Children of the black, p.1
Children of the Black, page 1
This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.
CHILDREN OF THE BLACK
First edition. March 21, 2023.
Copyright © 2021 W J Long III.
Written by W J Long III.
Cover design by GetCovers.com
Part I
Reliquary
Prologue
THE BLACK WAS TIMELESS, cold and dead. With no end, no beginning, and no true purpose, it simply existed. Life had spun into being on the countless tiny orbs floating within it, but the Black itself was nothing more than a yawning, maddening void.
And yet, for all its fearsome and unforgiving menace, fragile beings had taken to it. They had made the lifeless vacuum passable, if not pedestrian. In tiny tombs, they reached out across the dark face of oblivion and made it their own. Though it waited endlessly to consume them, they did not fear it. Instead, they respected it.
The Black demanded as much and always would.
Other forces in the universe deserved no less. Though equally fierce and unrelenting, not all were treated with the same devout reverence, and such mistakes were never forgiven.
The metallic body of Firaxis Station was being crumpled and slowly immolated for daring to challenge such a force. The station had lost its grip on the once stable orbit it took for granted.
Now Gravity sank her fangs into the long, interconnected cylinders that formed its main body and had taken a cruel joy in tearing the station apart. Most of the centrifuge rings had been ripped away, leaving only two slowly spinning arms that trailed debris like thinning foam in a blackened sea.
For all of her force and violence, Gravity savored her prey. Like a spider, she first trapped them before slowly crushing them under her inescapable power. If she had a planet nearby in her web, often she would add fire to the weapons at her disposal. Unfortunately for Firaxis, it orbited the orange gas giant, Jaiden III, and it proved to be all too willing to assist her.
The clever minds behind the research station’s construction and deployment believed the ambient radiation that powered Jaiden III’s endless storms would mask Firaxis’ presence from enemy eyes and for a time they were right.
Chapter 1
CLAUDE DISILVA FELT the ship around him lurch as it transitioned into streamline travel. He braced himself against the narrow frame of his bunk. Breathing slowly, Claude tried to picture a universe in which he managed to keep down the artificially flavored plant gelatin that passed for lunch.
“Are you going to throw up again?” a mocking female voice inquired.
Claude didn’t open his eyes or abandon any part of his ritual. He could already picture Miranda laying in his bunk with her arms crossed and an eyebrow raised to match the smirk on her full lips.
“You should be used to it by now,” she continued.
Miranda was normally intense and intimidating. She didn't often fraternize with subordinates, but when reports came through saying the war might finally be at an end, she’d decided to celebrate. Now that was over.
“All hands,” the ship’s comms system announced. “Mission briefing in ten. I repeat, mission briefing in ten.”
“The countdown continues,” Miranda said, sliding from under the covers and stretching.
The Cetalon unit commander was tall and lithe, but with a hint of menace that often worked in her favor. The deep brown of her skin covered muscle as tight as a bowstring and every bit as strong.
Claude tossed her the gray sleeveless shirt beside him before slipping his pants on and providing her at least a little privacy.
This encounter seemed like a good idea when they’d both thought the missions were at an end, but Bertrand was nothing if not committed. He’d announced this “last” mission over comms just under an hour ago, which was uncharacteristically rushed for him.
“Any guesses as to what it is?” Claude asked as he focused his attention on tightening the straps along the tops of his boots.
Miranda cinched her belt. “Knowing Bertrand, it’s likely to be a suicide mission to Akinos.”
“We’d have been in streamline longer if that was the case,” Claude sighed.
He wasn’t a fan of the anomalous travel system. It involved too many concepts he couldn’t wrap his head around. Streamline was like most of the more advanced technology people used. It was all inherited, and not from a trustworthy source.
Miranda strolled past him to lean on the door frame. “There’s no point worrying about it now.”
“Until we’re off this ship, I’ll always be worried about what the old man will sign us up for,” Claude grouched, brushing the wrinkles from his shirt.
He’d had his fill of the war. For the last few years, the whole thing had seemed pointless to him, but that was to be expected when the fighting lasted so long.
The war had raged since well before anyone currently alive was born. In fact, the people of the Beita Systems had been killing and dying in their conflict against the Imperium of Sabien Sectors for at least a thousand years. For most, the only constant things in the universe were the war and the Black.
Claude was young when he’d joined up to fight, but now, more than twenty years later, he was ready for it to be over. As unbelievable as it was, he was beginning to hope that there was more to life than soldiering. More than that, he needed there to be more.
“Bertrand’s old,” Miranda said, finger-combing her short black hair as best she could. “He wants the war to be over as much as we do.”
Claude chuckled in spite of himself. He met Miranda’s curious gaze with a shrug. He wasn’t ashamed of his reaction, even if it had been involuntary.
“You don’t think so?” she asked, studying him.
Claude shook his head. “I can’t imagine him doing anything but fighting this war.”
