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  “You alright?” he said, once they were safely out of the neighborhood.

  She laughed. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

  Morgan looked over at her. Her hair was a mess, and a huge red welt was spreading over her cheek. She turned her face away to gaze out the virtual window.

  “It’s alright,” he said. “You can be honest with me.”

  She sniffed. “Just shut up and drive.”

  Chapter 6

  Mog paced the length of the rectangular conference table, observing Sledgim’s desolate surface through the conference room’s massive windows. Even from the Narma Kull’s high orbit, Sledgim was no substitute for Mauria. The latter had appeared vibrant and lively from space; the former was a dreary rock. Its frozen surface was pierced by mountain ranges, and a great ocean of ice dominated the lower hemisphere. If he squinted, he could make out the ugly mining complexes that harvested anitheum, a material used in reactors and computer cores.

  As natural sources of anitheum were scarce on Mauria, Sledgim was an invaluable resource. Although inhospitable, the planet supported nearly three-hundred thousand people. The original colony, Silverpeak, had been home to miners and their families for generations dating back to the founding of the Maurian Empire.

  “Now it has to be home for everyone,” said Mog.

  “It does indeed,” said a voice from the other side of the room.

  He spun around. Standing in the archway, partially supported by a pearl white cane, was the oldest Maurian in the galaxy. His name was mar-Ruba, but most people simply addressed him as Your Majesty.

  The king was adorned in a deep blue robe laced with gold. His fur was white, except for the coarse gray strands sticking out from his ears. His back was hunched, his nose dry and cracked, and his lips shriveled, but his blue eyes sparkled with inner fire. They radiated a power characteristic of a leader and hinted at a wisdom that only comes with the passing of many years. The sovereign drew back his black lips in greeting.

  I am a child compared to him, thought Mog.

  “Your Majesty,” he said with a bow. “I didn’t realize you were yet aboard. Welcome to the Narma Kull.”

  “You may call me Ruba,” said the king, hobbling into the room.

  “I’m honored by your presence,” said Mog, bending lower. He gestured at the conference table. “Please sit.”

  “If you don’t mind, I prefer to stand. You should too.”

  Mog straightened up. “Of course, Your Majesty.”

  The king’s ears flattened. “Dispense with the titles. Ruba will do.”

  “As you command,” said Mog, holding himself at rigid attention.

  He had never met the king, but everyone had seen mar-Ruba’s famous addresses and knew of the man’s achievements. The Maurian Empire had done away with the formal position of emperor a century ago, but as king of Mauria, Ruba had been the de facto supreme leader for nearly two hundred years. As a child, Mog’s mother had told him of the man who had unified the separatist factions and brought wealth and prosperity to over fifty nation states across the seven Maurian worlds. Songs were sung about his conquests, both on the battlefield and at the negotiating table. Nine years ago, when Mog was a new starship commander, he had fought under Ruba’s banner in the liberation of Lubeck IV from the hand of the usurper, King Bor.

  Mog had expected a demigod to walk into his conference room. Ruba’s humility was a pleasant surprise.

  “I trust my aides sent word of my arrival,” said Ruba.

  “Yes, but they did not tell me why.”

  Since he had returned to his ship, he had left the bridge only for essential distractions. The communiqué from the planet announcing the king’s arrival had been one of those.

  “You should know the answer to that, Commander,” said Ruba. “But maybe you do not completely understand. They tell me you have been on the surface, suffering from Isamal’s Syndrome. Is that correct?”

  “I have been back aboard these last three weeks, overseeing final repairs.”

  “Do not be ashamed. It is a common enough affliction, especially among warriors. I have seen many good commanders succumb to their darkest memories and never return.” He paused. “I am glad you have returned. Excluding transport vessels, your ship is the only survivor of the fleet assembled to defend Mauria. The fleet commander is dead, and we have lost contact with the other worlds. Our deep space exploration craft will not return for many years, which means the navy has only a few dozen functioning warships. Of their commanders, you are the most seasoned.”

