Chains of Mist Read online

  That was a sobering thought. It was one thing if the Coalition was ignorant of Rokan Sellas’s past. It was quite another if the other Coalition leaders knew who he was and what he was capable of. If they thought nothing of handing the reins of their movement over to a man who had let a hundred and twenty thousand fellow soldiers die for the sake of his own greed, then surely they would not balk at igniting a galactic civil war that would kill billions.

  Drogni could think of nothing to say in response. The ominous silence stretched for several moments, becoming an almost tangible entity squeezing the air around them. Then Laslo coughed, the sound sharp as breaking glass. “Well, this conversation just got very depressing,” he said. “Never good to stand around worrying about things you can’t control. Let’s talk about what we can do. What our next move is going to be.”

  Drogni took a deep breath, focusing himself. “Right. You’re right about one thing—we need to get the word out. But only to the right people, who can be trusted to be discreet. The Senior Admiralty, of course. Mina and the rest of the senior delegates on Davin. But that’s about it. The last thing we need is for this to leak to the public—we’d have a thousand riots on our hands before we could blink. If that happened, the Coalition wouldn’t need to destroy us—all they’d have to do is wait for us to destroy ourselves.”

  “Done,” said Laslo. “I’ll take care of it as soon as we’re finished here. We’ll keep this quiet until the time is right.”

  “Thanks.” Drogni pursed his lips in thought. “Now for the real action. I happen to know that Rokan Sellas’s endgame is galactic civil war—heard it from his own mouth, actually—but we can’t prove it. Since the Federation has been taking a wait-and-see approach when it comes to the Coalition, and our esteemed Galactic President has been doing just about everything he can to avoid even the suggestion of hostility, that means our hands are as good as tied right now. If we do anything that makes us look like the aggressor, then we’ll lose Federation support, and it’ll give the Coalition an apparently legitimate excuse to bring military action against us. Without the Federation backing us, the Coalition could sweep in and pound us into dust.”

  “I would prefer to avoid that, if possible,” said Laslo, his voice and expression deadpan.

  “You think?” Drogni felt his eyebrows practically jump halfway up his forehead. “Keen tactical observations like that, and it’s no wonder you made Admiral. Took you four years more than me, of course, but…”

  Laslo gave a wolfish smile, flashing brilliantly white teeth. “Some people,” he said, “Need a head start.”

  Drogni clapped his friend on the shoulder. “Your generosity is much appreciated. In any case, this means that we can’t make a big deal of mobilizing our forces. But we can start quietly bringing in some of the more remote elements. Draw in as much as you can without arousing suspicion. Accelerate the work schedules for the repair yards—get as many of our ships as possible battle-ready. We might not be able to hold off everything the Coalition can throw at us. But we can make damn sure that we give ‘em hell before we die.”

  “Done,” said Laslo. “I’ll look over my lists, try to shift things around as much as I can. And I’ll talk to Garett, see what we can scrape off the top of the BDF. He’s always saying he’s got more ships than he needs anyways.”

  “Well, let’s hope he’s right.” Supreme Allied Commander Garett Moraval was the Senior Commanding Admiral of the Border Defense Fleet. He was an excellent strategist but had a flair for the dramatic and occasionally suffered from bouts of overconfidence. “The last thing we need is to gut our perimeter defenses to take on the Coalition only to have some new menace sweep in from the Wilds and raze the Rimward outposts.”

  Laslo gave a dismissive wave of his hand. “Now that the SmugCo have finally decided to stop nipping at our heels there are no real threats out that way anymore. Garett can hold the border with two flitters and a can of bug spray if he needs to. You worry too much.”

  “I worry exactly the right amount,” Drogni countered. But he knew that Laslo and Garett were right. The borders were secure; the last real menace had ended thirteen years ago with the death of Charas, the Pirate King. Laslo’s estimation of Garett’s tactical abilities might be slightly exaggerated, but they could certainly afford to pare down the outlying task forces a bit without fear.

  Laslo waited a moment, studying Drogni curiously. “And what about you?” the Wing Admiral asked.

