He lets out a few short laughs.
“Don’t concern yourself with the Loric right now, Phiri Dun-Ra. Their fate is sealed. I’ve foreseen the end of the Garde and their allies. Their downfall will come from within.” His lips curl up into a smile, dripping black ooze over his sharp, gray teeth. “I haven’t just been healing down here in the dark. I’ve been dreaming.”
Before I can get any sort of explanation of what that means, he begins to sink back into the vat.
“A few more hours, I think,” he says to Zakos before the ooze rises above his lips. “Then I want to see how our new soldier has turned out.”
“Of course, Beloved Leader.”
And then he’s completely covered.
Once he’s disappeared, I can hardly contain myself. I realize that I’ve been holding my breath, and letting it out causes my vision to momentarily go hazy as a rush of adrenaline jolts through me.
I am the voice of Beloved Leader. I am the fist that will smash the Loric, and then the humans. I am fulfilling my purpose.
When I finally look up, Zakos is standing over me. He’s stowed the tablet in one of his big lab coat pockets and now holds what looks like a bone saw in one hand. He points to the door of his lab with it.
“Well then,” he says. “You heard Beloved Leader. He’s pleased with you and looks forward to seeing how I might be able to improve upon your abilities. So . . .” He grins. “Shall we begin?”
PART TWO
VINTARO ÜSHABA
CHAPTER SIX
HUMANS ARE WEAK PIECES OF KRAUL SHIT.
At least the Loric put up a fight.
I was new to war when we invaded Lorien. Practically fresh out of the vats. Raised and trained to annihilate an entire civilization. There was a blaster in my hand as soon as my fingers could curl around the trigger. I was part of the youngest batch to fight in the invasion. We had one directive: to live the words of the Great Book. Conquer. Consume. Cauterize. To make Beloved Leader proud.
Hail our Beloved Leader!
We were told that the Loric were a people who upheld peace above all else. But they didn’t accept their fates without resistance. The so-called Garde—the Loric with powers—fought hard. I lost half my squad to a girl shooting lasers out of her hands and a man who could control flames—and those weren’t even the strangest things I saw that day. But the Garde didn’t live up to their purpose. They failed to protect their planet and their people. Of course they did. They had no chance against us. Against me. But they died honorably, fighting until their last breaths.
Most of them, that is. I destroyed buildings where Loric cowards were holed up, hiding and praying to their useless leaders. Hoping someone would save them, or that we’d just keep on moving and forget about them.
I’m not sure how long it took for the planet to fall. Everything happened in a blur of bombs, blaster fire and blood. And then it was over. What I do know is that the fight was finished too soon. When we left Lorien, I felt feral, like I could have spent the rest of my years torching that planet’s fields, destroying its cities—or better yet, pulling the last of the survivors from their hiding places and slitting their throats in Beloved Leader’s name.
Instead, our ships finished off the planet, destroying any hint of life that managed to survive our assault. And Setrákus Ra was pleased.
Forever may he reign!
Afterwards I was sent to Earth. In many ways, it’s a combination of Mogadore and Lorien, inhabited by a people who somehow worship peace and war in equal measure. At first, I had high hopes. I thought I was lucky to be stationed here. That the humans would make worthy prey.
They don’t, for the most part. They submit. They’re easy to control. I’ve found no sport in dominating them, no thrill in the victory of beating them.
Here on this blue-and-green planet I’ve been working in the shadows for years, long before we made our presence known. I was one of the many sent to seek out the last of the Garde, who proved to be much better at hiding than they were at fighting. Because of this, I’ve learned all about the humans. I had to, in order to disguise myself and blend into the population when needed. I’ve faced them head-to-head as I’ve hunted the remaining Loric, intimidated people of power into joining us and silenced those who saw too much. In all these years, I hardly ever broke much of a sweat. Even when torturing people for intel—like those who unknowingly harbored Garde or tried to alert the humans to our presence—they gave up information so easily. I never really got to work them over. Or if I did, it was just for fun, after they’d told me everything I wanted to know already.
