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Pity's Prelude
Book Actions
Start ReadingLength: 483 pages7 hours
- Publisher:
- Foundations Book Publishing Company
- Released:
- Oct 31, 2016
- ISBN:
- 9781370354337
- Format:
- Book
Description
Stephen Bates is desperate. Paid by a foreign superpower to leave Earth and sacrifice his life, he finds that ritual suicide isn’t that simple when the planet he lands on erupts into civil war. He and local war hero, Titus Sirocco, struggle to discover who’s trustworthy and who’s gunning for them. As two different wars rage around them, will Stephen and Titus find what’s worth dying for, or will the rebels choose their fate first?
And what’s with those shapeshifters?
Book Actions
Start ReadingBook Information
Pity's Prelude
Length: 483 pages7 hours
Description
Stephen Bates is desperate. Paid by a foreign superpower to leave Earth and sacrifice his life, he finds that ritual suicide isn’t that simple when the planet he lands on erupts into civil war. He and local war hero, Titus Sirocco, struggle to discover who’s trustworthy and who’s gunning for them. As two different wars rage around them, will Stephen and Titus find what’s worth dying for, or will the rebels choose their fate first?
And what’s with those shapeshifters?
- Publisher:
- Foundations Book Publishing Company
- Released:
- Oct 31, 2016
- ISBN:
- 9781370354337
- Format:
- Book
About the author
Creighton. Halbert grew up pouring over the adventures of the Pevensies and the fantastic imagery from Dr. Seuss’s imagination. Interested in beauty wherever it can be built, these days he spends his free time writing, gardening, and living life with his lovely wife.
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Pity's Prelude - Creighton Halbert
LLC
Prologue:
Out of the Sand
This in’t happening.
The grubby little pilot of the tessaleigh–a long Jet Ski with an empty dome-shaped wheel well in front--hunkered down behind the barricade and pulled his scarf a little tighter, letting the blowing sand whisk away his pointless statement. Beside him was crouched a fellow Nasrani citizen, coughing grit and spit into a pale handkerchief.
Both were from very different lives in the Nasran Republic. Both were joined in the comradery of the Renati rebellion.
In the planet of Mekrro’s 115-degree Slate Desert, the winds were usually mild and appreciated as they drug in bouts of reluctant coolness from the cost. Today, however, the wind blazed from the east not the west, and brought the heated rage of the deep desert down onto the factory. The high dunes the Slate Desert was known for, served only to throw millions of grains of ammunition into the gale, which tortured the already miserable men gathered around the factory.
Stubby blockades of tempered steel, squatted in a wide semi-circle around the maw of the factory they called Pity’s Prelude. The stubby barricades would soon protect their soldiers in case of a last stand. But for now, they served as wind blocks for the unfortunates selected to witness the factory’s first finished products from the outside of the building.
Pity’s Prelude, itself, was a low building that had been blasted with beige and brown stains to lower its profile and was surrounded by artificially heightened dunes. The majority of the structure was built into the largest of these dunes, leaving the twenty-by-twenty meter lift the only obvious entrance into the facility. All that was visible of that, at the moment, was the sand cover, also camouflaged, that lay embedded in the grit about thirty yards from the building. The factory currently contained the lucky members of the Renati, who’d been on shift when the first issue of products had reached completion an hour ago. They were watching in the comfort of the dune level, behind shielded windows.
The pilot, slim and clad in a common tessaleigh one-piece suit, was covered in oil stains. He had been administrating to his tessaleigh the tender care it deserved when the factory sent out the call. He had not changed before racing out here. How could he wait? This would be something he could tell his grandkids about when he grew old, the days of Nasran’s liberation. He grinned beneath his pilot’s scarf.
Angry wind,
mumbled the man closest to the pilot. Without his natural pomp and circumstance, the man would have been unrecognizable as a chancellor, if his official’s dress hadn’t betrayed him. The pilot mused on that and his grin widened. Already class barriers were dissolving.
He thrust his hand, knife-like, at the Chancellor in greeting. Glorious day, in’t?
