Armageddon Read online

  DARK SPACE VI: Armageddon

  (3rd Edition)

  by Jasper T. Scott

  http://www.JasperTscott.com

  @JasperTscott

  Copyright © 2015 by Jasper T. Scott

  THE AUTHOR RETAINS ALL RIGHTS

  FOR THIS BOOK

  Reproduction or transmission of this book, in whole or in part, by electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or by any other means is strictly prohibited, except with prior written permission from the author. You may direct your inquiries to [email protected]

  Cover design by Thien A.K.A “ShooKooBoo”

  This book is a work of fiction. All names, places, and incidents described are products of the writer’s imagination and any resemblance to real people or life events is purely coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  Copyright Page

  Acknowledgements

  Dedication

  Dramatis Personae

  PART ONE: THE SHADOW OF DEATH

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  PART TWO: UNMASKING THE ENEMY

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  PART THREE: ARMAGEDDON

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Epilogue

  WHAT’S NEXT—EXCELSIOR

  PREVIOUS BOOKS IN THE SERIES

  CONTACT THE AUTHOR

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Acknowledgements

  Six books in three years. It’s been a wild ride. In that time you, the readers, have bought over 250,000 books, and I couldn’t be more thankful. Whether you write a review, buy a book, help edit an advance reader copy, or all of the above, you’ve all made this an incredible journey, one I hope to continue on with you for many years to come.

  As always I have to thank my wife and stepson for this book, because they had to put up with my obsessive working habits!

  I also owe a big thanks to my editor, Aaron, who managed to get this manuscript back to me in record time, and my cover designer, Thien, who came through at the last minute with an exceptional cover.

  And finally, thanks to all of my beta readers, without whom, this 1st Edition would be a mess of missing words, muddled prose, and cockamamy (that’s right, cockamamy) mistakes. In particular, I’d like to thank, Bill Schmidt, Clair Gassoway, Daniel Eloff, Dani J. Caile, Dave Cantrell, Dwight, Gregor, Gary Watts, Gary Wilson, H. Huyler, Ian Seccombe, Indra Johnson, Jim Meinen, Michael Madsen, Peter Hughes, Rob Dobozy, Rafael Gutierrez, Rod Gotty, Shane Haylock, Sandra Roan, and Wade Whitaker. You guys made editing this book a whole lot easier!

  Thank you, all of you!

  To those who dare,

  And to those who dream.

  To everyone who’s stronger than they seem.

  “Believe in me /

  I know you’ve waited for so long /

  Believe in me /

  Sometimes the weak become the strong”

  —STAIND, Believe

  Dramatis Personae

  Ortane Family

  Ethan Ortane

  Alara Ortane

  Trinity Ortane

  Atton Ortane / Darin Thardris

  Heston Family

  Strategian Hoff Heston

  Destra Heston (clone)

  Atta Heston (clone)

  Avilonians

  Valari Thardris / Neona Markonis

  Grand Overseer Vladin Thardris / Omnius

  Strategian Galan Rovik

  Jena Faros

  Lena Faros

  Nulls

  Farah Hale

  Ceyla Corbin

  Human Refugees

  Destra Heston (original)

  Atta Heston (original)

  The Rictans

  Rictan One Sergeant Cavanaugh - Deceased

  Rictan Two Lieutenant “Magnum”

  Rictan Three “Hop”

  Rictan Four “Rockhead”

  Rictan Five “Streak”

  Rictan Six “Blades”

  Rictan Seven “Carnage”

  Rictan Eight - Deceased

  Gors

  Torv

  Matriarch Shara

  General Raka

  Sythians

  Shallah “The Supreme One”

  Queen Tavia

  Lady Kala

  High Lord Kaon

  High Lord Shondar

  High Lord Worval

  High Lord Rossk

  High Lord Thorian

  High Lord Quaris

  Drones

  Drone 767 / Bretton Hale

  Drone 999 “Triple Nine” / Lena Faros

  Others

  Captain Marla Picara

  Therius “The Redemptor”

  Part One: The Shadow of Death

  —The Year 11 AE (After Exodus to Dark Space) Twelve Years Since the Original Sythian Invasion—

  “There He will remove the cloud of gloom, the shadow of death that hangs over His people.”

  —The Etherian Codices

  Chapter 1

  Destra Heston sat on a hard cot in her prison cell, staring at the cracks in the castcrete floor between her feet. She eyed one toe, which had begun to peek out through a hole in her left boot. That hole had been worn not from the month of being stranded in the frozen warrens of Noctune, but from the past five months of endlessly pacing around her cell.

  It was hard to understand her captivity. After daring to explore the labyrinthine depths of Noctune and its ancient ruins, she and the other survivors from the expedition had stumbled into none other than the lord of all the Sythians, Shallah.

  They’d all been promptly thrown into isolated jail cells, and since then the Sythians only came to give them food, water, and soap. Their captors never spoke, never lingered. They hadn’t interrogated or executed any of the prisoners—at least not that she knew about. All she knew was the endless monotony of her cell.

