Authors: Tony Gonzales
According to Scripture, every True Amarr must face a trial of faith.
Victor believed that hers was to become the living embodiment of the eternal battle between good and evil.
As the link between this world and the everlasting, her burden was necessary to learn the true nature of man.
And now that she learned to control the evil within her—as all men must—Empress Jamyl was at last fit to rule.
Victor accepted this without hesitation, as did her followers and guardians from the Matriarch Citadel, all of whom now formed her Imperial court.
She promised that she would never willfully breach their minds again.
But her word, precious as it was, didn’t make it any less unnerving that such a violation was even possible at all.
Victor was no longer the man he used to be.
The otherworldly struggle taking place within Empress Jamyl was being waged right before his eyes; he was witness to things that no living soul has any right to see.
Yet as her captain, he shared in her burden and in her commitment to break the grip of evil on humankind.
The Templars would achieve that.
He was sure of it.
There were now thirteen prototypes ready for a live deployment.
Their capabilities were impressive and frightening at once: These living, breathing immortal beings could become the army that would end all wars; they were the soldiers of the apocalypse.
An end to killing was within reach.
Everything they had sacrificed, everything that Empress Jamyl had fought for, would be vindicated.
At last, the Amarr Empire could lead New Eden to a new age of universal peace and prosperity.
Studying the report of their final evaluations, Victor tried to see only the data that would validate his hope in the Templars.
Yet something else was there, a blemish that could be nothing or the deceitful face of something malignant.
In fact, all the scientists assigned to the Templar development program saw this as well.
And the root of it was essentially alien technology—these Sleeper implants—which were still not fully understood.
The simple truth was that each of these soldiers described experiencing a vision at the point of death during their training.
By itself, this wasn’t unusual.
It was that all thirteen described the
same
vision.
Lord Victor forced himself to regard the matter as materially insignificant and unworthy of delaying their deployment any further.
* * *
SHE WAS WAITING FOR HIM
in the palace reliquary.
It was there, surrounded by tokens from Amarr’s glorious past—weapons wielded by ancient generals on battlefields where faith reclaimed wayward peoples; parchments from antiquity sealing the transition of entire nations to the Holy Empire’s embrace—that history would be made once again.
“My lady,” he said, bowing.
The Empress was staring at relics from Vak’Atioth—fragments of singed, golden-hued starship armor, believed to have been from the battleship captained by Admiral Faus Akredon, the field commander of that doomed fleet.
It took all of Victor’s concentration not to regard the historical and very personal implications to her.
“Is the crusade that will bear my name upon us?”
she asked.
“Yes, Your Majesty,” he answered.
“The first Templars are ready.”
Exhaling deeply, she turned to face him.
Though she remained beautiful, her inner struggle was taking its toll.
“I pity them, Victor.
Their suffering will be unimaginable.”
“Sacrifice of and for the noble, my lady,” he said.
“We only presume our actions are noble,” she answered, reaching out to touch the armor.
“Their sacrifice will bring an end to bloodshed,” he said.
“If that happens, it could be there is no blood left to spill,” she said, turning away from the relics.
“And we immortals are all that remain.”
Lord Victor took a moment to let her reflect before speaking again.
“There is a Minmatar colony in the Amamake system,” he started.
“The planet is called Pike’s Landing.
We’ve lost more than twelve thousand soldiers trying to reclaim it.
We believe this is the ideal proving ground for the Templars.”
Empress Jamyl turned back toward the relics of Vak’Atioth.
“The performance of the prototypes has been flawless,” Victor continued.
“With some diversionary support from conventional forces, we think they can take the surface outposts intact.”
“I feel a kinship with these Templars,” Jamyl said.
“We understand what sacrifice means.
All but one are True Amarr?”
“That is correct, my lady,” Victor answered.
“The Caldari specimen was the first successful application of the technology.
But insofar as skills and ability go, he is identical to the rest.”
“I hope he suffers the most.”
Victor stood motionless as she looked over her shoulder toward him.
“Is there anything else I should know before I consent to this?”
“No, my lady.”
“Then so be it.
The word is given, Victor.
Unleash your Templars, and may God have mercy on us all.”
16
PURE BLIND REGION—MDM8-J CONSTELLATION
SYSTEM 5ZXX-K—PLANET V, MOON 17
MORDU’S LEGION HQ STATION
“Let’s be clear about something,” Mordu started.
He was wearing an imitation Amarr bishop’s miter; a patch haphazardly sewn on bore the word
Fun
with a line drawn through it.
Nonsensical insignia dominated by sad faces and the word
Sinner!
adorned the priest’s robes on his shoulders.
“We do things a little differently than what you’re used to.”
Korvin Lears stared blankly at his new benefactor and began wondering just what he had gotten himself into.
“You’re part of the family now,” the old man continued.
“Just about anything you could possibly need, we can provide.
And when your family calls for help, you have to be there.
I mean that.
”
The former Federation pilot considered this and thought better of speaking just yet.