The Chancellor glanced distractedly at the pilot as if coming out of a reverie. But he tapped his own hand against the top of the pilot’s glove politely. His words were less than customary, though. Do you know what they call this sort of wind on the Mirror Earths?
Can’t say I do.
So much for dissolving class barriers. The pilot’s masked smile faded. No chancellor would lower himself to greet a lowly pilot as an equal. Such injustices were what they were fighting against. But the pilot supposed a chancellor’s presence alone at the scene of their cause’s origin was encouraging. He shelved his smile back on his face.
They call this a sirocco. An ill-boding sign, do you not think?
the chancellor said, eyes glinting at the flying sand overhead.
The pilot wondered if the chancellor was making it up. But he didn’t voice his thoughts. It’s a sign, I’ll call, but a mighty good one. Even a Sirocco can’t stop us now, in’t right? Either the wind or Coronel Windbag. They say we’ll see a couple hundred soldiers today, but the systems are set to build millions more. Pfft, newscasts still say the Renati died with the White War. Those pitters in Lhera won’t—Oh! Pardon me tongue. Yourself certainly not included, in’t right?
The chancellor eyed the pilot, but his voice was lost in the sudden scream of machinery. The pilot recognized the sound well from his work with tessaleighs. But these larger versions were being used to move the shield, and raise the lift from the subterranean maw of the factory.
Every eye of every tradesman, salesman and official present, swiveled to the huge hole that appeared in the desert floor. Sand poured into the open lift from the edges and sand blocked out the bright solar rays of Nouvrres from overhead, but the cheers of the gathered mass drowned out the forces of nature that conspired against them.
Through the gloom of the sandstorm, the platform’s arrival was barely visible. Every eye was strained. No one missed the glint of the proud soldiers standing on the lift, now at desert level. A hundred at least. Each brandished equally new rifles at the ready with unerring precision.
After a frozen moment, the pilot broke down and sobbed, throwing an arm around the beaming chancellor. What a sight seen,
he said. B-beautiful! Just beautiful.
They are. They are,
the chancellor replied, voiced hushed in awe. The government official took his hat off and held it to his chest in honor.
He and the pilot just stared, one sniffling, one saluting, while a roar grew from those gathered around the lift and from the others watching from Pity’s Prelude. The new soldiers of the Renati movement looked around and acknowledged the response to their arrival with deferential salutes. They were the first of their kind. It was a revolution, of gears and strips and amino circuits. They were the soldiers of steel.
Chapter 1
The Nasranic Western Institute
"We are approaching Mekrro. We’ll display our approach in the day-halls momentarily."
The giant porter bucked slightly. Maybe it had bumped into a star or something. From the size of the beast it would take an asteroid to do more than scrape the paint. At least it made for smooth sailing, except when the ship went through those stretch things.
Then the tape on Nasranic insect species faded to black all across the day-hall monitors. Stephen Bates cheered alongside the other transfer students as a starry scape replaced it, mostly because the educational videos made people want to get out and walk the rest of the way.
He dropped into a nearby booth to watch the screen. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw some other exchange students slip onto the benches as well. Some looked like him, college kids straight out of You-Name-It University. Others were clearly from…somewhere else. He didn’t know where. He didn’t care. The whole alien thing still rubbed him wrong, somehow.
Then Josh shoved him down the bench and plopped down beside him, picking his teeth and watching the screen. Ladies and gents, watch this.
Watch yourself, man,
Stephen said. He grunted as he received an elbow to the ribs.
Nice,
said one of the others.
Mekrro appeared as the ship veered toward it. The planet filled the TV screen, and the ship must have been near the atmosphere already. The globe was blue with one large yellow-white smudge on one half and a smaller smudge on the other.
Doesn’t look nearly as friendly as Earth,
Stephen muttered. Where’s the green?
You’re from Earth?
a perky voice inquired from a seat nearby. I don’t remember seeing you on the shuttle.
