P Hillard - The Knower of Truths

“Prepare to follow them! Lock onto that jump corridor.”

“Lord, we are too damaged, the weapons overcharging has rendered our drive inoperable!”

Paranax roared. “How! How have they charged the drive! Destroy them, now. Put everything into the main gun. I want that ship destroyed. They’ve stopped firing, so ram them if we have to!”

“Drive charged,” Kestok’s voice said. “Tunnel is forming, we’re ready to go!”

“The dreadnought is accelerating. It’s on a collision course,” Aileena said. “Sooner is better than later, let’s go.”

“No,” Michael said. “If the drive is charged, can we use the gun’s again?”

“I like where this is going,” Brekt said. “Locking weapons now.”

“Fire when ready, Brekt.”

It all happened in a short moment. The shield flared to life, releasing one last blast of energy towards the dreadnought. The ship tried to evade, but the distance was too short, its velocity too high. The shot hit home, slamming into a damaged section of the hull, bursting out from the other side in a pillar of light.

Then, the Sword was gone, escaping into the strange other realm of jump space. The fleet followed an instant later, piggybacking on the larger ships impressive drive. The now split sections of dreadnought drifted apart, unpowered. Eventually, they would be snatched by the gravity of the planet they had all but killed, the falling sections of ship a final pointless blow at the dead world.

Safe within their bubble of sub-reality, Michael, his friends and the survivors of Cortica, headed off into space, destination unknown.

Michael stared at the alien before him. The creature was wrinkled beyond what he thought possible. He would have assumed it was made of wood, were it not moving and talking. It was complaining, though Michael wasn’t paying attention to what exactly. They were always complaining. You save people from certain death and all they did was moan about the plumbing, or the food, or the washrooms.

“I’ll make a note of your complaint,” Michael said. “Next.”

“I was not done,” the alien protested. Its voice was like rubbing leather. “I have many more complaints to make.”

“You and everyone else. Look, I didn’t build the ship, I didn’t design the toilets, or the beds, or the carts. Everyone is making the best of it they can. Everyone.”

“It should be better.”

“I know. It will be, I promise. Once we drop into real space, we’ll turn right around and take you back to safe territory.” Michael let out a long sigh. There was still nearly a month left according to Kestok. They had managed to dock most of the refugee ships, transferring the survivors over to the Sword. The ancient Merydian ship was finally being used for what it was designed to do, transporting survivors from a dying world.

“It is not good enough. I will report my displeasure to my council representative, once we return to their space.” The alien turned and stormed out of the room Michael had converted into an office.

“Yeah, good luck with that,” Michael said. He looked at the long queue. No-one had told him being a messiah could be so boring. The long line, mostly complainers, with the odd true believer here or there was never-ending. “Next.”

A Cortican wandered towards him, a female. The majority of the survivors were Cortican, and Michael was struggling to tell them apart. He had, however, learnt that the females had a line of feathers that ran from the top of their beak to the base of their spine that stayed a single solid colour, rather than constantly changing like the rest of their plumage.

“I want to complain about the facilities,” the strange mixture of bird and insect began.

The girl ran, masonry crumbling around her, explosions filling the air. They were coming, she had no choice to keep moving, but her legs were beginning to give out from under her. She panted, stopping momentarily to scramble over some debris that blocked her path. She dropped down to the other side, her legs finally giving out. The girl sat there a moment, breathing deeply. She would need to keep moving soon.

They had come, sweeping into the system, its defenders reassigned elsewhere to fight the Substrate threat. It was a calculated move, one that perfectly suited the Unmind Index, a timed strike to take advantage of the Council’s current vulnerability.

There was a thud, dust shaking from the rubble the girl was crouching behind. She tried to stand to run but found no strength left to move. A shadow washed over her as something stepped past, metal legs slamming into the ground. The leg’s owner was tall, looming high on its four crab-like limbs. The legs connected at a central point and its body dangled from this, twisting about to face her. Thin arms flanked a single unblinking light, a baleful eye staring at her.

“Target identified,” the machine said. A wave of red light washed from its eye, encompassing the girl. “Target species already catalogued. Component rating, poor. Recommendation?” It shifted slightly, mud splashing as it adjusted its legs. “Recommendation accepted. Termination for later recycling.”

The glowing eye pulsed once, a single shot of red firing forth. There was a crack as the concrete behind the girl exploded in a cloud of dust. The girl sat there, unmoving for a moment, a perfect circle missing from her torso. Then, she slumped forward, her corpse landing in the mud with a wet slap.

“Continuing cataloguing efforts,” the machine said, turning around. “Life signs detected. Tracking.”

The grenade bounced into the room, coming to a stop in the centre. The round metal orb squeezed out a low whine for a moment, before letting out a brilliant burst of light and sound. The marines followed afterwards, a few quick shots from their weapons dropping the troopers in the room, all aside from one. The lead marine gripped the stunned trooper, pulling the weapon from his hands and tossing it across the room.

The marines were dressed identically to the troopers, though their armour had been hastily resprayed an olive drab. Here and there flecks of the original crimson colour crept through.

“Clear,” one of the marines said, lowering his weapon.

Orson stepped into the room, Nguyen following behind him. They were wearing their own armour suits, though they ill-fitted them, the suits not part of the Gallant’s original compliment.

“Good work,” Orson said. The marines had repeatedly impressed him. He had wondered if maybe they would baulk at his idea, but they had accepted it wholeheartedly, accepting mission after mission. Orson’s plans were growing more ambitious every day. “Nguyen, think you can tap into this relay, get us an idea of what’s going on out there? When you’re done, fire the station’s guns on the dock.”

“Yes, sir,” Nguyen said. She pushed a corpse from its chair, taking its seat.

Orson gestured for the marines to pull the survivor closer. They pushed him to the ground, the alien taking a kneeling position. “Now, we’re going to take what we need.” Orson waited a moment for the translator to spit out his words. “Then we’re going to be on our way. But, and I want this to be very clear, when your bosses come to interrogate you, and they will. I want you to tell them one thing.”

“Rhythm take you scum,” the trooper said, spitting onto the floor.

“Right, well you just tell them this. When they ask who did this, tell them who I am.”

“And who are you?”

“Me,” Orson said. “I’m The knower of truths.