Chapter 2
THE LOADING DOCK WAS a cavernous space walled with charging stations for everything from the sleek, black Lifter recon bikes to a half dozen of the bulky armored Typhoon assault vehicles. Between each of the charging stations were weapons and equipment lockers that drew most of the activity.
Almost every locker had been assigned at some point in the TaskMaster's deployment, but now nearly half of them sat empty. Several carried memorial collages. An unending parade of images and even a few short loop holo-vids showing vibrant faces that no one would ever see again.
Their last few missions had hit the crew of the TaskMaster hard. The last one, in particular, had taken a considerable physical and psychological toll.
The ship itself still carried the scars. Flak cannon rounds had nearly shredded it in their hasty withdrawal from Diegon Minor. Fortunately for the ship, it was built to withstand firepower of that caliber. The soldiers that had fallen that day were not.
Only ten days had passed since that mission fell apart, and the dull haze of loss hadn't released its grip on the soldiers who now gathered in the space. There was an evident lack of energy, but the men and women of the TaskMasters still had a job to do.
Claude was already gearing up. He'd managed to get word from a friend on the command crew that they were on approach to their target location, but that was the extent of his intel. It was something, but more info would be needed to quiet the roaring disapproval in his mind.
He'd seen the broadcast. The truce was signed. The war was over, and all ships had been officially ordered to withdraw from Sabien territory, except theirs. Evidently, some dirty deed was left to do before the smoke cleared and the task fell to them.
Claude secured his sidearm holster and stole a glance at the locker beside his. The name, “Morden, Jerek” was heat-etched neatly into the door, but no other decorations adorned the brushed, gray metal.
The memorials were reserved for the dead, or so the unwritten rule seemed to be. Jerek hadn't died, so no one had taken the initiative to decorate his locker. Claude had considered it, but that was likely to jinx the man. As far as he was aware, Jerek was still in Med sector at Eurill station, fighting for his life. The last thing he needed was for a fellow scout to stack the deck against him.
Miranda knocked on the side of Morden's locker.
"Any news?" Claude asked, retrieving his rifle.
"Not much," Miranda said, eyeing him intently. "Are we going to have a problem?"
Claude fired a glance at her as if to say, “Obviously not.”
"Good, I need you sharp. You're my eyes," Miranda continued. "I hear this is a black op, and I don't like it."
Claude slung his rifle and slammed his locker door shut. "We really don't need another black op."
"You think I don't know that?" Miranda said. "Morale's low as it is. The last thing anyone needs is a glorified band of mercenaries ruining the truce by sticking their noses where they don't belong."
"If you're looking for an argument, you won't get it from me," Claude replied, sidling past her and toward the amassing crowd.
Miranda fell in step with him and lowered her voice as they neared the others.
"The pay had better be worth it. We're out of contract, and I'm not signing back up for less than triple my old rate," she whispered as they came to a stop.
Claude sighed. He hated being reminded about rates. Unlike Miranda and many of the others aboard, he wasn't actually a mercenary. His services had been secured by Bertrand in lieu of a lengthy prison sentence. While Miranda would be ending the war with a tidy sum to retire on, Claude was going to have a struggle ahead of him. It wasn't something he was excited a bout, but it beat having to watch people he'd served with suffer and die.
The door on the far end of the loading dock slid open as Bertrand and the rest of the command crew entered the space. The soldiers in the crowd snapped to attention as a tall, gray-bearded man stepped onto the raised platform in the center of the group.
"As you were," Bertrand barked in his deep, booming tone.
The group eased into their rest posture. The tension in the room relaxed.
Bertrand was a career soldier who had transitioned into this life to continue providing service to his people after he had maxed out his service contract. He was well known in certain circles and completely deniable in others, making the TaskMasters the go-to outfit for sensitive missions. When they had an objective that would deepen or destabilize the conflict, they called outfits like his to get it done without fear of direct retaliation.
Part of their mandate was to never implicate the Beita Systems, no matter how the mission turned out. To all outside eyes, they were as neutral as the pirates pillaging the outer territories. The arrangement worked as long as open conflict still raged. With the truce in place, Claude wasn't sure how it would function.
With the war at an end, the Sabiens would be able to focus entirely on defending their territory now. That would leave Bertrand in civilian life again, unless something changed.
"You might have heard a few things about what they've given us to do," the old soldier continued. "Intel intercepted a transmission outlining a possible target of opportunity at 07:37. After verifying, they have decided to send us to Jaiden III on retrieval."
"What are we retrieving?" a female soldier near the front asked.
Claude couldn't tell who had asked the question, but the ripple of approving noise that rang through the crowd made it clear she wasn't the only one wanting that answer.
"As we understand it, a weapons research platform in the area has gone dark. The Sabiens are sending assistance, but they shouldn't arrive until at least 13:00. That leaves us three hours to get in, grab what we can, and get back across the line to safety," Bertrand said, straightening his gray and black uniform.
Miranda cleared her throat and stepped to the front of the crowd. She locked eyes with Bertrand and held his gaze for a moment before speaking.
