seth Elexen: the man who killed Vierj.
No deadlier foes existed.
Am I afraid of dying? Veketon thought as he cleaved another automaton in half. He selected a higher training setting, and the automatons came at him six at a time, some brandishing projectile weapons, and others with swords that could kill.
Veketon moved through the automatons in a whirlwind of death. Accelerated bolts fired from live weapons ricocheted off his barrier in bright flashes. He tore through one automaton after another, littering the ground with their smoking carcasses.
Do I really fear them that much? DO I?
The thought shouted in his head, and Veketon amped up the difficulty to maximum. Twenty automatons came at him in continuous waves, and he danced and dodged and cut his way through them. Piles of hewn metallic bodies lay strewn across the ground. More opponents came at him, climbing over their fallen brethren and charging him with mindless fatalism.
“I am not afraid of them!” Veketon screamed, cutting through three automatons with a single wide slash. He whirled around, expecting another wave.
Overhead lights flashed red and a buzzer went off.
The sparring chamber’s stock of automatons had been depleted. Veketon looked around at the surrounding carnage, panting and dripping with sweat. He ran a gloved hand through wet locks of hair and rose from his low fighting stance.
The room fell silent except for his heavy breathing. A sudden introduction of clapping startled him, and he spun around and raised his sword.
“Impressive as always,” Quennin smiled at him warmly, clapping. She leaned against the sparring chamber’s entrance wearing her own black slipsuit with a sword scabbard at her waist. Her green eyes were bright with affection and admiration, and she’d clasped her long red hair behind her head with a black cord.
Veketon let the chaos energy fade from his system. The blade’s glowing edge winked out, and he stood, placing the sword’s flat on his shoulder.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I must have disturbed you when I left.”
Quennin shook her head and quirked a mischievous smile. “No, not when you left.”
“Oh?”
“You were tossing and turning all night. I barely got any sleep at all.”
“Ah. I see. Sorry about that.”
“Don’t worry about it.” Quennin waved the matter aside. “So, is something bothering you?”
“It’s nothing. Bad memories. Nothing to worry about.”
“Want to talk about it?”
“No.”
“No?” Quennin raised a sly eyebrow. “Just flat out no?”
“I would prefer to sort this out on my own.”
“By wiping out all the automatons?”
“Exercise helps.”
Quennin glanced around the sparring chamber. “Well, Vek, you seem to be out of automatons.” She sighed and shrugged her shoulders. “Oh well. I guess I’ll have to help you get this out of your system.” She carefully navigated around piles of still-smoldering debris and drew her sword.
Veketon couldn’t help but smile. He lowered his stance, chaos energy easily flowing again. The slipsuit’s vents flared with energy, and his sword burst alive, so bright that Quennin squinted.
“Don’t expect me to be an easy target,” Veketon said.
“Oh, I’d worry if a few automatons could slow you down.”
“There’s more than a few here, you know.”
“Really?” Quennin made a big production of looking around the sparring chamber. “Yeah, I guess you’re right. There must be at least a dozen here.”
She snapped her sword out. The blade ignited with black energy edged in a sickly green nimbus. The vents along her chaos slipsuit began to glow.
Veketon kept his stance low and held his sword away from Quennin. He occasionally used this posture for their duels, which allowed him to gather speed and strength in reaction to her attacks.
“Whenever you’re ready,” he said.
Quennin winked at him and planted her feet. At this range, Veketon could sense the spike of chaos energy within her body. She charged, moving so fast she blurred even to his chaos-enhanced senses. Veketon swung his weapon up to meet her downward attack.
Their swords clashed in a flash of blue and black sparks then scintillated against each other. They broke, backpedaled, then attacked again. They fought amongst the strewn debris of the automatons, challenging each other’s strikes with skillful blocks, each familiar with the other’s strengths and weaknesses.
They weaved through, over, and around the debris piles, fighting and slashing and jumping out of the way. To any normal human, they appeared as momentary blurs of color, moving too fast for the human eye to comprehend, their swords nothing more than vivid slashes of light against the retinas.
Veketon and Quennin fought like this for over half an hour, neither tiring appreciably and both winning their share of short matches. Veketon felt the stress of the past few days melting away, and soon he began to grin from the exercise.