  Mog considered this. It wasn’t new information—he had learned as much from his surviving crew after he returned from Sledgim. He had suspected Ruba might be coming here to debrief him, or to discuss plans to muster the remains of the fleet into a retaliatory strike force. More probably, the old ruler had come to strip him of his command. What use could a mentally unstable commander be, especially one who had suffered defeat at every battle with the Ta’Krell?

  Ruba began hobbling across the length of the conference room. “I have reviewed your record and I believe you to be a capable leader. Now, we will see if your talent can extend beyond the confines of this ship’s hull. Molamogra, of the Old Salt River clan, son of Nintal and Shabek, I promote you to acting supreme fleet commander. You will lead our people to battle in these last days.”

  Mog snorted. Him, the leader of the fleet? “I’m honored sir, but are you sure?”

  “Commander,” said Ruba, his face hardening, “the fleet has less than forty ships left. Forty ships, out of a force that once contained almost five hundred. Of these, half have never seen combat because their commanders are only in their first year of service. Do you find it so hard to believe you are the one for this job?”

  Mog smoothed a hand over his twitching ears. Since he was a boy, his dream had been to command a great starship. Now, Ruba was asking him to leave his command and take a desk job at Naval Command. There had to be someone else, someone older with more experience.

  “No, there’s not,” said Ruba.

  “What?” said Mog.

  “There’s no one else, from this planet or elsewhere. You are the only possible candidate.”

  Mog’s ear’s twitched. Did he just read my mind?

  Ruba emitted a series of rasping hacks that could possibly be laughter. Mog stiffened, and fought to control his expression. I’ve got to get it together. It seems he can read me like a book. He looked out a window at the black void surrounding Sledgim. There was no way he would leave the bridge of his ship to cower behind a desk.

  Suddenly, the end of Ruba’s pearly cane was prodding him in the chest. He stared down at the king. How had the old man managed to cross the room without him noticing?

  “Do not worry,” said the king. “Our fleet is small, and I cannot see any reason why you should not direct it on the front line, from the Narma Kull.”

  Mog realized his mouth was open and snapped it shut. He can read minds.

  “Will you accept?” said Ruba.

  Mog bared his teeth. “Do I have a choice?”

  Ruba produced another series of raspy chuckles. “There is always a choice.” His twinkling blue eyes cut into Mog.

  “You’re serious then? I can stay on my ship?”

  “Yes.”

  But to coordinate such a force…I’ll need help. And I want to choose who.

  “If I do this, I want my same crew.”

  The king’s ears dipped in acknowledgement. “That is acceptable for the time being.”

  Some of the tension left Mog. Maybe this would work out after all. “I guess I could give it a try.”

  “Good,” said the king, walking back towards the windows. He pointed a gnarled claw at the icy world below. “From now on, this world shall be known as Mauria Prime. It is the new seat of power for our people.”

  Mog’s face hardened. “This world is nothing like Mauria.”

  Ruba bobbed his head. “There is no world like Mauria.” He paused to smooth
his robes with his bony hands. “It is a sad time when the first order of business is to amass a fleet of war. I have ordered the construction of two more shipyards. They will augment Mauria Prime’s existing facility. As we are no longer in a position to build explorers, these facilities will be manufacturing warships like the Narma Kull.

  “In addition, all of our current ships, including cargo freighters and civilian transports, are to be refitted for battle. It will be your job to organize and deploy this fleet. You will have access to all of our resources to accomplish this task.” Ruba tapped the window with his cane. “We will rebuild our great navy, sparing no expense, until our families need fear no attack.”

  Mog got to his feet and joined the king at the window. And then, revenge, if we live long enough.

  “What if the Ta’Krell find us before we can establish defenses?”

  The king stared out at the icy sphere below. Beyond, except for the dim sun, there were no stars. Sledgim’s system was caught up in a hyperspace bubble, an extra-dimensional layer of normal space that resided within hyperspace. Its accidental discovery by ancient explorers had proven fortuitous over the last thousand years. Having a presence that wasn’t on any star map had given them a tremendous advantage in the old wars with the Talurians.

