EVE®: Templar One

This book is dedicated to the DUST 514 team: Never let anyone tell you the odds.

Contents

Title

Dedication

Dear Reader

Part I Madness

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Part II Absentia

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Part III Medicine

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Part IV Precipice

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Part V Crossfire

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Epilogue

Afterword

Eve Links

Acknowledgments

Other Novels in the EVE Universe

Copyright

PART I

MADNESS

1

GENESIS REGION—EVE CONSTELLATION

THE NEW EDEN SYSTEM

>>
SIGNIFICANCE
MISSION LOG ENTRY

>>BEGIN RECORDING

Given the confines of my exile, insanity is surprisingly fleeting.

From the murky depths of madness, reality churns and boils over my head, a great distance away.
Like a pair of entangled protons, my actions seem hopelessly enslaved to a new consciousness that many, including my old self, would consider repulsive or depraved.
Yet at some point the mind accepts that whatever is happening
,
the person drowning can’t possibly be me, and that someone or
something
else entirely has been writing these log entries—treating them like unwanted feedback, mere static interfering with the perfectly arranged experiment.

The drone I mutilated is barely functional, though its companions are more concerned with my well-being.
In fact, they were indifferent as I ripped into this creature’s innards with primordial barbarity.
Instead of defending their brother, they took action to protect me from myself when it became clear that physical pain was no obstacle to my rage.
My hands, pulped and broken, were tended by medical drones as others held me still.
A mesmerizing ooze of cybernetic entrails mixed with my own blood coated the floor; I was absolutely captivated.
It was a welcome reprieve from the unbearable ennui of this wretched life.

But my fascination eventually ran its course.
The deep, jagged laceration gouged into the drone’s faceplate inspires a strong desire to do the same to myself, if only these infernal machines would allow me.
For a short while, I was feeling productive, satisfied that it was better to create a disfigured monster than to not create anything at all.
At least, such was the logic that justified reaching for that wrench in the first place.

The destitute thing now drags itself through the ship, searching in vain for parts that can only be had from fellow drones, who are unwilling to donate them.
I note with subtle amusement that it is searching for a
solution
rather than just accepting an outcome without question, which vaguely resembles my own determination to understand the means through which this exile is sustained.

It stands to reason that the machine’s search for answers gives it something to live for.
Science has always provided answers for me, not the pathetic faith that my deceased colleague Aulus Gord would have insisted upon.
Her Majesty Jamyl would agree, if only she could do so without killing me first.

Equally disconcerting is that I needed to be carried back to my cabin following hours of intense, soul-crushing mourning.
The person I used to be was dead, and I felt obliged to grieve.
At first the drones offered “comfort,” as defined by the AI architect who thought to impart his own rubbish notions of empathy into these machines.
Then they insisted on drugs, concerned that their inexorable mandate to protect me was in jeopardy.
Clearly, I was a danger to myself.
If these drones knew such a thing as hope, they might wish their orders would be lifted someday so they could give me the violent end I deserve.

I suppose none of this matters now, as there is little chance that anyone will ever find these logs.
That I still adhere to the Imperial regulatory protocol of maintaining them, even when they are largely the same from day to day, speaks volumes about my decaying state of mind.
So here it is:

The
Significance
is holding position dangerously close to the
EVE Gate
whose quantum turbulence remains markedly elevated.
Tachyon emissions from this massive defect remain steady; several dozen traces of parallel universes pass through the ship every second.
All systems are functioning normally, save for the drone I nearly destroyed.

No experiments are in progress.
No surveillance probes are due to return for maintenance.
No further progress has been made in determining the reason why I am protected from my tormentor here.

Empyreans continue to proliferate in numbers and power.
The war has claimed more lives than any empire has the means to track.

We are all EVE’s bastard children.
And I, Dr.
Marcus Jror, am the worst of them.

>>END RECORDING

2

DOMAIN REGION—THRONE WORLDS CONSTELLATION

THE HEDION SYSTEM

IMPERIAL CORRECTIONS PENITENTIARY (ICP) 89

SOVEREIGNTY OF THE AMARR EMPIRE

Deep within the orbital fortress of ICP 89, rows of entombed prisoners lined the curved walls of a vast chamber, spiraling upward in perfect rows like larvae on the inside of a giant hive.
Not unlike a capsuleer, these inmates were suspended in a viscous gel that kept their immobilized flesh sanitized and nourished.
All external references and sensory information was controlled by brain-interface dreamcast technology under the direction of mind wardens, whose task was to enforce the sentences handed down by judges.

