Unsung Heroes
Chapter Two

This is life under the Regime. Ever since they’ve developed their new armor they have become unstoppable.

Tola joined the masses as they ran, all thoughts of completing his mission ebbing from his mind. Somehow the Regime had found him; all he could do now was survive.

Chaos engulfed the area. Sand from the blasts coated the few standing buildings like a golden blanket. There was no general flow in the attempted escape, causing many to be knocked down and trampled. But all were moving—except for two beings on the edge of town.

One was a scarlet-colored alien—a Latoroth, Tola believed—holding an electrical whip. The other wore cutting edge armor, a bounty hunter most likely. These two stared each other down, oblivious to the people escaping around them, like two great trees in the eye of a tornado, unmoving and proud.

Tola pushed past them, heading for his ship less than a kilometer outside the village. Without warning, an intense air pressure knocked him to his hands and knees, followed by the roar of jet engines. Tola looked up and saw another landing pod fly by him, only ten meters above his head.

You’ve got to be kidding me! How many troops did they send?!

The pod touched down near the bulk of the fleeing villagers. Reinforcements marched out, quickly creating a perimeter around the town. Keeping his eyes locked on his ship, Tola sprinted toward his only way off planet. He was nearly there when a missile struck the vessel dead center, detonating his ship in a plume of orange fire. Horrified, Tola realized he was now trapped on Moaz.

The Varrcarans sure know how to make a guy feel popular.

A blood-curdling scream caught his attention. Turning his gaze down a small hill, he saw a young woman on the ground, backing away from a Varrcaran soldier.

Tola stopped in his tracks. He was not a warrior—it would be suicide for him to face the trooper head on, but he couldn’t just let a defenseless woman be murdered. He had to think of something fast.

An abandoned wagon sat beside him. Retrieving a lighter from his utility belt, Tola ignited the haystacks atop it. The flames spread easily in the dry desert air, devouring the hay like a starving creature. Tola slammed his shoulder against the wood, pushing it over the edge.

Here goes nothing.

Slowly the wagon picked up speed until it raced down the hill. Tola watched in horror as the soldier aimed at the helpless woman before him, his finger on the trigger.

Chains.

When Dex looked at the armored warrior, that was all he saw—the return to imprisonment and slavery. He’d seen this bounty hunter bind one of the locals, and Dex wasn’t about to let that happen to him.

Fresh rage swelled within his body, willing him to fight. Dex took the electrical whip from his belt and activated it, charging the cord with thousands of volts. In response, the armored figure retrieved a plasma assault rifle from his side, but not fast enough. Dex unleashed the first of his abilities: a sound-suppressing bubble around his enemy.

Rumors had spread that all survivors of the Biomancer experiment were little more than raving lunatics, when in reality only about half had lost grip on their sanity. Dex was still plenty lucid, and in the years since that fateful day he had learned to harness the amazing powers his altered genes had given him.

Before the bounty hunter could bring his rifle up to bear, Dex launched himself into the air and let loose his second power, inducing hallucinations in the mind of his foe. The armored warrior fired, spraying a volley of plasma beams that still narrowly missed Dex in spite of his manipulated sight.

The hulking Latoroth landed only a meter in front of his human adversary and lashed out with his electrical whip. The armored figure tried to evade, but he misjudged the erratic trajectory of the weapon. The whip cracked against his exposed midsection, searing a black scorch mark across his crimson-and-white breastplate.

Dex smiled. Few knew how to defend against his weapon of choice.

Smoke rolled off the man’s body in droves. He dropped to one knee, but he was still alive. The warrior’s armor was strong; most bodysuits couldn’t withstand a direct strike from Dex’s electrical whip. But the Latoroth doubted even this high-tech armor could handle a second slash.

Moving in for the kill, Dex raised his whip against his battered opponent. To his surprise, the bounty hunter managed to roll to the side, evading the strike even as he raised his rifle once more. This time he fired from the mounted grenade launcher beneath the main barrel.

Dex was too stunned to move out of the way. This man would rather kill them both than fall to a superior foe. But the illusions still afflicted his mind. The shot went wide, and Dex heard a thunderous explosion twenty meters behind him. Instinctively he glanced back. The grenade had detonated in a group of six Varrcaran soldiers, killing them all instantly.

With augmented speed and reflexes, Dex reached out his free hand and ripped the rifle from the warrior’s grasp, disarming him.

Or so he thought.

Two retractable, serrated blades sprang from the warrior’s right wrist. In one quick swipe he carved two traces across the muscles of Dex’s left bicep. Dex roared in fury as the rifle fell from his grasp. He lashed out with his electrical whip again, but never saw whether it hit or missed—a heavy blow struck him on the back of the head.