“We’re both here because of corporate-sponsored fratricide,” Mordu continued, walking to a small bar in his office.
He produced two tumblers made of either crystal or diamond, Korvin couldn’t tell which, except for the fact they were very expensive.
“See, my generation was able to convince yours that this war of ethnicities was justified … and we fell for it.
Politicians love the naïve.
You’re probably hearing voices, right?”
“I’m sorry?”
Korvin asked, taken aback.
Mordu hadn’t turned around and was inspecting a bottle of spirits that appeared very old.
“Murder enough people and eventually they start talking back to you,” he said, pouring the amber-colored beverage.
“At least, that was my experience.
It starts with whispers, and then the occasional shout.
You hear conversations, but not clearly enough to discern spoken words.
You see them from the corner of your eye, turn and find nothing but thin air.
Does any of that sound familiar?”
Mordu turned around, holding two tumblers of hard grain alcohol.
Whether he chose to admit such or not, Korvin certainly knew those voices, and for a moment the visage of charred corpses and frozen death masks swirled before him once again.
His eyes glassed over.
Mordu set the tumbler in front of him.
“You’ll be right at home with us.”
Korvin stared at the glass, reflecting on what he had left behind by coming here.
He had no true friends left in the Federation, just passing acquaintances who kept their distance.
The typical bonding between soldiers during war eluded him throughout his service, and the absence of meaningful camaraderie hurt more than he realized.
In his isolation, he found refuge only by immersing deeper into his craft—his gift for piloting weapons of mass destruction.
The only people he loved were his parents, and now they were living in shame.
Immortal or not, Korvin found very little reason to live.
“To our many victims,” Mordu said, raising his glass.
“May we honor their lives and those who will fall to our hands tomorrow.”
Korvin frowned.
“What do you mean by that?”
Mordu took a sip, never breaking eye contact.
“We’re in the mercenary business,” he said.
“This haven for schizophrenic ex-patriots is funded by doing what soldiers do best.
The Legion exists because war is an inevitable condition of man, and though not everyone has the stomach to wage it, most people agree that it’s a necessary evil.”
Mordu smiled at the perplexed expression on his guest’s face.
“What did you think this was—free housing?
Every man needs to earn his keep somehow.”
Korvin stared at his drink.
“I came here to get away from war, I didn’t even realize I was—”
“We do what presidents, dictators, kings, CEOs, cultists, and assorted vermin don’t have the balls or the means to accomplish themselves,” Mordu continued.
“That is the market we serve.
It has existed for as long as civilization.
And while we provide a sanctuary for those burdened by the killing they’ve done for the wrong reasons, we will demand that you kill for the right ones.”
“The ‘right ones’?”
Korvin asked.
“So then we’re still playing the role of God here—”
“Only I get to play God,” Mordu said, patting his own chest.
“Me.
I make those choices so you don’t have to.”
“Why would anyone trust you to make them?”
“Because I trust myself to make those calls better than Jacus Roden or Tibus Heth.”
“That’s not saying much.”
Mordu narrowed his eyes as he took another sip.
Korvin left his untouched.
“There are such things as just wars, Lears.
And I do my best to make sure the Legion fights in them.
Once I had to put down a Federation admiral who was abusing his power as a provider of “security” in a losec colony.
The following week I authorized the assassination of a Caldari general who was stealing troop provisions and selling them to the black market.”
The old man adjusted his miter and smiled.
“Did that ‘black market’ happen to have any Legion customers?”
Korvin asked.
“Mercenaries are nourished by the spoils of war,” Mordu answered, downing the rest of the drink in one gulp.
“The fact that civilians died in both ops was unfortunate, but it’s my personal judgment that mankind benefited with both men eliminated.”
“Means justifying the ends and all that,” Korvin said.
“Looks like I’ve found another uniform telling me who to point a gun at.
You’re dressed for a costume party and drinking whiskey.
You’ve given me every reason to trust your judgment intimately—”
“Don’t ask me to explain the calculus of my morality,” Mordu said.
“Just trust that I do my homework carefully and that no decision to use force is casual.”
“I suppose you manage every Legion contract, then,” Korvin asked, “and that you get enough business to support this little empire?”
“That’s right,” Mordu answered.
“Our services include more than just firepower.
We do a lot of tech work, electronic surveillance, even some R and D.
We lease industrial infrastructure to privateers, provide populations for terraforming colonies, construct outposts on frontier worlds, and have even crewed starships for empire navies.
We’ve made strong allies and powerful enemies.
But on the whole, war has been very good to us.”
A subtle chime rang out, and the expression on Mordu’s face brightened as the office door slid open.
Jonas Varitec was standing in the entrance, admiring the priest’s outfit, still unaccustomed to the Legion commander’s bizarre antics.
“You wanted to see me?”
“Captain Varitec,” Mordu said proudly, hurrying back to his bar to prepare a drink.
“Welcome!
Please, join us.”
The Drake captain was taller than Korvin expected, though older than he remembered from their encounter in space.