I’d thought everything would change when our warships descended over their cities. I guess it did in some places where the humans and the Garde actively fought against us. Not in Chicago where I’m stationed, though: where I led a squad of soldiers in a raid on a Garde safe house not long ago, collecting one of Beloved Leader’s most valued targets. Here we allow them to evacuate because Beloved Leader—Praise his name!—has plans for this planet, maybe even its people. It is not Lorien. We are not here only to destroy. I do not question his reasoning. I know it to be infallible.
And so I’ve been on patrol, stamping out small pockets of resistance ever since we showed the humans the true face of their masters. A handful of police officers here, a mob of angry students there. A couple of people desperately trying to get out of the city—who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time—just to keep my blood pumping.
What I wouldn’t give to be in one of the cities where there’s a real fight going on. I can feel it in my muscles and bones. The need to fire my blaster and swing my blades. To hold my enemies up by the throat and look into their eyes before finishing them off. I actually miss the old days, before we made ourselves known. I miss the thrill of the hunt. I miss the sweat of battle and the feeling of someone’s pulse when their neck is in my hands. I crave carnage and bloodshed. Anything but the boredom of dealing with humans.
Which is why, when I receive word that my captain wants to see me in the council room of our warship a few days after we stopped over Chicago, I can’t help but run my tongue over my teeth and hope that he’s giving me a chance to do some real damage. To get back in the fight and end all this waiting around. Not to mention the fact that to be in the presence of the ship’s captain is an honor in itself. I’m a vatborn squad leader—someone who has proven his worth in battle—but my orders still come from lower-level trueborn officers.
I take a Skimmer up to the warship and wait in the council room with two other vatborn veterans. They’ve got scars on their faces, and one of them is missing several teeth. They’ve seen action. They’re good soldiers.
We stand shoulder to shoulder as we wait. None of us speculates as to why we’ve been summoned. At least not out loud. We’ll know soon enough, and then we’ll carry out our orders. Swiftly. Mercilessly. We’ll make our comrades proud.
The captain enters and sizes us up, nodding to himself as if to approve of the selection before him. He says our names. We step forward when called. I am last.
“Vintaro Üshaba.” The captain pauses for a second. “Why have you chosen this name for yourself?”
He means my first name. Like all vatborn, my last name is taken from the place I was created.
“‘Vintaro’ in the old tongue means ‘to raze.’ That is what drives me.”
The captain smirks a little. He seems to like this.
“I’ve called you here for a special mission,” he says, beginning to pace back and forth in front of us. “Ever since it came to the attention of Beloved Leader that some humans have begun to exhibit Garde-like powers, your squads have been on the lookout for such specimens on the ground. He—in his infinite wisdom—would like to examine a few of these tainted humans himself. From now on, we’re taking a more proactive approach to collecting such prisoners. I’m told you three are some of the best of my vatborn on this ship.”
I grunt, nodding my head in agreement but keepin
g my eyes on the floor.
“Your jobs are simple. You’ll each lead infiltration squads and find these Loric-powered humans. Our recon officer will supply you with leads. You have whatever resources you need available to you. Though, remember: we’re to uphold the ‘peace’ we promised to the cities who don’t resist us.” He shows off a row of gray teeth. “Keep your mayhem in the dark.”
“Sir!” we all say in unison.
He makes for the door, telling us that more information will be given to us soon and that our squads have already been chosen. They are awaiting our orders. He’s about to step into the hallway when he stops.
“One more thing,” he says, turning back to us. “It’s crucial that the subjects are alive when you bring them back.” He pauses for a moment, shrugging. “Anyone who stands in your way is expendable. Now, you’re dismissed. Get back down to the barracks and begin your preparations. I want you deployed as soon as the recon officer shares her intel with you.”
When the door closes behind him, I grin. I can’t help it.
Humans with Loric powers. I don’t really know how that’s possible, and I don’t care. I don’t have to understand. All I know is that I have a mission. I’m back in the fight, and no prey will escape me.