I…
He glanced over and felt his smile freeze and crack. A girl his age with black hair and an Indian accent was talking to him. A hot girl. And just like that, his engineering-dropout brain headed south for warmer climates.
Perfect. What was his story again?
My eloquent friend here seems to be mesmerized by you, so I’ll fill in the blanks,
Josh said, smirking. The girl’s eyes flickered to him, letting Stephen breathe again. Mechanical engineering gurus from the great state of Texas. He’s the one with the robotic background, though.
Robotic theory? How interesting,
the girl said politely. My name is Nisha. You know, I attended Cairo University for photo-biology. What did you think of our underwater drone in last year’s competition? A friend of mine worked on the team that designed it.
Stephen tried to keep smiling while kicking his brain back in gear. Lying was not his primary power set. He had warned Josh about that before this mission.
I don’t really remember the other entries,
Stephen said quickly. But hey, isn’t this crazy we have something in common? I mean, I came out here because I was in debt to my eyeballs and didn’t expect to meet someone like you.
She smiled politely again and turned her attention back to the screen as the intercom voice warned them to remain seated, while the Kensun transport entered Mekrro’s atmosphere. Shut down just like that.
Great.
Immediately they were thrown in enough tight turbulence to vibrate his eyes out of their sockets. His stomach churned at the paste the galley had given them, and he turned to see Josh silently laughing at him.
Double great. Welcome to Mekrro, and let Stephen Bates’ heroic death begin.
Sunlight from Nouvrres filtered down through the sky screens far above where soon, hundreds of students would be finding seats in the Institute’s lecture tower. Looking down on the empty room from a balcony, a uniformed man in his mid-twenties sighed at the thought of the upcoming orientation. The chattering mob of Nasranis would swirl curiously around the strangely dressed transfer students. The transfers, just off the Kensun, would stick out in their confusion. Nasranis and aliens alike would eventually sit side-by-side in the long rows of blue and gold chairs, below him.
The Nasranic Western Institute, or NWI, had recently secured exchange programs with eight new universities, one of which was a collective of students from schools across a Mirror Earth that had just dropped out of blind state. Those poor students would have to adjust to the idea of intelligent life on other planets quickly. For the occasion, the NWI had requested the military send a speaker to impress the flood of new scholars. That was why he was here.
His name was Titus Sirocco. Everyone in the republic knew it. Yet for three years, the only fit he had worn was his formals, and those for the customary military ceremonies. So, the combat gear was a welcome change. The fit embraced him like an old friend. The weight of the splinter-coat held his feet to the ground, and the camouflage painted him with the modesty of a lowly infantryman. Too long had passed since he had been allowed to do any real work, but he shrugged off the cold memories and focused on how revitalizing it felt to stand anonymous, in Nasran’s most honorable attire.
His loc trilled as his press secretary, Pride Langford, sent him a voice message. Sirocco blinked twice quickly, and the loc system in his genes responded. The message played through the nerves in his ear as if he could actually hear Pride next to him.
Sirocco left the loftiness of the balcony for the lonely hall, as he listened to the message. He would have to have the finer points of his speech polished and embossed soon. He straightened his shoulders. The Republic Guard needed no promoter, but if he could better represent it with his own image, then so be it.
The story Stephen told the girl wasn’t fully true. Saying it was even half true would be perjury. But only two people knew it, Stephen and Agent Krahn, a/k/a Josh. By the looks his new old friend was leveling at him, Stephen got the feeling he was expected to rehearse the story a little more than he had. Apparently, suicide missions were to be kept hush-hush. Fancy that.
He craned his neck, but he couldn’t even catch sight of Nisha amidst the interactive displays of the children’s museum. The transport they had taken to Mekrro had made better time than expected, so the transfer students had free time to explore campus before the orientation speech at two o’clock.
Noticing a nearby Nasrani kid was staring at him, Stephen quickly turned his search into a stretch, complete with yawn. Looking like an idiot was a habit he was trying to kick.
Krahn’s dry voice cracked from behind Stephen, suddenly making him jump. Welcome to Nasran. We value the brains of you exchange students so much. We’ll send you to a kiddie museum until the guest speaker shows up.