Convicts were kept in persistent REM sleep to ensure that the memories of reconditioning would be firmly entrenched in their new life.
Psychologists working alongside the mind wardens assisted in the rehabilitation by walking directly into the consciousness of inmates, placing them in the virtual role of their victims and forcing them to suffer vivid re-creations of their own transgressions for as long as it took for the “Reclaiming” to be complete.

Regardless of their crimes, the souls who ended up here had asked for forgiveness, or—in the case of those whose ethnicity was anything but True Amarr—were compelled to do so by a merciful judge.
Such was to prepare them for a return to society, and Imperial technology would ensure that their transition would be seamless.

Many of those who completed their sentences were welcomed back with open arms.
As their beloved Empress once declared, wayward children must be corrected from time to time, and once they emerge from holding, they are considered forgiven souls, fully reclaimed, any dues owed to society paid in full.

But sometimes, the imprisoned have no home to return to.
The record of their arrival at ICP 89 was the only proof of their existence, and for one very special inmate, this too would be removed from the archives.
Lord Victor Eliade, Empress Jamyl’s closest advisor, had been seeking individuals orphaned from the universe for a unique reclamation program—one that would be tested for the first time on inmate 487980-A.

Somewhere else in New Eden there were records stating that his name was Vince Barabin, last reported to be aboard the privateer salvage vessel
Retford,
which was destroyed in the T-IPZB system three years ago.

*   *   *

VINCE WAS DEEP IN PRAYER
, gazing upon a surreal shoreline glimmering in the soft light of twin moons.
Gentle waves lapped against his ankles as he breathed in the fresh sea air of virtual reality, contemplating his favorite verse of the Scriptures:

All things were created by the Divine, and so the glory of our faith is inherent to us all;

When thine heart shines with the Light, thou shalt know no hardship;

When thine actions are in Light’s name, thou art immortal.

—The Book of Trials,
2:1

When he learned those words, his mind was carried throughout the regions of the Empire, through clusters of stars surrounded by beautiful worlds and wonders whose memory often brought tears to his eyes.
In his wildest dreams—those few that he could recall since emerging from Reclaiming—he never grasped how New Eden could be such a vast and breathtaking creation.

Yet he was saddened as well.
The faith firmly established that the universe was created for True Amarr, which he was not.
The other races of New Eden were descendants of the impure, tracing back to lineages tainted by the Demon on worlds that Amarr could not save.
For those blemished peoples, the inescapable test of their existence in this domain was finding the will to return home.
Though Vince could never be True Amarr, the Empire would welcome him if he embraced the faith.
This act—gathering all the wayward children of New Eden into the blessed shelter of Amarr—was known as the Reclaiming.
Though his Caldari roots were long forgotten, Vince wanted nothing more than to become True.

Though he could no longer remember his crime, he knew his incarceration was deserved.
But he no longer thought of himself as imprisoned, and he had learned to see the world in a new light.
That meant his journey to spiritual redemption was nearly complete.
He might have arrived there already if not for the distraction of a recurring dream.
Something about a small ship, with a crew he once cared about, and of losing them all to circumstances he could have averted if only he had found the courage to do so.

These visions, the priests explained, revealed a deep fear of failing a test of faith—an encouraging sign that demonstrated that he was eager to prove himself.
They warned that he must be prepared to seize the opportunity when it arrives.
His indiscretions as a wayward child had led him to the blessed gates of Amarr.
He would accomplish more than he ever dreamed possible and do so in the name of something righteous and good.

It is so much more than a faith,
Vince thought, turning away from the sea.
It is a code of honor and a way of life.

As he walked along the beach, he saw another set of footprints forming.
An apparition emerged: the fog of light that always preceded the appearance of a priest.

He froze when he realized who it was.

“Faith be with you,” Empress Jamyl said.

Already collapsed in the sand, Vince was terrified.
“My Empress, I should not be in your presence.…”

She knelt before him, placing both hands on his shoulders.
Vince shuddered, keeping his head down.

“Rise,” the Empress said.
“Don’t be afraid.
Walk with me.…”

He paused before taking the virtual hand of Empress Jamyl I, the supreme ruler of the Amarr Empire and the very manifestation of divinity itself.
Standing slowly, he fought an overwhelming urge to look directly upon her.
He did not feel worthy of such a privilege.

Gently pulling his hand, she led him down the beach.

