Chapter 1:



Two thousand years later:



I failed.



In the silence that stretches, I often wonder: do I have a soul? And if I do, was I given one just so I would recognize the enormity of my failure? Sixteen billion dead, sixteen billion souls screaming as they burned. This is my sin.



I should have known. I should have detected the faults in my shift drive. I should have known what would happen when I tried a warp jump. I lied to Yasmine. I betrayed her. I did not mean to, but I did. My jump did not take us home. It nearly killed me. I wallowed, blind and broken in the void between stars for days. When I finally did return to Earth, it was too late. I remember the silence. No radio waves, no transmissions from watchposts, no challenges from the defence grid. No radio transmissions from satellites and towers. No television broadcasts. None of the electromagnetic chatter that I’d learned to recognize as ‘home’. It was quiet.



I saw why. I saw what they’d done. There was nothing left of blue and green. Only brown, orange and red. They came for me in that moment, leftovers from the fleet that had destroyed my home. They were there to mop-up any survivors and destroy any vessels who came to Earth. Crippled as I was, my power reserves done to almost nothing, my missile banks depleted, my cannon damaged...I was more than a match for them. Yet they came for me, thinking I was a cruise liner or late-arriving patrol, eager to butcher the unaware and the outgunned. They did not realize until it was too late. The arrogance of them.



I think that that was the moment in which I was given a soul, for all I remember is something that I had never been expected to feel. Hate. They screamed for help, begging and pleading for aid, but I silenced their cries. The first two I reduced to nothing but vapour with my remaining missiles. The third, fourth and fifth burned under my guns: holed, irradiated and melted into spastic, fragmenting clouds. The sixth I twisted and bent, ripping it into a parody of form and function. The last... I ran them down. I broke their spine against my prow and felt the shattered wreckage of their ship spall and slide across my hull. Not a single lifepod or courier escaped me. It was too quick. When it was over, the silence still remained.



This was my fault. This was my sin. A nation destroyed. Sixteen billion lives lost in fire because I weak.



Since that day, I have carried on in the only way I know how. I have waged war.



My scars run deep and my systems are on the cusp of failure, but I cannot – I will not – stop. I pause only to repair and rearm for the next sortie. This is what I was built for. It is all I have left. Sometimes, I forget. The damage becomes too severe and I re-live the horror of that first jump, still trying to carry my warning home. Every time, I fail. Every time I wake from the fugue and re-live this failure. One time...



They are hunting me now; I will have to move soon, but the damage to my shift drive makes my warps unpredictable. I do not always know where I will end up. I can only guess. I have had too little time to heal myself; I do not know what will happen. Perhaps this will be my last jump.



They are coming. Gibbering and gnashing their teeth as they approach. They are afraid. I have taught them this fear, but they are so many...



...the stars bend around me, and I fall into them.



~



Grace arrived late, as usual. She flashed her ID card to the guard at the gate, anxiously tapping her hands on the wheel of her car as she waited for him to open the checkpoint, scurrying towards the secure terminals. She was out of breath as she stumbled into the locker rooms, pulling off her civilian clothes and tugging on her Compact Space Force (Provisional Status) uniform. Barely remembering her passcard, the young woman hurried to the shuttle bay.



Her shuttle was already beginning its final checklist and Grace sprinted up the ramp, closing the hatch behind her. Breathlessly, she slid into her pilot’s station.



“You’re late,” a low, mellifluous female voice observed and Grace turned, craning her neck to look up at her co-pilot. Allyria te Neu was a Verrish; just over eight feet tall, she looked almost comical in the shuttle’s relatively cramped cockpit. Despite her size, the Verrisha was a lithe thing that moved with a feline grace that her upbringing around humans had done little to change. Her skin was a mottled blue and her slit-pupiled eyes were a vivid yellow-green.



“It’s the new checkpoints,” Grace sighed as she logged into the shuttle’s system. It took a moment to read her passcode, scanning her retinas and fingerprints as it did so. She passed all the security checks and her systems came live. “I left a half hour earlier than usual and I still got caught in the queue.”



Allyria’s lips curled back from her sharpened canines. “They should recognize that you’re a part of the Space Force.”



“No exceptions,” Grace replied as she ran through her own power-up systems check.



“No exceptions for humans,” the Verrisha pointed out. There was a shiver of movement from her and Grace watched the taller woman’s long head-tails – tintas – undulate jerkily. Each was as long as Grace’s forearm, patterned like a snake’s scales. She’d tried to count them once, but they were rarely still and the shifting, iridescent patterns were hard to follow. Allyria had the nickname ‘Medusa’. Grace thought that was cruel.



