EVE®: Templar One (36 page)

Lord Victor studied him, observing how his blood gave off a reflective sheen in the sunlight.

“I saw the footage,” he said.
“The girl distracted you.
Who was she?”

“A Believer,” Vince said, now aware that he felt strangely protective of her.
“I wasn’t expecting a target to recite prayer.
It elicited teachings of forgiveness in the Scriptures.”

“As a warrior you must always expect the unexpected,” Lord Victor said, waving a fist at him.
“You let your guard down and it cost you your life.
But as an immortal you have the luxury of learning the hard way, and are all the stronger for it.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now tell me about Templar Six.”

“We were less than six minutes from the drop.
He lost his mind, began speaking gibberish, pulled his weapon—”

“I know this,” Lord Victor said, stepping closer.
“I saw what happened.
We analyzed the words he spoke.
It sounded like an actual dialect, not gibberish.
Are you sure that’s all it was?”

Eidetic recall took over.
Vince felt a crippling pulse of dread: He realized that he was never consciously aware at the time that every word spoken by Templar Six was perfectly understandable to him.
It wasn’t gibberish at all.
His was the voice of someone ancient, someone thousands of years old, begging for help.
He was there to deliver a warning, speaking to him directly.
Perhaps it was adrenaline and the fight-or-flight response of his anatomy that filtered it out, like the way the body suppresses pain in dire circumstances.

Time slowed down.
He knew he could
not
let Lord Victor know.

“I didn’t understand any of it,” Vince said.
“Templar Six was a traitor.
That was all that mattered.”

“You made the right decision,” Lord Victor said.
“Good.”

“Yes, sir.”

“We recorded the neurological telemetry of all the Templars during the mission,” Lord Victor said.
“I hope you aren’t lying to me.”

DOMAIN REGION—THRONE WORLDS CONSTELLATION

THE AMARR SYSTEM—PLANET ORIS

EMPEROR FAMILY ACADEMY STATION

SOVEREIGNTY OF THE AMARR EMPIRE

Nine Years Ago

The high was greater than she ever imagined.

In the entirety of Jamyl’s privileged life, she could recall no joy even remotely close to what she was feeling right now.
The feeling of connectedness, of being so intimately close to another human being, so acutely aware of all the hidden pleasures of life—who
knew
how much the flesh could be stimulated?—that she regretted never having been introduced to Cryllisium sooner.
Because of its wondrous powers, she now understood that a woman’s body was so much more beautiful than a man’s; that a woman’s touch always found the perfect balance of gentleness and assertion; and that following the journey of a single droplet of sweat along the curves of a woman’s hips was easily the most mesmerizing spectacle in all creation.

Jamyl never wanted to come down.
Everything, at last, was as it should be.
She was only remotely aware that what had begun as a rebellious act against a culture she abhorred, a religion that she rejected, and an obligation she wanted nothing to do with was now, after having tasted it, something much more meaningful.

It simply never occurred to her that she’d actually
enjoy
it.

But then the high surrendered to something else.
Fear crept into the experience, as the suddenly tense body language of her lovers suggested someone else had joined them.

The fringe of her awareness informed her that the interloper was Lord Falek Grange, but his physical appearance reminded her of a charging slaver.
She arranged her posture defiantly, naked as the day she was born, and stood proudly to face him.

“You are a tantalizing vision,” the slaver said.
“Do you mind if I join you?”

His unexpected response was disarming; she sought an appropriate response from the cosmic aura surrounding them.

“Did my mother send you?”
she asked, sashaying toward one of her maiden companions, providing a reassuring caress of her shoulders.

“No,” Falek answered.
“I assured her all was well.”

“Is that what you think?”
she said, tasting one of her fingers.
“That all is
well
?”

“I would say things are absolutely grand,” he said, poking through the used vials.
“I’ve never been one for all the royal pomp and flair anyway.”

“That’s quite an admission coming from someone of your stature,” Jamyl said, lounging on some furniture.
“Are you always this honest?”

“The most beautiful woman in New Eden is before me wearing nothing but her jewelry,” the slaver said.
“I may be a pious man, but I’m not dead.”

Jamyl smiled as he motioned toward the couch beside her.

“May I?”

She thought about it for a moment.

“No,” she said.
“I decree that you shall stand, Lord Grange, and be made to feel as uncomfortable as it takes to amuse me.”

Falek the Slaver smiled back at her.

“Then may I at least have the mercy of indulging in some guilty pleasures myself, to help numb the pain of my shame?”

He motioned toward his own palm, which was now filled with more vials.

“Mmm, impressive,” Jamyl said, curling beside another naked maiden, who appeared more at ease—and ready to continue indulging.
“What is this shame you speak of?”

“The shame of not approaching you sooner,” Falek said.
“The shame of lacking the courage to be honest with myself, as you have.”

Jamyl laughed.

“What makes you think I’m interested in your courage?”
she asked.
“I saved all my self-expression for the right occasion.
So it would actually count for something.”

She watched as Falek placed the vial into his mouth and popped it.
An audible hiss reported its contents absorbed through the tongue and sinuses.

