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  ‘To reinforce and improve relations between Titan and Rotavar.’

  Mokrikov shook his head. ‘The real reason?’

  Ruben took a breath. ‘The threat has been realised, Edgar, and it is far worse than any of us previously thought. The High Lord Yux Dishan and his forces beneath Crilshar have gone too far this time. Your people still haven’t been informed of the blockade currently imposed upon your world?’

  ‘This is true,’ Mokrikov said. ‘It would do only to increase the instability and cause more panic than our small colony can handle.’

  ‘Understandable in these times. And there is yet no word from the Samosian capital?’

  ‘No word. No help.’

  ‘We will do what we can.’

  Reaching into his desk and pulling out a bottle Mokrikov poured two small glasses of a sickly sweet emerald liquid. The overpowering odour of wormwood was nauseating. The General lay back in his chair, ignoring the glass the old prime minister pushed forward.

  ‘It’s worse than it was fifty years ago when our fathers fought Crilshar. Blockades? Illegal invasions? What next? It’s only a matter of time until we discover another deep, dark secret ascending from the caverns of his world! And then it may be too late.’

  The old general, however, was met with an unexpected response. ‘I know the threat,’ Mokrikov said, knocking back his drop in a single gulp, ‘but to have a strong and united human league once again would be a good thing, surely?’

  Ruben stood up from his seat forcibly. ‘The last time I checked we did, only it’s known as the Systemal Alignment, not the Dishan Alliance upon Crilshar!’

  ‘The Alignment is not what it once was.’

  ‘Only because we have allowed it to become so.’ He paced the room rapidly.

  ‘Bah!’ said the prime minister. ‘It seems to me that all of this militant thought on Titan has clouded your peoples’ judgement. What can we do against the power that has emerged from Crilshar these recent years? The last Titan-Crilshan war ended in untold deaths. Why are you rushing to meet them in battle again so very soon?’

  Ruben gazed out at the shimmering city of Kondogopas in an attempt to compose himself, but found that the ginger bumblebee attempting to fly through the pane of glass only aided to perturb him more. He had just spoken before the entire government and populace of Rotavar, committing Titan to any cause the Rotavarians embarked upon; and this man would not even consider supporting his.

  ‘Do you think I want another war?’ he asked, turning.

  ‘Don’t you?’

  ‘Nobody wants war. Battle and betrayal are but the means for something more.’

  Mokrikov frowned. ‘So what is this something more the Dishan want?’

  ‘Crilshans,’ he explained, ‘are motivated by the idea, the obsession, presented by unity, by conformity, by perfection. That’s all they want. But it’s the twisted image of perfection and what they are willing to do to achieve it that makes them so dangerous.’

  ‘Maybe it would be wiser of me to submit,’ the prime minister mumbled. ‘I have no energy for war.’

  The General closed his eyes. ‘Nothing would be more foolish.’

  ‘Bah! Choose your words carefully, General! I must make the right choice for my people. Not Titan, or for any other worlds!’

  ‘Then make the right choice and do not fall for deception. All they want is a human race of their likeness, and their likeness alone!’

  ‘You may say that, safe in your golden city!’

  ‘Edgar! You know of the horrors Crilshar is capable, but it’s not only you in the lightning bolt’s path. All worlds know of Crilshar’s hatred for my home, their greatest rival for centuries. The House of Dishan has been attempting to infiltrate Titan for decades. And if my home is to fall, mark my words Yux Dishan will make sure the rest will follow!’ He sat back down and stared at Mokrikov intensely.

  ‘What are you trying to say, General?’

  ‘Unjust and corrupt—that is how I would describe the Dishan regime. And for many generations it has been and will remain, I warn you. Unless we do something.’

  The Lord of Rotavar made no reply, and the General altered his tone. ‘Enough debating! As much as I enjoy it, I am not here for that. As you said, there is another reason for my being here.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I have been sent here,’ Ruben said, ‘to summon you to a gathering: a meeting of lords and ladies from every single world in the Alignment. The rest deemed trustworthy have been called upon as well. I deliver to you now, in this dark hour, the summons.’