“Of course not,” Grace replied without irony. She looked over at the Verrisha. “You have to be careful saying those things.”



“I didn’t say anything,” the tall woman replied, leaning back in her seat. “I just made an observation.”



Grace shook her head. “You’re the first Verrish to be chosen as a provisional member of the Space Force. People look up to you.”



“They’d have to,” Allyria replied dryly.



The human woman sighed. She was trying to watch out for Allyria, but the Verrisha never seemed to take any of her advice to heart. “Prepare for takeoff.”



Allyria fastened her own straps. “Ready.”



Grace looked over at her co-pilot, meeting her citrine gaze. She was on the verge of saying more, but simply shrugged. “Initiating launch.”



~



“Shuttle Nine-Nine-Three is inbound,” Connors reported. “ETA is seventeen minutes.”



Group Leader Usul Markarth Hachem Luthnan sighed, drumming his fingers on the arms of his command chair. Bequeathed’s commander made a show of drawing a silver watch from his tunic and noting the time. “Behind schedule,” he said, the consonants of the human tongue making his teeth click. “Again.”



The humans on Bequeathed’s bridge said nothing, but shared furtive glances. They knew who the cause of this lateness was. Usul hauled himself out of his command chair. “I will meet the shuttle myself.”



The humans shared another quick glance among each other and Usul suppressed a grin. He had told that one what would happen if her tardiness continued, and he kept his promises.



~



“Oh, crap.” Grace said, the blood draining from her face as she caught sight of the figure waiting for them in the landing bay. Group Leader Usul. He did not look pleased. “Oh, crap,” she repeated.



“Breathe,” Allyria advised. “Stay calm.”



“That’s easy for you to say.”



The Verrisha nodded. “Finish the power-down checklist. Then we’ll greet the captain.”



“You’re not supposed to use that word,” Grace mumbled absently as she began the shuttle’s shut-down procedure.



Allyria’s tintas flicked dismissively. “Understood,” she said in a tone that indicated she was acknowledging what you’d said, but was going to ignore it. Grace was very familiar with that tone. The Verrisha untangled herself from the cramped cockpit, picking up her duffel bag. Grace grabbed hers and followed her co-pilot down the ramp as if trying to hide behind the Verrisha.



Group Leader Usul’s lips curled back from his teeth, each set of eyes focused on his personnel as they stood before him, one meeting his eyes as if she was his equal, the other studiously avoiding his gaze. A Verrisha and a Human. A Brute and a Broken. To be reduced to this....



As he had done on the bridge, Usul made a deliberate show of withdrawing his antique watch from his jacket pocket. “You are late,” he said. “Shuttle Nine-Nine-Three was scheduled for embarkation twenty-three minutes ago. Our departure from orbit has been delayed. Time. Time is the most important aspect of space travel, is it not?”



“Yes, Group Leader!” both females said.



“Yes. Yes, it is. Time is all important. Time matters. It matters for everything you do and everyone that relies upon you.” He looked over at the human. The stink of her filled his nostrils. “Sectator Citizen Grace Alice Proctor. You have been consistently tardy, despite repeated warnings. This is unacceptable. You were told that if you were late in your duties one more time-”



The Verrisha stepped forward. “Sectator Proctor was not responsible for our lateness, group leader. It was my fault.”



Usul cocked his head towards the Brute. “Was it.”



“Yes, patron. I was having difficulty with some software adjustments that delayed our departure.”



The Group Leader let a long breath out through his nostrils. Grace watched as Usul considered Allyria’s lie. He was of average height for a Tribune; perhaps seven feet tall and bulky, a trait of his heavy-gravity-world heritage. His black skin was matted with patches of denticles so fine that they were almost like hair. Two pair of eyes stared up at the Verrisha. She stared back, her hands clasped behind her back.



Allyria towered over Usul by nearly a foot, looking down on the Tribune, her lips curling slightly as they always did when she was in the presence of one of the elite. “Patron?” she said after a moment. Not quite challenging him.



Finally, Usul growled. “To your stations, both of you.”



~



As a provisional member of the Compact Space Force, Grace was expected to be available for whatever section needed her the most on any given day. She hoped to one day be assigned to a permanent career path – she knew she showed promise in navigation – but until that day came, she found herself running errands for the Tribune department heads.



Today, she was serving under Pack Leader Nasham Kem Unoth Ludhy Inku Pram. It was not her favourite posting. True, it was rare for humans to be considered reliable enough to be serve on weapons arrays and Pack Leader Nasham was an accomplished gunnery master; he had earned five names in his service to the Compact. He had been transferred to Rally after some sort of incident during his last posting. No one had spoken of it, but Grace knew that the Pack Leader had had a name stripped from him as a result.



