A Looming Shadow (Galaxy Ascendant Book 2)

  About A Looming Shadow

  The war is over, but true peace remains elusive.

  A threat still looms large, and the price of eliminating it could be higher than anyone realizes.

  It’s been six months since the High Lord’s destruction at the Battle of Dorandor, and the Galactic Alliance is at peace—nominally, at least. While the Tyrannodons have become members of the Alliance, and their wartime allies readmitted, the anger and resentment against them has only somewhat subsided, despite efforts by High Executor Darkclaw to make his people into a true part of the Alliance.

  First Scion Dalcon Oresh, hailed as the hero of the war, is focused on tracking down the fallen Scions, led by his former mentor, who have not been seen in some time—along with a number of Tyrannodons who remain loyal to the destroyed High Lord.

  When Dalcon finally locates his quarry, he, as well as Darkclaw and Grand Admiral Nayasar, who had been looking forward to peacetime for an opportunity to start a family, are drawn into the hunt. More troublesome, the world to which they tracked the fallen Scions lies outside of Alliance space, in the territory of the mysterious Revittan Empire—who consider any intrusion into their space an act of war.

  While Dalcon, Darkclaw, and Nayasar struggle to track down their enemies in a situation that they increasingly realize they had not properly prepared for, trouble is brewing outside, and their direct subordinates, Executor Keeneye and Admiral Felivas, have to make decisions that could threaten the hard-won peace that they have only recently managed to achieve.

  Dedication

  In memory of my uncle, David Merkin. Taken from us far too soon, but forever in our hearts.

  A Looming Shadow

  Yakov Merkin

  Contents

  Galaxy Map

  A LOOMING SHADOW

  Glossary

  Acknowledgements

  About Yakov Merkin

  Copyright

  The Galaxy

  CHAPTER 1

  First Scion Dalcon Oresh, hero of the Battle of Dorandor, recipient of the Flame of Ineffra, hero of his entire species, slumped onto the dilapidated barstool, which shifted worryingly as his weight settled. Fortunately, the stand attaching it to the floor seemed to hold. Well that’s one thing to be happy about.

  Dalcon had barely sat down when he noticed the distinct smell of sarmah, one of the most strictly regulated controlled substances in the galaxy. On instinct, Dalcon turned toward the pair of Bannets conducting the transaction, but kept himself from moving. While this was technically Alliance space, no one in this dingy bar—or on this world, for that matter—respected its authority, or that of the Scions of Justice. And as frustrating as it was to not intervene when he witnessed a crime, the last thing Dalcon needed was to cause more trouble than his conspicuous presence—dirty armor notwithstanding—already had. That made it nineteen obvious crimes he’d had to ignore.

  “A shot of Zarian brandy, with ice,” Dalcon said as the bartender, a smaller than average Darvian, approached. “On second thought, make it a double.”

  The bartender grunted in acknowledgement, and as he prepared the drink Dalcon placed his elbow on the bar and rested his head on his hand. Maybe he truly was running himself ragged. Had it really been six months now? Mounting an investigation on his own had seemed like such a good idea at the time, with the Alliance unwilling and the Scions unable to commit any significant force to find Gendae and his followers.

  “That’ll be twenty-seven,” the bartender grunted as he returned and set Dalcon’s drink down. Dalcon opened a compartment on his right gauntlet, and fished for the proper durram coins, noting that there was quite a bit of room for what little physical money he had left to jingle about. He’d have to find a secure station where he could obtain more if he was to carry on like this; no one out here seemed willing to take electronic payments. At least Alliance currency was accepted out here.

  He handed over the coins, then stared at his drink as the bartender moved to assist an eight-legged Stiliek who had just arrived, and noticed, stashed behind the bartender, an instantly recognizable disruptor pistol—something highly illegal for a civilian to own. Dalcon ground his teeth. Twenty.