  ‘The summons?’ Mokrikov gasped. ‘The Baren Igoth?’

  ‘Do not say its name!’ Both leaned in. ‘We must be careful. The aim of the summons, we hope, was never known to Crilshar. If we are fortunate, it still isn’t.’

  ‘The summons . . . I know it well.’ The prime minister fell back, almost collapsing into his chair, the solemn look of concern on his face revealing he truly understood the severity of the situation. ‘And what of the Dishan? What of Crilshar? Are they to have no defence in this trial of yours?’

  ‘We meet to discuss what is to be done on the subject of Crilshar and its leadership. Bringing the problem into a debate for its solution cannot be justified. Give me your support, Edgar, and I assure you it will be no trial. The coming negotiations must be successful. If we go to war, this time I do not think we could win.’

  * * *

  So many aspects of the general’s stay had been strange this time round; not simply due to the circumstances surrounding the call, but only a day after arriving, Ruben Berenguer was preparing to leave. Edgar Mokrikov would normally meet his visitor and escort them to their shuttlecraft. But this time he did not. After their discussion, Berenguer had offered the prime minister a hesitant and somewhat ill at ease farewell. He knew something was amiss. Mokrikov would be happy when the man from Titan was gone.

  The prime minister stood on the balcony leading off from his office, his hands clasped behind his back, as he stared out across the city towards the flight strip in the distance. The Titanese shuttle soon lifted off and disappeared from view, the closest sun setting on the horizon a shade of violent crimson.

  Ruben Berenguer was gone.

  A black cloud covered Mokrikov’s eyes and his mind became grave and distressed as he turned and re-entered his sweltering office. Several fans blowing cold air hummed. He pushed a key on his desk and the metal shutters leading onto the outer terrace lowered themselves, sealing the prime minister inside as the lights rose and he paced in the dim glow.

  CLANG!

  He froze.

  CLANG!

  The lights went off. Darkness filled the room.

  CLANG!

  Mokrikov fell to his knees.

  CLANG!

  The bell tolled a deep chime a fourth and final time, echoing around the walls while the projector in his desk threw forward the image of a man. He stood disturbingly still. The foot of his black cloak touched the carpet. His face encased in purest silver. The self-crowned man had come.

  Mokrikov attempted to speak but could find no words. The need was soon gone as the deep, distorted, and disturbingly cavernous voice of the figure rattled throughout the room. ‘Edgar Mokrikov,’ he said. ‘I trust all is well on Rotavar.’

  ‘Yes, y . . . yes all is well,’ he said, a discernible hint of fear evident in his answer.

  ‘Your meeting with the general from Titan went as planned?’

  ‘You were c . . . correct, Córonat,’ he said. ‘Berenguer does intend to gather the Baren Igoth. Though I suspect he knows that not all is as it should be. Here . . . and p . . . perhaps elsewhere.’

  The Córonat remained still and altered the severity in his voice. ‘Was it that you gave him such an impression? Have I overestimated your ability to carry out the simplest of tasks?’

  ‘Berenguer is no fool. He is a man not easily misled or broken.’

  ‘Then we must choose a path for him that will lea
d to inescapable ruin,’ the cloaked figure said fiercely. ‘It seems Titan alone now stands in our way, and Ruben Berenguer has been an obstacle in my path for too long now.’

  Mokrikov closed his eyes. He couldn’t. No more. He looked up at his Córonat and stood slowly; and he surprised even himself with the answer he gave.

  ‘No. I won’t. I simply . . . simply cannot betray a friend any longer.’

  The man remained silent, and Mokrikov could sense he was testing him. Beads of sweat seeped down the back of his neck and his pulse raced rapidly as five seconds became ten, fifteen became thirty, until his unnerving voice spoke again.

  ‘Do not forget that it is I who controls the fleet surrounding your world. It is I who has allowed for supplies to be delivered to your ignorant populace.’

  ‘And yet you will allow none to leave. We cannot keep this blockade a secret much longer. Rotavar will be in turmoil.’

  ‘If it wasn’t for me,’ he snarled, ‘your worthless fleapit would have failed years ago! I ask for no thanks, simply for your friendship and loyalty. But if this is your decision: to betray your Córonat and risk the lives of all those people, so be it!’