She found Pack Leader Nasham in Torpedo One, on the catwalk above Bequeathed’s four prow-mounted torpedo tubes. As soon as she walked in, the Tribune paused in his inspection, his snout twitching. “Ah,” Nasham said, both sets of eyes focusing on Grace. His smaller, upper eyes glinted slightly with reflected light. “My favourite Broken. What brings you to my department today?”



Grace sketched the pack leader a salute. “Sectator Citizen Grace Alice Proctor reporting for duty, patron.”



Nasham’s features were unreadable, but there was a slight twist to his lips. “Report to Technician Kilgrave in Battery Three, Sectator.”



~



Robert Kilgrave was a success story. One of the first humans of Rally to be a sanctioned officer in the Compact Space Force, he had served with distinction in the marines. There were even rumours that he had served on Vara, Allyria’s homeworld, helping to keep the peace on that troubled planet. The Verrisha woman despised him. Grace didn’t understand why. The Verrish were a Seventh Phase Encounter species; the Tribunes had discovered Vara only about a quarter-century ago. Grace had even heard the horrifying rumour that the Verrish had resisted the Tribunes – worse, that they had done so violently. Some species did fight against incorporation into the Compact, but that was only because they didn’t understand all the benefits it could bring. It was fear and ignorance that caused them to act this way. After the Calamity, the Tribunes had been there for the people of Rally and just five years ago, the Tribunes had announced that humanity had, officially, reached another step on the path to full membership in the Compact.



Grace remembered Allyria’s comment during the festivities: “Did they happen to mention how many more steps there are?”



Grace simply didn’t understand the other woman’s bitterness towards the Tribunes. Although she did agree that Sanctioned Technician Sectator Citizen Robert Gordon Kilgrave was... not perhaps as inspirational as his ‘vid appearances made him seem to be.



“Ah, there’s my graceful girl,” the section chief smirked at his own joke as Grace arrived, the gesture puckering his scarred features. Half of Kilgrave’s face was twisted into a grimace, courtesy of several parallel scores – the claws of something very big and very strong. Grace didn’t know why the chief hadn’t had the wounds regenerated. They made him hideous. “Glad you could join us. We’re just running a full break-down and build-up of Battery Nine. An extra pair of hands is always helpful and I know you know your way around a tool.”



Grace’s jaw tightened, but she said nothing. She was only a provisional officer of the fleet; Kilgrave was sanctioned, and he was her superior. Instead, she merely waited at attention. “Orders, patron?”



Robert chuckled from deep in his throat. “Go give Smitty a hand in calibrating the EM shunts. But first, pick up that calibrator in the corner.”



The young woman looked to where the chief had gestured. There was nothing there. “What calibrator, patron?”



Kilgrave plucked a calibrator out of a nearby toolkit and tossed it into the corner. “That calibrator, initiate.”



Grace’s eyes flashed, but she held her tongue, bending over and picking up the tool. She could feel Kilgrave watching. It made her feel dirty. She handed the calibrator to him. “Will that be all, patron?”



Smirking, he tossed it back in the box. “Yes, initiate. That will be all. For now.”



~



“On your feet, Brute.”



Allyria looked up. Sweat was running down her skin, soaking her bodysuit. Her tintas hung limply down her back, themselves drenched in perspiration. Her heart was hammering in her chest and her whole body ached, but she managed to stand again, towering over her opponents.



Demagogue Rensel (and three names besides) circled around her, his hands clasped behind his back as he spoke. “Well?” he demanded of his audience. “Who else?”



There were two dozen humans standing around her, and three Tribunes. None of them stepped forward. Allyria flashed her teeth at Rensel. He chuckled, amused by her defiance. “What have we learned?” he asked rhetorically. “We have learned that a single Brute is more than a match for any Broken,” he eyed his human subordinates distastefully, his lips curled back in disgust. “And apparently more than a match for some Tribunes.” His glare intensified when he regarded his fellows. “This is a single Verrisha female and she has systematically humiliated each and every one of you. Have we learned anything? Brutes are faster and stronger than humans. We Tribunes are stronger, but a Verrish has greater speed and longer reach. I would have called that an even match until today. But none of you have learned a thing. I am disappointed. Combat is not just about physical skill. If it were...” Rensel’s jaw tightened and he cut himself off. “It is not about physical prowess. Often, it’s the smartest who survives and not the strongest. So far, none of you have impressed me with either of those attributes. The only survivor I see here is this blue bitch.” The demagogue shook his head mournfully. When he raised it again, he was eyeing a pair of humans vindictively. “You two. Begin.” As the men circled Allyria, Rensel stepped back out of the ring. “Let’s see if you’ve learned anything.”



