A Greater Duty (Galaxy Ascendant Book 1) Read online

  So useless. There was nothing more she could do here, nothing any of them could do. Nayasar looked around, and saw in addition to many people staring at the screen, many others had their heads bent and eyes closed, mouths moving in silent prayer.

  Nayasar considered doing the same, offering a prayer to the Omnipresent, but all she could think of was that it was her responsibility to protect her people, not His. She clasped her hands tightly behind her back, to project a confidence that she did not feel and to give her hands something to do.

  “Intruders sixty seconds from Selban. Interceptors still nearly two minutes out.” Someone stated. Had it been nearly an hour already?

  “Any visuals?” another asked.

  “I think so… yes. Receiving a visual from one of the interceptors, magnified, as well as a visual from the ground.”

  Nayasar forced herself to unclench her hands before she cut herself, and first looked at the image sent from one of the fighters’ cameras. If they had a visual, then soon they could begin to fire missiles.

  “Open a feed to the fighter channel,” Nayasar ordered.

  Just as they did, she heard Felivas’s voice. “Targets in range, weapons free.”

  Missiles screamed out from the fighters in great numbers, slamming into the leading enemy ships just as they reached the city. Even as several of the mismatched ships became fireballs, however, she saw others launching projectiles and unguided munitions at the city below, and her heart caught in her throat.

  The visual display from the ground showed the true damage as massive, fiery explosions erupted throughout the city. Nayasar couldn’t bring herself to look away as buildings collapsed, fires spread, even as the fighters continued to eliminate their targets, which were completely ignoring the military craft.

  Any hit that was not immediately fatal the savages turned into more damage. Ships that were losing altitude would direct their descent to impact into the largest nearby building and deploy any remaining munitions. The pilot chatter indicated that they noticed this as well and began unloading far more firepower than normal into the attacking craft to completely annihilate them in the air. Nayasar felt her hands clench again.

  Then the visual from the ground cut out after another huge explosion. Nayasar heard others in the room gasp or utter prayers, but all she could do was watch and focus on staying on her feet.

  Before long, the battle was over, and the interceptors reported that every intruding vessel had been destroyed. No one in the room cheered.

  The view from the fighters showed the devastation wrought on the simple, innocent city; nearly every tall building was damaged if not destroyed, fires raged unchecked, and bodies… Omnipresent preserve, the bodies. Nayasar did not bother to try and hold back tears.

  Failed them. She had failed in her duty to protect her people, and now how many were dead? Hundreds? Thousands? Her communicator began to ring; Felivas, again.

  “I failed them,” she said before Felivas could utter a word. “I was supposed to protect them.”

  “There was nothing more you could have done,” Felivas said evenly, though it was clear he felt much like she did. “Nothing more any of us could have done. The people that did this are dead. Now our people need you to lead them through this.”

  Nayasar didn’t respond, barely able to keep herself upright, watery eyes still staring at the destruction and death. I’m sorry I failed you.

  “Nayasar?” she heard Felivas say. “Nayasar, are you there? Are you alright?”

  No, Nayasar decided as Felivas called her name again, she was not. And she could not even say for certain that she ever would be again.

  * * *

  Four Weeks Later…

  Well, at least this beats watching angry Zarians argue for hours on end.

  Second Scion Dalcon Oresh stood silently on the cool, bright command deck of the frigate Lightspear, his gaze fixed on the display screen, now only showing the distorted stars of hyperspace rushing past. He would have preferred to do something useful, but there was nothing for him to do until the Lightspear and the other nine ships in the task force arrived at their destination. Still, he was grateful for a reason to no longer have to oversee the dull, drawn out reconciliation talks between two rival Zarian political factions, which had recently come to the edge of war; Scions were meant to be actors, not observers.

