“What the fuck do you mean, ‘it’s good to see you’? I nearly killed you the last time I saw your disgusting face,” Mikhail grimaced into the holographic screen projected atop a metallic limb from his arm. He attempted to burn his revulsion into the arrogant face of Zafar Ironskin beyond the picture.

  To see the putrid man, skin lightly tinged in sickly tones of yellow-green, was not entirely unexpected for Mikhail. He had felt that the boar would appear during the mission at some point, but was nevertheless disheartened. He appeared the exact same as the last time Mikhail saw him. His immediate desire was to slaughter the fat pig, replacing most of his body in a complete soma-exosuit replacement. The only part of the man still containing flesh was his upper jaw and above, his face toadlike and layered with fat jowls. Aside from that one blemish upon his appearance, he would have stood an impressive figure, larger than any human could hope to naturally be. Zafar was decked out in some of the most expensive tech available in clan space, his armour incredibly heavy but durable and weaponry far too large for a normal human to wield. Such things were wasted on someone as loathsome as Zafar, though Mikhail felt regardless of quality, the equipment was too cumbersome for his liking. Around him laid the once proud bridge of Lighthouse, now broken and bloodied. Beyond the edges of the projected image were signs of gore and viscera, the remnants of the command crew still not fully cleaned up.

  That was, of course, the typical manner of any Hideki’s Mercy hijacking – brutal and resulting in few survivors. Their past was one of disgrace, even amongst the annals of the worst clan histories. They had a start as a sullied lesser corporation that was forced to defect to Heaven’s Doctrine when their disregard for laws and thirst for violence grew too much for the CCH to handle. As it stood, the Mercy was the epitome of what Mikhail considered the worst of their faction; too much violence, too little motive, almost no purpose. Even the Lengti understood that suffering could be used for a purpose, as all had seen from their advancements in the past centuries. Mikhail understood passion and aggression as a means to an end - to help display the strongest might and values with the best skill. Parading bodies around on spikes and finding new ways for humans to experience pain were not quite what the clanprince felt showed true grit in the face of adversity.

  Once seventh in line to the throne of the Mercy, the adopted bastard Zafar had killed so many of his kin and lesser lords that the Jade Emperor himself had stepped in. The fetid old corpse of a leader had implied he would not accept any more intra-clan violence until he succeeded the position from his father, Hideki Voidburn. Mikhail doubted the fat bastard would wait for his patriarch to die a natural death. In his nearly forty years of mayhem and unabated passion for blood, he had absorbed many lesser clans under him with great force and little patience for resistance. The last time Mikhail had seen the man was at the last Tournament of Strength, where the coward had backed out of their duel at the last second. Such was Mikhail’s frustration at losing the opportunity to kill the pig without stirring conflict that he almost broke conduct and sought to prove his ‘One-Shot’ moniker to all those who stood in his way that night. Yet, Mikhail had lacked the drive, the will, that he had developed in the months since then. The Cambiar he had spoken to had not only been changed by man but had altered the young clanlord in return.

  “Ahaha! You are always so testy, little man. Why are you so angry?” Zafar’s rumbling voice, tinged with a synthetic tone echoed about the tiny cleaner’s closet Mikhail had hidden himself in. It was far from an ideal space, and Mikhail thought that for all their benefits, it was ridiculous that the Cambiar had found the need to build storage closet on a ship where the floor itself consumed stains and rubbish. Regardless, Mikhail had nearly finished preparing his new disguise before Zafar contacted him.

  “Angry? Why am I angry? Because you are fucking up this mission. Badly. What the hell are you doing? We’re supposed to be allying with these aliens you fool, not slaughtering them. You’re lucky they haven’t turned your hijacked ship into slag yet.” Mikhail didn’t believe that the Emperor ever planned to ally with the Cambiar now, but he wouldn’t let that slip until he heard it from the maniac in front of him.

  “Bwahah! You call me a fool, yet you are the one in the dark! Such is the state of your dishonoured clan. From here on, I am leading this assault, and you will follow my orders.”

  God in heaven, this idiot was going to slaughter everyone he saw, regardless of species, clan or age. It would be a bloodbath.

  “Wait. I need answers. You owe me that, if nothing else.”

