Chains of Mist (2 page)

But Berokas did not allow himself to be overcome by despair. He may have fallen on hard times, but he was not dead yet. Not by a long shot. His body might be weak, but he was still alert, and his mind was still as sharp as ever. He had survived much in his life, against odds that not even the most reckless gambler would touch with a ten-meter pulseblade. It would take more than a flesh-eating disease to bring him down.

As Berokas held that determined thought in his mind, an odd sound suddenly split the air. It was a sort of
crackling
—like the sound of a par-gun blast sizzling through flesh. The sound was coming from Berokas’s left, from what had once been a busy thoroughfare but was now a ruined stretch of gaping fissures and yawning potholes, its surface strewn with rubble and twisted wreckage. With an effort, the saurian alien lifted his head and turned towards the noise…and what he saw was enough to make him sit bolt upright, his eyes widening, his own troubles vanishing completely from his mind for the first time in years.

A jagged hole had erupted into existence in the middle of the road. The edges were insubstantial, warping and twisting like a bad holoprojection. But this was no projection, no illusion. Berokas could feel something like electricity playing along his skin. A fetid stench of rotting moss reached the Florca’s nostrils. He heard sounds as well: a faint hissing and a growl that was like no beast he had ever heard before.

Through the opening, Berokas could see only an infinite blackness. But as the Florca watched, the hole suddenly seemed to
fuzz
, its onyx surface rippling like a pond under a faint breeze. A chill even deeper than the one that already tore at his bones passed over the Florca, and his breath was suddenly crystal before his face.

A trickle of living shadow began to flow through the hole. It started slowly, faint tendrils of darkness running out in tiny rivulets, but soon those thickened to twisting cords the width of Berokas’s waist. Within moments, the shadows had coalesced into a single figure that was vaguely humanoid-shaped but lacked any definite form. Wisps of smoky darkness drifted around the creature like some kind of tattered cloak.

Twin points of yellow light burned deep within where its head would be, terrible glowing eyes that carved through the gloom with all the intensity of tiny stars.

They were staring straight at Berokas.

Terror swept over the Florca. But he could not move. His limbs seemed to be frozen in place, though whether they were held there by some arcane power of this creature of darkness or by the sheer force of his own fear he could not say. He opened his mouth to scream…

And died.

The shadow creature was still for a moment longer, its cold gaze regarding the lifeless remains of its victim. Then it took one shadowy step forward. Behind it, the swirling portal flickered once and faded away. The creature raised its head, like a predator tracking scent. Slowly, it turned towards the south.

In the direction of the district known as the Grays.

The trails of shadow surrounding the creature began to swirl into a frenzy. The yellow eyes flashed. A wave of dark power rolled out from the creature in all directions; turning solid stone into rubble and dust.

Leaving destruction in its wake, the creature slipped soundlessly through the night.

-1-

A heavy silence sat like a funeral shroud upon the room and the five men gathered there.

Admiral Drogni Ortega, Supreme Commander of the Tellarian Fleet, sat with his head bowed and his spirits low. A sword lay on the heavy stone table in front of him, its thick blade patterned with strange runes and glowing with an inner light. Drogni’s hand rested loosely on the weapon’s smooth hilt. A faint heat pulsed from the metal, but the warmth was not comforting; instead, it only served to remind him of the horrors he had witnessed on the barren moon Hilthak. Memories flashed before his eyes, tumbling over one another like leaves caught in a hurricane, each more terrible than the last.

He saw dozens of Mari’eth dissolving, torn apart at a molecular level, the huge feline aliens reduced in a heartbeat from majestic warriors to something less than dust. He saw five soldiers floating in mid-air, held prisoner by a force more powerful and horrifying than anything he had thought possible. Their eyes were wide with terror as their bodies jerked and twisted like performers in a macabre dance. A few tattered remnants of black combat armor clung to reddened flesh like flakes of burned skin. Dark ichor streamed from them, a churning river of shadow slowly bleeding them dry of everything that had once made them Human. Moments later, they collapsed to the ground—no longer men and women, but merely empty shells.