Dex toppled to the ground, and in that moment he realized he’d fallen victim to his own power; the sound bubble had nullified his own hearing when he’d gotten close to his adversary—allowing the Varrcarans to sneak behind him undetected.

The last words Dextanic heard were: “Lock this one up. We need him alive.”

Then his world faded to black.

How did I get myself into this mess? Loralona thought, her heart pounding as a Varrcaran soldier brought his rifle up to bear. Desperately she scrambled away, but from her supine position, she wasn’t fast enough. Sand from the explosions had clogged her plasma pistol, leaving her all but defenseless.

The faint shadow of the soldier’s face was barely recognizable through the thick visor on his helmet. A merciless grin flashed across his chalk-white humanoid face, and in that moment, Loralona’s despair transformed into determination, welling up deep within her. Defiantly she reached for the combat knife hidden in her boot.

Without warning, a fiery wagon blasted into the soldier, causing his weapon to discharge harmlessly into the air as it pinned him against a building. A short scream was all he managed before he lost consciousness.

Springing to her feet, Loralona whirled around, ready to defend herself. But all she saw was a lone man at the top of a hill with his hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath. He was of average height and weight, wearing a hooded cloak, a gray shirt, and a utility belt, but he didn’t appear to have any weapons. A wave of irony washed over her as she recognized his face. The dangerous person the Shock Syndicate had sent her to assassinate was the very one who had saved her: Tola Kuris.

He’s younger than I imagined. It shouldn’t have surprised her. People grew up fast in war. Just like me.

He flashed an awkward grin and a goofy wave.

Loralona nearly waved back, but stopped her hand halfway up.

I can’t think of him like that. He’s still the target, whether he saved me or not.

Five soldiers suddenly crested the hill behind her defender. Before she could do anything, a gas grenade landed at his feet, dropping him to his knees in fits of coughing.

Loralona grimaced. The Varrcarans were taking him alive; she wouldn’t be able to complete the job. Not yet, at least. All she could do now was escape, and hope to replace him again.

Scooping up her fallen satchel, Loralona slipped past the burning carriage and into a narrow alleyway between two buildings. Garbed in all black, she disappeared into the shadows, trusting in her stealth training as the deadly ring of soldiers collected what they had come for. Once the enemy had passed, she stole one last glance at the burning town, then darted into the cold desert night.

Tola . . . we’re not done yet.

Terrik woke with a pounding headache. The last thing he remembered was the butt of a rifle smashing into his skull.

Cautiously Terrik levered himself up on his elbows and took in his surroundings. The cell was dark, but a red light cast from the hallway faintly illuminated the steel bars. Inside was a toilet and nothing else. Looking down, he saw that he had been stripped of his armor and weapons. Terrik clenched his teeth. To his warrior clan, nothing was more shameful.

He wasn’t worried about his injuries; the regenerative nanotech chip in his head would repair most of the damage, but it wouldn’t mean a thing if he couldn’t escape this cell. Rising to his feet, Terrik walked over to the bars and stuck his head out. The flickering red bulb hovered over an airlock.

So I’m in space, he thought. Probably on the dreadnought orbiting the planet.

Though it had been an accident, he had killed several Varrcaran soldiers, a crime for which he would be executed. Terrik knew the Regime’s policy well: there would be no second chances, no appeals. He was tried and convicted already. All that remained was the executioner . . . and a crowd to witness what would happen to those who crossed the Regime.

In a cell across the hall, Terrik spotted a hooded figure sitting with his legs crossed, drumming his fingers together. From the looks of things, he was planning an escape as well.

Let’s hope he’s doing better than I am.

A metal door opened with a loud creak, and two prison guards walked into the hall, looking over their new captives.

One of the guards spoke to his partner so quietly Terrik had to strain to hear him.

“I heard we caught another Biomancer today.”

The second guard nodded. “We made sure they’re being held far away from each other. This one isn’t half as bad as Janus, but it still makes me nervous having them on board.”

“Why can’t we just kill them now and be done with it? They’re slated for execution, anyway.”

“You know the Supreme. Wants to make a public spectacle out of everything.”

As they walked past his cell, Terrik noticed a key card tucked into the first guard’s belt, but he was too far away to reach it.

Both soldiers stopped in front of the hooded figure’s cell.

“The commander will see you now,” one of them said gruffly.

The other soldier opened the electronic lock with a swipe of his key card. The hooded figure rose, and they placed a pair of handcuffs on his wrists.

“Move, convict,” they said, shoving his back.

As they left, the hooded man gave a tiny nod to Terrik. Though they had never met before, he knew the implication: Something was about to go down.