Sacred Planet: Book One of the Dominion Series (17 page)

The door thudded from the inside and flew open. Nanoflex-clad men flooded the room, repeater rifles up and ready. Sylvan rushed in after them, even angrier than before.

“Sir!” one of the troopers shouted with professional stoicism. “Suite’s been breached. Air leaking in.”

“Canny observation,” Guarin muttered.

Sylvan nodded at the bloody gash on Kastor’s arm. “You need patchwork?”

Kastor shook his head. “We’re fine.”

Sylvan’s face hardened. “Follow me. Stay close.”

They filed out of the room, and the door shut behind them. One of the troopers grabbed a sealant can from a storage compartment in the opposite wall and sprayed some expanding substance around the door hinges. A quick estimation of Sylvan’s team counted twenty scattered through the hallway. The troopers on either end held their weapons ready, as if the rebels might show up at any moment.

Kastor ripped off his mask. “Have they breached the palace?”

Sylvan squared up to him. “Listen, offworlder, you are
not
my superior. Follow me and don’t ask questions.”

The thick-chested Upraadi whisked off. Kastor exchanged a glance with Guarin and started after him. Troopers fell in behind them, covering every angle. They moved quickly through the hallways as explosions below sent quakes through the floor. More soldiers arrived to flank plainly dressed nobles and escort them away. A crowd formed ahead of and behind Sylvan’s contingent, all flowing past a set of swinging doors to a wide stairway. Frightened nobility scrambled downward as soldiers shouted and motioned them on, voices blocked by a deafening alarm alternating between high and low notes.

A burly man with rosy cheeks and a heavy overcoat burst through a set of doors into the stairwell. His frantic eyes locked onto Sylvan’s troopers, and he threw off his cloak to reveal a much thinner man in a frayed tunic. The burly look came from a lumpy, black bomb vest. He gripped a detonator in one hand.

Kastor froze mid-step as the bomber spread his arms.

“
Mors omnis regni!
” the commoner shouted, and a fraction of a second later—

The fiery blast created an instant, powerful burst, dicing bodies to bits, incinerating flesh, throwing armored soldiers across the space. Screaming nobles in flames dropped across the railing and fell through the cylindrical corridor.

Kastor got up, ears ringing, and grabbed the nearest gun he could find, a banged-up repeater pistol.

Sylvan seized him by the arm and dragged him through a narrow door into an alcove. His troopers followed, dragging the other offworlders. Guarin had swiped a handgun as well and shoved it into his belt. Guerlain urged the trooper pulling her along to arm her, too—unsuccessfully.

Lights flicked on in the high ceiling of the maintenance corridor, a curving tunnel of concrete and exposed wires and tubes. Sylvan’s team had dwindled to fifteen or so.

“Where are you taking us?” Kastor demanded.

“To Radovan,” Sylvan replied without slowing.

“Why did they choose now to attack?” Guarin piped up from behind.

Sylvan blazed ahead, making clear he didn’t intend to respond.

“They think they can get a ransom for us,” Kastor said.

“Perhaps that’s why the chap blew himself ten feet from us,” Guarin sniped.

The corridor made a wide curve then stretched on for hundreds of meters. Sylvan stopped at a pale blue door and punched a code into the embedded screen. The door hissed open, and the group rushed through, down a narrow, dusty passageway lined with metal pipes.

“Network’s back,” Trajan said, looking at his slate.

Kastor slowed to match speed with his servant. “Call up the
Aegis
. Have two teams ready to drop on my command.”

A moment later, Trajan slapped the screen of his slate and shook his head. “Lost the signal again.”

“Rebels must be taking down the comm towers one by one,” Kastor murmured.

“We may have more leverage with Radovan now,” Trajan whispered. “The rebels have never attacked his palace.”

“Seems they’ve abandoned their guerrilla tactics,” Kastor replied. “They want to take out Radovan and scatter the nobility all in one stroke.”

“Then what?” Trajan asked sardonically.

“Not all commoners are as bright as you, good man.”

The servant grimaced. “But there must be brains in some of them.”

Trajan glanced around at the dark, dingy concrete, unaccustomed to the drab environs. It struck Kastor that he could endure far worse conditions than Trajan, despite his noble blood.