But then even that gruesome image faded away. In its place was a man with eyes of violet fire. A jagged white scar split his face. In one hand, he held a glowing red gem that pulsed with a hypnotic rhythm of power.

A deep voice broke into Drogni’s thoughts, rolling out over him like an ocean wave. “So,” Grand Vizier Micaeh Halfane rumbled. “You failed.”

The Vizier’s words sent Drogni’s dark memories scurrying to the edges of his thoughts. He looked up, and his head turned towards the speaker. The Vizier was a giant of a man, standing over two meters tall and solidly built, but it was not just his sheer size that made him imposing. He had a
presence
about him, an almost tangible nimbus of power that emanated from him like a reverse gravitational field, keeping all around him at bay. His face was smooth and unlined, his dark hair and matching beard kept short and precisely groomed. He wore flowing robes of emerald green that shimmered with every breath he took, casting glimmers of light all around the conference room. His eyes were like midnight, the dark pupils flicking around the room like a bird of prey on the hunt for its next meal.

The Vizier’s statement was without rancor, without emotion of any kind, but Drogni still felt it like a knife in his heart.
After all that we went through, all that we lost, you dare to sit there and pass judgment?
Aloud, he said, “You knew we would fail.”

“Knew?” The Vizier’s broad face was impassive. “Perhaps I did. But it changes nothing.”

It burned at Drogni’s blood that the Vizier could dismiss this so casually. “Daniel Lester,” he said through gritted teeth, anger rising in his voice. “Tina Galdro. Palis Denar. Sara Westan. Gregory Daalis. Do you recognize those names, Vizier? You should—Rokan Sellas killed them on Hilthak. And for what, Vizier—for what?”

“We are at war, Commander,” the Vizier replied calmly. “The galaxy may not realize it yet, but it is true nonetheless. We are at war with an enemy more terrible than any you have ever encountered. What happened at Hilthak is just the beginning. I will do what must be done to combat that threat. Do not think that I simply threw away the lives of your soldiers on a whim, or for some perverse pleasure. Their deaths were not meaningless. With each failure, I gain a clearer picture of the evil we face. And I grow closer to understanding how to overcome it. Defeating Rokan Sellas is what matters, Commander. That is
all
that matters.”

Some deep analytical part of Drogni’s brain heard the logic in the Vizier’s statement. What were five lives, measured against the billions who would die if Rokan Sellas was not stopped? But the rest of him didn’t care. “Not to me it isn’t. All I know is that five of my people died. While the only man who might have given them a chance remained on Tellaria, cowering in fear.”

The words slipped out before Drogni had even realized what he was saying. But even as they passed his lips he knew that he did not regret them. There had been a time not too long ago when he never would have spoken that way to the Vizier, no matter how much the man deserved it. But his perspective had changed.
I have seen true power, now…and this man, whatever his secrets, does not have it.

The Vizier regarded Drogni calmly. If he was angered at all by Drogni’s words, he didn’t show it. “Are you through, Commander? Or must I suffer through more childish taunts and fits of fury?”

“Childish?
Childish
?” The Vizier’s dismissive tone only served to fuel Drogni’s rage. “People
died
—good people, soldiers under
my
command! You call that
childish
—”

“Your reaction to it is,” said the Vizier. “Soldiers die all the time. Soldiers die, missions fail, objectives are lost. You of all people should understand that, Commander.”

Drogni scowled. “This is different, and you know it. This isn’t just some SmugCo op gone wrong. This wasn’t bad intel, or bad planning, or plain old bad luck. We never had a chance—it was a suicide mission right from the start.”

“Of course it was. I told you as much when last we spoke. It was you who would not listen.”