Krahn sashayed up to the solar system display next to Stephen, and lazily spun the crank that made the miniature planet Mekrro spin in its lonely orbit around Nouvrres.
Be polite, Josh,
Stephen said, his voice cracking on the last word. He smiled tensely at a passing mother and her two little girls. The kids.
The mini-Martians can deal. They live here,
Krahn said. He seemed to have perfected his sarcastic American youth persona. He flicked his lighter on and off absentmindedly. Maybe Josh was a smoker. Fine. It could be worse.
You mean we could still be puking our guts out on that lovely joyride,
Stephen replied, pulling his eyes from the tiny flame.
Aimlessly, he moved to a light-up map of the Nasran Republic and its continent. The display was simple, with ninety-eight percent of the map bright yellow deserts and only a tiny sliver of the northeastern shore as the inhabited green of the Republic. Simple and depressing.
Also, the Aggies could have gotten the invite instead of us,
Stephen added. He hoped Krahn understood the American reference to the Texas A&M sports team.
Krahn grunted, glancing over the map. I miss school rivalries already. This West Institute is the only school in this tiny country. What about that other country here? They got some school we can hate?
Sorry, man,
Stephen said. According to the ‘highly-detailed’ and ‘fully-interactive’ map, this country, Vrendele, is across an ocean bigger than the Pacific. Long way to truck a football team.
They wouldn’t know a football from an Easter Egg anyway,
Krahn said, obviously more accustomed to Earth’s traditions than Stephen thought. The agent stared, brow furrowed, at the little kids running around the museum.
Although Stephen wouldn’t complain out loud for fear of being heard, his mood was danker than the transport’s toilets. He wished, not for the first time, he were back at a sports bar eating hot wings. This planet had gone downhill in his books the second he learned nobody here knew what a hot wing was. He wouldn’t have minded a few more.
About fifty other transfer students were also there to join the Nasranic Western Institution for the year, but fortunately none Stephen knew from Earth. Being identified would lead to questions. To Stephen’s chagrin, all the Earthians stood out from the Nasrani's by their clothes and lack of the odd, Spanish-like accent everyone here had.
As Krahn wandered over to a display featuring what looked like a jet ski, Stephen rubbed his eyes. He had always been comfortable with a small room, interesting books, and a laptop computer. Life was clearly meant to be housed in a cubical. What would they expect from a debt-ridden student from Texas?
Besides, the porter’s landing had left him feeling like he’d been speared through the gut. The overload of new data to mentally compile and store was just salt in the wound.
Hey man, this thing’s actually pretty sweet,
Krahn called. A…what, tessaleigh? Who names these things?
Stephen dragged himself over to where Krahn was studying the strange vehicle. The light through the skylights was bright, and the sudden movement made it burn his eyes. He then remembered the jolts while dropping into the planet’s atmosphere.
A second later and he had collapsed into a fit of dry heaves in front of a group of horrified little Nasrani kids.
The android had been dragged in, lifeless, from the edge of the desert. Paitur Freide had personally taken upon himself the duty of dissecting it to find the owner. If he happened to enjoy the process of researching the innovation as well, it was just a bonus.
Surrounded by his lab students, the professor anti-fused open the chest and probed the interior workings for identification. A proud owner that had been able to afford this new luxury would have had his or her name stamped all over it.
The machinist laboratory was usually a cluttered disaster, and no spot worse than the professor’s worktable, around which his students stood now. Today, however, Freide had cleaned his department’s chambers for the transfer students, as asked. The room had an almost unnatural order about it. Utterly unnerving. Freide wasn’t accustomed to finding tools and parts within a matter of minutes, instead of hours. The piles and piles of assorted technological goodness were alarmingly small. He harrumphed as one of his students handed him a scanner in a record thirty seconds. There was such a thing as too efficient.
I pull this as a Belarus model, in’t right, Professor?
Kenneth asked and pasted a rather meaningful look onto his fellow engineer, Rico.
