Legend Beyond The Stars Read online

And Tarak knew of this? Could this be the secret her lover had kept from her? That plus the knowledge her friends and herself were destined for these horrendous research chambers? She thought back over all the times she had sensed he had held something back, something of vital importance. She recalled the eerie atmosphere pervading the Darkons’ city, the grim almost despairing auras that clung to Tarak and his warriors. Deep inside amid the cauldron of horror, doubt and remembered grief, murderous thoughts poisoned her mind.

  She jerked her hand from her jailor, lurched to the side and vomited.

  Over and over until nothing remained but hollowness.

  Emptiness.

  She scrubbed at the tears on her face and retched again. She knew she would carry the image of the frail shrivelled body until the end of her days.

  Her eyelids were as heavy if they were weighted with bricks and her body felt as if lead was in her veins. She shuddered and realised she huddled on the icy floor. The faint sounds of whimpering were coming from her own throat.

  So cold, she was sure she would never be warm again. Her movements slow and jerky her hands scrubbed at her face. She wiped her sleeve under her dripping nose. Only one thing mattered now. Her mouth hardened into a thin line as her brain kicked back into gear.

  I’ll kill them.

  All of them.

  Every last Darkon.

  And she would save Commander Tarak for last.

  Alana rose to her feet. Her expression caused the wary group of soldiers to fall back, their hands hovered over the blasters strapped to their belts. Her gaze met Atolo’s, his face wreathed in smiles.

  “Feeling better now?” he queried, his face a picture of concern.

  “Much better. Everything is finally … in perspective.” Alana bared her teeth in a parody of friendliness. Behind her she heard the squad move closer, their boots scrunching on the ice. “Any more surprises, Atolo?”

  He sighed. “Unfortunately this is the limit of our research. We will begin again.” His voice hardened. “Let us now proceed to the experimental chamber. Do not try to resist, Alana. It will be futile. Bring her. And Gerd, ensure that mess is cleaned up.”

  Chin up, shoulders square, Alana followed his brisk figure as he pushed through another set of rounded blast doors. On the threshold she paused, her eyes sweeping the interior taking note of the lack of exits, the number of guards and masked workers. She tried to ignore the terrifying number of empty metal cases, the raised slabs with their array of metal restraints, the machines suspended from the ceiling with their ominous humming.

  Across the room huddled a small group of terrified women, amongst them Alana recognised her friends: Jessamine, tall and defiant, Linette rigid, her face as white as the walls behind her and devoid of all expression, the terror on the faces of the younger girls, Tina and Elise.

  I’ve failed them.

  I’ve failed all of them.

  The realisation beat a furious tattoo on her brain and ripped with destructive force through her soul. The ‘whomp, whomp’ sound of hover blades echoed in her head.

  “First we will harvest the egg cells from your womb. Then the cells and organs from your body. Finally we will conduct experiments on your brain. Now we will find the hidden link. Now we will be saved!” Atolo clapped his hands together in triumph.

  He stood a few metres from her.

  Her control vanished.

  Alana attacked. She twisted from the waist and in a half crouch slammed into Atolo’s body, knocking him to the ground. Her clenched fist ploughed into his face and she had the satisfaction of feeling the bone giving way under her onslaught. Warm blood splashed over her hand. She grabbed handfuls of his hair, smashing his head into the hard floor. She had her elbow wedged up under his chin, pressing inexorably on his jugular, when a blast of pain jolted through her.

  Still she retained her hold.

  She thought she could hear the shrill, high screams of women, as if from a great distance.

  Another burst of fire seared through her body.

  Stars exploded before her eyes and Alana fell into oblivion.

  * * *

  Chapter Fifteen

  The Ark cruised through space towards its objective. Soon it would reach the PONR, the event horizon at the very edge of the Karton Vortex, a massive black hole of heaving antimatter which sucked in anything which came too close to its ever expanding borders. Here the Ark would power up the Darkos sphere drive, continually spinning rings of energy which protected the ship and its occupants allowing them to pass through the entrance and propel them through the chosen palpitating tunnel to their point of exit.