  In need of a distraction, Dalcon took a sip of his drink. The cold brandy was strong enough that it cut through Dalcon’s exhaustion, and he had to take a moment to ensure he didn’t choke on it. One would think that after frequenting bars and cantinas for weeks, he would have become a better drinker, but so far he had not improved at all.

  After taking another sip, and suppressing a shudder at the harsh taste, Dalcon sat his drink down and beckoned the bartender over. “I’m not actually here for drinks,” he said quietly, with another glance around. “I’m here for an intangible sort of sustenance.”

  The bartender stared at him.

  “I want information, and I’d be willing to pay.”

  The bartender rolled his eyes, and sighed. “While I appreciate you not trying to exert your non-existent authority here, I’m still not intNoraned in getting involved in Scion business. Not good for my business, or my health.”

  Well, at least he hadn’t simply refused to talk outright, as so many others had, even in the face of Dalcon’s attempts at coercion. Maybe he could get something, anything, out of the Darvian.

  “It’s not exactly Scion business,” Dalcon replied quickly. “I assure you, I have no intention of becoming involved in local… dealings.” He resisted an urge to glance toward that disruptor pistol. “And I’m not trying to catch you doing anything.”

  “Sorry, not intNoraned. You’ve caused enough discomfort to my customers by coming in here all decked out, Scion. I’ll serve you drinks, and that is all.” The bartender turned and began to walk away.

  He had to get through to the Darvian, had to get something useful out of this interaction. After a few moments of frantic thought, Dalcon made a decision. “Listen. Just let me tell you what I’m looking for, no strings attached. When I’m done, you can decide whether or not to help me out.”

  The Darvian turned back toward him, and Dalcon knew he’d made the right choice. The prospect of freely given information, gossip, was too tempting for even this cautious bartender to pass up. “Feel free to say whatever you’d like,” he said as he pulled a dirty glass and a rag out from under the counter. “I’m just here doing my job. Anything I overhear is completely coincidental.”

  Dalcon smiled, and as the bartender began to clean the glass with the rag, which looked to need cleaning itself, he began. “Around two dozen members of my order betrayed it and the Galactic Alliance during the Tyrannodon invasion several months ago. We tried to capture or kill them, but they escaped, and I’ve been able to track them as far as this region of space. They’ve been laying low, but will not stay hidden for long. I don’t know what they are planning, but it cannot be good. They are extremely dangerous. I want to stop them before they hurt people.”

  The bartender was silent for what felt like a lifetime, absently wiping the glass. Finally, he spoke. “I don’t know anything. Saw no one like that here. Really. However,” he added as frustration and disappointment began to flood through Dalcon, “those Nihlurans back there, they might be able to help you.” The Darvian motioned with his large, armored head, and Dalcon followed his gaze to a pair of lounging Nihlurans he’d briefly noted before when he entered the bar, then quickly turned back to the bartender.

  “They’re freelance cargo haulers… some might call them smugglers, depending on how they’re feeling that day. They’re well connected, with a habit of bragging when they land a big score. A few days back one of them was going on about a huge shipping contract they’d fulfilled for some Alliance types. Wouldn’t say more than that, though, which is unusual, as was the fact that they seemed… nervous, but were trying to hide it.”

  Dalcon nodded, and slid the Darvian ten more coins. “Thanks. Consider that a tip.” He took another sip of his drink as he glanced over at the Nihlurans, who were sitting on a bench against the wall, again, careful not to make eye contact, though their attention seemed to be on their own conversation. This could all amount to nothing, of course, but Dalcon’s gut feeling, based on what he now knew, was that this was a lead. Gendae and the others would certainly have claimed Alliance status, and would surely intimidate any associates into silence—at best. The Nihlurans were probably lucky they hadn’t been simply killed after completing their job. They did have a dangerous look about them, however, which meant that they were probably more than simple smugglers, or at least that they’d been at this for quite some time.