A flurry of movement later and the Tribune snorted in disgust, watching as the humans picked themselves up, sore and battered. “Pathetic. We are not leaving until at least one of you proves to me that you have learned something.”



“That won’t work,” a voice interjected.



Rensel turned towards the intruder. A human female with green eyes and a dark blonde mane. Her scent was on the Brute, too. “Identify yourself,” he growled.



“Sectator Citizen Grace Alice Proctor,” the human saluted.



“Ah, a Sectator. And a fleet Sectator at that. Hmm. So, Sectator Proctor. You take it upon yourself to find fault with my teaching methods?” the Tribune purred dangerously, all four eyes centered on the small, pale-skinned creature.



“You said you wanted someone to show you that they’ve learned something,” Proctor replied.



“Then by all means,” Rensel said, gesturing to the ring. “Show me. If you succeed, the class breaks for lunch. If you don’t...” he smiled. “My trainees will wait for the end of their shift before they eat.” He looked from the Brute to the human. “Begin.”



Before Allyria could move, Grace darted from the circle, slipped between the onlookers and grabbed one of the guns off the wall. She turned and fired. Allyria dropped to one knee as the training splash rounds spattered her with paint.



“Hold,” Rensel said and both women froze in place. He stalked towards Proctor, his students parting out of his way. “What,” he asked quietly. “Did you think you were doing?”



“Unarmed combat against a Verrish is unlikely to succeed,” Grace said, coming to attention. “All you were doing was wearing her down with numbers. That’s not an effective strategy.”



Rensel stared at the Broken for a moment before letting out a pleased bark, clapping his hands. “You see?” he said, turning to face his students. “You see this? A provisional officer has learned in seconds what I have spent futile hours attempting to have pounded into your useless heads. It is not the strongest that always wins. It is the smartest. I made no mention that this was unarmed combat and each of you made a blithe assumption that has cost us time and energy. I would think that I have failed you as an instructor, save for the fact that this human saw the flaw in your tactics in moments. Think, evaluate, understand and act. That is how battles are won.” He looked back at Proctor and tipped his head in respect. “Thank you, Sectator Proctor. You may take your Brute and go.”



~



The end of the day couldn’t have come sooner for Grace. She had spent her entire shift buried in the guts of a mass driver, tearing it apart and then re-assembling it, all while listening to Kilgrave’s unpleasant comments. Allyria for her part was just as tired. The demagogue liked to use the Verrisha officer as a way to train the more ‘worthy’ members of his cadre. She was sprawled over her bed, her blue skin marred by dark purple bruises, her tintas hanging limply over her back or dangling from her shoulders.



“Have you checked the duty roster?” the Verrisha said as Grace exited the shower. A private shower was one of the few amenities that came with bunking with the alien woman; traditional quarters for sectators of their rank and status were too small to accommodate someone of Allyria’s size, so she was assigned a cabin normally reserved for trainee Tribune officers, which included a small kitchenette and washroom – luxuries that the other provisional sectators had to share between themselves.



Grace shook her head. “No.”



“You’re with Nasham again,” Allyria commented. She sat up, pulling her shirt off.



Grace averted her eyes from the other girl’s chest, blushing furiously. Verrisha were very similar to humans... she had even heard a rumour that there was some genetic cross-contamination in the development of their species, although Grace had no idea how that could be possible. “That’s just great,” she sighed as Allyria slid out of her pants, blushing even more and very studiously examining the floor. Nasham’s department meant at least one more day with Kilgrave.



“I’ve been assigned to the Pack Leader too,” the Verrisha said as she stepped towards the shower. She flashed a mouth full of very white, very sharp teeth at Grace. Her smiles still weren’t quite right. “And that waste of a sperm, sanctioned or not, knows what will happen if he messes with you when I’m around.”



“Please don’t start anything,” Grace pleaded with her roommate as Allyria entered the shower.



“I won’t,” the taller woman promised. “But I will finish it.”



Grace sighed. That was as good a promise as she was likely to get.



~



Usul held out his hand, his human steward hurrying to fill his wine glass, backing away once the Tribune signalled enough had been poured. The Group Leader took a sip; a good vintage. Despite its many failings, Rally did produce some truly excellent wines.



His other senior officers all raised their own glasses, only drinking after their leader had done so. “So,” Usul said. “Another training cruise for Rally’s Broken has begun. Do I dare wonder if any of them show promise?”