He could tell Quennin wasn’t fighting all out. Her moves and stance carried a playful air, and though she fought hard, she did not fight to win at any cost. Veketon saw this and decided a little mischief of his own might be in order.
Their blades locked between close faces, and Veketon moved one of his legs between Quennin’s. With a sharp jerk backwards, he hooked a foot behind her calf and pulled.
Quennin lost her balance, arms flailing outward in one last bid to steady herself. She reached for him, trying to grab hold of his slipsuit or arms. Veketon dodged out of the way, but his long tail of brown hair was left hanging in space for a precious second.
Quennin grabbed hold of his tail and yanked on it. Hard.
“Ah!” Veketon shouted.
They crashed into each other and fell to the ground. Veketon hit the sparring chamber floor on his back with Quennin on top of him. She turned over so that her elbows were on the ground to either side of his face.
“Again with the tripping!” she said.
“Who, me?” Veketon placed his hands on either side of her narrow waist.
“Yes, you,” Quennin said with faux-sternness.
“I’ve told you. Swords aren’t the only weapons we have. You need to fight with every part of your body.”
“Is that so?” Quennin asked, running her fingers through his hair. Warm breath caressed his face, and her damp locks tickled his neck. She leaned close, the full length of her body pressed tightly against his. Their lips met, and they shared a deep, passionate kiss.
Unfortunately, someone chose that precise moment to clear his throat.
Quennin pulled back and looked over at the doorway. Veketon didn’t need to open his eyes. He knew precisely who it was.
“As always, Fuurion, your sense of timing is impeccable.”
“Thank you, venerable master.”
“That was not a compliment.”
Quennin stood up and offered Veketon a hand. He accepted, and she pulled him to his feet.
Fuurion waited in the sparring chamber’s doorway, hands clasped behind his back, chin held high. The Fellerossi mediator was a small, bald man clad in long, black robes. Complex orange swirls traced up either side of the robe.
“My apologies, venerable master.” Fuurion bowed his scrawny neck. “But a matter has arisen that requires your immediate attention.”
Veketon picked up his sword and sheathed it. “Go on.”
“A messenger has arrived from an Outcast nation called the Disciples of Vayl. He says his message is for you personally and no one else.”
“The Disciples of Vayl? I am not familiar with this nation.”
“I’m not surprised, venerable master. They are a very minor player on the galactic scale, possessing neither strategic territory, nor considerable resources or manpower. They inhabit a small star cluster about a hundred light years above the main galactic rim. We regard them as a secretive and rather eccentric nation. The only noteworthy information we have indicates they are archeologists.”
“Archeologists?”
“Yes, as strange as it sounds. When the Disciples venture outside of their territory, they often will trade exorbitant amounts for historical records or items of apparently no worth. It is all quite puzzling, but our occasional contact with them has been peaceful and profitable.”
“Do not be so quick to judge their actions as pointless,” Veketon said. “You might be surprised what time has scattered across this galaxy.”
“As you say, venerable master.”
“What is your threat assessment?”
“Minimal. The Disciples have never shown military ambition in the past, and our analysts see no reason to expect one in the near future. They do have a standing military force, as do all spacefaring nations in this region, though the true extent of their strength is unknown since they so rarely engage in offensive operations.”
“And the messenger?”
“He and his ship were carefully screened for treachery before being allowed onboard.” Fuurion bowed his head. “Upon our honor, we would not allow him to approach if he could harm you.”
“Very well. Have him brought to the throne bay. Quennin, please join us.”
* * *
Fuurion waited to the side of the opening airlock and allowed Veketon to proceed first into the throne and archangel bays. The ceiling towered twenty stories over their heads and stretched out a full kilometer to both the right and left. A long row of giant humanoid weapons filled the interior space.
Veketon’s throne stood before them like a white-armored giant. Even with the legs and lower waist obscured by the catapult pit, it loomed impressively over them. Its mask was a white humanoid face with muted but clearly male features, possessing an arrogant twist to its mouth that gave it an air of superiority.
