Rise of the Defiant: Book Two of the Warpmancer Series Read online

  ‘You’re lucky you got here in time. I only have one room left,’ the owner had said. Danny grunted in reply, handing her some corporate bonds as payment.

  Alone in the small room, he examined it. If anything, it was clean – if a bit lifeless. The only sense of visual warmth was the presence of three portable data tablets under the end table. Danny personally preferred books crafted of paper, but he understood the expense. He had seen a few people reading earlier in the day, but they all seemed to possess some sort of odd portable computer. Upon questioning a merchant (and receiving some odd looks) he learned that Nexus possessed a network which allowed owners of these tablets to download virtual books.

  Due to the Teeth of Storms, wireless networks couldn’t achieve the possible stability to function, so such technology became useless on Zona Nox. Instead they relied on paper-books and data tablets – disposable computers possessing single books.

  One book – A Melancholy of an Extinct Race – caught Danny’s eye and he began reading.

  

  Danny did not remember when he fell asleep, nor did he remember waking up. All he knew now was that he was not in the hotel anymore.

  It was dark – painfully so. Blackness surrounded him to the extent that he could not even perceive his own body. He felt like a floating brain in a sea of nothingness. Even his breathing was silent, with the only sound to fill the void being a low buzz emanating from outside the blackness.

  Danny could not know for sure, but a small part of him smiled. It seemed he had contacted the gangs.

  “Upon militarizing the Zangorian race, the Xank needed a method in which to control reproduction while avoiding petty irritations such as maternal bonds. Thus, every male Zangorian’s seed was taken and stored – awaiting synthetic fertilization of eggs lost by their mothers.” – Aven Smith, “My Time with the Xank”

  Chapter 5. Zeruit

  The air was hot yet wet. Leri had never felt it, but it somehow felt as if he had been born into it. Of course, he now knew that to be a lie – but his heart still felt that Zeruit was his home. His false memories were still strong, even if he was aware of them being fake. Fake was an incorrect term, however. Leri’s memories were real. They were records of real events. They were more accurate than any other synthetic record or historical re-imagining. For Leri held the remembrance of his people within his head. A history spanning hundreds of years. It was a burden and treasure that he had yet to come to terms with. It would be awhile before he had the chance.

  Back on the flagship of the Word Lectorate, Leri had come to many realisations. He had realised that he was not who he thought he was, he had realised that his memories were ages old; he had realised that none of this mattered. All that Leri cared about now was vengeance. Vengeance for his people brought by cold hard metal and simple heroism.

  He took a Word Lectorate’s transport ship to Zeruit. He had not paid attention to time on his journey. His only indication of the duration of the trip was the amount of food he had consumed. He was alone, except for a silent Krugar pilot. They never spoke and that suited Leri just fine. Each of them had separate supplies and separate parts of the ship. In fact, Leri never ventured far out enough to speak with the Krugar. He instead remained in his quarters – studying the notes that the Lector had given him on Zeruit.

  Some of the information was what he expected – details on the geography of facilities and fortresses – while others filled him with revulsion. Atrocities such as the breeding programmes, ethnic cleansing and gender separation. While reading, Leri could not help but feel a familiar rage boil up inside. He calmed it, knowing that now was not the time. He had to wait. Wait, plan and grow. Only after that could he consume Zeruit in his fires of revolution.

  But that space journey was over now.

  Now he stood at the brink of a dark crevice in the hillside. The ship he had been travelling in seemed to have been a stealth vessel, as it managed to bypass all security and land on the surface of Zeruit.

  Behind him was a jungle. Leri’s only living memory of such a thing was on his campaign on Grengen. He had been a part of the body-budget then. Those jungles filled him with dread, but these colourful leaves and plants did not do the same to him. Rather, they empowered him. The sweet smell of fruit, and cleansing moisture in the year. This was home.

  Ahead of him was a cave as dark as void. He could not see inside. He entered.