“
Me
—!” Drogni felt something ugly ignite within him. “Don’t you
dare
blame their deaths on me!” he snarled, half-rising to his feet. “You
stelnak—
”

Drogni smashed his fist on the table in front of him; his other hand closed over the hilt of the rune-covered sword. Before he could do anything more rash, however, he felt a hand grasp his arm. Drogni turned towards the man seated on his left. He had a hard, angular face, with reddish-gold hair cropped short around his scalp. He, like Drogni, wore the white and blue uniform of an officer of the Tellarian Fleet. An aura of silent deadliness hovered about him, and his eyes shone with keen intelligence.

Sergeant Major Aras Makree met Drogni’s angry gaze. The man known as the Black General gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head. Reluctantly Drogni subsided, sinking back into his chair and letting loose his grasp on
Ss’aijas K’sejjas.
His anger, however, still simmered just below the surface.

The Vizier did not seem fazed by Drogni’s outburst. “I do not cast blame, Commander. I merely state facts. You are acting as if I withheld crucial information that might have saved your team. That is not true. I withheld nothing, Commander. I told you that Rokan Sellas was in possession of one of the most powerful magical artifacts in the galaxy. I told you that no weaponry in your armada would be sufficient to kill him. I told you that your mission could not possibly succeed. Do you not remember?”

Drogni froze. His heated reply died on his lips as he recalled the Vizier’s words from seven days earlier: “
This enemy is beyond you. You cannot win—you can only die.
”

And Drogni heard his own reply: “
I can kill him. I
will
kill him. Mark my words, Vizier.
”

Drogni felt his anger waver. Guilt and shame crashed over him as the truth of the Vizier’s statement bit into his soul.

The Vizier must have seen the change in Drogni’s expression. “You do remember. I allowed your mission, but I did not suggest it. I did not approve of it. I certainly did not force you to go. That decision—and everything that came as a result of it—was yours and yours alone.”

Drogni felt as if his insides had turned to ice. The Vizier was right. Damn it, but he was right.
It was my mission from the start. I brought them to Leva. And when that plan failed I was the one who refused to accept it. I rushed headlong into the most dangerous place in the galaxy. I was so consumed with killing Rokan Sellas that I was willing to pay any price to do it.

And they were the price. Their lives for my rage.

While that realization sank in, the Vizier spoke again. “Do not blame yourself, Commander. They made their own choices, and they knew the costs that those choices might require.”

Drogni looked up. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?” The words came out more bitter than angry.

“No.” There was no pity in the Vizier’s voice, no traces of sympathy or comfort. “But I need you to remain sharp, Commander. I need you focused. Wallowing in self-pity will not bring those soldiers back. Nor will it kill Rokan Sellas.”

Drogni said nothing. He heard the Vizier’s words, and knew them to be true. He took a deep breath and tried to consider the Vizier’s words from a logical perspective. But he couldn’t do it. He just couldn’t. Nor could he drive away that crushing sense of guilt. Whenever he tried, he saw their faces in his mind, saw their twisted, empty corpses. “It’s not that simple. They were under my
protection
, and I let them down.” He eyed the Vizier, searching for any sign of empathy or compassion on the big man’s face, but found none. “I don’t expect you to understand.”

“Don’t I, Commander? Perhaps I understand all too well.” The Vizier let that statement hang in the air for a few moments, then gave a wave of his hand. “But that is irrelevant. How you come to terms with what happened on Hilthak is your business, Commander. What happened on that moon is in the past; it is time we look to the future—”

“Is Justin still alive?”

The voice was quiet, but it cut through the Vizier’s words like a laser scalpel. All heads swung towards the man seated at Drogni’s right. He wore civilian clothes, their comfortable casualness a sharp contrast to Drogni’s and Makree’s uniforms and the Vizier’s finery. His shoulder-length brown hair hung unkempt and matted, and his face was shaded with dark patches of stubble. He looked as though he had not slept for days, and he had a wild look in his eyes. “You heard me,” said Austin Forgera. His voice was louder this time, with the slightly frenzied sound of someone who had been waiting to speak for some time and could contain himself no longer. “Is he still alive?”