  Their destination was Atheneum Alpha, an information storage center and library on the fringes of Galactic Alliance space. It provided a quiet, isolated study center for scholars and their assistants, and provided researchers with access to rare physical documents, all away from busier inhabited space, and outside of any system’s territory, ensuring it avoided local squabbles. This station and its score of siblings scattered throughout Alliance space had, despite initial worries, proven quite safe. The only danger this far out in space was pirates, and libraries tended not to be at risk of attack; the only items of value in the station were the rare documents, not exactly the most appealing of targets for pirates. Nevertheless, they had been outfitted with a small security force and full-time maintenance staff. There had never been any serious incident involving any of the stations. Until now.

  For reasons still unknown, last contact with Atheneum Alpha had been four weeks ago. Four weeks. Dalcon had wanted to yell when he learned of the situation. How could this have been ignored for so long? There were over a hundred people on the station; how could an investigation only be launched now?

  If the Scions had known any sooner, this wouldn’t have happened, he told himself. It was their job to guard the Alliance’s citizens, and he would not believe that the First Scion would stand for such indecision. Granted, the station only sent in a weekly report, and if one failed to arrive, it could well have just been a malfunction. But still, three extra weeks was too long. Anything more than one extra week was simply unreasonable.

  “Officer on deck!” announced one of the command crew members.

  Dalcon turned toward the lift on the side of the room, where Supreme Commander Garek Ronner, the commander in chief of the Legion Navy, was stepping out of the lift. The gray-green, bony Tehlman eye crest which arced around and over the supreme commander’s eyes and up to his forehead so closely matched the designs on his royal blue combat armor that they almost seemed to be part of it. This set him apart from the ship’s crew, who wore red and white uniforms to mark them as such. Dalcon smiled for a moment. He himself also wore his full combat armor, white with a slash of blue, and a white cape, the uniform of the Scions of Justice. Dalcon was of the opinion that soldiers, officers in particular, should always be dressed in full battle attire while on duty; for appearance’s sake if not for practical reasons, and he could respect anyone who did so.

  The supreme commander walked over to Dalcon as soon as he saw him. “Should I say it’s a pleasure to meet you outside the context of a Council meeting, Second Scion, or would you prefer I look as grim as you?”

  “Would you prefer I crack jokes while we are on a serious mission?” Dalcon replied, arms still clasped behind his back.

  The supreme commander smiled. “You’re still young, I get it. But when you reach my age, you come to appreciate levity a bit more.”

  Dalcon resisted the urge to dismiss Ronner’s statement. “I’ll bear that in mind, when I’m an older Tehlman.”

  “Scions,” the supreme commander muttered under his breath—but just loud enough for Dalcon to hear. “Fine, then. What do you make of this, Second Scion?” he asked.

  Dalcon couldn’t help but smile slightly. Despite not being interested in levity, he did genuinely welcome the supreme commander’s presence. “If there was some sort of major mechanical failure, all we’ll be doing is picking up bodies. If there was some sort of pirate raid, then I have no idea what we’ll find. What I really want to know is why there was no investigation as soon as contact was lost.”

  “That I can’t answer. If it were left to the politicians, I’d still be overseeing officer training back on
Dorandor, and you’d be cleaning up that mess on Zaria—sorry I had to tear you away from that lovely post. I insisted on investigating once I learned what had happened.”

  “It was a difficult choice. But why is the supreme commander of the Legion Navy so concerned about a small library station?” Dalcon asked.

  The supreme commander’s eyes narrowed for a moment. “Just because I am responsible for an army does not mean that I do not care about the Alliance’s citizens. It’s not only the Scions who care. Also, I have an uncle on the station. That’s how I learned of the loss of contact. My brother is close to him, and when Uncle missed four scheduled calls, he got worried and contacted me. My brother would have called sooner if our uncle wasn’t absent-minded enough to often forget to call. Beyond that, I do enjoy going into the field, from time to time, a feeling I think you can understand.”