  Once inside the Karton Vortex, all external communications would be lost.

  And once they had emerged from the hole, the distance between the ship and the outpost would be too vast to receive or send any exchanges with Cerciron.

  No way to know when Cerciron was under attack.

  No way to know when their last outpost had been destroyed.

  An eerie silence shrouded the Command Centre where the warriors performed their duties with grim determination, the bleakness in their spirit etched into the implacable planes of their faces. Tarak, feeling as if he had left his soul behind, stood in the midst of a holo display clad in full protective armour, dispassionately interpreting the scrolling data.

  “PONR in thirty sectons,” Magar stated in soft tones from his post.

  Tarak spared a quick look at his second-in-command, noting the desolation in his friend’s eyes. When they emerged from the Karton Vortex it would not be long before they reached the Besa System wherein lay the planets, Olman and Verrilous—home to the Elite Forces’ main garrisons.

  “Weaponry status, Magar.”

  ”Sir. Full quota, sufficient to inflict large scale damage to the Elite Fleet.”

  “But not sufficient to turn the tide of this war, aye my friend?”

  Magar spread his hands wide. “If we still had control of the Darkos system, we could defeat them.”

  “If we still had control of the Darkos system,” Tarak said wryly, “there would be no war.”

  “We cannot defeat them.” There was no question in Magar’s voice, rather a weary acceptance.

  “No. We merely give our remaining people a little more time of life.”

  “If only there was still such a thing as the Darkon people, instead of only warriors. It would make our sacrifice a little easier to bear.”

  “You are forgetting our slaves.”

  “No, I am not forgetting them. I hope they will leave Cerciron in time and find a haven far from this madness.”

  Knowing full well the other warriors were listening to their conversation, Tarak advised, “You are aware of my orders, Magar. The old voyager will take them and any others who wish to leave Cerciron, to safety.”

  There was a noticeable lightening of mood in the room. Not much but enough. Tarak and Magar exchanged a swift glance of understanding. The least they could do for their men was to give them the hope this suicide attack would gain those remaining on the last outpost sufficient time to escape.

  Tarak closed his eyes, and there imprinted on his very being hovered the face which had haunted him from the first moment he had beheld her on the Trader’s ship. His Alana. The courage and valour with which she met every new challenge awed him. Her generosity of spirit and the fire of her passion had held him in thrall ever since their first joining. Her fascinating blue-green eyes which either sparkled with defiance or glowed with the warmth of the emotion he knew was only for him. Her fire-bright hair and wondrously pale skin, her fierce independence, the stubbornly firm chin and soft mobile mouth that held such sweetness; he knew he would meet his maker with her name on his lips.

  He recalled what she had told him before they had left Cerciron. His fists clenched, the muscles in his arms and thighs bunched rigid with tension as he battled his need to return to her side. Rage blazed unchecked within him. He had heard the hurt in her voice, seen the desolation of loss
in her eyes.

  He would have done anything to give her ease. His need to enfold her into his arms and protect her till the end of time had shaken him to his core.

  But he had left her.

  He had turned away back to his duty.

  Left her with no comfort and he could not shake the feeling he had failed her in some essential way. Rolling his shoulders, he glared at the changing cyber data. There was a familiar prickling at the base of his neck. By the cloak of Cercis, something was wrong.

  Since they had left the docking station at Cerciron, all his senses had been screaming at him that danger threatened his slave. During the entire time of the voyage to the Karton Vortex, he had argued with himself.

  Tarak growled low in his throat and shifted his feet, ignoring his second-in-command’s surprised glance. She was nothing but trouble, he grumbled knowing full well he didn’t believe this at all. For the hundredth time, he went over the safety measures he had ordered in place prior to the Ark’s departure. His orders had been meticulous. There was no room for error in his carefully thought out plan. Yet still the hairs on his neck were standing on end as if jolted by a bolt of Darkon voltage.