  From what little Shallah had divulged at the moment of their capture, Destra had realized that the Sythians were hiding from Omnius, the ruler of Avilon. That was a strange concept given that what she had learned of the Sythians was that they were impossibly numerous and they had invaded the Adventa galaxy to find new worlds to colonize. Was Omnius powerful enough to frighten a species whose warships numbered in the millions, and whose people numbered in the quadrillions?

  Destra didn’t know much about Omnius, but based on what she’d learned from Admiral Hale and the rest of the Avilonian rebels who had traveled with them on their
fateful expedition to Noctune, he was a force to be reckoned with. Omnius was an artificial intelligence who had somehow managed to clone and resurrect everyone who had died during the Sythian invasion—including her husband Hoff.

  That was probably the worst part of all, knowing that Hoff was alive, and that she was stuck on Noctune being held prisoner by Sythians, unlikely to ever see him again. Somehow she’d ended up on what was probably the wrong side of a civil war, a war against the ruler of the planet where her husband now lived.

  Destra felt despair begin a slow march toward her heart, the one warm spot left in her body. Even here, in the heated confines of the Sythians’ refuge, Noctune was freezing. Destra shivered violently, and something stirred in her lap.

  Atta moaned softly and buried her face into the relative warmth of Destra’s insulated pilot’s suit. Destra reached out with a cracked and worn glove, and stroked the back of Atta’s head, admiring her daughter’s long, dark hair. Somehow it still looked lustrous and healthy. That was a good sign. It meant that the cold green mush they were given to eat every day must have sufficient nutrients in it to keep them healthy. Atta’s cheeks were rosy and red, her small, button nose flushed pink at the tip from the cold. Destra supposed it was too much to ask the Sythians for a blanket. Not that she hadn’t tried.

  They were trying to drive her skriffy with isolation, but it wouldn’t work. She still had Atta to talk to. Dear sweet Atta. Seven years ago she and Hoff had conceived her while stranded together on a world not unlike Noctune. Now she and Atta were back on another dark and frozen world. There was some irony in that.

  Seven years…

  No, that wasn’t right. By now Atta had to be close to eight, but there was no way to know for sure. Destra’s eyes burned with a sudden heat. She didn’t even know when to celebrate Atta’s birthday. A tear ran hot and wet down her cheek. Destra sniffled and laid her head back against the castcrete wall of her cell.

  Thud.

  She rocked her head back and forth, as if to deny the reality of their circumstances. A lump rose in her throat, and then the sobs came. She kept them muffled for Atta’s sake.

  Atta stirred once more, and Destra took a deep, shuddering breath. She forced it all down, kept it bottled in. She had to be strong. Had to show Atta that there was still hope, even if they didn’t know exactly what they were hoping for.

  Destra’s despair retreated a step, and in its place came a creeping numbness that had nothing to do with the cold. She rolled her head to one side, her ear pressing up against the frozen wall of her cell, and she allowed her eyes to drift slowly shut. Her mind gave up the agony of consciousness. It was a sweet surrender of not-knowing and not-feeling.

  And then the dreams came.

  She saw herself sitting on the floor of her cell, mindlessly scraping away at it with some kind of stick that she’d found. Atta was nowhere to be seen, but perhaps she was asleep on the cot behind her.

  Scrape. Scrape. Scrape.

  Her stick broke. She stared at it in her callused and shaking hands. Dirty fingertips showed through holes in her gloves. The tool she’d been scraping the floor with was white and dirty, splintered on the end that she’d been scraping against the concrete. Then she saw it for what it was.

  It was a femur—the longest and thickest bone in the human body. Destra recoiled from it, dropping the bone with a hollow-sounding clatter. She scuttled back into the farthest corner of her cell, terrified and sick with horror.

  Scrape, scrape, scrape, came the echoes inside her head. Where had that bone come from? Scrape. Scrape. Where?

  Scrape.

  Where was Atta?

  Suddenly she felt something sharp and protruding between her and the wall, something had been pushed into that shadowy corner, something that was not meant to be seen.

  Destra felt around behind her. Her fingertips grazed more bones, and she screamed.

  Her eyes popped open.

  She blinked away a sudden rain of tears. The comforting weight in her lap where Atta had fallen asleep became suddenly horrifying. Destra couldn’t bear to look, afraid that she might find a skeleton lying in her lap instead.

  Scrape, scrape, scrape.

  Destra screamed at the top of her lungs. Atta leapt up and fell over. Then she turned to her mother with a puzzled look.

  “What’s wrong, Mommy?”

  Destra curled into a fetal position and shrank against the wall. Atta approached slowly. Destra hugged her knees to her chest and rocked back and forth, slowly shaking her head.

  Scrape. Scrape. Scrape.

  “It won’t stop!” she said.

  Atta touched her gently on one arm. “What won’t stop?”