  Dalcon studied the man for a moment. The supreme commander’s face had a pale cast, and the lines on his face stood out plainly next to his sagging eyes, which thanks to his bony crest looked like they were completely sinking into his face. He looked concerned. Of course, it could have just been the supreme commander’s age; at sixty-seven, he was past his prime, if only just.

  “I understand,” he replied. “I have been on Zaria for the last month. If I had known, I could have reached the station less than a day after it missed its first check-in.”

  “The Scions didn’t know? I’d thought your information sources to be better than that.”

  “They are. I mean to ask the First Scion that very question when I deliver my report.”

  “Is that why you were sent here? To observe and report back to the Scions?”

  “I am here to find out what happened to our citizens, and to help if needed. The Scions do not take assaults on civilians lightly. If they were attacked, I will see to it that the culprits get what they deserve.”

  “I do not doubt that, Scion, but do not be too quick to assume there will be a confrontation.” The supreme commander paused for a moment. “I apologize for my remark. I’ve always been wary of militaristic organizations that are not under my jurisdiction.”

  “I take no offense, supreme commander,” Dalcon replied, then crossed his arms as they continued to wait. The supreme commander did not specify what remark he was apologizing for. Was it the remark about the Scions, or was it what he said about Dalcon rushing into confrontation? The supreme commander was a veteran of the Daeris Uprising. Doubtless he still relived moments from the conflict, even twenty years later. It was hard to forget horned, orange-skinned berserkers spewing liquid fire as they charged your position, shrugging off wounds that would immediately kill almost anyone else. Dalcon realized with a start that he was running a hand along one of the curved thirty-centimeter horns that protruded from his forehead. I thought I broke that habit, he said to himself. He quickly returned his hand to his side. He probably sees a crazed berserker whenever he looks at me.

  Dalcon had never made any excuses for the horrible actions of his kind. He was the first Daeris Scion, having joined specifically to distance himself as much as possible from his rage-prone people, and had risen to the rank of Second Scion. He had demonstrated time and again that he was not dangerous and that he cared dearly for every life. He had openly made his disdain for his own kind known, even refusing to use his peoples’ natural ability to produce liquid fire from their bodies—though the Flame was always calling. The Daeris fully deserved their fate, and reputation. Despite his public stance, however, people would still look nervous in his presence, not stay around him long, and some would make quiet remarks about the ‘demon,’ remarks not meant to be heard. The supreme commander certainly felt some resentment toward him—how could he not—but he had the decency to attempt to hide it.

  The uncomfortable silence lasted until the Lightspear emerged from hyperspace near the station.

  “We’re within sensor range of the station now,” announced the operations officer, drawing Dalcon from his thoughts.

  “Scan for life forms, power sources,” ordered the Supreme Commander.

  “Sensors are showing only seven life forms aboard. Power readings seem slightly below normal.”

  Seven? This was bad. “How many were last reported to be on the station?”

  “One hundred and eight, sir, including visitors, security, and maintenance staff.”

  The Supreme Commander nodded. “Still no response to our hails?”

  “No, sir.”

  The supreme commander turned to Dalcon. “What do you make of the situation now?”

  “We can’t discount any possibilities yet, but it is doubtful that the station experienced a catastrophic malfunction. Nor is it possible that there was merely a communications failure.”

  “We will need to board the station then,” the supreme commander said. He turned to the ship’s captain. “Captain, have two squads assemble at the portside airlock on deck 12. Bring the ship alongside the uppermost airlock on the station, in the residential section,” he ordered.

  “Of course, Supreme Commander,” the captain replied.

  The supreme commander turned to Dalcon. “Come; let’s find out what happened here.”

  “I wouldn’t have it any other way,” Dalcon replied, then followed the supreme commander into the lift. It was not proper protocol for the supreme commander to join an investigation team, but Dalcon had no intention of arguing. The man’s relative had been on the station, and with only seven people alive on board, there would be little threat of attack, whoever those life forms were. There might be other hazards of course, but Dalcon would deal with that situation when it arose.