Professor Freide barely glanced up at the student. I admit I thought so at first. But no, this is not one of Monolith’s models. Someone must be dodging the copyright and designing their own line of androids, though I wouldn’t buy from them. Just look at this miserable work.
Grinning at the professor’s enthusiasm, the students squeezed as close to the oily table as they dared. The professor ranted on about disgraces to technological advancement, as he pointed out the various faults he found. Steel gears designed for the medieval years: iron components that could rust within a month, amino circuitry that would not pass union inspection, synthesized parts defaced with hundreds of impurities. The list was long.
This graved piece of trash will not survive five months of function,
Freide muttered. No doubt it was not lost, but abandoned.
Freide’s disappointment was evident, but he continued to probe for an identification number or name of some type.
No, really. I’m fine,
Stephen said as he knelt on the museum floor.
The circle of school attendants around him did not look convinced. No doubt they were worried about some dangerous off-world virus, freeloading into their country through this watery-eyed grad student. He didn’t blame them, but the attention was humiliating. With Krahn’s help, he managed to show them it was just motion sickness.
Attention was dangerous. Stephen had been told they had to stay undercover until Agent Krahn and he were alone later. Then he would finally learn the details of his mission—other than it being almost certainly suicide,
that is. He wondered what a normal person would think of his predicament. The thought made him chuckle. Well almost. More like it made his left cheek spasm slightly.
When the crowd finally dispersed, he found himself nervously looking around for the pretty girl from the transport. He snagged a glimpse of her skirt swishing away in the sea of legs and groaned. Of course she had seen. Not that it really mattered anymore.
Nicely done,
Krahn muttered.
No, really. Thanks for your concern. It’s touching,
Stephen said, avoiding his eye. For a supposed bodyguard, Krahn was as helpful as Texas University’s tutoring system.
Oh, where are my manners? Don’t worry, Nisha didn’t see,
Krahn said. He offered a hand and pulled Stephen to his feet. By the way, here’s her number. I figured you’d want it.
He handed Stephen a slip of paper, his expression reserved.
Stephen took the hand, struggling to look grateful. You got her number for me? Thanks, man.
No, for me. But it’s useless without any cell towers around, so you can have it.
Krahn’s poker face split like a cocoon, revealing a majestic snicker.
Freak.
Krahn ran a hand over the sleek design of the tessaleigh model next to him. Preach it, brother.
Stephen ignored him and pretended to be interested in the tessaleigh instead. Interesting. But the display wasn’t interactive and Stephen wasn’t five years old, so they left.
They poked fun at the exhibits as they passed them. The early arrival had given them a free hour before the orientation speech. Although the museum was on the Institute’s campus, the place looked more like a tourism hotspot than a part of the school. Several Nasrani families and what looked like some type of field trip strolled around the displays. Kids ran around in the same perfectly fitted garb as their guardians. They generally acted like any other kid, hyper and excited.
Stephen watched and tried to remember the last time he had been excited about anything more than a check from his grandparents.
Without warning, Krahn jerked him through a side door out into the broiling heat. Stephen winced in the uncommonly bright light on the porch area. He had half expected two or three suns and a couple dozen moons when he had first heard of how barren Mekrro was, but Nouvrres was sun enough for the place.
What gives?
Stephen asked as he jogged after Krahn.
I checked the university’s map inside,
he said, not looking back. Thought you might like to check out the robotics wing.
Wait, what?
Stephen whispered. Are we going to meet some contact of yours?
Contact?
Krahn answered, his voice dropping into icy territory. His empty stare silenced Stephen, who had broken the cardinal rule of the job, maintain his persona at all times.
Never mind that he still didn’t know what the job was, besides suicidal. Grandpa was getting the pay, and he’d find out soon enough. Yay.
His face flushed, Stephen continued to follow Krahn down the winding paths that spread over the campus like vines. Krahn was a decent bodyguard if only because he was tall enough to be intimidating, if need be. But with his long legs, a fast walk for him translated into an uncomfortable trot for Stephen.