  “Fine.” Zafar hardened, his look tensing. “You are a good fighter, and I can spare some words. What do you want to know?”

  “Why are you attacking the Cambiar? Surely, they would suit our faction, our ideology, well? They are useful, and I have even taught many of them our ways. They can see the holy light, Zafar.”

  Zafar scoffed. Though their way of life was simply one determined by strength, Mikhail still considered it a righteous one. Though the supposed avatar for god’s will had tested Mikhail faith, he now knew that anyone with the might could be their instrument of power. The barbarian before him would never see it as a something to put religious faith into – the glorious mission of Heaven’s Doctrine was a just a means for the pig to kill.

  “Well, truth be told, the Emperor himself told me to keep quiet, to hold on taking over until we got to this system, but I couldn’t wait. So many cute officers on the bridge.” The sickening man licked his lips. “After some chewing out, the boss told me to make a move. Gave me a rundown on all these little critters. Simply put, I think the Emperor’s scared. Doesn’t want them anywhere near the Doctrine anymore. He’s known about them for a few years, but now… Now he wants an advantage against them.”

  Mikhail couldn’t believe his ears. If there was any part of his loyalty for the Doctrine still lingering, it had just died.

  “But… there’s trillions of them. You can’t fight that, even with all the clans or some stupid new technology. I mean, they could eat right out the palm of our hands, my hands. You can’t be serious? What advantage could the Emperor want?”

  “Ah, their genetic code of course. For his glory’s genomic augmentation program. He wants the Dragon Guard to be stronger than anything else in the galaxy and won’t stand for any opposition, no matter how daunting. They must have it stored in data format somewhere, likely on that ship you’re on. Fear not, little man, I will be coming aboard soon. The prow’s just about to ram in. Maybe we can chat soon?”

  No. No, no, no.

  To hell with the Jade Emperor’s idiotic fear of the unknown. Heaven’s Doctrine was being led by fools, idiots all. That much was clear. Mikhail wouldn’t stand for this. The die had been cast when he had seen the Emperor’s broken form, a man clinging to a half-life in a beyond ruined state, and now it was time to call his bluff. Heaven’s Doctrine could no longer be fixed, not from within. Even if he reclaimed the honour of the Broken Fang, it would be for a dying cause, one that deserved a swift euthanasia. The galaxy needed someone who truly believed in a world where those with strength would lead those below them to glory. One who could bring up everyone, human, non-human, hell even the shuckabrush if it could rely on its own strength.

  Someone like Mikhail.

  “Zafar. I’m done. If I see the Doctrine, they’re dead. When I see you, you’re dead.” Mikhail cut the call on his surprised, fat face.

  This was it. Mikhail was going solo, free from the chains that once bound him. It felt… good. Freeing. No more would he have to rely on pulling the rotten remains of the empire around him. He would be building his dream anew.

  The sound of organized, marching footsteps outside the closet told him it was time. Switching his face to his new disguise and throwing the robe on, it was time to help dance with the other partner at this tango.

  Salvador’s body was falling apart physically, but his mind couldn’t be happier. He had made it to Fifth Spoke. The only question was where to go. Where would Titus have gone? Moreover, where the hell was he in the first place? He didn’t recognize this part of the ship from his time here, though the harsh orange pulse of the lights made it seem far stranger. Guessing he was nearer the back end of the vessel, obviously near the outer hull, he decided to work his way inwards and forwards. How badly could it go?

  This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

  Grasping his Nova handgun in one fist and putting pressure on his wound with the other, he stumbled down the hallway, blood trickling behind him. Sal hoped the Doctrine clans who had sprung to action weren’t good trackers; he would make for easy prey with such a trail. Hearing noise, he peeked around a corner. Slowly, steadily, he edged his head out enough to see some Doctrine soldiers decked in heavy red armour looking at a sealed bulkhead.

  “What do you mean they sealed it?” One spoke in their foreign tongue.

  “I don’t know. They just did.”

  “Well, who was it? Better not have been those Hideki goons. They’re already crawling all over, and they’ve only been here five minutes.”