  Destra rounded on her daughter, her eyes wild. “The sound! Don’t you hear it?” Her voice cracked with the strain of shouting after untold months of aching silences when all that had been needed was a whisper. “You have to hear it! It isn’t in my head. I’m not losing my mind. I’m not…”

  Scrape. Scrape. Scrape.

  Destra squeezed her eyes shut and pressed herself more firmly to the wall, but the noise only grew louder.

  Scrape! Scrape! Scraaape!

  Destra’s eyes shot open, and she stood up. Her mind felt brittle, like an old rusty piece of metal bent back and forth too many times.

  “I heard it…” Atta murmured.

  Suddenly she noticed that Atta had gone completely still, her ear cocked toward the wall that Destra had been pressing herself against a moment ago. Then the noise came again, another long scraaape!

  Suddenly a block of castcrete slid out of the wall and landed on their cot with a muffled thud. Then came a pitter patter of debris and a cloud of dust.

  Destra stared into the hole, scarcely believing what she saw. Something within the hole coughed, and then a pair of slitted yellow eyes appeared, glinting in the gloom. As the dust cleared, a giant head appeared—a familiar skull-shaped head with corpse gray skin.

  The being hissed at her and bared its dagger-like teeth.

  “Torv?” Destra said, wondering if this was another dream.

  More hissing.

  She didn’t have her translator anymore, so she had no idea what the Gor had said.

  “How did you get here? Never mind. I can’t understand you.”

  “He said he wanted to find a way out, not another box to live in,” Atta said.

  Destra turned to her daughter, blinking slowly, not understanding until she remembered that Atta, being a child, was more sensitive to the Gors’ telepathy than human adults.

  Torv hissed some more, and Atta translated. “He says that now the Sythians will find his tunnel and kill him.”

  Destra shook her head. “No, we’ll hide it on our end, but you have to promise to take us with you when you find a real way out of here.”

  Hiss-sssss.

  Atta flashed her mother a pretty smile. “He says he is happy to help, but first he must find Shara.”

  Destra nodded. “The matriarch…” Shara was the last female Gor, and the only hope for their species. “Tell him we’ll do whatever we can to help.”

  “He says you can start by helping him fix the wall.”

  Destra hurried back to the cot and tried lifting the castcrete block from her cot. Her arms strained until it felt like they would snap, but the block was far too heavy for her. In the end it took all three of them to lift it. Torv helped with one muscular arm reaching out of his tunnel. He barely managed to pull his fingers out from under the block before it slid back into place.

  Destra and Atta chewed soap and mixed it with dust to fill in the gaps in the wall. It was dirty work, and the taste of the soap nauseated her, but Destra couldn’t help feeling elated. It felt good to finally be doing something. It felt even better to have hope. They weren’t going to die in captivity after all.

  They were going to escape.

  Chapter 2

  —One Month Later—

  Farah Hale stood alone on the deck of the Baroness, an
old venture-class cruiser. It came equipped with a cloaking shield, but that was the extent of its modernizations. It was a far cry from the warships that Farah had served on as a Peacekeeper in Omnius’s fleet.

  She sighed and splayed a hand against the cold transpiranium of the Baroness’s main forward viewport, as if to narrow the intervening space between her and Bretton, wherever he was.

  She’d done her best to keep sentiment out of it, to make a logical decision, but she knew that was impossible. Bretton was her uncle, yes, but he was also the man she had secretly loved since even before the Sythian invasion. There was so much to admire about him, so much to care for; it had been inevitable that she fall for her superior officer. The uncle part was the only reason she’d never done anything about it.

  It had taken some convincing to get her bridge crew to agree with the rescue mission, but Bretton’s ship, the Tempest, was quantum-refitted. That meant it could jump across thousands of light years in the blink of an eye, and it could communicate with equal ease. Finding that ship had been their incentive. The Tempest was too valuable to simply give up as lost. In spite of that, her XO, Deck Commander Tython, had shown early signs of resistance to the rescue mission, and the rest of the bridge crew hadn’t been far behind.

  Unlike the Tempest, Farah’s ship did not have a quantum jump drive, and it would take six months just to reach Noctune. Making matters worse, they only had enough fuel for a one-way trip, which meant they’d be stranded in the Getties Cluster once they arrived.

  There’s a rule about rescues, Farah mused. You don’t dive in to save someone from drowning if you aren’t strong enough to swim with them to shore.

  If they found the Tempest intact and used its quantum jump drives to get back to the Adventa Galaxy safely, then all would be well, but even Farah was realistic about the chances of that. If the Tempest could bring them home, wouldn’t Bretton have used it to come back by now?

  Adding to the multitude of reasons against a rescue mission was the fact that it wasn’t just the skeleton crew of five bridge officers whose lives she risked. There were also the rest of the original crew of the Baroness, all of them survivors from Dark Space, all locked away in the ship’s stasis rooms, and all ignorant of the fact that their vessel had been commandeered by a resistance movement from a planet called Avilon.