Unlike the childish exhibits in the museum, the campus was striking. Despite the few trees, the grounds maintained a certain beauty through statues, water features, and beds of rock and flowering grasses. The paths furled around the flowerbeds and over the artificial streams, lazily coiling across the campus like a sleeping snake. None of the paths went straight for more than a few feet, so Krahn just stomped across the grass in a beeline to the robotics building with Stephen on his heels.
Statues were everywhere. Stephen and Krahn had to dodge them like linebackers. The statues were of everything, including men, women, children, mythical beasts, buildings, vehicles, and even a 200 square foot representation of a feast complete with stone table, stone revelers, and what looked like emus walking around. Stephen didn’t even try to guess what the emus were doing there. The detail in the works fascinated him. Krahn had to bodily drag him away from a stone weeping willow.
Knock it off, dude,
Stephen said. Give me a second.
Unlike Krahn, Stephen had the benefit of a partly genuine cover. And right now, the genuine engineer within was more interested in these intricate carvings then whatever Krahn was planning. It’s not like Krahn could complain. After all, Stephen was just staying in character.
Titus Sirocco had rejoined the entourage of personal assistants, guards, and his fellow Military-Press Relations sycophants. His only close friends in the group were Pride Langford and Kelton Spreas. The three openly laughed and chatted as the veritable mob crawled toward the Robotic Engineering wing of the NWI.
While Sirocco represented the military in social and political events, Pride represented Sirocco. No newscaster interviewed or even spoke to Titus Sirocco without going through Ms. Pride Langford. The two had met during basic training years ago and became friends. While Titus had stayed in battalion order, Pride had become a medic. Yet when Titus had emerged from the White War as a war hero, she had been the first to apply as the new poster boy’s press secretary.
And since Titus’s actions in the White War were misunderstood by his mentor and Capitân General of the Republic Guard, Alejandro Hine, his platoon was not allowed to officially take orders from him. But for the sake of appearances (and thanks to weeks of debating and cajoling), Titus had to keep his rank and a regiment of soldiers. That necessitated Kelton’s presence.
If Pride was a sea breeze, Kelton Spreas was a wall of granite. He smiled only around Titus and Pride, and even then he never laughed. As a captain with colonel authority, Kelton carried out all of Titus’s duties…as far as the Guard hierarchy knew, at least. Titus had stopped resenting the man for his position the year prior. Since then, Kelton had become Titus’s second refreshing spring of sincerity in a world of political hype and hypocrites.
So what does this Freide have for us?
Kelton asked, his voice not carrying beyond a few meters.
Don’t ask me, my secretary never tells me anything.
Titus chuckled.
One of the behemoth crews found it while reprocessing the desert on the, ah, southern border, I believe,
Pride said. She blinked rapidly as she brought up the information on his loc system in his own mind’s eye. Yes. Southern border. A derelict android of unknown make.
Nobody’s claimed it?
Titus asked. Androids were innovative, fascinating, and as of yet, rare. It seemed unlikely that one could have been misplaced.
Ah, no. Which would be strange, except your good friend the professor says it looks like a junk scow on two legs.
Titus snorted. Well, let’s see what Freide has to show us.
He rubbed his palms together. It was an act for the caster behind him, though. Because as far as the nation knew, Titus Sirocco had a fascination with the latest technology. Pride had suggested that. It made him seem human. Relatable.
He did wish he knew more about robots than how to turn them on.
The three friends led the pack of guards and newscasters as they neared the burnished double doors of the Robotic Engineering wing. As Titus laid his hand on the handle, the guards behind them called out a warning.
Titus spun to see two young men in strange clothes trotting up to the building. The taller one had almost reached them, but slowed as the guards came running from the side. The shorter one wore clothes several sizes too big and was trying to catch up. By their unusual fits and oblivious behavior, Titus guessed they were some of the transfers.
A soldier with a Lieutenant’s insignia on his back grabbed the arm of the taller transfer student before Titus could interject. Sir,
the lieutenant said. I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to rejoin your tour group.