  “Hey, do you guys hear beeping?” Another interjected. A fraction of a second later the door blew open and Sal sprung back in to avoid the flying fragments. He had already been stuck once, and didn’t need any more metal in his gut if he could help it. Red mist and metal shot down the hallway as smoke filled the area. Regaining his bearings, Sal took a tentative look around the now damaged corner, only to see that the situation had somehow become worse.

  From the destroyed door, a number of white and black robed individuals stepped out, calmly humming a choir-like tune. One was preparing a number of explosives attached to his suicide vest as the others loaded ornate firearms, decorated in brass and gold, with surgical precision. Their eyes were glazed, and a limp smile hung from all of their faces. Behind the first line of them stood a tall man in heavy black armour, a thin visor the only window into the human beneath. It was not the sort of advanced power armour one would expect in the 22nd century but instead resembled some set of medieval plating. In one hand the dark figure wielded a serrated blade, and in the other, a great handheld railcannon was hefted.

  Paradisians.

  “Be still, unborn.” The armoured man stated, calm and monotone, to one of the dying clan warriors, missing a leg from the blast. “Death comes for all those who spurn Paradise. May you find rest in a new life, one of guidance, of faith.”

  He nodded to those in front and continued his procession. “Brothers and sisters all, we must make haste. If we are to remove the filth from the galaxy, Praecursori Solras must make his way to the bridge to announce our voyage. Please, continue onwards. Return the broken souls to the cycle.”

  Without looking down, he plunged the blade into the wounded man’s face and continued his path, the cult-like members trailing behind. Shit, shit, this was bad. Salvador had wondered what the hell could be worse than Doctrine soldiers invading the fleet, but seeing the force on the other side of the Eternal War was making him reconsider. Turning to flee, he jolted to a stop when he saw a silent group of more robed figures less than five steps behind him, approaching with the same faint smile and swords at the ready.

  Sal sprinted away, his cover blown and needing to put distance between him and them. As he turned, a violent screech of metal and force bayed through the corridor next to him. In the spot where he stood a second before, a railcannon round had punched through the wall ahead of him and through the next couple rooms. The sheer power of such a weapon could only be one thing – A Masslock Recoilless Rifle, a weapon so dangerous and controversial that even most Doctrine forces saw the usage of such a device as dishonourable, as well as insane. It did so much damage to ships from the inside that they were better used for attempting suicide than inflicting casualties. Using one was tantamount to accepting one’s demise whilst destroying the ship at the same time.

  Feet pounding against the deck, Sal carried himself through the dim halls, the sounds of Doctrine tongues distantly mixing with the chanting of Paradise crusaders. Shouts and cries broke out as the first firefights and brawls between the two groups began. Gasping for breath, he passed what seemed like an empty restroom when a bronze hand grabbed his jacket and pulled him in. Palm pressed to his mouth, Sal was kept silent as a Paradisian squad sauntered past, their humming synchronized with one another. As it faded into the darkness, the hand moved.

  “Hello Salvador,” Thomas tried grinning. “Apologies for the surprise. I was hiding from a group of clan soldiers when they met the Paradisians. It would appear they are more distracted with each other for now.”

  “Tom!” Sal hissed back, pain in his side growing. “You’re ok! Where the hell are we? I was with Titus, but we got separated. I managed to get in through an airlock but, well, I am completely lost.”

  “We are in Recreation Sector 5A. May I ask where you were heading, exactly?”

  “Well, to be honest, I’m not too sure. I was hoping to reunite with the Torchers. I’ve got some things I need to apologise for.”

  “A fair motive. I understand. I was heading for the central control unit myself. I fear Paradise may have interfered with the S-Drive from Ruby Eye. There is a disturbance in the air, I can feel it. The main core unit of the processor is this way.” Thomas projected a map using his built-in computer system and pointed to a specific path. “Shall we stick together? I plan to move to the S-Drive after getting the necessary data from the central unit. There is a decent chance at least some other loyal crewmembers are in that direction.”

  “God, yes please.” Sal tried laughing in relief but grimaced as his wound pulsed with pain. Thomas leaned back in surprise.

  “Salvador, that is a serious injury. How are you walking around?”