  Leri’s journey was one of complete darkness for what seemed like hours. The only sound was that of his footsteps and breathing. A symphony of clacking and hushing. It was enough to drive lesser men insane. Leri was no lesser man.

  Then, eventually, he saw light. It was a meagre thing. Only a small candle in the darkness. Yet, it was something. Light in darkness was hope. As small as it was, Leri could not help but feel a sense of anticipation.

  ‘Kurag Leri nuro Zeruit, I presume.’

  A voice sounded from the blackness.

  ‘I do not speak with shadows,’ Leri spoke loudly, ‘reveal yourself and I will answer.’

  The faint light grew until it managed to illuminate the centre of the room, revealing a table and chair. Sitting upon the chair was an insect-like creature standing as high as a Zangorian. A Gleran.

  ‘I see you, Kurag. It seems that the Lector was right to send you. You are well-spoken…for a Zangorian.’

  ‘It seems I’m not a normal Zangorian – and you not a normal Gleran. How do you speak to me?’

  Through the six eyes and twin mandibles, it was hard to tell, but Leri somehow recognized a grin of sorts.

  ‘Like you, I am a freak of my people. Physically, I am the same – yet mentally I hold something that my people do not; cannot. Sentience. Free will.’

  There was a pause as the Gleran stood and offered his hand in a form of greeting unfamiliar to Leri.

  ‘I am a freak among my people, like you. Yet unlike you, I am one of a kind. I am a genetic mutation seen as an atrocity within my species. I am a Gleran of the Vulzthan Hivemind yet I am not. While my kin do not think, feel or understand without the all-consuming control of the hivemind, I can function independently. I am a sentient, like you, yet that is what makes me a freak. I am Peron the Thinker and I have been tasked with helping you free this world.’

  Leri took the Gleran’s hand as he presumed that was the purpose of the greeting. The Gleran shook it and let go.

  ‘Are you ready, Kurag? These are not my people, yet I feel an overwhelming urge to free them. My people cannot be freed, so better that I use my brain to help free those that can.’

  Leri did not reply. Instead he gazed upon the table top. Items dotted the surface. A blaster, a wrist-blade and…an arm. All were translucent and flickering.

  ‘We can never be ready, Gleran. We are merely given our lot, throw the dice and wait for better numbers. I’m going to keep rolling. Give me the dice.’

  ‘Good, good,’ Peron whispered, ‘It seems that Smith chose wisely.’

  The Gleran indicated for Leri to follow him as he walked into the darkness. Leri followed as the light around the table disappeared, replaced by a single beam illuminating Peron as he walked.

  ‘I see that you have sustained an injury. It is not often that those of your race can live with such a wound. As such, the Lector requested that I source for you…a treatment. You are going to need many tools in this war you are about to start. Wit, brawn and a sharp tongue. Most of all, two hands.’

  Leri rubbed the stump of his arm, memories of a fight with a human with a streak of silver hair coming back to him. It was one of his more recent and genuine memories.

  ‘Do not despair. The Lector has connections far beyond what the Xank recognize. He has arranged for a replacement arm. Trust me; you will prefer the new one much more than the old.’

  Leri could not help but be blinded as a white light burst to life, lighting up the entire room.

  After his eyes had adjusted, Leri examined the room.

  The walls were crafted of smoot
h silvery-white metal. They gave no reflection and emitted coldness. Above everything, the room seemed clean – a medical bay.

  Dominating the centre of the room was a contraption the likes of which Leri had never seen before. Computers and blinking lights were connected to pistons and engines, which were further connected to a multitude of different sized mechanical arms.

  ‘This,’ Peron announced, ‘will remake you. Do not mourn the loss of your limb. Everything that can be lost can be regained. You will come to never miss your old arm again. This new arm will be a symbol. It will be your salvation. Your hope. Your rebirth. Your revolution…’

  

  It still stung, even hours after the surgery had finished. It was a pain that Leri could tolerate. Especially now that he held his new mechanical arm out in front of him. Crafted of titanium and metals that Leri had never even heard of, the arm was a beauty to behold. It shone in the light and possessed talons which even the Infiltrators would envy. It was capable of things no normal organic arm could ever do and allowed for the extension of weaponry which connected directly to his neuro-function. It was a weapon built for not just a revolutionary – but an emperor.