Unlike the six-winged seraphs, Veketon’s throne had only two wings. Both were halos suspended behind its back, disjoined from the main body. The larger of the two halo-wings spun gently, its circumference half again as wide as the throne’s shoulders.
A complex interlocking pattern of arcs, half-moons, and circles filled the halo-wing interiors. The same pattern ran parallel to the vent-like chaos shunts on the throne’s limbs and the sides of its torso, marking the throne with his personal heraldry.
A fitting place to greet this messenger, Veketon thought, with the symbol of my power so close at hand.
To the right of his craft stood Quennin’s personal throne, its lines lithe, fit, and clearly feminine, like those of a female warrior. Its black body and heraldry were an inversion of Veketon’s color scheme, as befit his protégé.
That and so much more, he thought, glancing at Quennin.
The rest of the space was filled by two dozen archangels standing in rows to either side, twin wings folded tightly against their backs. Reflective Fellerossi plate armor clad the massive machines, giving them a resplendent gleam in the bright bay lights.
The Disciple messenger approached, looking feeble next to the hulking Fellerossi warriors. Six of them flanked the Disciple, each in sealed assault armor and armed with heavy carbines and ultrasonic swords.
By contrast, the messenger was a fragile and, if Veketon were any judge, quite frightened little man. He wore a dark red uniform with black trim at the cuffs and collar and a black stripe down the sides of his pants.
The Disciple messenger saw Veketon and prostrated himself, touching his forehead to the cold decking. The air carried a chill from the cryogenic plants keeping their thrones sedate between uses.
“You have a message to deliver,” Veketon said, his breath condensing in white puffs.
“Yes, venerable master.” Without looking up, the messenger reached into his coat pocket and placed a disc-shaped emitter on the bay decking.
Light shimmered above the emitter, coalescing into a powerfully built young man. He was tall and muscular, with short black hair and deep blue eyes. Everything about him, from the sharp lines of his face and the fit proportions of his body, was the model of male physical perfection. The man wore a well-tailored black suit with red at his collar and cuffs. Seven blood rubies served as buttons down the front of his coat.
Many might consider such a man dashing, perhaps even beautiful, but Veketon found his eyes the most intriguing part. They held a seasoned calm that clashed sharply with his early twenties appearance. Even worse, Veketon saw hereditary tells in the man’s face that he had long believed dead.
“How can …” Quennin whispered.
“What is it?” Veketon asked.
“I recognize this man. But I also know I’ve never met him before. How can that be?”
Then it may be as I feared, Veketon thought.
“Honorable ancestor,” the hologram bowed his head ever so slightly, “allow me to introduce myself. I am Zophiel, a Disciple of Vayl.”
He addresses me as his ancestor. No, this is not good at all.
Zophiel’s hologram looked up, and his eyes focused on an unseen point somewhere behind Veketon.
“First, please accept my heartfelt congratulations for your victory against the Bane. News of Vierj’s death has reached even our reclusive nation. Whether you performed the deed yourself or employed some underling is moot. I am sure we have you to thank for this momentous occasion.”
He knows Vierj by name. Veketon clenched his teeth tightly and listened.
“With that out of the way, let us turn to business,” Zophiel said. “It has come to my attention that you possess one of the lost portal lances. I wish to open negotiations for its purchase. Of course, I understand the great value of the artifact in your possession, but I believe we can both profit in this venture. You will find I have much to offer you, perhaps more than you have to offer me.”
Veketon scoffed.
“The Disciples of Vayl possess knowledge and technology beyond any other nation, and I am sure we can reach an acceptable exchange. As proof of my word, I present you with a small sample of our advanced technology. To whet your appetite, of course. I am sure you will find it most fascinating.”
The messenger sat back onto his legs and removed a brass ingot etched with a large eye from his coat pocket. Veketon knew the marking all too well, and seeing it again sent a chill down his spine.
The messenger rose and stepped forward, clearly intent on laying the ingot at Veketon’s feet. But the Fellerossi warriors sprang into action and shoved him to the ground so hard he cried out. One of them placed his carbine barrel against the messenger’s head.
“Do not approach without permission!” the warrior’s augmented voice boomed.
The Disciple messenger mumbled a rapid string of almost incoherent apologies.