  “I’ve had worse, trust me. You would know.” Sal helped himself to some more of the painkillers from the bathroom’s medical box, swallowing them dry. Admittedly, he had an automatic surgery device back on Tartarus Nine to stop him from bleeding out, but now wasn’t the time to stop.

  “I see. Your vision, the one I saw a part of…”

  “That was in the past. Now, I’m heading into the future.” They shared a look as they prepared to leave.

  Salvador checked his gun, bullet in the chamber, and Thomas recalibrated his interfacing systems for hacking the nearby Cambiar ship’s utilities. He quickly demonstrated his powers by overflowing a toilet, which had less impact on Sal than the mechanical man had hoped. Still, he claimed he would be useful even without a gun. They stepped quietly as they skirted around the sounds of distant firefights. After some close calls, they came to a stop near a door that led out of the recreation area.

  A huddling group of three Paradisians seemed to be inspecting a pile of corpses. Which group they came from was no longer discernible, only that their remains had been ravaged beyond belief. Thomas and Sal quietly discussed a plan using the piping above them to burn or stun them whilst Sal picked them off in the confusion. Getting behind cover, Sal aimed at one of them and steadied his aim. Taking a deep breath, he told himself that he could do it. It was only three of them, how hard could it be? Thomas stood a bit further back, hand raised, preparing the assault. He gave a quiet beep to signify he was beginning. However, a split second later, as the steam shot out and seared the faces of two of the indoctrinated combatants, the third span in an instant.

  He pointed towards the two of them, a quiet ticking announcing the activation of his suicide vest, before he erupted in a fireball that consumed most of the hallway. Wires and plating splayed out like a tin of food left on a hot stove. A wave of heat spilled towards Sal, blowing him to the floor, as metal flung overhead. The ground below Sal crumpled as he slid downwards, into the now open hole into the deck below. Tumbling, twisting Sal felt every jolt against his shrapnel wound soak his bandage further scarlet. Dropping his gun, he fumbled desperately for a handhold but found none. With no support he fell into the unknown. Dropping some distance onto his, thankfully, less injured side, he landed hard.

  Rolling onto his knees and really wishing he had stayed in bed with Xeena that morning, he found the strength to look up. Thomas stared down in concern, before desperately looking for something to help. Instead, Sal shook and told him to go on. Or at least, he thought he said something along those lines. Whatever suicide bomb the last Paradisian had was strong enough to render Sal hearing a whining drone, deaf to anything else. He couldn’t hear himself, but Thomas seemed to register the message and after saluting made disappeared from the hole above.

  Hauling himself up, he took two tries to pick up his gun. Now covered in dust, ash, and god knows what else, he had his weapon secured. He stumbled in the direction he’d been heading before, a pitch-black corridor. Sal had never been to that part of the ship before, and the unfamiliarity did little to ease his fraying nerves. It wasn’t long before he found himself in trouble. Near a ruined hair salon, a pair of robed soldiers were preparing a bomb, one that was familiar in design to Sal. Realizing that if he didn’t stop them, he would be unable to disarm it himself, Sal sprung to action. Not wasting time, he prepared a line of sight over the shattered window of the salon and braced himself.

  Pistol cracking with energy, he took the first one out in a single shot but started firing wildly as the second figure dove for cover. A spray of blood from the man’s head told Sal he had struck true, if without great accuracy. Magazine empty, and still pulling the trigger, Sal rose from his crouched position. After verifying the bomb was thankfully not activated, he found his hearing slowly returning, but, to his horror, the first thing he heard was an angelic choir reverberating the halls around him.

  Sal was being surrounded.

  He dashed to grab the guns the Paradisians had, a type of small calibre submachine gun from the looks of it, and looked around for a place to make his stand. He considered fleeing, but down all available hallways the echoing tune of song assaulted his ears. Eventually, panic rising, he found a hardware store, lights shattered, and aisles still loaded with strange Cambiar tools. None of them appeared to be for human use, handles ending in attachment points for alien limbs, but the additional breaks in enemy sight lines would still be useful.

  Nova reloaded and SMGs hanging from shoulder straps, he was ready for them. Or as ready as a non-combatant with no experience could be against a small army of brainwashed maniacs.

  Well, at least Sal could say he wasn’t taking an easy route to redemption.