  Still, this was his only viable option. Dalcon finished his drink with a grimace, then crossed the room and sat down across the table from the Nihlurans. “I need information,” he said simply, in the manner he’d used while questioning suspects for years.

  If the Nihlurans were even the slightest bit intimidated by a Daeris Scion demanding information, they didn’t show it. The male, who looked to be on the taller side for one of his kind, cocked an eye, the bony protrusion above it that signaled he had some tehlman in him rising with it as the female smiled wide enough to reveal the eight elegantly pointed teeth that hinted at Zarian genetics. In addition to being famously beautiful, Nihluran women were capable of copulating with most species, and their bodies would absorb genetic material during the union, which would then be intermixed with their own, and desirable traits passed down. The result was a very diverse and decepti
vely capable people.

  “Lots of people want information,” the female said, still lounging against the male, seemingly relaxed, though Dalcon noticed her free hand resting conspicuously close to a pistol on her hip. “Those who really want information, however, are willing to pay for it.”

  Right, of course. Dalcon tore his gaze from the woman, where they’d been glued, likely due to the species’ subtle pheromones, and reached for the compartment on his arm that held his dwindling funds. “I’m willing to pay, of course. If I do not have enough with me at the moment, I can arrange to give you more.” He knew making such a statement was probably a bad idea, but he was growing impatient.

  “No, we’re not intNoraned in that; money we can get anywhere,” the male said as he shifted slightly and rested his taloned hand—a Talvostan trait, most likely—on the woman’s chest in a manner that made Dalcon highly uncomfortable, which may well have been his intent.

  “What else are you willing to offer, Scion?”

  Dalcon resisted an urge to grimace. “I could arrange for any criminal records you might have to be expunged.”

  “Us? Criminal records?” the female asked, her voice rising slightly, as though insulted.

  Dalcon chose not to rise to the bait, as frustrating as they were being.

  “I am certain you have a ship. I could arrange for any required repairs to be taken care of, and possibly even for upgrades.”

  “We are happy with our ship,” the male said after a quick glance over at his partner.

  “So, what do you want, then?” Dalcon asked when he did not immediately go on, unable to keep the irritation out of his voice. He had a guess as to what they wanted, and he hoped he was wrong.

  Now the male smiled, and Dalcon spotted a distinctly mischievous glint in his large, dark, distinctly Nihluran eyes—those tended to be more constant than other physical features among Nihlurans. “We have a… job… which needs doing, and a third body, particularly one of your caliber, would be a great help.”

  “Not a chance,” Dalcon snapped. “I am willing to turn a blind eye to criminal activity out here, but I will take no part in it. That is out of the question.” His hunch had been right, unfortunately. He should have expected it; by making his Scion status open, he’d made a statement of strength. Some it would keep away, others it would intimidate, but others would be drawn to him because of it, see a valuable resource that could be made use of.

  The female laughed quietly, blinked her dark eyes slowly, and rested a hand on the table, her blue-green skin contrasting with the not-quite-white table. “That is our offer, Scion,” she said slowly, accentuating her accent, “take it or leave it.”

  Dalcon glared at the male, who was keeping silent, his expression neutral—aside from the satisfied glint in his eyes. Despite his training, Dalcon felt a flash of anger surge through him. Here he was, running himself ragged, doing whatever he could to stop evil people and save lives, willing to debase himself by traveling to this garbage heap of a moon, consult with such unsavory characters, and these damned Nihlurans, his only lead—assuming they really could help and were not simply trying to take advantage of a near-desperate man—were treating this like a game!

  Drawing lightly on his imicric power, Dalcon summoned an energy ribbon and within the blink of an eye fired it into the wall just about the Nihlurans’ heads, letting it remain solid. “Instead of making demands of me, maybe you should be asking why I don’t just take what I need from you?”

  Neither Nihluran flinched, though Dalcon could see their eyes tense and hands move imperceptibly closer to their weapons.