The transfer flared up, as if about to protest angrily. Then he noticed Titus standing between Kelton and Pride, and Titus saw, in his what he could only guess to be, surprise. Or nervousness. It seemed improbable that an alien would know him, but the transfer paused nonetheless. His friend caught up to him in time to be stopped by the officer.
Titus smiled. Wait, Lieutenant. I’m sure these young men mean no harm.
No, it’s fine, we’ll just be going really,
the transfer with the baggy clothes said, staring at the guards and their pistols with flickering glances.
Good,
Kelton said. His face was frozen over, and Titus knew he was once again all business. It was wearisome at times to be a public figure, especially one with Kelton Spreas as a bodyguard and supervisor.
How odd,
Paitur Freide muttered to himself. He squinted at something the students could not see. This one circuit is too advanced for this robot.
What does it do?
asked a student named Mateo, dutifully.
Speech. At least, it contains a prerecorded speech file. Perhaps it will reveal the owner’s identity,
the professor said. Exciting, no?
At this point Rico, who had been arguing in whispers with Kenneth, blurted out, Serenity, want to go to dinner at Sandwork’s with me tonight?
The other students laughed at the interruption, some stifling their mirth better than others. Their professor sniffed indignantly, an impressive display of distaste despite the twinkle that escaped his eyes. He had a knack for looking displeased when he felt the situation warranted it.
Serenity, the blushing brunette, said, I guess so,
evoking a triumphant shout from Rico. She smiled while avoiding eye contact with everyone. The students chuckled again.
Well, now that you have solved that undoubtedly urgent issue, shall we return to the matter at hand?
Paitur Freide snorted, having managed to regain a disapproving furrow in his brow. He gingerly reattached the unusual circuit in its synthos housing, sewing it back in place with the table laser. Muttering about substandard craftsmanship, he fused the chest piece together again. As he did, Freide remembered a strange thickness in the gastro casing that he noticed before he encountered the circuit. He berated himself for letting it slip his mind, but resigned himself to taking the thing apart again after hearing the message to investigate.
Whole again, the simple android lay silently on the cluttered table. Its face was a copper mask of unnatural detail, a curly beard and quirky mouth set in place for life, and a pair of unfeeling brownish eyes glaring lifelessly at the ceiling. The frame glowed slightly for a brief second as the professor energized the robot.
The students and their lab professor stared at the inert machine for a full minute, waiting to hear something. Whatever the recording was, it was the one thing the android had been allowed to say. But the machine would not dignify them with its voice.
Kenneth managed to mutter, Piece of scrap—
before the android lurched to a sitting position on the worktable and stared at the students.
Tell the tyrants hello,
the android said. The words would only be remembered by the security feed.
Paitur Freide heard the thunderclap a split second before he was engulfed with the rest of his beloved lab in the inferno that had been stored in the machine’s gut. The professor felt shock. A slight tug of emotion. Regret. Then nothing.
Chapter 2
Mekrronian Protocol
Whump!
The world disintegrated around Titus Sirocco in a crescendo of heat, shrapnel, and cacophonic screeches.
Pit!
he screamed as he collapsed. Part of the door had become lodged in his leg, and pain poured through his veins. He cowered as rubble showered down on them. He flailed and grabbed Kelton’s leg. Kelton looked back at him wildly. Get out of here! Get every—
Whump! The second explosion smashed the weakened building from within like a firecracker in a clenched fist.
When Titus opened his eyes, he saw Kelton staring at him from a few inches away where he lay cheek down against the stone path. Titus yelled at him over the din. Get the students out, I’m fine!
Kelton didn’t respond. He didn’t even blink. Kelton never blinked, no matter what was thrown at him. Desperate to get away from the collapsing lab, Titus forced himself up on his knees, his injured leg twitching, and offered a hand to his friend. Only then did he see the chunk of stonework that had struck Kelton’s head. His friend’s stony composure would never again be shaken.
At the scream of twisting metal, Titus looked upwards. The building loomed over him meter by meter. Then it freefell.