  As he experimented with his new limb, he trudged along the path that Peron had indicated to him.

  The path led to the first destination in his campaign - an agricultural facility with a record for disobedience. It was a rebel base as far as the Xank went, but a slave camp as far as Leri wanted it to be.

  The settlement was a male area with non-warrior Zangorians working the worm farms. After one too many strikes, the Xank had sent in a robotic guard force to keep the workers in line.

  Leri knew that that would change. Robots and drones may guard it now from uprising, but Leri was no usual rebel. He was a veteran of the Word Lectorate. His sector created robots – he would just as easily destroy them.

  As Leri hiked the dark tunnels to the settlement, he noted the name of the settlement.

  Bexong – the city where a revolution would begin. The birthplace of the death of an empire.

  “Troopers are for justice? Then why do we sit and allow the greatest crime in our history go unpunished? The High Council are cowards. Your generals are cowards. The Troopers are cowards!” – Aven Smith to Marshal before his disappearance

  Chapter 6. Reunion

  There was no joy as the survivors of Zona Nox exited the ships which had carried them from the jaws of death. There were no cheers, no singing, no unnecessary speaking or even any sense of relief. People had lost homes, livelihoods, families and their planet. Troopers had failed in their duty. Nathan knew that there was nothing to celebrate.

  The Imperial Council had made their move. A small part of him knew that he should have been more terrified. Instead, he felt only numb. He had felt too much pain. His scars were only a small reflection of what he felt. Overcome with despair, he now felt only void. There was no point feeling anymore, if this was all that he could feel.

  Nathan shuffled along with the rest of the Troopers aboard the carrier. His recovery had been quick, even if the lasting effects would last his lifetime. He was expected to march like the rest. He didn’t mind. His place was with his squad, what was left of it. To be honest, there was no squad anymore; just a ragtag group of survivors from a myriad of units that Nathan had been acquainted. There was no Galis City Trooper Patrol, there was no Fort Nox Engineering Corp; there was no Fort Nox. But there was the Troopers. It would take a lot before that was taken away. Yet, Nathan feared just that. The Imperial Council was a nightmare. Of all the powers in the galaxy, only they stopped the Troopers. No corporation, rebellion, warrior race or alliance had shaken the Troopers before – the Imperial Council would change that.

  Nathan had no fortress now. His purpose, his unshakeable family, was in jeopardy.

  He instinctively filled in the forms to pass the barrier. The processes were different here than on Zona Nox. Technology was better. Due to the Teeth of Storms, administration and communication on the planet surface had been hard, if not impossible. On Nova Zarxa, computers and a wireless network of servers replaced pen, paper and filing cabinets. Nathan was only to type in his name and squad. The computer figured everything else out.

  Bustling along, Nathan’s mind could not help but shift back to the trip after the fall of Zona Nox. What many had first believed to be an invasion had been much worse. The once red and white planet was now consumed by black clouds. It was a dead world and even if very few of the Troopers realised the significance of the darkness, they all knew that there was no home to go back to. They had failed.

  Noise grew as the regiments marched through the silvery halls of the Trooper spaceport. They kept to a tight formation as only a military unit could. To either side of the walkway were even more landing zones, with even more ships releasing a horde of Troopers and refugees alike.

  Troopers were immediately sent to the line where they were ordered to march towards the rallying point for re-assignment. Refugees were bustled off by Zarxian Troopers wearing yellow armbands. Military police, Nathan guessed.

  Trooper worlds seldom had military police, rather relying on de-centralization of leadership to fight corruption and misconduct. Nova Zarxa was different, however, as it possessed a single governor.