  However, it was Dalcon who was the one caught off guard when the female smiled widely and, ignoring the glowing energy ribbon completely, turned to the male. “You were wrong; apparently Scions do have it in them to make a good threat. I like him.” She turned back to Dalcon, her demeanor visibly more relaxed. “No one out here gives anything for free, Scion. You can certainly try to get what you want by force, but there is no guarantee you will succeed.”

  Was she daring him to try? Trying to see if he was weak? Trying to trick him into making a mistake? Dalcon didn’t know, which further frustrated him. He pulled on the energy ribbon, which snapped back past the Nihlurans and toward his hand before vanishing. “You wouldn’t stand a chance against me.”

  The female, moving faster than Dalcon would have expected, reached out and grabbed his outstretched wrist just as the ribbon vanished. Dalcon noted the short but sharp claws on her hand. “You are probably correct, Scion,” she said. “However, if you decide this ends violently, you will never find out where your fellow Scions have vanished to.”

  Dalcon looked the Nihlurans in the eye, first the female, then the male. He was confident that he would win a fight, should this come to one, but she was right that he would then not get the information that they might possess, as a fight would likely end in their deaths, and even if not, Dalcon knew he did not have the stomach to torture anyone. Dalcon recalled a famous maxim from a long-dead Talvostan warlord, one which he had ironically first heard from Gendae: Sometimes, in order to win the war, one must forfeit a battle.

  Dalcon jerked his hand out of the Nihluran’s grasp. “Fine, I’ll help you,” he said through gritted teeth, making a point to glare at them. “But you had better not attempt to con me. It will not end well for you. For now, just tell me what you need.”

  Instantly, the demeanor of the Nihlurans became more professional, more serious. “For starters,” the male said as he straightened and removed his hand from the female, “we have some enemies currently waiting outside this establishment, intent on ambushing us. Some help taking them out would be appreciated.”

  “Don’t worry, Scion,” the female added, “they’re all even worse criminals than we are. This moon will benefit from their deaths.”

  Dalcon crossed his arms. “And why are they trying to kill two smugglers?”

  The female shrugged, and smiled sheepishly. “We were hired to smuggle goods past their boss’s blockade over Rennax; some of their colleagues tried to stop us. We ended them, completed our contract. Old Otarran took it personally.”

  “And why have they not stormed this place to get at you?”

  The male laughed. “Scion, you truly do not understand this part of the galaxy, do you? This establishment, like just about every similar place on this moon, is under the protection of the White Hand Cartel. Even Otarran wouldn’t want to risk getting on their bad side. Plus, would you storm a room occupied by over a dozen armed individuals when only two of them are your target—but all will respond to your attack, believing they are the target?”

  “Point taken.” As if he needed another reminder of how little he knew about how things worked out here. “Let’s not waste time, then,” Dalcon said, rising from his chair. “What should I call you?” he asked.

  “I am Ayil, and this is Dran,” the female said as both she and the male—Dran—rose as well.

  “Call me Dalcon,” Dalcon said as he walked toward the door, the Nihlurans close behind.

  “We know who you are,” the female said, accentuating her accent again as she rested a hand on Dalcon’s arm—he only just prevented himself from roughly forcing her to let go—“you’re a hero, after all.” Well, he was the only Daeris Scion, and news did make it out here from the center of Alliance space.

  As Dalcon reached the door, Dran tossed several coins across the room and onto the bar, in an impressive display of finesse.

  “What’s this for?” the bartender grunted.

  “For the mess we’re about to make right outside,” Dran replied. The bartender grunted unintelligibly, but scooped up the coins.

  “Anything I should know about these people waiting for us?” Dalcon asked, one hand on the door as the other loosened the clips holding his cloak to his armor.

  “Otarran’s men are fond of poison,” Ayil said. “Don’t get cut.”

  Dalcon bit back a snide remark about what actually constituted helpful information, then slid the door open and stepped out into the dim, musty alleyway.