  He prowled the length of the Command Centre. As he drew closer to the perimeter of the room, the walls undulated, a ripple of motion crossing the smooth surface as the ship’s sensors picked up his inner turmoil.

  Tarak stopped.

  He knew what such an event portended.

  All Darkos ships were intricately linked to their specific commanders by a nano engineering secret known only to those who held the highest positions within the Darkon Council. The Ark had registered his confusion and had gone into self preservation mode. As a consequence it would begin to run its series of checks and countermeasures to maximise the optimum chances of continued existence, both for the ship and its occupants. Soon it would begin to spit out alternate plans and options for his assessment.

  From its very bowels came a muted rumble of confusion. A surge of current flowed through the floor beneath his feet. His inner conflict was causing his ship to prepare for various scenarios. If Tarak did not reach a decision within the next few sectons and take control, his ship would make a decision for him.

  Tarak swung around to find his men standing at battle attention, their eyes fixed on him.

  He thought of his duty.

  He thought of the long cycles of training he had undergone, the aons of war and battles he had waged.

  The dead lay littered at his feet.

  The expectations of his father. The role all expected him to play, being the next and last Darkon leader had long disturbed his rest and played havoc with his beliefs—with the warrior he was born to be.

  He thought of the deeply entrenched traditions of the Darkon warriors. And he thought of their honour and proud history.

  Here and now, the decision he made would decide his destiny.

  His lips twisted.

  There could only be one choice for him.

  His path lay so clearly before him he wondered why he had taken so long to recognise it. He raised his chin high, in no doubt his course of action would end in dishonour and death. Just for one moment he imagined he could see his mother smiling with encouragement and then the image faded. He would not fail his Alana, he vowed. His female would not suffer the same indignities and miseries inflicted on his mother and sister. This valiant female, he would defend with his very body, as a shield if he had to.

  He would return to her. He had been a fool to have left her and the other females to such an uncertain fate. With the acrid taste of bitterness scorching bile through his gut, he finally acknowledged he had no faith in his father’s word.

  The goddess Cercis had sent Alana to him at what he believed to be their last cycle in this world. Cercis had given him a gift to fill the void of black emptiness that had existed within him for so long, a gift of light and warmth.

  A gift to be cherished and protected.

  A gift he should never have left to another’s care.

  He had no expectations of a future, but for a short while he had experienced a rapture which had taken him to the very stars. She was his destiny.

  “Ark, open all internal lines.” He waited, mentally counting the time until his order was carried out and his voice would be carried to all corners of the ship. He was impatient now to act and cursed the delay as time ticked by. Finally, Magar gave him the signal to proceed.

  An icy calm settled into his very bones. “This is Commander Tarak. The Ark is within range of the Karton Vortex, ready to make the jump to the Besa System. All have been briefed of our mission and know the situation is dire for us as the last of the Darkon people. Our mission—attack the Elite Forces’ garrisons in what I believe will prove to be our last battle. The Ark and all who traverse with her will perish.”

  He paused and paced to the centre of the Command Centre. His voice rang clear and cold. “Should we return now to Cerciron, there will be no mercy from the king. Indeed our honour would demand we expect no mercy. We will be stripped of our names and ranks. Our very existence will be eliminated from the Book of Darkos.”

  His First Officer checked his screen when Tarak paused. “PONR, twelve sectons.”

  “I am relinquishing command to First Officer Magar who will lead you in the coming battle. I will take one fighter ship and return to Cerciron. It is my intention to prepare the warriors left behind for the coming invasion. Provided my life is spared from my father’s wrath,” he added and smiled. “To all who serve on the Ark I wish you a swift journey to your lasting rest. I am honoured to have fought by your sides.”

  With long strides, he reached Magar, who appeared to be speechless. Tarak observed with dry humour his friend’s gaping jaw before clasping Magar’s arm and drawing him close. Looking at his comrade for the last time, he smiled again, at peace now his decision had been made. “No messages, old friend?” he teased.

