Unsung Heroes
Chapter Nine

Tola crouched behind a crate, unable to move in the near-total darkness. He clutched his flashlight tightly in his left hand, but to shine it now would be suicidal.

Then again, I don’t know how much it would really hinder me. It seems Janus can navigate through the darkness anyway.

The sound of clashing swords ricocheted through the hangar. Sparks flew, accompanied by grunts and snarls from the warriors in the heat of battle.

“After all this, you think you can hide from me?” Janus’s haunting voice called out from the blackness.

Tola’s stomach twisted. It seemed the monster had found him. A flood of emotions poured through him.

I will not die shriveled up in the corner.

A steady resolve overtook him, crushing the shackles of fear. Rising slowly from his position, he decided to face his death like a man.

Suddenly an explosion shook the hangar. Instinctively Tola covered his eyes as a sudden flash of heat blew past him. A figure moved within the sputtering conflagration. Flames crackling on his shoulders, Janus stepped forth, a look of scorn masking his features.

The life of the fire on and around Janus slowly choked out. The last flame seemed to reach desperately from the grave before it vanished, leaving Tola in the dark once again.

It’s hopeless . . .

Tola shook his head, refusing to surrender to that line of thinking again. He faced the direction of the running chainsword and started to move through the shadows.

Without warning, an icy grip tightened around his throat, lifting him up until his feet dangled in the air. Tola instinctively reached for the arm holding him, but he swung at empty air. A cold realization settled over him: He was caught in a telekinetic hold.

Tola floated through the air, pulled forward by his neck. His head felt like it was going to explode from the mounting pressure, and his lungs ached for air. His momentum slowed to a halt, and Tola felt the maniac’s moist, rotten breath on his face.

“Tell me, how do you plan on getting out of this one?”

Tola activated his flashlight, shining it directly into Janus’s eyes. The Biomancer’s retinas contracted and his telekinetic grip faltered. For a split second, Janus was completely vulnerable. Tola gasped for air, but kept his light trained on the killer.

That close, he got his first good look at Janus’s armor. It was a bioengineered suit bonded to its host. Already the gash Tola had cut earlier had regrown, connecting the organic plates back to their original position. It was definitely the same kind worn by elite soldiers of the Varrcaran Regime, the protective plating that nullified Biomancer powers and resisted plasma fire, giving them a huge advantage in their war against the Earth Alliance and the Coalition. Few beings had ever seen a set of the armor up close and lived to tell the tale.

This is what I was tasked with anyway, replaceing a way to counter this armor so the Earth Alliance has a chance of winning this war.

All this passed through Tola’s mind in a fraction of a second. Then Dex darted into the beam of Tola’s flashlight like a wild animal attacking its prey. His scimitar started from his hip and slashed brutally in a diagonal arc aimed for Janus’s throat.

Microseconds before the blade could reach him, the Biomancer jumped into the air, backflipping gracefully onto the ramp of the lone remaining ship. Tola followed him with his light, his mind working through what he’d discovered about the armor.

A simple melee weapon can pierce it. And even though Janus can’t be targeted by Biomancer powers—he can still be hit by something propelled by those powers.

“Actually,” the Biomancer growled, “I think I’d rather watch you suffocate.”

Dex was still stunned. How did Janus survive that explosion unscathed? Is it the armor? And what will it take to kill him?!

Gripping his electrical whip tighter still, Dex ran up the ramp after him. This was their only hope of leaving the Scourge alive, and Janus wouldn’t get it without a fight. His whip cracked forward, lashing out at where the maniacal Biomancer stood in the open hatchway.

Janus turned and ducked beneath the arc of the whip. The electrically charged currents snapped against the metal sides, searing a gash into the doorway. Dex was about to strike again when Janus suddenly hurled his chainsword at him.

The maneuver caught Dex by surprise. At the last second he tried to sidestep out of the way, but the blade carved a thick furrow between his ribs, nearly puncturing his vital organs. Dex cried out in pain and sank to the floor, rolling back down the ramp. His scimitar fell from his grasp, clattering to the metal floor beside him.

Janus held out his hand, and his chainsword sprang into his waiting palm. The Biomancer’s psychotic laughter boomed through the pitch-black hangar, and the ramp to the shuttle sealed him in.

Dex clutched his side, expecting to feel another wave of fury rise through him. Instead, however, he felt only a deep sense of failure. His lungs ached. His mind felt foggy and clouded, but Dex no longer cared. The one thing he wanted most—vengeance—was about to be lost forever.

He choked down another fleeting breath of air and fell flat onto his stomach. His thoughts drifted to Jezebel, the one person who’d been a friend to him in his entire life. Her face flashed in his mind; her warm smile comforting him one final time.

And then, all of a sudden, vengeance didn’t seem so important.