“Lears, I believe you owe this man your gratitude,” Mordu said.
“To be honest, this conversation was making me wonder about thanking him at all.”
“I’d say not blasting your ship to bits was a kind gesture,” Mordu remarked, filling another tumbler.
“You’d be getting skull-fucked by a Federation interrogator about now if it weren’t for him.”
“No thanks are necessary,” Jonas said, accepting the drink.
“Excellent,” Mordu said.
“Because you two are working together now.”
Both men paused.
“There’s a Minmatar colony called Core Freedom on the planet Pike’s Landing.
It is the only world in the Amamake system that doesn’t need terraforming for habitation, and, as such, a rather valuable bit of real estate that the Amarrians have repeatedly tried taking.
They’ve refrained from bombarding it from space because of pesky planetary defenses—and because they very much want to take the industrial outposts there intact.”
“What kind of ground forces are we talking?”
Jonas asked.
“Remnants of a Valklear battalion,” Mordu answered.
“They can’t reequip or resupply because of Republic Fleet commitments elsewhere on the front.
I’m sending both of you to evaluate a contract to assist the Valklears on the ground
and
in space until their own government can help them.
Jonas and his team will evaluate surface fortifications.
And you, Lears, will size up a strategy for how to defend it from space.
You leave in a few days; I’d like for you to meet the captain’s crew beforehand.
Any questions?”
Jonas was beaming.
“Thank you for the opportunity, sir.”
“You’ve earned it,” Mordu said.
“The battalion commander is General Vlad Kintreb.
We actually met years ago, just after the Republic was founded.
He’s a good man.
They must really be suffering to ask us for help, so use discretion: You won’t get anywhere unless you respect their pride.”
“Understood, sir.”
Korvin felt numb.
He’d gone from one universe to the next, seamlessly continuing his charge as a murdering tyrant.
“Lears, you’re sitting next to one of the most promising captains in the Legion.
He’s also the only person in this organization that’s ever met Empress Jamyl.
Perhaps someday he’ll share that story.”
“Lucky you,” Korvin muttered.
“You have no idea,” Jonas said.
“And Captain, you’re sitting next to one of the Federation’s better pilots,” Mordu said.
“He’s certified for orbital bombardments, which I’m sure you’ll find useful.”
“I’ll drink to that,” Jonas said.
“As will I,” Mordu said.
Korvin stood up from his chair.
“With all due respect, I won’t,” he said.
“I’ll do what you ask of me, but only because I don’t seem to have a choice.”
“Korvin,” Jonas said gently.
“Just give me a chance, and someday you’ll make that choice willingly.”
“You’ll understand if I have my doubts,” Korvin answered, walking toward the door.
“Doubts?”
Jonas asked.
“I’ve just been asked to entrust the lives of my crew to a Federation traitor.”
Korvin stopped dead in his tracks.
“But I guess I’ll just have to give hope a chance,” Jonas said, raising his glass.
* * *
KORVIN DIDN’T SAY MUCH
during the ride from Mordu’s office.
“You know,” Jonas started.
“Most people around here would kill for the chance to spend that much time with the old man.
You should consider yourself lucky.”
Ignoring him, Korvin fixated on the scenery zipping by as the shuttle car steered itself through airborne highways flowing with traffic.
Several hundred thousand people made their residence at the Legion station in Pure Blind.
Mordu didn’t build it, of course.
Pulling off such a colossal feat was beyond even his formidable skills and wealth at the time.
Close inspection of the frame beams and electronics of the massive structure would reveal the serial numbers left by the mega-corporations who built it for the Caldari Navy.
When the State withdrew from Pure Blind decades ago, they abandoned it.
Mordu and his mercenaries seized the opportunity, beating back pirates and other privateers with like-minded ambitions.
From the shuttle car’s vantage, it appeared like any other station in the State: huge promenades filled with vendors, businesses, and flora; spectacular views overlooking the station’s cavernous main hangar; industrial complexes connected by tram and rail systems; and several indoor cities surrounded by highways—all familiar, Korvin thought, except for the ethnicities.
Intaki, Gallente, Mannar, Jin-Mei, Deteis, Achura, and Civire bloodlines were all commingling and thriving under one proverbial roof.
This was raw humanity, the teeming mass of anonymous souls who made up most of civilization—strata far below the elite culture that Korvin hailed from.
He saw their cultural diversity in storefront designs and markets, in the ads projected along the causeways, and in the clothes that people wore.
Goods and services that were unavailable or outright illegal in some nations or star systems were all openly for sale here, most of it for just a small pittance in the local currency.
The car pulled away from the main platform and hovered toward a courtyard, descending into a niche between two oversize trees.
Jonas pocketed the datapad that he’d been typing on most of the trip and slapped the door release.
A wave of richly flavored air hit Korvin; spicy, eclectic aromas drifted in from a patio café surrounded by multicultural restaurants.
There were a few dozen people eating and chatting in dialects that Korvin recognized but couldn’t understand.