Shadows Bear No Names (The Blackened Prophecy Book 1) Page 8

  Ga’an was focused on his breathing when he heard the whispers close behind him. Without hesitation, he turned and swung the metal rod he’d been leaning on.

  Nothing. He’d hit only air. His nose picked a distinct smell but couldn’t address it. It must be the hunger.

  He turned back to figure out how much he’d diverted from his course, looking at his footprints. Making an educated guess, he picked a direction and started walking again, hoping he wouldn’t end up going in circles.

  Then he heard the whispers again, much closer this time. Ga’an stopped and listened to the silence, not even risking another breath. There it is again. Listening closely, he thought he heard several different voices carried through the mist. The smell again…

  His soldier’s instincts took over and he took a wide stance, readying the metal rod in his hands. His muscles stiffened, eyes searching for threats through the mist.

  Something jumped out of the dense fog. Her eyes—she looked like a person and a female, although much smaller in size than him—were red and her mouth bloodied. She made feral noises, growling and locking her stare with Ga’an’s.

  Ga’an sprung his stick without hesitation and hit the woman’s chest. The power of the blow crushed her and she fell to her knees. Not giving her the chance to recover, Ga’an thrust his weapon at her back. The metal punched through near her spine, all the way to her lungs, and the woman trembled violently, making guttural sounds and vomiting blood. In a few seconds, she lay dead.

  Four more assailants appeared from the depths of the white cloud. How they found their way in this fog was beyond him but there they were. A bald male with a dirty face whispered hysterically, and the rest snarled at the Praetor and circled him.

  They were a pack in hunt and he was the food. One of the attackers fixed its stare on his injured leg and gave what appeared like laughter. “Curses of the blood!” Ga’an muttered. He hoped to intimidate the pack and force them to retreat; he and they both realized he was an easy target.

  Ga’an turned to face the alpha male, the bald one. He locked stares with the pack leader and teased him with the rod, waving it threateningly. The leader accepted the challenge and howled. With a swift move, Ga’an crouched and swung the rod above his head in a circular motion as the pack jumped. He caught the creatures off guard and heard the satisfying sound of metal on flesh. Ga’an didn’t wait for his attackers to recover but jumped back to his feet, ignoring the pain in his left leg. He slid the rod in his hand to use it as a javelin and with a swift throw, hit the pack leader in the chest, punching through his heart.

  The alpha died on the spot, lifeless eyes staring at his own chest in disbelief. The death of their leader gave pause to the other three.

  “Come and meet your maker!” Ga’an growled, but one of the assailants made a clicking sound with its tongue and they retreated into the mist as fast as they had appeared.

  Ga’an kept on the defensive, ready to strike with his bare hands if need be. Nothing happened. The air became as still as it had been before the attack. He relaxed a bit and approached the dead male to pull out his walking stick. He inspected the man. Eyes, hands, legs. We very much look alike, except for the height. You are too short to be a Nucteel. He realized the bald figure wore clothes. They were more like torn pieces stuck to his body like patches, covered in dust and dirt. I hope you are not the dominant species of this moon, friend.

  The adrenalin wore off, reminding Ga’an of his hunger. His dizziness had worsened and he was perplexed by the chaos of trails on the sand his fight with the savage wildlings had left. Wildlings, he smiled at his thought. You have no idea where you are and what they are. You are the alien, the wildling Praetor. He took a deep breath, trying to remember his way.

  “To hell with the ancestors!” he cursed, walking past the fallen body. They’d ripped him from the chance to die in glory, only to starve him to death in the middle of nowhere!

  Focused on cursing his fate, Ga’an was caught off-guard when a dark man jumped out of the mist and toppled him. He frantically tried to throw the attacker from his back, but a blow to his stomach winded the seasoned warrior. Ga’an coughed violently, clawing the air for breath, but the attack was fierce. One of the females hit him hard in his stomach and now, the two female wildlings were gnawing his injured leg, biting it with their rotten fangs.