Dex felt himself smile. His side screamed in pain, but it no longer mattered. He wished he could thank her. He had always been appreciative of her kindness, but right now all he wanted—more than another breath of air, or even Janus’s fat head on a plate—was to thank her for all she’d done for him.

Dex’s eyes closed. He felt his mind drifting into a sleep.

I guess this isn’t such a bad way to go, he thought groggily.

Suddenly he felt his body moving. His eyes opened slowly, and he saw that he was being dragged away from the ship. With strenuous effort, Dex swiveled his head to see what was happening.

Tola had grabbed hold of his arm, and though the human weighed far less, he was pulling Dex behind the nearest crates as best as he could, his face a mask of panicked desperation. Dex tried to smile but couldn’t.

Maybe Jezebel wasn’t my only friend after all. . . .

Loralona watched the last of the poisonous mist vent out of the ship, waited an extra five seconds, then took in a deep lungful of air. The engines of Retribution roared, shooting the vessel skyward and into the atmosphere. She barely had time to sit before the g-forces thrust her back into the chair.

Loralona gripped the sides of the seat only to realize there wasn’t anything for her to hold on to. It seemed the chair was designed for a pilot wearing a suit of armor, and the suit connected directly into the seat itself.

A small blue light flashed on the dashboard as she passed the atmosphere and into space. Several kilometers in front of her was a capital ship proudly bearing the Varrcaran insignia. Only . . . something about it seemed unusual. . . .

It took her a moment to realize what it was: The engines and power were offline, leaving the dreadnought drifting silently in orbit around the planet. The hull didn’t appear to have suffered any damage, either from a collision or a weapon discharge. It was as if the crew had simply . . . vanished.

“Like a ghost ship,” she muttered. Loralona hadn’t meant for the thought to come out loud.

Turning her attention to the ship’s astrogation computer, she prepared a course back to the the Shock Syndicate headquarters when a squadron of starfighters veered in her direction. Two blue plasma bolts lit the dark void of her cockpit, missing Loralona’s left wing by only a couple meters. She whipped her head around and saw two more fighters tailing her.

Great . . . one thing after another.

She yanked the controls hard to the left, but they wouldn’t budge. The ship was still on auto-pilot and she had no way of turning it off. A blast slammed into the hull, and she saw the shield gauge drop to eighty-four percent capacity. Her hands scrambled over every button she could think of that might relinquish its hold.

Nothing worked.

A feeling of despair clawed at her throat as she saw the fighters closing in from behind and in front of her, like two walls crushing her from both sides.

And she was powerless to stop it.

Once more she tried to move the yoke, but the ship defiantly refused.

“Give me control or you’ll get us killed!” Loralona yelled in frustration. To her shock, the vessel obliged, switching the dark red sensors and gauges to a light green hue. The console clicked twice and the controls relaxed into her hands. For a moment she simply sat there, dumbfounded. Any ship—especially one of this caliber—would be voice encrypted, but for some reason it was obeying her commands.

Not that I’m complaining.

One of the fighters in front of her let loose a barrage of plasma fire in her direction. The quick response pilot training she had received from the Shock Syndicate kicked in, and she veered the vessel safely off to the right. Relentless in their pursuit, the enemy ships followed after her, closing into a tight formation. They had speed and numbers on their side—Loralona had stronger armor and weapons on hers.

Time to see what this baby can do.

Each breath was becoming a struggled gasp for air. Terrik’s vision blurred, and he faintly noticed the ramp sealing on the shuttle Janus had entered. Klaxons blared within his helmet, warning of the encroaching fighters on his ship’s sensors. Even if he hadn’t been on the verge of death, it would have been too difficult to evade them without actually being in the cockpit. Their one chance of escape was about to be blown to bits.

Suddenly a female voice bellowed within his helmet’s transceiver: “Give me control or you’ll get us killed!”

Terrik was stunned. Whether from the lack of oxygen or the sheer absurdity of the situation, it took him a moment to register what was happening: someone had to be inside Retribution for the transceiver to pick up her voice.

Knowing his ship would be destroyed if he did nothing, Terrik tapped the controls on his computerized gauntlet, turning off the remote piloting and handing control over to whomever was on board.

Time was running out. By his watch they had five minutes of breathable air left, so he did the only thing he could of.

“If you can hear this, we’re trapped in the dreadnought’s hangar!” he muttered to the person flying his vessel. “Hurry!”

Terrik closed the display in his helmet and focused on their surroundings. The hangar doors were being forced open telekinetically, but a thin particle barrier protected them from depressurization, designed to allow solid objects free passage but not plasma fire. Janus was about to escape, and the computer specialist was dragging the wounded Latoroth behind cover.

The shuttle’s engines fired up, and its plasma cannons turned in Terrik’s direction. Clenching his teeth, he quickly slid into cover, wishing he still had some grenades for his rifle.

Either we’re blasted into oblivion, or we suffocate in darkness. Perfect end to a perfect day. . . .