It’s time to go hunting.
CHAPTER SEVEN
A FEW HOURS AFTER THE CAPTAIN IS DONE WITH us, the recon officer sends a list of names and locations to each squad leader’s tablet. We divide the targets based on location. I assemble my men. They talk quietly to each other. I don’t join in or bother to figure out who is who. It doesn’t matter what they call themselves—I’ll learn their names when they’re telling stories of our victories in the future. When they’ve proven themselves. All these troops have to do is follow my orders. And they will. It’s what we were born to do, what will win his favor.
Hail our Beloved Leader! Forever may he reign!
Our first target is a teenager in a wealthy suburb north of Chicago who has been talking on some form of internet media about how he just made his computer float across the room. There are a few photos pulled from his web profile that I can use to identify him. We load up a Skimmer with weapons, restraints, and syringes full of a sedation compound, just in case these humans are able to use their newfound powers with any sort of skill. Then we head to the boy’s home, where the messages originated, according to the IP address. It’s far enough away from the city proper that they must think they’re safe. That we might overlook them.
Stupid humans. As if our reach didn’t span this entire galaxy.
The street is tucked away and quiet, full of big houses on big plots of land. The mansion we’re going to is at the end of a cul-de-sac. Secluded. Still, we take out a few power lines before landing, killing the streetlights. Combined with our stealth shielding, it makes for a fairly quiet approach.
We tread silently, the four troops following my lead. There are dim lights moving in the windows of the house. The orange glow of candles and the intense white of flashlights and battery-operated electronic devices. The people inside are likely confused, scared.
Just how we want them.
The front door is large and thick hardwood. It’s a narrow entryway for my squad, so I motion to my left, and they follow me around the side of the house, where floor-to-ceiling sliding glass doors look in on a large room. There’s a woman standing inside. She’s lighting tall candles in some sort of centerpiece on a side table. Her eyebrows are knit together, forming deep grooves as she moves from one wick to the next.
She sees us a moment before one of my troops throws a huge cement planter through the glass door, shattering it. The woman barely gets a chance to scream before our blasters open fire. She falls quickly, knocking the long candles over as she goes down. They ignite a piece of cloth laid across the table, lighting up the room with warm flames.
A small smile spreads across my lips.
“Find him,” I grunt, and my men move.
The house is too big, with too many places to hide. Fortunately, most of the people inside come rushing to us, trying to figure out what broke the glass. Why the woman screamed. There are more humans than I’d anticipated. Maybe friends or family of the owners hiding out in the big house—evacuees from the city who figured they could lay low for a while farther away from the warships. They go down just as easily as the first woman did, most too shocked to react to the sight of our faces. Our weapons. I wonder if their brains even process what’s happening before they fall silent.
The humans are like the Loric in some ways. Anatomically, for instance. Their bodies don’t disintegrate and disappear, becoming one with the universe. With Beloved Leader. Instead, they lie there. Dead. Bleeding. A reminder to everyone who sees them that they were unable to survive. They rot if left in the open, at a far slower pace than our trueborn—the best parts of our leaders disappear just like the vatborn do. A human’s end is disgraceful. There’s no honor in a death like that.
The acrid scent of blaster fire fills the air, mixing with the smoke rising from the flames, which continue to spread across the table. I inhale deeply. For the first time in a long while, I feel satisfied. I feel like I’m doing what I was born to do.
The boy we’re after makes a brief appearance before turning tail and fleeing. Running up a set of stairs. Coward. We chase after him, leaping over bodies. Our boots stomping on cold, shiny tile floors in the home’s entryway. Before we get to the first steps, a shot rings out. A human holding a double-barreled shotgun starts to reload. One of my men is down. It’s his own fault—it was his duty to be watching our left flank. He’s not dead, but injured. His left arm is gone, along with his blaster. Fortunately, he still has a dagger. He draws it from his belt and leaps. His shouts are pure rage as he lands on the human, taking him down. The man’s head hits the tile floor with a crack. That alone probably killed him. But just in case it didn’t, there’s the blade. Blood pools on the floor. I leave my trooper to his work and head upstairs with the other three squad members.