  He kicked madly and landed a blow on one of the women, sending her flying, but the other sank her teeth further into his ankle. Ga’an screamed in agony and felt to his knees. The dark man still rode his back, trying to chew his neck. Ga’an knew it meant death if the wildling got his teeth in. A bang sounded and Ga’an felt the weight lighten. Warm blood soaked the back of his torn uniform. He took a quick glance and saw his assailant lying dead. Two more pops followed, cracking one female’s head open and spilling its contents over her body, then splitting the other female’s throat in two, washing the dry sand with red. Ga’an grimaced, watching the attacker fall off from his leg.

  Another female figure emerged from the mist, holding a smoking weapon. She placed a boot on the woman she’d taken in the throat and fired another round, silencing the wildling’s grating groans. This woman was different; Ga’an immediately noticed the distinct movements of an intelligent female whereas the wildlings were, well, wild. Her style of dress was unfamiliar, but then, everything was alien so far. Well, except the rocks and the sand.

  The woman poked the dead one by one with her foot and made a disgusted sound when some of the remains stuck to her boot. Ga’an watched her come closer while still keeping out of Ga’an’s reach.

  Smart. “Thank you,” he said, bowing his head and hoping she would understand.

  The woman held her stare on him behind her goggles, not moving a muscle.

  “I am Prae—” he stopped and smiled bitterly. “I am Ga’an.”

  His savior removed her goggles and the mask covering her mouth. Then she lowered her scarf, revealing her face. She had green eyes and her slightly protruding cheekbones gave her a hardened look. Her pose had a warrior’s stance. The way she’d shot her targets confirmed she was a soldier.

  She said something to Ga’an but he didn’t understand. She pointed at his leg, and her voice was gentle, albeit alien to his ears.

  “Ga’an.” he said, putting his hand on his chest. “Thank you.” He pointed at the bodies around them. The woman narrowed her eyes, not moving forward.

  “Please.” Ga’an was tiring of the dialogue. Monologue, he corrected himself. He probably sounded like a caveman to this woman. He indicated the small pin on his collar, removed it gently and put it before her. “Please.” Ga’an took out an identical pin and attached it to his neck, nodding at her to do the same.

  The woman pursed her lips. She holstered her pistol warily and placed the device on her neck after a moment of pause. Ga’an smiled and told her to wait with a hand gesture, awaiting the analyzer to work.

  “Thank you,” he said, after a minute that felt like eternity. The words sounded different in his mouth but at least he could communicate now. The translation pins needed more time to analyze before one could learn more but everything he learnt from the connection was alien. It was overwhelming. This has to do. “You can remove the pin…Sarah Davis.”

  “Yes, that’s my name. And you’re Ga’an, right?” His savior did as he suggested, giving back the device. “Ga’an…Ga’an…” she repeated his name a few times, trying to adjust to the sound of it.

  “Yes. I owe you my existence, Sarah Davis.”

  “Life,” Sarah corrected. “Twice.” she raised her fingers. “Those things are nasty and they usually hunt in larger packs.”

  “Twice?” Ga’an asked.

  “You can’t survive in the desert and I have a ride.”

  “Do you have nourishment?” he continued. “And water?”

  “Food.”

  Ga’an narrowed his eyes. “F…Food.”

  “Nourishment sounds…funny. Food is better. You shouldn
’t be alone in the mist,” Sarah said. She pulled something from one of her packs and gave it to Ga’an. “Not the best processed chicken bar but it’ll do. Eat it.”

  “Chicken.” Ga’an took the food from her and took a bite.

  “You have to remove the packing!”

  “Packing?” Ga’an looked at the food bar. “Packing!” He laughed after a moment’s pause and removed the package. “Like haluf.”

  “No idea what that is but yeah, don’t eat the packing.”

  “What is this…mist?” Ga’an asked, still uncomfortable with the language. He sniffed the chicken bar. Funny. He took a bite. “Chicken,” he repeated. It tasted interestingly familiar. Nothing like haluf. The translation device was meant for his people’s neural structure and it was the first time he’d experienced neural transfer from one mind to another. From an unknown species’ mind.