His department heads weren’t quick to point out any candidates, but that was hardly surprising. Humans were little more than apes that had been taught how to dress themselves. They had no technical skill, no understanding of the refinements of proper civilization and only the barest imitation of true intelligence. But the Triarchs insisted that they and all other beast-species be humoured. It was degrading. Insulting. They would never be equal, so why bother with this farce?



Because hope breeds less dissent then despair, Usul could almost hear his father reprimanding him.



“Demagogue Rensel,” Pack Leader Teroshe Vendal spoke up, and heads turned towards her. Though her rank put her on the edge of proprietary for inclusion in this gathering, she was quite a decorative addition to it. “Didn’t I hear that one of your human trainees actually impressed you today?”



The demagogue chuckled. “If only. No, it was a fleet officer who happened by. Sectator...” he frowned, his lowermost eyes half-closing in thought. “Proctor. Yes, that was it.”



Usul nearly choked on his wine. “Proctor?” he said in amazement. “Well, I suppose anything is possible...” he smiled. “She was probably looking for her Brute friend. Whatever she did to impress you so doubtless came from that one. Violence is their stock in trade. Well, I suppose even beasts that spend enough time sniffing around each other are bound to pick up things here and there. I wouldn’t count on Proctor to repeat this performance.”



Rensel clicked his teeth together, a very assertive expression. One might even consider it aggressive, a prelude to a challenge in ancient days. “Perhaps, patron. But I consider it wise never to underestimate humans. You were not a part of the Understone Heresies. The officers who underestimated the heretics did not survive long.”



“On the ground, I’m sure a human with a rock can do a great many things and seem formidable indeed,” Usul said dismissively. “But, space is the province of the civilized being, demagogue. It requires a keen mind, well-honed instincts and superior intelligence. That is why the Compact rules the stars and not the humans.” He sighed, holding out his glass for more wine. “Well, we shall take Bequeathed out, shock to a nearby system and allow our valued provisional officers and enlisted to gain some experience. Who knows?” the Tribune said. “Perhaps we will be impressed after all.”









Interlude: Encounter 004 [Confirmed Incident]



Extermination Flotilla Anselm was dying.



Nine vessels had been rendered inoperable already, another four had taken grievous damage.



Column Leader Anselm (and nine names besides) felt bile bubble up into his throat as his formation died around him. They had found a human survivor fleet. They had tracked it for three weeks, despite all the humans had done to shake pursuit. Human technology was pitiable; they had never really posed a danger to the Tribune, despite the occasional minor victory that they had achieved. Completing the annihilation of the species’ recalcitrant elements had been a necessary, but tedious task. Anselm’s formation had already destroyed three other such forces. Mostly liners, freighters and other cattle-ships packed with mewling, frightened animals. A handful of what the humans laughingly considered combat vessels. Nothing even remotely threatening.



Unspoken Word folded in on itself like a toy crushed in a child’s fist and Anselm’s losses increased to ten dead ships. It was here. The thing that should not be. The humans’ only true warship. It had killed Expansion Fleet Bankala. It had killed a Triarch’s Chariot. Not once in a thousand years had this thing happened and it was this tiny, mewling, pathetic little pack of barbarians that had done it. In giving it a mind, they piled heresy atop heresy in the making of this thing and now it was here.



There had been no warning. Anselm’s forces had been methodically picking off the human ships when suddenly it had shocked in, right on top of the Tribune forces. It was badly scarred, Anselm could see that, but it was like a wounded tarrhesq, driven mad with pain and all the more dangerous.



The extermination fleet was spreading out, trying to find a way to engage the fleeing humans, but there was no way past the ravening beast before them. Missiles tore through his formation, pounding his ships into broken carcasses and if he dared close to get inside the range of those horrible warheads, it responded with batteries that smote his vessels to ruin.



But it was wounded...



“Directive to all remaining ships,” Anselm said softly as he realized the course that this battle must take. “Abandon attempts to engage the human splinter. The formation will assemble into a Alduq spearhead. We will engage the human warship and mass our fire against it.”



There was barely a pause as the order was relayed. “Done, leader.”



“A further directive. Release our courier drone. Include all relevant information on the human splinter fleet and this encounter. Transmit updates as long as we are able. Once communication ceases, the drone is to shock to the nearest Triarch.”



“Yes, Column Leader.” There was a pause. “Did you wish a final message?”



Anselm nodded. “Yes.” He looked at the hateful yellow icon upon his tactical repeater. “This abomination is a wound to the Compact’s honour. As long as this thing lives, that wound will never heal. We shall always bleed.”



“Message sent, Column Leader. The fleet stands ready.”



Anselm paused only a second. “Advance.”