Wings of Redemption (The Terra Nova Chronicles Book 3) Page 5

  “They definitely don’t look friendly.”

  A figure appeared at the top of the ramp, his red and blue armor glinting in the sunlight, a mirrored visor covered his face. He stood and waited as the skeletal soldiers worked the masses back away from the shuttle.

  The armored speaker finished his presentation then stepped aside as if waiting for someone else. Another figure appeared at the top of the ramp, an Ultari dressed in flowing red and black robes, trimmed in gold. A black cloak hung loosely from his shoulders and he wore a golden crown on his head.

  “Assembled faithful,” the figure bellowed, his amplified voice echoing through the palace grounds, “your salvation has come! Behold, his Majesty. Your one true Emperor returned to us…Kyrios!”

  ****

  There were no cheers, no curses, no responses of any kind. The crowd was simply silent. Although several ducked or craned their necks to see around the line of Netherguard separating them from the Triumvirate’s shuttle, no one said a thing.

  Jared frowned. That’s not usually how this goes.

  “What is this?” someone shouted. A small group of Ultari approached the Netherguard to Jared’s left. “Stand aside. How dare you?”

  A red line traced itself around the Ultari’s face as Jared scanned him. In addition to the information on the Ultari world, the Exiled Ships’ data cores had held extremely detailed records of the current Founders. The image flashed, and a panel appeared, identifying the Ultari as Pantos of the Planet Strider Collective, current Speaker of the Founders. Identities of other Ultari appeared as the suit continued to scan.

  Jared reached the bottom of the ramp and turned toward the group of robed Ultari. “You will submit.”

  “We will do no such thing,” Pantos said, struggling against the hand of a Netherguard.

  “Behold,” Jared said, motioning to the shuttle’s hatch just as Kyrios appeared, surrounded by his Elites. “Your salvation.”

  The Elites rapped their halberds against the shuttle’s ramp as they escorted the Emperor to the ground. With his black robes flowing around him, Kyrios had his hood pulled over his head for maximum effect.

  The Founder’s complaint was cut short as the Elites stepped aside, revealing Kyrios in full for the first time. Pantos stood, mouth agape, eyes wide in terror and recognition.

  “I sense doubt among you,” Kyrios said, his tone even but firm. “There can be no doubt.” He motioned to the Exiled Captains as they filed out of the shuttle behind him. “As you can see, your brothers have already accepted the truth.”

  Several murmurs spread through the crowds at the sight of the Captains. Kailani, however, was notably not among them. The captains formed a line behind the Cigyd and Zviera, who stood just in front of the shuttle’s ramp, hoods masking their faces in shadow.

  Kyrios turned back to the Founders. “I am your true God. You will see this.”

  Pantos looked like he was on the verge of collapsing.

  “Kneel!” Jared bellowed, his amplified voice causing several to jump.

  Pantos began to bend down, but one of the other Founders reached out and took hold of his arm, pulling him back upright. Jared’s suit identified him as Lagar, leader of the Yudda Collective.

  “Do not kneel!” Lagar shouted, stepping out in front of the group, putting his back to Kyrios.

  Not the best move ever, Jared thought.

  Several of the Founders appeared conflicted. Half were in the process of kneeling, the other half waiting, curious to hear what their companion had to say.

  “Don’t be fooled by these lies!” Lagar shouted. “The Holy Triumvirate are long dead. All the sacred histories attest to this.” He pointed to Kyrios. “This…imposter does not bring redemption. Just look who he’s brought to support him—the Exiled Captains. What power do they have? Do not fear!”

  Glad the visor hid his smile, Jared stepped forward as he raised one arm, palm up. He spread his fingers as his pulse laser whined to life. “You will submit.”

  “I will not—”

  The Emperor nodded and Jared fired before the Ultari realized what was happening. The blast took Lagar in the chest, knocking him back, his pain-filled scream cut shout. The Founders scrambled away as Lagar landed, bouncing once on the soft grass, then lying still.