  The prime minister felt himself growing in anger, forgetting his fear, and said, ‘The lives of my people were in danger the moment your messengers returned to my doorstep, and every moment since! Ruben Berenguer has forever been a friend, to me and the people of Rotavar. This is my absolute decision.’

  Then the masked man seemed filled with a burning rage. ‘Very well! But know this: you can attempt to hide behind your precious ally and its armies, but it will not save you!’

  ‘I do not try to hide—’

  ‘Soon Titan itself will face the choice all worlds have: to bow to a new power and accept the command of a new union, or be left in utter ruin.’

  ‘No, wait—’

  ‘The old Systemal Alignment is nearing its end! A new power is emerging. The time has come for new leadership in the Systems!’

  And with that the image of the man retreated back into the metal desk, plunging the room into a dull and gloomy afterglow. Mokrikov fell back to his knees, his arms lifeless by his sides. He remained still for some time, unable to move, unable to think. He stood eventually and drifted over to his desk, picked up his quill and paper, and resolved to carve his final confession. He had doomed his people to hell.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  THE DIE WAS cast. One single, costly mistake had been made, and the fate of so many decided. All inhabitants of the planet Rotavar watched in horror as the sun’s light was wiped from their skies, its warmth replaced by a darkness and sorrow that came only with the Crilshan fleet. A dozen vessels approached, circling in orbit, while several more descended in unparalleled strength. One for each city; divided and easily raised to the ground.

  There was no use in fighting, Edgar Mokrikov knew. They could not oppose such a force and not hope to lose every last man and woman that fought. Ignoring the forceful pounding on his office door he gazed out at the shadows encircling his beloved city, before kneeling down to his personal safe and sluggishly throwing inside his personal papers, a silver-backed journal, and his last letter. Then, rummaging through his desk drawer he removed something small. A polished metal. The final solution. He placed it into his pocket.

  Hope was lost, and it was his fault. Communication with the Córonat had been cut; he was not a man of second chances or of two minds. The die was indeed cast. The hammering halted and as Mokrikov heaved a sigh of relief the door was forced wide open.

  * * *

  Aleksey Vasily stormed into the office, flanked by a dozen emerald soldiers. He gazed up at the shadow of his prime minister, thankful that he was there. He had feared the man had done something foolish. From the look on Mokrikov’s face it appeared he had expected to see Crilshan warriors entering his office.

  In a matter of minutes that will be so, Vasily thought.

  ‘Prime Minister,’ the Chief of the Defence Force addressed him. ‘Rotavar’s defences are online. Every member of the Defence Force is standing by, at arms. Our sister moon is preparing its own resistance, and the government is on its way to the underground safe zones. Your orders?’

  The prime minister made no reply.

  ‘My lord?’

  ‘I am not your lord anymore!’ Mokrikov cried. ‘Don’t you see? It’s over. Crilshar has won! I will not make a decision that will undoubtedly end in more deaths!’

  Vasily took a step forward. ‘But we’re not alone, sir. Titan will help us. General Berenguer made the pledge not six days past. Send word. He will send help!’

  Mokrikov winced. ‘Titan cannot help us. You do not understand what’s really going on here. Death, before long, will take us all . . .’

  ‘Titan or no Titan,’ called a young soldier from the rear of the group, ‘we will fight for our world! We’re fighting for our survival, we must engage them!’

  ‘No!’ said Mokrikov, now so very soberly. ‘I am giving the order for surrender. This is an invasion, not extermination. I do not want this to end with the death of my people. You will surrender and negotiate a settlement, not start a war.’

  Vasily sighed, closing his eyes. ‘That may work for us, but what of our sister moon? What of Manera?’ The only inhabited moon in the Rotavarian System, Manera, would be targeted just the same, if not worse—it held no significance to the invaders.

  But the prime minister shook his head. ‘Rotavar will be safe,’ he said, reaching into his pocket. ‘But as leader of this world I have failed. I am of no further use. To you, Rotavar, or our sister colony. I am so, so sorry. Of Manera there is little hope.’