We find our target in a bedroom, hiding under a desk. I drag him out and lift him in the air with one hand, holding up the electronic tablet next to his head with the other. It’s him.
“Stop, please,” he says, beginning to beg. “I’ll do anything. We’ve got money. Is that what you want? If you let me go to my parents’ room, there’s a—”
I jab a syringe into his arm. He goes limp. I let his body hit the floor and motion to one of my men, who picks up the boy and throws him over his shoulder.
“Move out,” I say.
Downstairs, my one-armed soldier stands over a mangled mess that was once a body. He appears to have used the hot barrel of his blaster to cauterize the stump where his arm used to be. Human blood drips from his uniform.
“Piece of shit,” he says, kicking the lifeless corpse. “That was my good hand.”
We leave the way we came, stepping over the fallen. The flames from the overturned candles have spread to the carpet but are threatening to die out. I spot a large cabinet full of bottles nearby. Alcohol. I pull the whole thing down. Glass shatters. The alcohol spreads across the floor. As we step through the space where the sliding door had been, the liquid ignites behind us with a satisfying whoosh.
Technically, the fire will make it harder for anyone to determine what really happened here. But honestly, that wasn’t what I had in mind when I pulled down the cabinet. I just wanted to watch the place burn from the sky once we made it back to the Skimmer. To see the night lit up in flames.
And just as I expected, the sight of it as we shoot into the sky is glorious.
CHAPTER EIGHT
WE DROP OFF THE SEDATED CAPTIVE AT THE warship. Our injured man is replaced with a new soldier. He curses under his breath, insisting he can still fight, but I need everyone on my team operating at one hundred percent. Then we head for our next targets. Two more teenagers, this time in Wisconsin, where we don’t have any warships located.
Our first stop is outside o
f Milwaukee. A house, much smaller than the one we’d found in Chicago. It wouldn’t take but a few minutes for this one to burn to the ground. It’s the middle of the night when we arrive, setting the Skimmer down in the street once again. The neighborhood is quiet. The front door is unlocked. We find one adult inside. He’s asleep. Never hears us coming. The subject does, though. He cowers in the corner of his bedroom, tears streaming down his face as he shouts that it was all a joke. He was “pranking” his friends. And he thought it would be “cool” if aliens showed up so he could meet them.
At least he gets his wish.
The only time he shows any sort of bravery is when I reach out to grab him. He swings a lamp at me, breaking it against my chest. I am unfazed. He tries to bolt past me but only gets a few steps away before the butt of my blaster slams into the back of his head, causing him to crumple like a puppet whose strings have been snipped. I motion to one of my subordinates, and the target is sedated and loaded up.
The whole encounter takes five minutes tops. We are precise and merciless in our movements.
It’s a short flight to our final target of the night. This one in Madison. I fly the Skimmer myself, enjoying the feeling of the controls in my hands. My men are silent in their seats behind me for the most part. Eventually, the new squad member speaks up.
“What happened to Görde?”
He must mean the soldier who lost his arm.
“Shotgun,” one of the others says. “Human took us by surprise. He lost his arm. Made the guy pay for it, though. Mauled him like a starved piken who’d just spotted a juicy kraul.”
“Beloved Leader would be proud.”
“Maybe,” I say. “Or perhaps he’d condemn the bastard for letting the human injure him in the first place. Görde should have been paying attention. Watching his flank. Our flank.”
After that, my troops are quiet.
Our last target has been traced to an apartment complex in what looks like a rundown part of town. She’s different from the others we’ve picked up if only because it wasn’t her own stupidity that put her on our radar screen: someone somewhere tipped off an agency our computer experts are monitoring. We land in a small park across the street. What little grass there is crumbles under our feet as we march through the night.