  They rode down the lift and walked to the airlock in silence. Perhaps the supreme commander didn’t want to speak with him, or perhaps he simply wanted to avoid accidentally insulting him again. Whatever the reason, the silence was putting Dalcon on edge. He took a quick drink from a canteen that hung on his belt once they arrived at the airlock. He closed his eyes for a moment, let himself feel the water flow within him, and with it the power, imicry, which was granted to all Scions. He itched to use it, but restrained himself; he needed to stop using it as a crutch, and there was a chance he would need the power for real, very soon. Dalcon raised his hand slightly and clenched it tight, feeling a rush of heat beneath his skin, itching to escape. In a practiced manner, Dalcon relaxed his hand and drew upon the cool sensation of imicry, creating a small sphere of blue-white light in his hand for a moment.

  He opened his eyes as he heard soldiers approaching. The two squads, forty-eight soldiers in total, stopped and assembled behind Dalcon and the supreme commander, who turned to address them.

  “Here is what we know. Sensors detected seven life signs on board out of the hundred plus that there should be. Readings show that the station is largely functional, and we have not detected anything particularly unusual. The people on board are likely the survivors of whatever happened here, but until we know for sure, be on guard. Do not fire unless we are attacked. We are here on an investigative mission, and it will remain as such unless the situation changes. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Yes sir,” replied the officer leading the two squads, a captain, by the red star on the collar of his armor. The Tehlman put on his helmet, and the rest of the soldiers followed suit. Dalcon wished he had worn his helmet; at least it would’ve made him stand out less—white among blue instead of Daeris Scion among soldiers.

  A red light began to strobe, indicating that the ship had successfully connected with the station. The supreme commander gave a sharp order, the first squad entered the airlock, Dalcon and the supreme commander close behind, and the second squad taking the rear. He took another sip from his canteen as the door began to hiss open, to help him focus—his mind was needed for the mission now, not worrying about other matters. Once the door was open, he followed the supreme commander through the connecting tube to the door that would lead them into the station. It did not open for them as expected. The circuitry
was damaged.

  “I’ll get it open,” Dalcon volunteered. Finally something to do. He clenched a muscle in his arm and a thin blade nearly as long as his forearm sprung from the top of his wrist. The blades implanted in his arms were perhaps the most recognizable enhancement granted to the Scions. He approached the door, slid the blade between the two sections, and began to force it open. He didn’t worry about the blade warping or breaking; it was forged of pure felinite, the almost impossibly durable metal found only in Felinaris space. As he worked, Dalcon wondered what the Scions would do once their supply ran out; since the Felinaris had left the Alliance, no felinite had been exported legally, and the Scions were more likely to arrest black market merchants than buy from them.

  The door opened easily once the lock was broken, and Dalcon stepped inside—there was no way he would allow the supreme commander to enter an unknown situation first. He stopped as soon as he entered and saw the walls. The walls were burned by what could only be gunfire, and dried blood was everywhere, giving the hallway a sharp, metallic smell. He reached for the pistol on his hip, then remembered he had not been carrying it while on board the Lightspear. A stupid mistake. He took another drink of water, and left his arm blade extended as his free hand itched to use his imicry.

  “Plasma fire, it looks like,” the supreme commander said, moving into the hall enough to allow the soldiers to enter as well. They all had their weapons drawn now. “Do you agree?” the supreme commander asked, his voice distorted slightly by his helmet’s speakers.

  Dalcon nodded. “Most certainly. Pirates, most likely, given the number of shots. Anyone with formal training would never be hitting walls so much in a firefight, especially in so narrow a hall as this.”

  “They’re probably long gone then; this blood has been here for quite some time,” the supreme commander said. “But we cannot be too certain.” He turned to the officer who led the soldiers. “Captain, take a dozen men and secure the control center. Another dozen will secure the elevator to the library level. The rest of us will secure the remainder of this section before moving to the library area.”