  A cluster of Ultari roared in anger, pushing hard against the Netherguard. Energy bolts flashed, sparking off armor plates. Even as Jared ordered additional troops to move in, the Elites surrounded Kyrios, raising their halberds, blasting anyone who managed to squeeze through the line.

  Jared leapt forward, pulse lasers dropping two Ultari as they pushed past a Netherguard. He pushed his volume to max and shouted, “ENOUGH!” His command vibrated the ground underneath his feet, stopping the Ultari in their tracks. “You will submit.”

  Five of the Elites turned their halberds on the Founders, and reluctantly, Pantos fell to his knees, hiding his face. The others behind him followed suit, cowering before the Emperor.

  “Do you enjoy this feeling?” Kyrios asked, stepping toward the trembling Ultari, all pressing their faces into the ground. “This fear? This anguish?”

  “Your Emperor asked you a question,” Jared said, stepping closer to the group. The Ultari closest to him flinched and abruptly wailed, like a child frightened of a parent.

  “N-no, Master,” one of them said. “I don’t.”

  Kyrios nodded. “Ah. I thought not.” He walked slowly back down the line of kneeling Ultari leaders, considering each one in turn. “Have I been gone so long that my teachings have been forgotten? That my words of preservation and salvation have been lost?”

  Pantos trembled as he spoke. “M-m-master…”

  “Have no fear,” Kyrios continued, ignoring the him. “I have returned to guide my wayward children back to the path of victory. I am a gracious God, am I not?”

  “Yes, Master,” Pantos said.

  Unless you cross him, Jared thought.

  “P-please, Master.” One of the Founders looked up but kept his eyes averted. “We didn’t…we didn’t know you were still alive. If we’d known…”

  “If you’d known? And how much effort did you put into looking, servant?”

  “It’s been hundreds of years, Master. Our ancestors didn’t—”

  “Do not speak of your ancestors to me, servant,” Kyrios said, a tinge of anger creeping in. “You have not earned that right. Your ancestors, my honored warriors, fought a long, difficult battle against the Abomination. Many sacrificed themselves for me. And this is how you’ve seen fit to honor their memory? You have disgraced your ancestors, servant, and you will not speak their name again.”

  Pantos bowed. “As you command.”

  Kyrios looked around at the surrounding grounds. The complex proper spanned several square kilometers, a combination of lush parklands, stone walkways, hedgerows and hundreds of marble statues. To the right, behind the crowd, at the end of a marble path that led to the main stairs leading up to the palace’s entrance stood a circle of twenty statues, all Ultari figures in various states of disrepair.

  “It seems you have created your own history,” Kyrios said. “One to suit your own purposes. And it seems you have forgotten why we fight.”

  Kyrios moved away from the cowering Ultari to where a servitor droid stood motionless at the edge of the crowd. Jared and the Elites followed.

  The droid had been in the process of trimming one of the hedges when the Emperor’s shuttle had landed. Its chrome body was scratched and worn, having obviously gone through years of neglect and minimal upkeep. Its single glowing eye on its cylindrical head watched the Emperor as he approached, making no sign that it was aware of any danger.

  Kyrios stood in front of the droid and considered it for several moments, before turning back to the Founders. “You have invited the Abomination into our home, allowed them to walk among you for countless years, knowing the damnation they wrought during the Uprising. You have allowed this blasphemy. You have dishonored yo
ur ancestors, and everything they fought and died for.”

  “Master, they—”

  “Silence!” Kyrios bellowed, glaring at the Ultari. After a long moment, he turned away from the droid, moving back down the line of Founders. “Herald…”

  “By your will, Master.” Jared grabbed the droid by the top of its head and pulled, ripping it clean off the chassis, sending a shower of sparks spraying. Lights on the droid’s torso flickered and sputtered out as it collapsed to the ground. Jared dropped the still-sparking head next to the body.