“I grew up on these shores,” she remarked.
“I loved the tranquility, the peace, the wonder of all those stars above.… When I was young, the palace guards let me wander about, wherever I wanted.
I was never in any danger.
There are times when I miss that innocence, of not having a care in the world.…”

As the first rays of dawn reached out from the horizon, Vince could see structures forming ahead.
Farther inland, he could make out the beginnings of a majestic skyline; a solitary spire rose high above the other buildings.

“Is this Xerah?”
he asked, still not looking directly at her.

“Yes,” she answered.
“This is how my beloved city was three years ago, on the morning of June tenth.”

People were starting the day, which promised to be a gorgeous one.
Vendors opened doors to shops along a boardwalk as a group of teens ran across the beach, surfboards tucked under their arms.
Deeper behind the beachfront, hovertrams arrived at platforms to take passengers inland, and Reclaimed laborers worked alongside drones building a new park on the waterfront.

There was no evidence of police or anything that could exert force anywhere that Vince could see.

“They lived in such wonderful times,” Empress Jamyl continued, saddened.
Vince turned as her voice trailed away.
More angelic than he ever imagined, he watched as she set her gaze on the sky.

“Sadly, in their bliss, they had become naïve.…”

A flash of light followed by a deep explosion startled Vince; a ball of fire was rising from deep within the city.
Military drones streaked overhead, coming from beyond the sea, flying so low their engines nearly deafened him.
Antiaircraft fire rose up from inland as the sound of nearby screams and panic filled the air; a second beam lanced down from space, reducing a city block to ashes.

And then the sky darkened as thousands of dropships converged on the city like a swarm of insects.

When Vince turned to look where the surfers were, he saw their corpses washing up on the sand just ahead.

“The Minmatar did this?”
he asked, knowing the answer.

She didn’t answer him directly.

“My people were brave … every last one defiant until the end.”

With a wave of her hand, the imagery changed.
The magnificent city that had welcomed the day was now smoldering ruins.
Smoke rose from the shells of wrecked buildings; the great ancient spire that dominated the skyline was toppled in half.
The staccato of isolated pockets of gunfire carried over the landscape; the muffled thuds of explosions broke through the crash of waves near where they were standing.
Bodies were strewn among the rubble and in the streets as combat MTACs marched through the ruined avenues, their ominous metallic steps echoing throughout the metropolis.
Though it was midday, the sky was dark, blotted from the plumes of uncontrollable fires.

“This is the Xerah I returned to,” she said bitterly.
“The invaders were vanquished.
But this was no victory.”

Vince was fixating on the dead surfers.
As their lifeless forms were turned over by waves, he could feel anger building within him.
It felt strangely familiar, almost soothing.
Though he was peripherally aware that this was only a dream, he was nearly overtaken by the urge to fight.

“It was just the end of the beginning,” she said, letting go of his hand.
“Do you know how many Paladins I’ve sent to die since this day?
How many soldiers use what happened here as inspiration to fight on distant worlds?”

“I would fight and die along with them,” Vince said.
“Even knowing the outcome, I would do it.
That’s my redemption.”

She turned to face him.
“Is that what our faith tells you?”

“That’s what my
heart
tells me.
Our faith tells me this is what I was meant for.”

“To give your life for Amarr?”

“Yes.”

She approached and circled him slowly, studying him.
He kept his eyes straight ahead.

“That is not your destiny,” she said.
“You will defend the Paladins you would die among…”

Vince could hear his own heart beating.

“… for I shall make you an angel among us, a warrior that can never fall.”

Her eyes were full of passion.

“So much blood has been spilled defending our faith, our culture, and our way of life … so many fall at the hands of empyreans,” she said.
“Though their souls live on, we deprive them of precious time here, in
this
life, which is unique in every way and so crucial in preparing us for the journey beyond.”

Again, she placed her hands on his shoulders; he knelt before her.

“We must protect them.
And to do so, you must become immortal as well.…”

What Vince didn’t know was that his physical body had long since been removed from its holding area in ICP 89.
While his mind walked on the virtual beach, his body was already being accosted by medical drones, which pierced and disassembled his flesh with startling precision.
His blood was drained and replaced with an infusion of synthetic bioplasma crawling with nanites.
His spinal cord was augmented to interface with cybernetic technology.
Some of his bones were replaced with light alloys that were nearly unbreakable.
Those that were not replaced were encased in a fullerene nanomesh to render them twice as strong.
Tendons and muscles were augmented to become hyper-efficient and optimized for powerful contractions that could be controlled with infinite precision.
By the time the transformation completed, Vince would be something more than just human.