  “Chicken, yes. Here, take some water.”

  Ga’an gladly accepted the flask Sarah gave and ate his meal in joy as she watched him.

  “The fog, I’m not sure.” She looked around in distaste. “It’s rumored to be an old military experiment gone wrong decades ago,” she said. “It messes with your head if you stay too long in it. Here.” She took out a spare mask like the one she had. “Wear that.”

  Ga’an put on the mask. He didn’t feel any changes in his breathing. Perhaps it only affects her species. H-human.

  “Some technology, that device of yours.”

  Ga’an nodded in agreement. “It helps. Why are you alone in the mist?”

  She smiled, and said “Wiseass,” then gestured Ga’an to follow her. “Come on, it’ll be dark soon.”

  “A dreadful place,” Ga’an said, his voice booming under the mask. “Reminds me the dune seas of Sorhon.”

  “It is,” Sarah agreed, “though I have no idea where Sorhon is. This is Tarra and that green planet hovering above is Bunari.” She lifted her backpack and shook the sand off it. “Come, I’ll give you a ride to the Crater. We shouldn’t stay in the mist for long.”

  “What is a Crater?”

  “Probably the worst town you’ve ever been to.” She beckoned him to follow.

  Sarah was using the trail she’d left with a small chain attached to her left boot to find her way back to her ride. That is smart. After walking for another ten minutes, her ride appeared from the mist, right in front of them.

  “Hover bike.” Ga’an inspected the ride. It had two seats and a handle bar to ride the thing. As the name suggested, the machine hovered a few centimeters off the ground.

  “Yep, hover bike.” Sarah hopped on the bike and Ga’an mimicked her, taking the back seat.

  She pulled a helmet from her backpack and added it over her mask. “It has a virtual interface, makes you see through the fog,” she shouted over the engine noise. “I’m guessing that weird-looking ship crashed on the south edge is yours?”

  “My ship has crashed, yes.”

  “And you read my mind through that device.” It wasn’t a question.

  “To some extent, I did.”

  “And you know I’m human, and what a chicken is.”

  “Yes, chicken,” Ga’an answered. He hadn’t intruded on the woman’s entire brain, but learnt enough to know the basics about her species and speak her language.

  “You shouldn’t read other people’s thoughts, that’s rude.”

  “I only read the language.” Ga’an never thought of courtesy in the heat of the moment. He had intruded on Sarah’s privacy. “I apologize for my action.”

  “Nah, it’s all right. The ride will take some time. And it would be a lovely road story to talk about what you are, Ga’an.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  ALL THOSE MOMENTS

  The spherical tactical display in the middle of the bridge beeped twice as two more green dots appeared, moving slowly inward to take their place near the fleet.

  “Admiral, California and Athens have arrived and are moving into position. All dreadnoughts called to action have arrived.”

  The Admiral gave a curt nod. She saw her reflection in one of the screens nearby. She had more grays than black now, and her eyes and lips were smaller than they had been twenty years ago. She owed the scars to the fleet, of course, but her own dedication to her career had taken its toll as well.

  She turned her attention back to the main holographic display before her, its bluish light shining on her cheeks, clasping her hands behind her as she always did whenever something required her undivided attention. Before her lay twenty-five dreadnoughts—kilometer long battleships, armed to the teeth formed around her super-dreadnought, the Deviator; an eight kilometer long devastation machine. The whole First Banner awaited her orders, positioned before the huge alien ring in Samara’s Star for the last five days, watching for signs of activity. She was thankful nothing had happened before all her ships reported in for duty.

  “Commander,” she said without turning to the tactical station. “Signal the first group to initiate maneuvers. Scattered formation.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” The executive officer passed the orders through the communicator in a low voice.

  “Tactical,” the Admiral continued, “I want the second group networked to our guidance system. We will mark the targets.”