The group spilled out the exit into a spacious hallway built for the highborn of the frontier, well-lit and decorated with carved designs in the walls. Armed guards in rugged nanoflex armor lined the space, weapons pointed a single direction. Sylvan led the offworlders in the opposite direction, through an archway and into a wide chamber where dozens of technicians worked at mobile computers. Images projected onto the smooth cave walls. At the far end of the room, Radovan sat in glistening armor on an austere throne, clearly irritated. Guards covered in thick armor flanked the throne. On either side of them, clusters of nobles argued amongst themselves, eyes fiery and thirsty for commoner blood. Thick tapestries hung on either side of the throne.

Tapestries. The ‘Gooners and their tapestries.

Kastor stepped past Sylvan to approach the Frontier Lumis. His guards snapped the barrels of their heavy weapons at the newcomer. Radovan raised a hand to calm them.

“Your petty insurgency has grown into something else,” Kastor said with as much authority as he could muster. “How long before you accept the Grand Lumis’s offer?”

The nobles paused and turned their attention to the throne. Radovan inclined his head and glared at Kastor. “I take it you reject my counteroffer?”

Guarin glanced at Kastor in confusion.

Kastor hesitated, but only for a moment. Weakness would not overtake him. He set his jaw and bowed to destiny. “I was never in a place to accept it.”

Radovan let out a long sigh and closed his eyes, deepening the natural, stony lines across his temples. He stood and trained his blazing, white eyes on Kastor, face steely and cold. His shingly skin gave the impression of some creature from ancient mythology.

“Kastor of Eagle, Champion of Triumph,” he intoned with a full voice. “I hereby and immediately banish you, along with all agents and attachés, from the Regnum of Lagoon.” His gaze shifted to Sylvan. “Escort them to their shuttle and ensure safe passage to their ship.”

The Upraadi retainer nodded with a satisfied grin.

Kastor stepped forward, gripped by the heat of anger and panic. “Don’t be a fool, Radovan. You’re in no place to fight Zantorian.”

“If the Fox wants war with Lagoon, he can get in line,” Radovan said without hint of humor. “But the people of Upraad will never bow the knee to him.”

“Have you asked them?” Kastor countered.

Sylvan approached with clenched teeth. “He needn’t ask! True men of Upraad stand behind their lumis!”

“And how many ‘true men’ will remain when the dust settles?” Kastor asked.

“What does it matter to you?” Radovan replied, staying hard and steady. “This conflict is between Upraadi men. Triumph holds no stake in our affairs.”

Kastor shook his head, aware of his imminent defeat but unwilling to surrender. “Zantorian will turn Upraad to ashes before he allows you to remain in defiance of him.”

Radovan spread his hands and raised his voice. “What defiance? When did the Fox invest in Lagoon? Has he ever touched foot onto Upraadi ground? And yet he claims title over my regnum? How? What justice gives him the right to rule me?”

Silence spread through the chamber. The noblemen and noblewomen nodded in agreement as technicians resumed work at their stations, talking in low voices. Rumbles of distant explosions sent shudders through the floor.

Radovan jabbed a finger at Kastor. “You chose the wrong side, Son of Eagle. You pledged your soul to a tyrant, even after what he stole from you.” The Frontier Lumis shook his head. “Get out of my presence.”

Radovan slumped back into his throne as Sylvan grabbed Kastor’s arm and pulled him away.

Sylvan and his team led them through hallways and down dim tunnels. Guarin and Guerlain bored holes through Kastor with their glowering eyes. The Upraadis had stripped them of their weapons and kept a close eye on them as they moved.

Kastor sulked and ruminated, replaying Radovan’s words in his head. Again and again, Radovan chastised him. Words lashed him like cords, because they bore truth. How much or little truth didn’t change the deeper fact that Kastor knew in his soul. He was born for a purpose, and if he strayed from that path, if he defied destiny, his birthright would be meaningless. Worse, it would be false.

Other words flitted through his head, words from an ancient tongue, long since laid to rest. The final words of the rebel bomber in the stairwell.
Mors omnis regni
. It took a moment to decipher its meaning, and when he did, Kastor almost laughed. It was a poor rendering of Latin, translated clumsily by someone who must’ve told the commoner rebels it meant, “Death to all regnums.” Any noble half-decently adroit with Latin would translate the phrase as “Every death is regnums.” The Latin should have been,
Omne neci regna
.

Still, it puzzled him. Commoners knew no
Latin
. How would a commoner even know of the ancient tongue’s existence? Most were illiterate. Their schools taught trades and craftsmanship, made boys into machinists and girls into artisans. How did the rebels know enough to spout even an awkward rendition of the noble tongue?