  Magar shook himself rather like a draptile wakening from a long hiatus. “There are no messages as I am going with you.”

  Surprised and a little annoyed, Tarak drew back. “I need you to command the Ark.”

  “There are many officers here Tarak, who are capable of command. Give the command to one of them as I am going with you. Do not bother to give me an order to the contrary as I will not obey. You should know by now I would follow you into the pits of Zersk and beyond. Old habits are hard to break,” he said with the undercurrent of lazy amusement which characterised his voice.

  ”Ten sectons to PONR,” Wray announced.

  With one sweeping long look around the Ark’s Command Centre he committed the serious faces before him to memory, and Tarak gave his men a quick smile before striding to the exit. Behind him Magar issued instructions to Wyameh. He did not wait for his friend, the fighter needed to depart from the Ark before PONR was reached or it would be sucked into the Karton Vortex. He was saddened at the thought of leaving the ship he had commanded for so long but the die was cast.

  Tarak smoothed a hand over the side of the Ark with affection as he exited from the chute, feeling the wall ripple in response his eyes already fixed on the line of fighters standing at the ready in the departure bay. His mind plotted and discarded plans for the forthcoming engagement. He punched in his code on the entry portal of his personal fighter, when to his astonishment he heard a noise which had him spinning round on his feet. The massive outer blast door of the Ark began their closing sequence.

  Teeth bared in anger, he contacted the Command Centre via the compu on his arm. “Wyameh, open the outer door. That is an order.”

  “Tarak, wait!” Magar ran across the runway.

  “We are all going with you.” Magar reached his side and grabbed Tarak’s upper arm. Before the other could speak, he continued, “All on the Ark have voted to return. Already Wyameh is resetting the co-ordinates.”

  “We are too close to PONR for the Ark to turn around safely,” Tarak snapped.

  Magar grinned.
“The Ark can do it. Emergency thrusters have been engaged.”

  Tarak hesitated, and a shudder ripped through the ship. He heard the roar of the power drive as they went into action, reversing the massive structure away from the destructive pull of the Karton Vortex.

  “This is certain death for all of us,” he growled.

  Magar shrugged and spread his hands. “Our destiny lies with our leader. And Tarak, the Ark is waiting for its Commander to take control.”

  “You are all fools. Although I will not deny your presence at my side gives me great encouragement. Very well, we will return to the Command Centre,” said Tarak in exasperation, wincing as he heard the scream of the Ark’s engines. “It will be a miracle of Cercis if this force does not tear us apart.”

  Magar clapped him on the back and together they returned to the Command Centre.

  Emergency procedures were implemented and the next few sectons were hectic with activity. Tarak surveyed their actions with grim satisfaction and waited. On his orders, the Ark terminated all non essential activities. Any areas not inhabited by the warriors were sealed off and all support systems to those chambers ceased. Lighting was at a minimum, reduced to a faint white glow from the ceiling and marking walkways. All else was darkness. Alarms rang down the long corridors and galleys.

  The force field of the Karton Vortex sucked at his ship and from his position in the Command Chair, Tarak could feel his body stretch painfully while the Ark struggled to free itself. The noise was horrendous and he gripped the consols harder, his whole being merging with the Ark willing her success. He heard the shriek of metal rendering, a long drawn out sound of an animal in its death throes. The floor beneath his booted feet contracted fiercely. The ship shuddered violently as if it would be rendered into two.

  Then the Ark surged forward. The alarms ceased and in the quiet the reassuring thrum of her powerful engines could be heard. The ship quickened her velocity and sped free of the pull of the Vortex.

  Exultant cheers came from the warriors and enthusiastic back slapping was indulged in. Tarak allowed them their moment of victory. He released his grip on the metal arms, soothing his hands over the warm surface, reaching deep within his spirit to the core of his ship. He let his pride and satisfaction flow forth.