  “Aye, ma’am,” a young man replied from a station near the central hub.

  A woman, twenty-five at most, walked forward with haste, smoothing her uniform. “Admiral Conway, Saratoga reports increased energy readings at the gate.” She handed the admiral a data pad. “Moscow confirms the readings.”

  Rebecca gave a quick look and handed back the device, returning the junior-grade to her duty station. Rebecca’s attention turned again to the map, and she walked slowly around the spherical view, analyzing the theater from every angle, her steps brushing the synthetic carpet coating on the hardened titanium tiles. She was more interested in preparing for whatever came out of the alien structure than speculating about sensor readings.

  “Mr. Jong, signal Newcastle to reposition in grid three.”

  “Yes, ma’am!” another man replied from a console.

  Every now and then, Rebecca checked the main display at the far end of the bridge to see her fleet’s actual movements, rather than follow green dots. She never bet her orders on one instrument—if she had the chance, she’d take a seat high above the operational theatre and observe every move like watching a chessboard. Her fleet now hovered in front of the alien gate in a web formation, hoping to catch whatever came from the blackness.

  “Mr. Jong, belay that order,” the Admiral said, after a second glance. “I want the Newcastle to act as a counter-battery. I don’t want any missiles escaping through their firing solution.” She stopped and looked around in silence, watching the crew do their jobs. The bridge buzzed with activity; officers running errands for their superiors, reports going back and forth between her first officer and the stations. Her people worked like ants, tirelessly preparing for the unknown, the holographic screens’ bluish lights reflecting on their determined faces.

  “Francis, why would you make a huge door?” she called to her commander. She’d realized recently that whenever she needed advice, she’d formed the habit of calling the XO on a first-name basis before the crew. He’s a dear friend, no need to be alarmed. She reminded herself of that quite frequently nowadays. Too frequently to be comfortable.

  Francis raised his head from the tactical terminal. “To pass something large through it, maybe?”

  “How big is the gate compared to this super-dreadnought?”

  “A hundred times, give or take.”

  “A hundred times,” Rebecca concurred. Her eyes were on the main screen, but Francis knew her enough to see she was lost deep in thought. There was no hiding from him after all these years. She spoke again. “I want every dreadnought to arm their warheads, and if things go south I want a one-click execution.”

  The commander’s clean-shaven face changed color and his eyes
bulged. “One-click? Ma’am, do you know what that means?”

  She raised an eyebrow. Friend or not Francis, I am your admiral.

  “Rebecca—” He checked to see if the personnel were listening and leaned closer, his voice turning to a whisper. “More than fifty thousand people serve on board these ships. You want them to commit mass suicide with the click of a button!” The commander unintentionally raised his voice on “mass suicide.” Several officers close to the central display looked at the two curiously.

  Rebecca met Francis’ gaze. Francis, I always admired your hotheaded honesty. “You do not build gates this size to say ‘hello’ to your neighbors.” She came closer, almost touching his face with hers, “Look at that gate and tell me you are not afraid of something that size coming out.”

  Francis didn’t say anything, locking his stare.

  “Look!” she held his chin and twisted his head to the main screen. Now, everyone watched them. The buzz and chatter died into silence, only the humming and beeping of computers filling the air.

  Francis’ jaw tightened in rage when she let go of him. His cheeks flushed with anger, his eyes burned with fire. Rebecca met his stare, her gaze more sad than angry.

  “Those are my orders, Commander,” she said finally. “I expect you to carry them out.” She didn’t wait for a response but turned back to the tactical display. Please Francis, it is already hard enough. She sensed him still behind her, waiting patiently for her to reconsider, but she also knew Francis would abide by her orders. He eventually gave a heavy sigh. Thank you, she thought and closed her eyes when the commander returned to his station, muttering under his breath. Possibly one of his colorful curses, adorned with French words.

  A junior-grade’s yell pulled her mind away from Francis. “Ma’am, something is happening!”

  “Report!”

  “The symbols. I b—”