Trajan caught up with him, interrupting his thoughts. His slate showed an established comm link with the
Aegis
. “Network’s back up,” he whispered. “Don’t know how long. Commodore says more gunships are showing up. She’s asking for orders.”

Kastor began to answer but hesitated. Instinct told him to order a strictly defensive position—no aggressive behavior. But something held him back. A persistent dissatisfaction. The Kastor of Tyrannus, undefeated in any tournament or battle, wouldn’t give up so easily. He would find a way to win. He would strike his opponents where it would hurt the most. He would sink his teeth in like a rabid dog and not let go until his enemy stopped fighting.

The Kastor of Tyrannus would make his own way.

Seraphina’s naked silhouette fluttered through his mind’s eye, lingering until he forced it away. He wondered about her message to him, if she knew something he did not.

“Master?” Trajan prompted.

Kastor curled his fingers into fists and steeled himself. “Tell them to pick targets and be prepared to strike. And send the ground teams when the horizon’s clear.”

The servant’s long face scrunched, revealing wrinkles he always labored to hide. A few Upraadi troopers glanced their way suspiciously, and Kastor pulled a few inches away from Trajan.

“It’s alright,” he said in a slightly louder voice. “I’ll deal with it back on the ship.”

The Upraadis seemed placated for the time. Kastor made himself walk in a casual, defeated manner, hunching a little. He met Guarin’s gaze, still glaring with the wrath of the Fox in his eyes. Kastor dipped his head, trying to signal a warning without changing his expression. The Swan warrior’s face didn’t alter in the slightest, but Guerlain seemed to notice. She softened briefly, then hardened again and pushed back her shoulder blades to pop the bones in her spine.

They turned into a tunnel bored through the rock with a giant drill, floor smoothed into a walkway, just wide enough for three troopers walking shoulder to shoulder. Perfect. Nowhere for the Upraadis to run. Eight men and five women, but a few of the women looked tougher than the men. Couldn’t underestimate them. Kastor took in a deep breath and released it. He would have to be quick.

He shoved himself hard to the left, smashing a trooper against the wall and snatching his rifle, then fired into the bodies ahead. Sylvan grunted and dashed behind one of his female soldiers, who took a stream of rounds in his stead. She shrieked and jerked as Kastor’s gun whined in shrill, superfast rhythm.

Behind, Guerlain was the first to snap into action, knocking away the closest trooper’s weapon and shoving the second closest trooper’s into his chest. Guarin followed a moment later, twisting in acrobatic flair as he rained a flurry of blows onto the surrounding troopers. He kicked one in the throat, another in the crotch, punching another in the elbow so hard it bent the wrong way with a muffled crack.

Sylvan rushed forward, growling in burning hatred and holding his trooper like a shield. Her eyes drooped and rolled out of focus as Kastor poured another salvo into her torso, chewing up her armor and mixing raw flesh with nanomesh. Sylvan shoved her into the soldier Kastor had pinned against the wall as the champion dashed out of the way and swung the repeater rifle like a baseball bat. The Upraadi ducked and came back up with a fist to Kastor’s chin, knocking him backwards. Kastor clasped the barrel of his repeater before he could fire. Instinct made him snap the muzzle down to the recovering trooper beside him. Rounds flashed, grazing Kastor’s side and slicing through the trooper’s face.

Sylvan bellowed like a bear and kicked from the side. Kastor captured his leg against his hip and punched the Upraadi’s muscled thigh repeatedly. It wouldn’t break.

Sylvan’s rifle cracked against Kastor’s skull, sending him stumbling away. It only took the sight of the little black eye of death staring at him to duck and roll away from the gunfire. Rounds blasted chunks of rock out of the wall behind him. Kastor swiped a knife from the belt of a downed trooper and side-armed it straight into Sylvan’s waist, where the armor was thin. Sylvan gritted his teeth and doubled over, gripping the knife.

A trooper tripped over Kastor and scrambled for a weapon. Kastor twirled himself around on the rocky surface and connected his boot with the trooper’s cheekbone, so hard the trooper’s neck snapped and turned him into a floppy corpse.

Kastor jerked around to see Trajan curled up against the curved wall, spindly arms wrapped over his head, and Guarin wrestling a woman trooper equal to his size for a gun. She pinned him against the wall, and he kneed her vainly between the legs.