“We both serve to profit from this mutual exchange,” Zophiel’s recording continued. “But please understand that, above all other considerations, I must have the portal lance. I cannot elaborate on the reasons why, sadly, but I must have it. And I will have it.”
Veketon raised an eyebrow.
“One way or another. This outcome is inevitable.” Zophiel smiled, but the expression held no warmth, no sympathy. Only confidence in the inevitable. “But there is no need for this to end in conflict. Let us reach an agreement where we both win. I am sure you can see the wisdom in such a choice, my honorable ancestor.”
Zophiel dipped his head one last time and then vanished.
“Get up,” Veketon growled.
The messenger raised his head uneasily but did not stand. After a few seconds, a warrior stepped over and bodily lifted the Disciple messenger to his feet.
“Is there a response you would like me to convey for you, venerable master?” the messenger asked cautiously.
“Indeed there is.” Veketon gripped his sheathed sword. “You may take this response back to your master.”
He drew the blade, ignited it, and slashed through the Disciple’s neck in one continuous motion. Quennin gasped and turned away. Blood fountained from the messenger’s neck, and his head rolled across the ground, leaving a long visceral trail before stopping.
The body flopped limply to the deck, and blood pooled underneath it.
Veketon didn’t take his eyes off it.
“Fuurion.”
“Venerable master?”
“Place the messenger’s head in his ship and return it to Disciple territory.”
“This will disrupt our diplomatic relations with the Disciples.”
“This Zophiel has all but declared war on me. Trust that I know what I am doing and follow my orders.”
“As you wish.” Fuurion motioned to the assembled Fellerossi warriors. One hefted the body effortlessly with one hand while a second retrieved the head.
“Have the ingot transported to my laboratory,” Veketon said. “I will examine it personally.”
“Of course.” Fuurion made a second simple gesture. Another warrior picked up the ingot with a gauntleted fist and carried it away. “Venerable master, please reconsider sending the messenger’s head back to this Zophiel. There are other ways to disapprove of his demands.”
“Mobilize the fleet before you send the message.”
“How many battle groups?”
“All of them,” Veketon said. “Which of our aerial fortresses is closest to Disciple territory?”
“The Vigilant Sentinel, I believe.”
Veketon trawled his mind, recalling fleet dispositions, fold engine timescales, and the Vigilant Sentinel’s last location. “Yes, that will do fine. Consolidate the fleet within one light year of the Vigilant Sentinel. We will launch our attack from there.”
“Venerable master, I wish you would reconsider this course of action.”
“Your concerns are well founded, Fuurion, but you know I would not react like this rashly.”
“But … venerable master, the Disciples?”
“No, not the Disciples. Not their ships and their warriors, at least. But Zophiel? That is a different matter.”
“Surely one man …”
“Would you say that I am merely one man?”
“Of course not.”
“Then carry out my orders and mobilize the fleet. I will explain the matter fully to you in due time.”
Fuurion bowed. “As you wish, venerable master.” He and the remaining Fellerossi left the throne bay.
Veketon approached Quennin. “Something is troubling you.” He placed a gentle hand on her shoulder.
“Yeah.” Quennin stared at the bloodstained decking and hugged her own arms.
“You said you recognized him.”
“I did,” she breathed.
“Tell me about it, please.”
“It’s hard to put into words. I know I’ve never met him before, but he just felt so familiar. It’s like a part of me knows him intimately, like family, and the other part has forgotten him completely. I don’t understand it.”
Veketon nodded. “It is exactly as I feared, then.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’ve never met this Zophiel. Of that I am sure. But Vierj must have known him well.”
“You don’t mean …”
“We both know that parts of Vierj emerge within you from time to time, just as parts of Jack Donolon emerge within me, despite my best efforts. It is the price we pay for our power, and this is merely another example of Vierj’s scattered memories surfacing within you.”
“But what does it mean? Who is Zophiel?”
“It would appear that I have a grandson.”
Quennin turned to him, a look of horror in her eyes.
“That’s right,” he said. “It seems that Vierj, the Bane of Ittenrashik and the most powerful seraph pilot of all time, also gave birth to a son.”