  Drogni looked up. He could tell from the look on Laslo’s face that his friend already knew what he was about to say. “I’m going after Sellas.”

  Laslo sighed. “Of course you are.” He shook his head, a half-smile cracking his lips. “Well, I’m not going to try to talk you out of it. Not even sure that I should. Hell, I’ve half a mind to join you, but I guess someone’s got to keep an eye on things back home.” He held out a hand, and now his expression turned deadly serious. “Good luck. Take that stelnak down.”

  “I plan to,” Drogni replied as he shook Laslo’s hand. “That’s twice now that I’ve had him in my sights and missed. Third time lucky, am I right?”

  Drogni was trying for levity, but the words fell flat and hollow. The air suddenly seemed to shift, growing dark and somber. Drogni met Laslo’s gaze, but almost immediately had to turn away. The look of pained sorrow was too much for him to bear. It forced him to face the truth that he dared not admit even to himself.

  The truth: that Rokan Sellas was beyond him. That there was nothing Drogni could do to defeat him. And that, by moving to face his enemy yet again, he was only striding full force towards his own death.

  A poignant silence spread, settling around them in a suffocating embrace. Again, Laslo was the one to speak first. “Well, I guess I’d better get going,” he said, clapping his hands against his thighs. “If past experience is anything to go on, those fleets aren’t going to re-organize themselves.” He stood and took a few steps towards the door. Then he paused. He glanced over his shoulder. “Take care of yourself, Ortega. The Fleet will be waiting for you when you get back.”

  Drogni pulled up another smile that he did not feel. He didn’t let Laslo see the fear that pulsed through him. “I will, Jon. Same to you.”

  Laslo nodded. He lingered a few more seconds, and he seemed like he wanted to say more. But he merely nodded again, turned, and was gone.

  As the door swung shut, Drogni sank back in his chair, his earlier discomfort and troubled thoughts returning full force. He shuffled around some of the datacards, but it was more out of habit than any real interest in their contents. He still could not get his mind to focus. Hours passed like seconds, and the deep red of sunset had crept in to bathe the room when his comm blared out through the silence. He answered immediately. “Ortega.”

  The Vizier answered him. There was no introduction, no pleasantries. Instead the deep voice simply said, “I have found Varenn.”

  Drogni could not help but be a little surprised. About time you did something useful. He didn’t say that, of course. In his experience, taunts were mostly wasted on the Vizier. Besides, even if he succeeded in getting a rise out of the big man, what would be the gain? Having a spitting contest wasn’t going to bring down Rokan Sellas, or help them defeat the Coalition. “Where?”

  “The planet is Espir,” replied the Vizier. “You know the name—that world is something of a scientific curiosity, though for reasons unrelated to Rokan Sellas’s intentions. On Espir, there is a peak called Nembane Mountain; beneath it, there are vast subterranean tunnels, carved out ages ago by ancient forces of magic. Within those tunnels, I have seen a…convergence…of power, the likes of which I have never before felt. Forces are in motion that have not stirred for millennia, and they are destined to collide, soon…though to what end I do not know. It is there that you will find Justin Varenn. More importantly, it is there that you will find Rokan Sellas.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Of course I am sure.” The Vizier sounded more di
smissive than haughty. If he was angry that Drogni had questioned his abilities, there was no sign of it. “I have already informed Forgera and Makree. Your ship is being prepared. You have one hour.”

  The Vizier fell silent, leaving Drogni to ponder what he had just heard. The phrase ‘convergence of power’ sent a chill through him, and his mind returned again to the Mari’eth, dissolving into dust, and to his soldiers, reduced to empty sacks of skin. Somehow he knew that Espir would be worse.

  But it didn’t matter. He had made his choice. He would see this through to the end. “Copy that,” he said. “Ortega out.”

  * * * *

  Austin Forgera stood just inside the front door of his house near the edges of the Tellarian capital city Tyen, and wondered if it would be the last time he ever saw it.