"I have two questions," she said, folding her arms.
"Yes, Faridan," Bertrand said with an almost inaudible growl in his voice.
"The truce is on, so this is a non-contract job," Miranda said confidently.
"That isn't a question."
Miranda looked around at the discontent faces in the crowd before continuing. "What's the rate, and why did the place go dark?"
Bertrand drew in a deep breath and straightened.
Claude could see in his face that the answer he cared about wasn't going to be a good one. Bertrand had sent them in almost blind on Diegon, and it had gone sideways immediately. This op was going to be similar, and the order likely came from the same place.
"The military is offering two million credits," Bertrand said to a chorus of disappointed groans.
"Two million, that cuts down to nothing by the time we get ours," an ebony-skinned mountain of a man complained loudly.
Claude knew the man as Stacks. It wasn't his real name, but they weren't exactly on speaking terms. Stacks had carried Morden onto the ship and gone back for three more injured soldiers during their last mission. He was a good man, but like all the others, he was doing this job for money and little else, or so he routinely stated.
"Each!" Bertrand shouted above the rising din.
The silence that fell on the crowd was as absolute as it was immediate. Claude spotted the confused glances as everyone came to realize exactly how significant a job this would actually be.
"Given the nature of the request, the pay has been raised to compensate for the risk," Bertrand boomed. "The research is classified. The reason the station went dark is unknown, and of course, we'll be risking the full brunt of Sabien retaliation if caught.
"That's why I'm only allowing a team of six volunteers to go in. It's going to be dangerous, and if the Sabiens arrive before we're done, we will have to cut bait to avoid implicating the Beita Systems," Bertrand stated and let the words hang heavy in the air.
The texture of the silence changed at the notion that they might have to leave comrades behind. No soldier took the abandonment of fellow servicemen lightly. It happened, and it had happened recently, but it was never something decent people made peace with.
"I'll leave it to you to decide if you're willing to risk your lives in there."
Without another word, Bertrand turned and led his command crew out of the room as the soldiers exploded into chatter.
"Two million?" he heard Stacks ask in disbelief.
"Yeah, but it could be some chem weapon loose in that place," a younger woman said in disapproval.
Money only went so far, and with this crowd, it went farther than most, but the unknown was hard to sell at any price. Claude didn't think it would be impossible to find six people willing to risk it all for a bigger score, but it would be difficult.
He wasn't particularly interested, but if he was honest, he didn't have anything to lose by going and nothing to gain by refusing. Sure, he would live, but with the war at an end, that prospect introduced the same number of unknowns as the mission.
He'd been a farmer's son the last time he had been free of the conflict, but that path was no longer available to him. If he was honest, he wouldn't want that life back, even if he could get it. Like every other living human in the universe, he had never lived in a time without the war.
It was an all-defining event. Every facet of both major societies existed in the context of the war. All of that would have to be torn down and rebuilt or, at best, reformed to survive in peacetime. Claude didn't know much about human nature but change seemed never to come without struggle.
He hoped that his own nature would allow it to come at all.
"You coming?" Miranda asked, forcing her way back to him.
Claude smirked at her. "That's a hell of a question.".
"On the mission," Miranda amended. "The other is likely either way."
"If we survive," Claude added.
"We?"
"I don't see why not," Claude said with a shrug. "It'll be an investment in my future."
Miranda smiled. She was beautiful in her own intense way. Claude had seen her tear enemy units to shreds with a barrage of small arms fire, and what was worse, she seemed to enjoy it. Most soldiers he knew enjoyed a good scrap, but few were as gleefully brutal in combat as she was.
He'd met her shortly after being "recruited" to the TaskMasters, and they didn't get along well at first. According to his record, he was an insubordinate, low-level grunt, and she was his unit commander, but when the missions came, he'd carried his weight. Claude liked to think that he'd done more than that, but regardless, mutual respect grew between them. That's how Claude had read it, at least. The latest development between them was a very welcome and needed surprise.
"I'm going to go grill Bertrand for as much info as I can get," Miranda said, letting the smile slip from her face.
"Let me know what you get out of him," Claude said and backed toward an enclosure stuffed with the bubbled carapaces of zero gravity suits.
Miranda gave him an enticing wink, then turned and disappeared into the crowd.
Claude sighed and shook several of the less urgent thoughts from his head. “Just focus on staying alive,” he mumbled to himself.
Bertrand eyed a holographic image of the three elongated cylinders that made up the bulk of Firaxis Station. Its simplistic design betrayed the hasty construction. Sabiens were nothing if not ornate. Almost everything they built was structured with religious reverence, like their masters before them.
He had seen more than his fair share of Sabien construction. In his early days, Bertrand had been impressed by their technological prowess, but now he saw it for what it was, dependency.
In the Beita Systems, they valued the struggles and imperfections that made them human. The work that it took for them to pull themselves up from the bondage they had endured forced them to look inward for inspiration.
