Prologue
Run.
It was all she could do.
Fighting against Him would be her undoing, just as it was with the rest of her slain bodyguards.
He was faster.
He was stronger.
He was a hell of a lot harder to kill.
So all she could do was run.
Faster.
Faster, grahaamut.
For a moment, the blur of dingy alleyways, grimy metal rooftops and glass-encased skyways all seemed to look the same--though it didn’t matter. She knew Graldica. She knew her way around.
She knew that if she could run, just fast enough, just long enough, with just enough luck, she would be safe.
She thought for a moment as to why she was in Graldica, capital of the Behraanese Dominion, in the first place.
It was a mission, of course. It was always a mission with her. She was the Captain of one of Behraan’s very best battleships, the Maker One.
She was daughter of one General Alvoa, the right hand of the Imperator himself.
Just two years ago, she would have very much belonged in Graldica. She would have been met with salutes by almost every member of the Legion or Navy. The sycophancy would have been sickening.
But two years ago, she made a decision. The right one, she wagered, albeit the more dangerous one.
Two years ago, she defected. So did her crew, and the crew of most of the ships in her fleet.
<Damaal, where are you?> came from her forearm-mounted communication device, or armcomm. She knew the voice all too well: her first officer, Miles Enko.
“On my way,” she said between breaths, “two minutes out. Got company behind me!”
<Lose ’em.>
“Trying,” Damaal said with no effort to veil her annoyance.
Her feet kept pounding pavement, metal and glass, passing by numerous civilians. Civilians who paid her no mind, largely, since she was dressed in green-on-black Behraanese Navy uniform.
But her body was not young anymore, and she could only push herself so much longer.
She turned a corner, descending several flights of stairs to a major pedestrian street on ground level, close to the landing zone--a public park with a clearing large enough for a small gunship to touch down.
She felt, at least, that in public places she was far less likely to be followed by Him. He would have wanted to dispose of her quietly, out of sight.
He would not have that option now. Not in broad daylight. Not in a public park in His own capital.
“I’m here,” Damaal said in forced whispers to her armcomm, “where are you?"
<Too hot, give us a minute until that patrol of alphawolves passes by.>
“I don’t have a minute,” Damaal retorted, “Get me out of here stat!”
<Oh, Grahaamut,> said Miles, <Those alphawolves? They’re slowing down. They’re here for you.>
Behind her, she could see the haunting silhouette in the mouth of an alleyway. Somehow, she could make out two glowing yellowy eyes watching her from under his round sunglasses. She could feel him grinning widely.
Above that alleyway, four alphawolf fighters hovered in, taking position above the park--aiming their cannon arrays directly at her.
It seemed completely hopeless, but she knew she wasn’t had yet. She still had a few more options.
“Pick me up in the eastern hydrofields,” Damaal whispered, knowing Miles could still hear her.
<Eastern hydrofields? That’s several clicks o-->
She closed the transmission, hit a few other buttons, then sighed, awaiting her fate.
At this time, the coming and going citizens cleared the park--some in a panic. Alphawolf patrols were not so uncommon, given Behraan was entangled in a galactic war with the Bentorii, so a good portion of the citizens just calmly gave the situation a wide berth.
Then, through the megaphone from one of the fightercraft, she heard, <Captain Damaal Alvoa! In the name of the Imperator, you are commanded to surrender immediately! Place your hands on your head or be incinerated where you stand!>
She looked back again.
He was gone.
With that, she faced one of the alphawolves and slowly raised her hands--stopping midway up to place two fingers on her throat and fling them out at them.
Get plugged, that meant.
In that instant, she vanished without a trace.
She was still physically there, of course, only made invisible to the naked eye and most basic sensors, courtesy of an armcomm-activated cloak belt.
And it would only last thirty seconds or so. Less than that if the alphawolves were equipped with quantum or gravitic scanners.
She used those seconds wisely. While the alphawolves and numerous infantry searched the park frantically, more for fear of failure than for hope of success, she made for a parked hoverbike--essentially a lifter, gravitic engine and reaction control system with handlebars attached.
It would do just fine.
She hopped on, started it, drifted it around a metre off the ground and gunned the throttle, blowing over several other parked hoverbikes. Her cloak belt was just starting to bottom out by then, but she wasn’t worried about that anymore.
The hydroponics arcologies, referred to as the Hydrofields, stood hundreds of metres tall and tens of metres wide, brimming with levels upon levels of vegetation of all colours--some leafy, some bulbous, some fruitful.
All of this, she knew by heart. She used to jog through the fields every morning when she was on shore leave. It was one of the last bastions of nature on the otherwise thoroughly pollution-ruined, green-skied planet.
At ten metres of altitude and six hundred kilometres an hour, all of these details blurred together in a conical stream of colour. The only objects which could come into focus were the alphawolves in pursuit behind her.
It was a clever move, taking to the Hydrofields. Here, where ninety percent of the city’s food came from, her pursuers wouldn’t dare fire. And besides, they wanted her alive and she knew it.
Still, she knew she had to slow down in order for her people to pick her up.
She also knew that as soon as she slowed down, those alphawolves would be right on top of her, again.
One last trick up her sleeve.
She turned on the cruise control, pointed the bike as straight down the highway as she could, switched on her impact shield--made to absorb energy in the event of a crash or high-G’s--and fell backwards off the bike.
Even though the shield absorbed a not insignificant portion of the energy in hitting the ground at six hundred kilometres an hour, with subsequent bounces and tumbles, she was still more than a little sore and bruised up after she rolled into the wall of an arcology at just fifty kilometres an hour. The high-speed roll was almost enough to make her vomit, but she held herself together.
Worth it. As she laid on her back for a second, she watched the alphawolves continue to pursue the riderless bike.
Still, it was only a matter of time before one of them got wise. She had to get out in the open, now. There would be no more chances.
The run was three times harder now, but run she did. “Get me out of here!” she shouted, knowing Miles was listening.
<Coming in hot!> he replied.
From behind her, she could make out a ball of fire streaking from space, seeming to head straight for her. Tens of thousands of metres above her, the flames subsided and revealed a bulky command corvette, a ship she knew well--the Silverstar II.
As the Silverstar levelled off just overhead and slowed to a relative crawl, its four swivelling plasmar cannons each picked an alphawolf. Before the fighters could come around, their engines were instantaneously incinerated. With only lifters to keep them aloft, they could not hope to contend with a dedicated anti-fighter corvette of Behraanese make, and found somewhere to touch down before the flames consumed the rest of their ships.
The Silverstar then touched down, dropped the ramp and opened the hatch. Miles and two other Behraanese soldiers in full battle suits waved her in.
As she stepped in, however agonizing every movement was, she sighed in relief, leaning on the wall and letting out a little chuckle.
The ramp and hatch closed behind her, and the ship accelerated rapidly for escape velocity, bound for the stars.
“You’ve looked worse,” Miles raised his brows, “did you get the files?”
Damaal nodded, holding up a tiny data chip, “The Heavens sector is in danger. We need to tell the fleet.”
“Just our fleet?” Miles helped her to walk further in towards the cockpit.
Damaal shook her head, “Unity, Nywan, Marioch. They’ll need to know this too.”
“What kind of danger exactly?” Miles asked.
As Damaal buckled into the co-pilot’s chair of the rather spacious flight deck, she looked over to Miles whom did the same, stating lowly, “The Bentorii kind."