  A Founder at the far end of the line looked up, eyes telegraphing the pleas he was about to make. “Master, I beg your forgiveness. The droids are merely tools. We aren’t anything like the Regulos—”

  The Prince’s hand came up in a blur, firing a pulse laser he’d concealed under his robes. The energy blast took the Founder in the chest, knocking him back into his companions. The Ultari’s scream of terror and agony was cut short as he fell to the floor, dead. The surrounding Ultari scrambled away from their dead companion, shouting and gasping in horror.

  “Such is the fate of any who mention the Abomination’s name in the presence of the Emperor,” Zviera said, replacing his pulse laser inside his robes.

  “You all have much to learn,” the Emperor said as he stepped closer to Pantos, his delicate fingers reaching down to touch the Ultari’s bald head. “Why are the Abominations free on my world, servant? Why have you forsaken my teachings?”

  Visibly trembling, the Ultari kept his eyes locked on the floor. “M-master, p-please, I beg…”

  “Begging and groveling will get you nothing,” Kyrios growled.

  “They are workers only,” Pantos whimpered. “They are controlled, monitored at all times. None have the ability or programing for individual thought. Their intelligence is extremely limited to their primary and secondary functions. Please, Master. I mean no disrespect. I am your true servant.”

  Kyrios grunted. “That remains to be seen. What is your name, servant?”

  “I am Pantos Planet Strider, Master. Speaker of the Founders’ Council.”

  “There is no more council, servant. You are chief of nothing. I am the only leader you need.”

  Pantos’ shoulders dropped as he bowed his head. “By your will, Master.”

  “Your faith and devotion have been misguided, servant.” Kyrios looked over the remaining Founders. “You have all seen my righteous power. There is no question—I am your God. You will rejoice in me or you will be destroyed. Do you vow to spread the word of my return and pledge your lives to the true Ultari Empire?”

  “Praise the Emperor!” one shouted.

  “I will serve!” another said.

  One by one, the former leaders of the Ultari pledged their allegiance, praising Kyrios, bowing their heads to the ground in supplication. A smile spread across the Emperor’s face as the crowd began to chant his name.

  “Kyrios! Kyrios! Kyrios!”

  But some did not chant, though the Emperor didn’t seem to notice as he continued to address the kneeling Ultari. Jared scanned the crowds, tagging over a hundred that didn’t join in their companions’ exaltations. He knew what the implications of not praising the Emperor would be, and if there were people present that still weren’t convinced—even after what they’d just seen—maybe there was a chance he could slow the Triumvirate’s advance after all. All he had to do was find the right people.

  “We have much work to do in the coming war,” Kyrios said, “and I require faithful servants to defeat the Abomination. By swearing your allegiance to me, I absolve you of your failures. You will serve me.”

  “Thank you, Master.” Pantos reached for Kyrios. “I will serve!”

  “Take heed,” Kyrios said, stepping away from the outstretched hand. “Absolution is not the same as forgetting, servant.”

  Chapter 5

  With the practiced precision of seasoned veterans, 2nd Platoon, Bravo Company performed their right face, a notable accomplishment considering the soldiers had been alive for only a day. A human militia officer commanded the doughboy formation, marching near the rear and shouting commands that were followed immediately, without hesitation. The formation marched around the perimeter of the doughboy camp, back toward the east where a firing range had been established.

  The camp, erected on the outskirts of Terra Nova’s spaceport, consisted of rows and rows of plain green tents, all large enough to house twenty doughboys. Several crews worked to erect additional tents to accommodate the almost constant stream of fresh soldiers added to the army by the hour. After a brief indoctrination and equipment issue, the doughboys were put into their units and assigned to the officers who would lead them.

  Their days were split between working on various construction crews and running through drills, though the drills were more for the officers as the doughboys came out of production preprogrammed and ready for battle.

  As the platoon of doughboys left the tent city's security fence, they were met by twenty colonists, all of whom immediately began shouting, cursing the soldiers for their very existence. Several spit on the doughboys as they passed. A row of human security troopers held the line between the protestors and the formation of doughboys, all of whom ignored the outbursts as if the humans weren’t even there.

  Hale shook his head. “You’d think after all our years of human advancement, we’d be past this kind of thing.”