Jamyl felt herself become dangerously aroused.

“My
God,
sin tastes good,” Falek said, shuddering from the high.
He buckled at the knees slightly, and then, to the amusement of everyone else, collapsed into a chair.

“I am so sorry,” he said.
“But why haven’t I tried this before?”

Jamyl was fascinated and positioned herself perpendicular to her prone companion as the others relaxed back into each other’s arms.
Fixing her gaze on Falek, she rested her forearms on her partner’s backside.

“I want more confessions,” she said.
“Entertain me, Lord Grange.”

“Where to begin,” he asked, leaning back into the chair.
“The apolitical truths?
Or just the sacrilegious ones?”

“All of them,” she said.
“I want to hear the sins of Amarr’s most pious man.”

“Sins,” he repeated, resting his hands behind his head.
“I absolutely hated your father.
Passionately so.”

“I
love
it,” she cooed.
“What else?”

“I don’t believe in the Succession Trials.
Never have.”

“Ah,” Jamyl sighed, feeling a tempestuous surge of desire mixed with the sensation of flying.
She rose and approached him in the most seductive manner she knew.

“Tell me more.”

“The only thing I despise more than government is royalty,” he continued.

She straddled him, rolling her head so that her auburn mane brushed against his face.
Setting one arm on his shoulder, she dangled her ample breasts before him, then used her forefinger to lift his face by the chin.

“Manners, Lord Grange.
You shouldn’t stare.”

“My goodness,” he said, running his hands along her back.
“I don’t know where my head was.
Forgive me, Your … Highness.”

She threw her chin back and laughed; Falek began shaking.

“I love when powerful men throw themselves before me.”

“Then let’s fuck the world together,” he said, as she bit into his lips and plunged her tongue deep into his mouth.

He reached up with another vial, running its edge along her supple lips.
She licked it provocatively.

“I want a divine experience of our own,” he said, gently pushing the drug into position.
She growled in anticipation of the powerful rush.

“One that will atone for our sins,” he said, snapping the switch that released the drugs into Jamyl’s bloodstream.
While she waited for the high, the drugs circulated to her brain and began performing their meticulously planned work on her synapses.

After a moment she realized this wasn’t Cryllisium at all.
Indeed, at least one of the vials she had consumed earlier contained a toxic mutagen designed to control slaves, and she had just experienced the soothing—and absolutely controlling—effects of a custom Vitoc antidote.

“Now listen closely,” Falek said, grasping her by the face and pulling her close.
“You will obey me, always, and in return I will provide a blissful experience that is righteous and good.”

Her self-identity was slipping away; she tried to fight against it, but it quickly felt pointless to resist what just seemed to naturally make sense: Lord Falek Grange was her master now.
And this, it seemed, was the natural order of the universe.

“One day, you will love me for this,” he said.
“But for now, you will sit at your father’s funeral and become the majestic heiress that Amarr needs you to be.”

HEIMATAR REGION—HED CONSTELLATION

AMAMAKE SYSTEM—PLANET II: PIKE’S LANDING

CORE FREEDOM COLONY

SOVEREIGNTY OF THE AMARR EMPIRE

Present Day

Lord Victor walked inside the elevator’s control tower, marveling at how the technical wonder was standing and functional despite all the war in its shadow.
A thin film of dust covered the displays and controls inside, where operators had once guided the transfer of millions of tonnes of material from orbit to the surface and back daily.
Victor ran his hand across one of the windows facing the magrail yard, following its decrepit tracks through the colony perimeter and beyond toward the mountain range.
It was inferior construction when compared to Amarr’s version of these machines.
But it was pricelessly functional nonetheless.

That it was taken by thirteen Templars and a tiny conventional force was unimaginable.
The program for which Lord Falek Grange had sacrificed so much was at last fulfilling its promise.
Endless possibilities were within reach.
The power of Amarr was uncontestable: The door to the next Reclaiming had opened.
Of course he believed this would happen; his faith had never wavered.
It was surreal that this moment had finally arrived.

Yet it wasn’t perfect.
And he knew, by virtue of Her Majesty’s divine powers, that he could no longer hide the truth about the Templars’ flaws—if he could convince himself that it was ever hidden at all.

At that exact moment of doubt, she walked right into his mind.

What makes a thing worth fighting for?
Empress Jamyl asked.
The answer was always “when the alternative is not worth living through.”
Has that changed, Victor?
Or has immortality culled this part of our soul as well?

“My lady,” Victor spoke aloud.
“The Templars are victorious.
They will mold history to your will.”

What history would you write, my captain?
What legacy would you choose for Amarr?

“Amarr is invincible,” Lord Victor said, trying to filter the passion in his heart.
“With God by our side, there is no foe we cannot vanquish.”

We will be judged by what we create, not what we conquer
.
The Templars were conceived to nurture life.
They will keep us from destroying ourselves.
Never forget that, Victor.
You will be judged by how you use this power, as will as I.

“Forgive me, Your Majesty.
It is difficult to contain my excitement.”