  Still, it was not impervious to detection. Over the decades, a few outsiders had stumbled onto the system by following the hyperspace wakes of careless Maurian ships. Of course, these visitors had never been allowed to leave.

  The problem now was that every orphaned Maurian ship from a dozen conquered sectors in all corners of the empire was headed here. Were they all taking care to mask their transit vectors? The Ta’Krell will sniff us out, and they will kill us all.

  When the king spoke, it was in a voice barely above a whisper. “If they come soon,” said Ruba, “then we will be forced to evacuate those we can to start a breeding colony somewhere where the Ta’Krell can’t touch them.”

  “And where is that?” said Mog.

  Ruba didn’t seem to hear. “In that case, we’ll need young leaders like yourself to help rebuild.”

  Mog’s ears perked up. “Me? No, I can’t leave. My place is here, with the fleet. If the Ta’Krell come, the Narma Kull will fight to her last, or until we drive them from the system.”

  “I’m afraid that last bit is a dream, Commander,” said Ruba. “If the Ta’Krell find us here, before we have regained our fighting strength, then the only way to save this planet would be if Ramas took up his great bow and joined us in battle. It is just as important to save some modicum of our fighting strength and leadership, to train new generations of Maurians in exile.”

  Mog laughed. Ruba either didn’t notice, or didn’t care.

  Chapter 7

  Hrain rolled onto his side and buried his head beneath his pillow. This did nothing. It would take a mountain of pillows to keep the confounded beeping away from his ears. He growled into his sheets.

  He was just about to give in to the idea of getting up when the alert stopped. He sighed and rolled over. Ramas be praised.

  Then, with a dull clang, the bed flipped up on its side, dumping him onto the floor of his tiny quarters. But it wasn’t just the bed that had moved. The entire room had inverted. Hrain found himself tumbling towards the port bulkhead, along with his blankets, pillows, and the carcass of last night’s dinner.

  The inertial compensators came out of standby just in time to stop him from ramming the metal wall with his head. Last night’s dinner streaked by his face and splattered against the bulkhead. Cursing all things Talurian, he jumped to his feet and staggered to the cockpit of the Angel’s Fury. One glance out the forward windows told him all he needed to know: the Talurians had used their station’s docking clamps to flip his ship on its side. Since he had surrendered his ship to the station’s artificial gravity generators, the results had been disastrous. It must have been Ezek’s idea.

  The beeping started again. Hrain pounded the com console, and the scaly head of the station’s commanding officer appeared on the screen.

  “Hello, Ezek,” said Hrain. “Can I ask why you felt it necessary to knock all my fine dinnerware off the shelves?”

  “You don’t have any dinnerware,” hissed Ezek.

  Hrain grimaced and turned down the volume. “That’s beside the point. I was sleeping in.”

  The Intendant’s tongue flicked out, sending a drop of spittle straight into the imager lens. “I have work for you.”

  Hrain’s ears perked up. “Pirates again?” Pirates were his specialty, and those sorts of dangerous missions paid well.

  Ezek’s face tightened. “No, unfortunately. We’ve lost contact with Mauria.”

  Hrain straightened up. “What do you mean lost contact?”

  “I mean something, or someone, has jammed or destroyed all hyperspace com buoys from here to Maurian space without anyone noticing, or something has silenced the planet itself. We haven’t received data from our spies for six days.”

  “That’s impossible,” said Hrain.

  Ezek’s reptilian gaze didn’t waver. “Over the last two months, we intercepted encoded distress calls from the Seven Worlds, claiming attack from unknown entities. There has also been the disappearance of the Maurian trade envoys, and the subsequent disappearance of our fast frigates sent to investigate. You have heard the rumors of mysterious alien ships being detected at the fringes of Talurian space?”

  Hrain bared his teeth in acknowledgement.