  Shannon Martel snorted. “What? That they’d allow themselves to make decisions based on logical, unbiased thought and not their emotions? Not a chance.”

  “Fortunately, none of the demonstrations have reached critical levels,” Marie Hale said. “We haven’t had any reports of violence, just a lot of shouting and fist waving—though if I were a betting woman, I wouldn’t wager on that to continue.”

  “I’m surprised it hasn’t happened already, with all the talk I’ve heard around the colony,” Martel said.

  Hale turned away from the protestors. “Talk?”

  “Oh, you know, the brave heroes that linger in small corners while huddled close to their friends. ‘If it wasn’t for such and such, I’d do that,’ or ‘They’d better not do whatever because that’ll be the last straw and I’ll do this.’” Martel shook her head. “United States of Shit-talkers unite. I’ve heard it all before. The amount of hatred Ibarra got after we retook Earth from the Xaros was unbelievable.”

  “Considering his methods, that doesn’t surprise me,” Hale said.

  “You were those methods,” Martel said. Hale opened his mouth to object, but she continued, “Most times, the ends do justify the means, Governor. Ibarra knew that better than most. For him, if humanity didn’t survive the Xaros invasion, then it wouldn’t matter how decent he’d been—no one would be around to care. It’s the same thing here. Those people can protest all they want, but the fact of the matter is, without those doughboys, we don’t stand a chance against the Triumvirate. One day, they’ll come to terms with that.”

  Hale grunted. “Hopefully.” He had trouble believing even that, and he didn’t like being put in the same category as Marc Ibarra—matter of fact, he hated it. After everything he’d seen that man do under the guise of “saving humanity,” Hale just couldn’t bring himself to forgive the man, and he had no illusions about what these demonstrators felt about him.

  “It’s not just the demonstrations,” Marie said. “Several workers have gone on strike, promising not to return to work until all the doughboys are destroyed. We’ve redirected some of the militia to fill in the gaps.”

  “We could just force them back to work,” Martel suggested.

  Hale raised an eyebrow. “And how would you purpose to do that?”

  Martel shrugged. “It’s simple—they either go back to work or they go to jail. The threat of being confined to a four-by-four concrete space with no windows tends to motivate people into submission.”

  “Submission is not what I’m looking for,” Hale said. “And forcing peop
le to work against their will is just another form of slavery. They’ve already been there once. I will not put them there again. We need them to understand the doughboys are here to protect them, not enslave them…again.”

  “And if they don’t?”

  “Then we’ll have to pray we can defeat the Triumvirate without the doughboys.” Hale leaned against the holo table, considering the colony’s projection. “Doughboys are meant to be cannon fodder, chaff. It’s not kind, but it’s better for them to fall than any of our colonists. And without the doughboys, we won’t manage much of a defense.”

  “We’ll put up a hell of a fight regardless,” Captain Handley said, crossing his arms.

  “I have no doubt. What’s the status on the perimeter walls?”

  Handley tapped a command into one of the table’s control terminals, and the projection shifted, centering on a section of partially constructed wall. “We’re about eighty percent on wall construction and about sixty-five percent on weapon emplacements. I estimate the project will be completed in about four days, then we will proceed with installing additional weapon emplacements throughout the colony. We should have complete coverage within a week or so.”

  Hale nodded. “And the general militia? No issues with the troops?”

  “My people are professionals, sir. They may be veterans, retired, or they may never have served before in their lives, but they all recognize what’s at stake here.”

  “Good.” Hale turned to his wife, although he already knew most of what she would report; her briefing was more for the other section heads present in the room. “Orbitals?”

  “We’ve doubled the security on Enduring Spirit. I’ve set up overlapping shift rotations so there will never be a time when the ship is not under strict protocols. All the sensitive areas have been locked down, with access granted only by Edison or myself. The lack of Mules is slowing our progress with the rail-gun batteries. Old Forge is churning out the weapons as fast as they can, and we’ve supplemented with the ground-based printers, but then comes the task of hauling the emplacements into orbit. I don’t have to tell you that security escorts and haulers are in limited supply.”