He had never faced death so absolutely, like this. The entire White War had offered the uncertainty of war, where death was shrugged off as often as it was struck down. The fear of assassination had always seemed far-fetched as well. Now, in one moment, he saw a stupefying, engulfing and relaxing truth. He could do nothing to escape the falling stone and metal, and there was no reason to try. There was nothing but to remain in death’s way and watch.
As the wall fell, he thought how cruel it was to widow Avian, so early in life.
An icy hand grabbed him, and his head spun as the shorter student flipped him to the side. He was airborne for an instant. Wind roared past his ears as blood pounded through them. He hit the grass and rolled, then cried out as his injured leg slapped the ground. A second later he saw, in a blurred distortion of vision, the front of the Robotic Engineering wing as it thundered to the ground. Shards of metal flew everywhere, but someone guarded his fallen body from it.
His savior turned slightly, and his face was lit crimson by the inferno in front of them. The student stared down at Titus with a face slacked by confusion. Confusion, but not fear. He was uninjured, but in shock.
Titus’s loc had screamed out a warning to every Nasran soldier nearby the second it detected his injury. He knew he had to focus. Through his loc, he saw a field of captures, call-ins, schedules, speeches, and notes. Flicking his eyes as fast as he could manage, he scattered away the surplus of information and expanded the call-ins and unit reports. He had to know whether or not the danger was over. Those virtual screens streamlined to his vision, and he skimmed them hurriedly while his guards squawked over their loc channels.
Run. Get back,
Titus thought he mumbled to the transfer student. He wasn’t even sure if it had been out loud. Words fell like scabby skin from his mouth. All he knew was his leg was smoldering. It burned—like the lab burned. His world burned. Turned? World turned sounded right.
He wondered if he was thinking clearly.
Miracle of miracles, Pride leaned over Titus. His ears rang, but at least he knew she had survived. Her mouth moved emphatically under huge eyes, but made no sound. Titus’s ears rang too loudly. He tried to tell Pride about Kelton. Kelton wanted to be buried on the beach. Pride should remember that. Beach? Yes, beach.
Titus’s ears kept ringing.
When Titus awoke again, he was in his limousine and unsure how much time had passed. He slowly touched two fingers to his head to activate his loc.
Immediately, feed flashed through his vision as reports bombarded him. He could almost feel his DNA sizzle. It made his gut wrench, but he forced himself to concentrate on the flow of data. He needed to know what was happening. With each following report, his neck knotted tighter. Attack, not accident. Sabotage at least—maybe a bombing.
His motorcade was in motion. Guarded loc chatter rumbled through Titus’s system, but he shoved it aside and struggled to sit upright on the cushioned bench.
He looked up once his dizziness had subsided. Besides Pride, he saw both the alien students sitting in the back of the limo. They were scratched, bruised, and bleeding, but under the care and guard of several surviving members of his unit. The newscasters must have scattered or stayed to record the tragedy for exclusive coverage that would show up on the socials later.
How many?
he whispered, his throat fiery beneath the words.
Pride shook badly as tears streamed from her closed eyes. She answered, scanning her own loc with a twitching mouth and two fingers at her temple.
Emergency units have yet to arrive on the scene, so we have no number of the victims inside yet. Of our own? Four dead, including Kelton. At least eight injured, including you. We are headed for triage now.
With a muscle-rending heave, Titus rolled himself onto his side. Four dead? Four dead! He couldn’t bear to look at Pride. Kelton may have been bat-blind, but Titus had seen Pride's long glances at the inscrutable soldier when she thought no one was watching.
Just that morning, she had teased Kelton about his wild aversion to seafood. Yesterday, Kelton had allowed Titus to plan out his platoon’s monthly training regimen at the risk of his own job, knowing how important it was to Titus. But tomorrow, Kelton wouldn’t do anything. Or next week. Or a year from now. The concept reminded him horribly of the twilight hours of the White War.
Without any living relatives, Titus hadn’t felt meaningful loss since the White Sign had surrendered. The
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