  He was terrified. Terrified beyond anything he had ever known before. More terrified than he had thought was possible. His hands were cold and clammy, and they shook as he ran them along the smooth wood of the doorframe. He could feel his heart thumping, each beat sending earthquake-like tremors through his body. His mouth was dry, and waves of nausea weakened his knees and made his stomach roll like an angry sea.

  What was I thinking? How could I agree to this? After what I saw on Hilthak? After Rokan Sellas… He couldn’t bear to finish the thought. Even two days and countless thousands of parsecs later, the memories were still too fresh. He dared not think of them for too long, lest he lose the little that remained of his tattered resolve.

  He had not felt this terror before departing for Leva five days ago. But that had been different. Then, Rokan Sellas had been just a man. The mission to kill him had been perilous, certainly, but it was a familiar danger, a comfortable danger. It was not particularly different from any number of situations he had found himself in over the course of his nearly decade-long career with the Federation Ambassadors Guild. It was something he knew, had trained for, and could defend against. All of the Vizier’s talk about magic talismans had been little more than idle chatter in his ears. Austin had known the truth…but he had not believed.

  Now, Austin had no illusions about what he would face. He had seen the horrors that Rokan Sellas was capable of. He had seen men and women, soldiers brave and well-trained, held utterly powerless in the grip of a force that was beyond them. Rokan Sellas had killed them as effortlessly and casually as one would swat an insect. Austin had survived through sheer luck, not through any combination of his own abilities. And he doubted that he could count on such luck a second time. If Rokan Sellas turned his powers against Austin, Austin would die just like the soldiers on Hilthak, or like the Mari’eth. And there was nothing he could do about it.

  Yet it was too late to turn back. He had all but demanded to be included on this mission. He had practically defied the Vizier himself. That was not something to be done lightly, nor undone. For good or ill, his path was chosen. He had no choice but to walk it.

  Besides, Justin needed him. Austin thought of his friend, captured and likely suffering unimaginable torments. He remembered the promise he had given back on Drask: “Remember, stick close to me if this starts to get ugly. I’ll protect you.” A promise he had failed to keep—a friend he had let down when that friend needed him most. Determination ignited within him…but it was a feeble flame, overmatched by the frigid ocean of his terror.

  Austin pulled in a deep, shuddering breath. Right now all he wanted was to see his wife’s smile, to hear his son’s laugh. But even those simple things were beyond him. He had tried to call Elena and Jordin, but the comm had been unable to establish a connection. That failure was not surprising; if his wife and son had stuck to their original vacation itinerary, they should be a few hours along the forty-seven-hour u-space journey from Releghar to Tellaria, and communications between realspace and the alternate-dimension u-space that allowed superluminal travel between the stars were notoriously difficult.

  On impulse, he tried again, hoping and praying that the signal would go through. But all he got was static buzzing harsh and distant in his ears.

  Listening to that coarse and empty sound, Austin felt a chill spread through him, as if a cloak of ice had settled around his heart. Panic touched him, and his fingers closed around the doorframe with such a grip that the knuckles turned white. He needed to hear their voices, a visceral, primal need that gripped him to his core and held him paralyzed. In desperation, he tried to bring up their faces in his mind, to hold them close against the fear and darkness that assailed him. But he found that he could not. They flickered like ghostly dreams, faceless and incorporeal, hovering just beyond his reach.

  Austin felt suddenly, horribly alone. His only living relatives besides his wife and son were a handful of distant cousins whom he had not seen or spoken to in years. Most of his friends were fellow Guild members, and were currently scattered to the four corners of the galaxy. The weight of the task ahead of him seemed to press on him like a mountain, and there was no one to help share the burden.

  And so Austin stood at the threshold, unmoving. He tried to calm his fraying nerves, to soothe his quavering heart. For his family’s sake, he tried to summon up his courage. For Justin’s sake, he tried to thrust aside his fear.

  But he could not. All he could think of were the horrors he had witnessed on Hilthak. All he could hear was Rokan Sellas’s grating, inhuman laugh. All he could see was the darkness closing around him, blotting out the stars, reaching into the very depths of his soul.