  “Well,” said Ezek, “The rumors are true. My government has suspected those few ships we have catalogued to be part of a much larger invasion force.”

  Hrain’s insides grew cold as he remembered last night’s dream. Huge black starships of an unknown configuration, surrounding a planet consumed in flames.

  “Why didn’t you tell me about these distress calls?”

  “It was classified. The Maurians encoded their transmissions. They were asking for help from their own navy, not from outsiders and especially not us. If we made it known we could decode their military communications, then the Maurian Navy would change their encoders, and we would be at a severe disadvantage in the event of another war with Mauria. Yet, at this point I do not agree with the government’s decision to keep this bottled up. So, I am telling you, because you are my friend, and because it’s your homeworld.”

  “Thank you,” said Hrain. He didn’t bother to tell Ezek he had only been to Mauria twice, and those trips had been covert adventures. He’d grown up in a government-run orphanage on Sledgim. The less the Talurians knew about that secret the better. He was careful to keep no records of the base’s location. I’m no traitor.

  “Yesterday, one of our unmanned high speed probes made a close pass at one of the vessels, which we had detected in deep space. There isn’t much to tell, since the probe’s scanners couldn’t penetrate the vessel’s hull.” Ezek tapped a few controls. “Here.”

  An image resolved above the Angel’s control console. It was a dark, wedge-shaped craft. Hrain’s eyes narrowed, and he flicked the image away. “They are the destroyers,” he growled.

  Ezek flicked his tongue. “Meaning?”

  Hrain leaned back in his chair. That image had been haunting his dreams for weeks. “I have seen these ships before. In visions, and nightmares. A planet, surrounded by those ships, on fire.”

  “I’m going to need more than one of your silly visions. Your mission is to track down one of the alien ships and disable it. Send us the coordinates, and we’ll come pick it up. We need to know what these aliens are up to and if they’re a threat to Taluria. Since neither you nor your ship is Talurian, they won’t think to come here looking for revenge if your attack is unsuccessful. Be careful. The probe we sent was destroyed by the vessel, and we have lost four warships already in pursuit of this enemy.”

  “I see.”

  “I’m willing to pay you three times your normal rate.”

  “Thanks,” said Hrain. I’d do this for free, but n
o sense telling you that. “I’ll leave as soon as I can.”

  Ezek wrinkled his forehead, which was a Talurian thank-you, and the com image winked out.

  Hrain screwed his eyes shut and focused, directing his mind across hundreds of light-years towards the place of his birth. Had his recent dreams been more than dreams? What had happened?

  The familiar, haunting image of a planet on fire appeared in his mind, followed by a word.

  Ta’Krell.

  He’d heard the word many times in his life. First, in the stories his father had told him out of the Book of Ramas, then later in the orphanage, under the tutelage of that evil man named Drakmara. The children of Adula had thought the Ta’Krell were a myth. But thanks to mar-Drakmara, Hrain had learned better. He bent over, his temples throbbing, as the word boomed again and again.

  Ta’Krell, Ta’Krell, Ta’Krell.

  He withdrew his mind and the pain subsided. Outcast though he was, he wasn’t about to stand by while somebody messed with his people. But what if that someone is Azhra’s demon army, the destroyers, the Ta’Krell? What can you do against that?

  “Did you catch what Ezek said, Angel?” he asked finally.

  “Of course,” replied the ship through the cockpit speakers. “How could anyone sleep through that? I’ve been holding my tongue, lest I blurt something out and scare that lizard senseless.”

  Hrain knew she was referring to the Talurian’s distrust of artificial intelligence. As far as Ezek knew, the Angel’s Fury was only a ship. A top-of-the-line warship, certainly, but nothing more. If Ezek only knew.

  “So, all this is bad, right?” said Angel. “Between your visions and this news—”

  “Yes,” said Hrain. He thought of what his father would do. “It’s perilous. The universe faces imminent destruction.” He flashed his teeth in a warrior’s snarl. “But, as my father would say, we’ve got to help.”