  And as silence fell on the room, darkness covering the horrified city outside, hope descended and the prime minister of Rotavar pulled out of his pocket a pistol, forced it up underneath his chin, and pulled the trigger.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  BAROOOM! THE THUNDERING roar of approaching space-vessel engines flooded the ears of Antal Justus as he sprinted through the panic-filled streets of the Maneran capital. The howls and cries of men, women, and children were all around him. Death and disaster was everywhere. A fire raged on every corner.

  But amidst the hopeless scene of a moon in anarchy, the crew of the Crimson Flux stirred with unparalleled excitement. They looked at their monitors and watched the sun disappear from view, replaced by the jagged hulls of impenetrable Crilshan barrages. The planet Rotavar vanished. Overwhelming darkness, which drove any ordinary person mad, little affected the crew. Scenes of war and chaos were nothing new. They’d seen worlds fight and die before; it happened all too often in the outer systems.

  But they entire crew understood. The day of reckoning for the people of Manera, moon of Rotavar, had come.

  ‘Nearly there!’ Justus called over the tumult into the comm device on his leather-covered wrist. ‘Keep close behind!’

  —We’ve got your back, Captain, came the retort. Don’t get all nervous on us now!

  Justus laughed. ‘You think you know me so well, Kaara!’

  —I do know you so well. Watch out for vehicles on you right—now!

  He dodged a sharp left and the military convoy which raced around the corner slipped past him with inches to spare. However the Zadian-Scrambler—a fast, one-manned motorcycle—burned past and knocked him to the ground.

  —Captain, are you all right?

  Justus swore, jumped back up, and knocked another man from the scrambler now racing past. As the soldier was thrown from the bike, Justus clambered on and sped off. The convoy continued on to the flight strip in the distance.

  Justus raced across the city, moving as fast as the scrambler would allow. A shadow loomed above. He felt calmer, focusing on reaching his target before the attack came. He looked up to see the metallic underbelly of his craft in the sky.

  —Captain, you don’t have much time, Kaara urged him.

  ‘Relax,’ he told her. ‘I’m two minutes away. You focus on your part, and I’ll min
e.’

  Passing terrified families, running for their lives, he raced on. Turning the corner and scaling a grassy embankment he stopped dead at a huge wall which obstructed the entrance to the Noble House, home of the Maneran Royal Family. A house now without a military guard. He looked up. The Crilshans were almost there.

  ‘Kaara!’ he shouted into his comm, ‘I need a—’

  Before he could finish his request a projectile, fired from above, exploded directly ahead, tearing a section of the twenty-foot wall to rubble. He dropped the bike, shielded himself from the blast, and before the black cloud had cleared rushed through, praying no opposition lay in wait.

  ‘Thanks!’ he said.

  —You know I’ve always got your back.

  ‘Yes, and—blast!’

  Justus stopped to see half a dozen blood-thirsty almuits hurtle down from the house towards him. Genetically modified to be the ultimate canine guard, they packed a fatal bite, known to tear limbs apart like paper and controlled by their owners through chips inserted in the frontal lobes of the cerebral cortex.

  Pulling out two handguns he licked his lips and ran straight at them, firing fiercely but accurately, hitting first the front two almuits and taking out a third in turn. As they reached him he shot one in the head and jumped as high as he could, forcing his left foot to collide with the salivating jaw of another. That one fell, but for the last he wasn’t quick enough, and he landed on his back holding the jowls of the beast at bay with both hands. Justus couldn’t let go, couldn’t feel around for his weapons, and couldn’t save himself. The almuit he’d booted shook itself awake and charged.

  But as the young captain weakened, the stampeding canine exploded in a shower of innards and blood, and the one on top howled in pain and tensed up before collapsing dead on top of him. He pushed the beast aside and shot to his feet. A little farther up the hill, waiting at the entrance of the grand house, stood a young girl. No older than sixteen, she clutched a heavy-looking red-beam rifle; smoke rose from its muzzle and the laser still pointed at Justus’ chest. The girl’s hair was as dark red as a setting sun, and the young captain stood still. It was not her he was focused on, however: his hearing, well attuned, had picked up on something else.