  And he was afraid.

  * * * *

  Sergeant Major Aras Makree, called the Black General by his troops, sat in silent meditation. An observer stumbling upon him would have been forgiven for thinking that he was asleep. His eyes were closed, his breathing soft and controlled, his expression peaceful.

  But his thoughts did not mirror his outer calm. They swirled with torment, with unease, with doubt. Ever since Hilthak, ever since he had first felt the oppressive sorcery infesting that barren moon and seen the horrifying power of Rokan Sellas, he had been unable to find peace. Old memories long forgotten surged to the forefront of his mind—memories of decisions past, of friends lost. It was as if the last five years had never happened, as if he stood once again on the surface of a dying world, making a choice that would forever change two lives.

  He opened his eyes. They stared forward, unfocused, unseeing. His lips moved, but the sound that emerged was barely more than a whisper. “Fate cannot be rushed, nor destiny preceded.” The words spun hollowly in his ears, fading away empty and broken. The mantra that had guided his steps for so long provided him no comfort; instead, it seemed to be mocking him. You chose this, the voice said. You chose your fate, you chose your destiny. And now they are upon you.

  Makree closed his eyes. Again, he sought inner peace; again, it eluded him.

  The voice continued, sibilant, insidious. What will you do now, Aras Makree? The time for regret is passed. Will you face that choice? Will you accept the path you laid before yourself?

  Makree had no answer. He searched his mind, plumbed his deepest thoughts, but was left stumbling and alone. He knew only one thing for certain: that the moment he had waited for these past five years had come. The moment he had dreaded was finally upon him.

  And he was not ready for it. By the gods, he was not ready.

  Thus we travel to Espir, to a convergence of destiny. Three men, broken by emotion: by anger, by grief, by fear. A fear that I thought I had accepted, that I thought I had shed five years ago, when I made that terrible, impossible choice. But now I see that I had fooled myself, comforting myself with the knowledge that the final repercussions of that action were safely in the future, unable to touch me. A fragile truth, now shattered, as my day of fate draws near.

  I thought that I did not fear death. For five years, I have entered every battle without fear, fought through impossible odds with total calm, an inner peace that guided my every move. I thought that this was because I, having come face to face with the darkest choice
a man can make, had shed my fear of entering the final unknown. But now I see the truth. I was able to fight without fear only because I knew that I was not yet destined to die. And that is not courage.

  Now, as the inexorable flow of time has brought me to my final days, I can finally see through the veil that I had cast over my own eyes. I am brought face to face with the truth that I had long sought to deny.

  I made a choice, long ago. Of the two of us, I chose who would live, and who would die.

  And I chose to die.

  But not because I did not fear death. Because I feared the alternative more.

  * * * *

  “As always, I cannot tell what is going on behind that mask you call a face, but this I know, friend: you do not think that Admiral Ortega will succeed.”

  The Vizier shrugged, his onyx eyes disdainful. “Of course not. The Admiral is a fool to think otherwise. He is brave and skilled, yes…but a fool nonetheless. Rokan Sellas cannot be destroyed by a common mortal man—Ortega should have learned that by now.”

  The King stirred uneasily, restlessly. “Then their mission is doomed to failure? Have I just allowed our most brilliant military mind—a man that we will have great need of in the coming months and years, unless I am very much mistaken—to sign his own death sentence? And for what, Micaeh? For what? Answer me that, friend—and the answer had better be good.”

  The obsidian eyes darted up, to scan the other’s face, a gaze that, as always, seemed to pierce right through to the core of the mind and soul. “Not quite, my lord,” said the deep voice. “The mission that Drogni Ortega seeks to carry out is doomed, that is true…but that is not their true purpose on Espir. The Admiral’s vendetta is of no concern to me, or to the greater forces that are at work here.”

  “Ah…” A glimmer of understanding came into the other’s eyes, though the stern face remained wary, guarded. “You speak of Justin Varenn, and the visions you mentioned before.”