Goddess of the Galacticide Episode 16 - Fast. Final. Fatal.
- Bert-Oliver Boehmer
- 1 day ago
- 5 min read
“Pirates are waiting for easy prey in the darkstrings,” said Linuka Omga, “unarmed vessels like ours. Why are you passing by this convoy?”
Skipper Oonzu’s mad swing-by dash out of the central government system led the freighter into the warp-efficient lane of a darkstring, but no one in their right mind traveled these cosmic filaments alone.
“This convoy will receive word from the Levy fleet soon, with a search-and-arrest order for you and your friends,” said the alien, “and a description of the Hikshuur. We will warp once or twice and then join a convoy for the long haul to your home world.”
Dziilaa Sok. Linuka Omga’s birthplace, now part of the reconstituted Second Ancestrate, a political bastard created by scheming Assembly members deposing a young, naïve Shaajis. Returning there meant she’d be hunted by the local authorities, and by the long reach of the Assembly.
“Won’t it be suspicious if we join at a darkstring connector in the middle of nowhere? Do we need to bribe the escort captains?” asked Linuka.
“You’re not paying me enough to buy a spot in a convoy, my puny human. We’ll have to rely on my untainted, salvaged transponders. And that the Hikshuur is a Traaz vessel.”
“How does that help?”
“Convoys in human-settled space are encouraged to add Traaz vessels, hoping this entices the Traaz realm to lend more of their large warships to the escorts in this spiral arm.”
“Encouraged?” asked Linuka. “By whom?”
“The Assembly.”
“There is a first time for everything,” said Linuka, “never got saved by politics before.”
A wave of amusement radiated from the Traaz, a species notorious for struggling with human humor. Linuka and the marines were far from his first close contact with the soft bipeds. Oonzu seemed content with how things were going—his payment, their chances to make it to their destination—but there was a nagging insecurity, too. An unspoken question enveloped the small vessel: what’s next?
“You should talk to your fellow humans,” said Oonzu. There is no privacy in space, was an old saying, and for Linuka it included her thoughts, too, it seemed. “I can feel their shuffle. They are restless. Warriors without a mission.”
Did the Traaz speak from experience? He wasn’t born a smuggler, and most members of his species had fought in some conflict or another during their long lives. He was right.
***
Linuka hurried through the central corridor, connecting the cockpit with the cargo hold, exposing her ears to the screams of a panicked child dying a thousand deaths inside the fusion torus. No amount of space travel made humans immune to the sound of a reactor at full energy output. The Hikshuur was getting ready to warp.
The main cargo storage lock fell shut behind her, cutting out most of the eerie noise. Cha Dzeeny’s marines dubbed the room the ‘dustbin’. Despite the unappealing name, they made their home in the spacious hold. Clouds of smelly dust created by Oonzu’s crazy maneuvering had settled, and the foldable animal cages had been scrubbed clean and converted into sets of basic furniture: bunks, benches, tables. The dead had moved on to the freighter’s cold storage, awaiting a more dignified vigil once they reached Dziilaa Sok.
The eyes of the living rested on Linuka. This group expected more than a mission briefing; they wanted a rousing speech. Needed one.
“Defenders of the galaxy,” said Linuka.
“I bow to you,” said the marines in unison, without skipping a cycle.
Linuka chuckled. “I see you’ve heard this before.” Her mother’s famous rallying speech to the people holding the defensive line against the Võmémééř, given only a shift before her death.
“When these words were first spoken, we believed the Dark Ones could be beaten by force, with modern weapons, strong ships, brave crews, and solid tactics. We learned in the hardest possible way that this was wrong. Our extra-galactic enemy required cunning infiltration, underhanded blows and radical new thinking to be decimated.”
She looked around the dustbin. The marines didn’t add a sound to the faint screaming of the ship’s reactor.
“And decimate them, we did. But they are resilient puygok.”
It was the marines’ turn to chuckle. Linuka knew they weren’t strangers to cursing, but maybe they expected their Shaajis to be a younger, female version of the mystics they were familiar with. Dry, stoic men, interpreting the murals in a condescending way, making each faithful feel stupid.
“Their ability to procreate quickly and in immense numbers allowed them to bounce back within a few orbits and launch another assault on our galaxy. And once more after our recent victory, the Assembly wants us to believe the war is over. But I suspect there is a Võmémééř breeding male left, a so-called diin. Left alone, the Dark Ones will be back, maybe within one human generation. I intend to find this last remaining diin and kill it. But I cannot do this alone.”
“How can we help, my Shaajis?” asked Private Yots. “We’re so few.”
“My father,” said Linuka, “traveled to another galaxy to take on an alien hyper-tech civilization counting quadrillions. His team was not much larger than this.” She made a waving gesture across the room. “The numbers matter little when the resolve is absolute!”
This sounded poetically wise, but was a bit of a lie, she had to admit. Father’s team was small but included Traaz warriors, Isonomih in battle harnesses, and Dark AI. They also traveled on a Võmémééř battle cruiser, not a small freighter. But the principle was still correct.
“Our small numbers will be our shield. The Dark Ones don’t know we exist. For the Assembly, we’re fugitives, expected to run, to hide. But you’re marines, and you will do neither. You shall confront your enemies, paint your own murals, strike fast, and make that blow final and fatal! What we will accomplish together, with the help of the ancestral spirit, is not simply your next mission—it’s your purpose!”
The marines rose to their feet, shaking their right fists at an unseen opponent: “Fast. Final. Fatal!”
Linuka didn’t expect this unified response, but smiled at the cheering men and women. Some hugged, some pushed each other in jest. No one but Cha Dzeeny approached Linuka. She was still the untouchable Shaajis, but felt she had lowered the unseen barrier of tradition, at least a little.
“Great speech, my Shaajis,” said Cha, “just what they needed. I appreciate you using the motto of the Marines!”
“I did?” The words had come to her, rung true, felt right, but she had never heard them before.
“I agree with your assessment, Shaajis. No one expects us to go to Dziilaa Sok so soon. We will have surprise on our side, but it won’t last long. We need equipment, weapons.”
Linuka nodded. “Yes. Please think of everyone at home who could help us. Our illustrious skipper might also have some connections who are less official. But first and foremost, we will need information.”
Cha Dzeeny’s forehead wrinkled. “The location of the last diin?”
“I know an expert for all things Võmémééř. I’m certain he can help us. He is my former tutor.”
His shoulders relaxed. “I had feared this part would be harder, my Shaajis. Sounds like at least this man is a friend.”
“No,” said Linuka. “He’s not a man. He’s a former slave AI. And he hates me.”
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