  The refugees seemed frightened and the police did not seem to care. A group of refugees were shoved and Nathan felt a tinge of guilt rising from the fact that he could not help them. Even if standing and healthy, he was still just as helpless as when he was stuck in the hospital beds. Even if only scarred rather than bleeding out, he was still unable to change a thing.

  They passed squads of military police talking with officers of the Zona Nox Troopers. Even if lower ranking, the policemen seemed to hold an air of arrogance and superiority. They spoke down to the Captains, lieutenants and sergeants that they met, even though they were only privates and corporals. This was not the Trooper way.

  Pasted upon the walls and airing on screens were posters and broadcasts with the image of a man wearing the garb of a Council General – Governor Dedelux. Dedelux was not a Council General, but his uniform was evidence enough that he thought of himself as one. Each poster held a message – “Loyalty is safety. Dedication delivers victory.”

  Nathan shook his head. This was not the Trooper way.

  The march ended as they entered a large hall with a glass roof. The plaza was around the size of the courtyard at Fort Nox, but a glance downward would reveal cracks and lines. The room was makeshift. Every wall could be moved or taken down to create a temporary expanse. Otherwise, it was a normal complex.

  Nexus was large, but not nearly as colossal as Fort Nox or even nearly as expansive as Galis. They had to make do with technology to reduce the need for land.

  Without the need for formation, Troopers next to and behind Nathan began to spread out and search for comrades from the other ships.

  Nathan did not move except to allow others past him. He was a single speck in a sea of red and black waves. As he gazed upon those surrounding him, he saw a myriad of relief as well as despair. Like before, he felt nothing.

  Nothing until he saw a familiar face appear through a doorway.

  

  James and Yobu had been faced with suspicion when they had informed the Troopers with yellow armbands that they were survivors of Zona Nox. Only recognition of Yobu’s Zarxian ID and his insistence that James was a fellow Trooper allowed them entry into the Trooper Headquarters.

  Upon entry, they were the subject of a range of harsh looks from masked Troopers. Every single one of them possessed a yellow armband – something James had never seen on a Trooper before.

  ‘They’re Dedelux’s force,’ Yobu had said, ‘they answer to him first.’

  ‘Dedelux?’

  ‘The Trooper Governor here on Nova Zarxa. He is more controlling than the governors you had in Galis, so be careful. This is no haven for criminals. This is Nova Zarxa, where freedom is a privilege.’

 
The stares of Dedelux’s Troopers kept them quiet for the rest of the walk, all until they exited the confined tunnel into a huge hall filled with Troopers without their masks. Even if packed to the brim, many of the Troopers within seemed lost. Many were embracing comrades but even more were hastily looking for a friend who was not there.

  But that was not what James was staring at, for he had spotted a face he recognised.

  Everything seemed to go silent. Only the beat of James’ heart echoed in his eardrums. When Yobu left his side to meet with his friends, he did not notice. All he saw was the Trooper with the silver streak in his hair and how he saw him.

  Slowly, he advanced into the crowd. Somehow, many made way for him. The Trooper also made his way towards James, but his way was blocked and his going, slow.

  But eventually, they stood face to face.

  ‘James?’ the Trooper asked.

  ‘Yes,’ James replied, simply.

  Nathan smiled.

  

  All the numbness and pain of the past while seemed to evaporate at once as Nathan stared at James. The trainee he had saved and recruited in Galis all those months ago was still alive and he had never felt so much relief in his life.

  As they stared at each other, Troopers began to notice and realise that James was the very same Trooper who had been seen in broadcasts back on Zona Nox.

  ‘What happened to you?’ James suddenly asked, concern showing openly in a frown.

  ‘Me? Oh!’ Nathan realised that James was referring to the now white scars crossing his face.

  ‘During the siege, I entered a melee with a Zangorian commander. I destroyed his arm so he attempted to destroy my face. I won, but not without wounds. But enough of that – I haven’t seen you…since the Outpost in Red Sand. What have you been doing? How did you get that?’ Nathan asked, pointing at the insignia signifying James as a Captain and Strike leader.