Goddess of the Galacticide Episode 56 - Wrong
- Bert-Oliver Boehmer
- 1 day ago
- 6 min read
Cha Dzeeny had to stop this.
The Hikshuur and her new companion, the fast long-range freighter Pyahwi, raced toward the closest darkstring connector to leave Omech Chaa behind—and in ruins. Linuka Omga’s plan saw the two ships out-warping the wave of destruction she prepared to unleash.
“They’ll need to transmit the trigger sequence, or whatever sets off the causality destruction, to the device on the moon. The slave AIs in the memory bank can’t do that, but skipper Oonzu or Tswa sni sni could.”
“What are you talking about, Dzeeny?” asked Baaii.
“A way to stop this. I’d hate to delete their consciousnesses, but without the slave AIs there won’t be a trigger. We need to scrub those memory banks.”
Baaii gasped at Cha, her eyes seeking familiarity. The look pained Cha; they had been close, and now she stared at him like he was of an unknown species.
“The Shaajis,” said Baaii, “has decided. The Assembly wanted to kill her and Shaajis Vriishany, and now they receive their punishment.”
She looked over her shoulder as if to reassure the corridor’s door to the crew quarters was still closed. She looked back at him, shaking her head.
“Cha, the Assembly is the enemy!”
“The Assembly is. I haven’t forgotten what they did to my unit. But meat merchants in the market, workers at the spaceport, or patrol pilots are not the enemy. It is one thing to dismantle the corrupt chamber of politicians, but we are about to unleash a weapon of mass destruction on a major population center.”
“You heard the Shaajis: there will be no destruction. No one dies. We just cut the influence of the Assembly to free the galaxy of their rule.”
“You don’t know that. This bomb was built by our worst enemies. The highest Võmémééř warlord brought these weapons not as a tactical deterrent. He brought them to destroy us—permanently. Kel Chaada and many others died to prevent this. Shaajis Sya died to prevent this, and now we’re doing what the Võmémééř didn’t get around to? Bombing our own capital?”
Baaii sighed.
“Listen to yourself, Dzeeny. Kel Chaada. The ‘capital’. He didn’t save us. He made the Assembly more powerful by adding the silicates and the machines. The only capital I care about is on Dziilaa Sok, where our ancestors are from.”
Had he been like her? There was a simpler time when he was a proud royal guard on Aloo Dash, living a life of clear purpose in the service of the Shaajis. It was she who sent him alongside Kel Chaada to a distant galaxy. The Ancestrate was a vast nation, but it was still small compared to everything else. Baaii had not shared this experience. Did he become confused, a traitor, or had he simply evolved, leaving her behind?
“You’re talking about Shaajis Vriishany then? Because Linuka Omga is Kel Chaada’s daughter. Have you talked to Vriishany? Is she supporting the deployment of an alien weapon against civilians?”
“Revered Vriishany is pure and kind, a symbol, a religious figurehead, but she is not our leader in this fight.”
“You’re the one bringing up ancestral bloodlines. Vriishany is certainly pure—pure Aloo Dashaad. Ask her if she condones blasting the Levy Fleet out of this reality. Almost 40% of these crews are from Aloo Dash.”
Baaii’s frown showed more than sadness. Disappointment. The bitter kind.
“I forgot you’re not one of us anymore. Levy Fleet marine. I get it. You found a new home, new people. You’re loyal to them now, worrying about the precious Levy Fleet.”
The floor vibrated, and the faint eeriness of a crying child echoed through the Hikshuur’s metallic bones. Hissing, rumbling from the airlock section. The skipper had dropped a QT buoy and was spinning the fusion reactor up for max output. The ship was getting ready for warp, and the radio repeater was left to transmit a fatal trigger signal to the bomb left on Omech Chaa.
He was running out of time.
“Maybe I have changed,” he said to Baaii, “but so has Linuka Omga. She is not the same person who we witnessed leaving for the Assembly world.”
“She’s young. They tried to kill her, Dzeeny. It changes people, you should know that.”
Cha Dzeeny had followed Linuka Omga, the young woman who saved him from brain death inside a computer experiment through hair-raising infiltrations, gory melees, and hostile environments together, but she—traumatized or not—had always remained true to herself. She had made surprising decisions, not all of them he supported wholeheartedly, but there was always a core of well-meaning, of good intentions, of struggle for a greater good. This light was gone. Harsh vengeance had replaced it. He sighed. It could happen. He had seen good people turn cold. But he never once thought Linuka Omga could become one of them.
“Let’s talk to her,” he said, holding up his empty palms, “not do anything rash. Just talk.”
“Dzeeny, the Shaajis has spoken. The matter is settled.”
Cha walked past Baaii and pressed the door opener for the dustbin—home for the marines for an orbit now.
“I’ll talk to her.”
The door swished shut, and left Baaii and her curses behind. He pressed a short combination of alien symbols on an extra makeshift console near the door, installed by Oonzu when he was transporting live animals, preventing an accidental opening of the storage doors. It wouldn’t take Baaii long to figure out the Traaz symbols, but it would buy him time.
Time to sort out the marines from the holy warriors. Who could he trust? He needed guns and no-questions-asked. Yots smiled at him. She was loyal, but got close to Linuka Omga and would have to split her loyalty between her team leader and her religious icon.
A quick scan across the room. Three. That was it. Cha had three people in this universe he truly trusted.
“Doyuu, Mehu, and Kso, up on me.”
No hesitation. The young men had just joked around, but their smiles left when they saw Cha’s face.
“What is it, boss?”
“We have a situation. I need cool heads, straight faces. Are you with me?”
Three nods.
“Get your automatics, sidearms holstered. No time for other gear. Don’t ask questions, don’t answer if anyone’s curious. Then come here and stand guard at this door. No one comes in—no one. No royal guards, none of us, no one.”
He knew the questions they had. “What about the Traaz skipper? What if the Shaajis demands entry?” The fact that they didn’t ask told him he had chosen well.
The three returned within moments. The door console blinked red. Someone tried to enter the room and was blocked by the animal-control short circuit. Baaii.
“Hold fire. Automatics are for intimidation only, got it? You stand firm, but no hostilities. Understood?”
“Yes, boss.”
He nodded to the men, walked over to his bunk, grabbed his automatic, ignoring the curious or worried looks. Chatter stopped when he unlocked the animal trap on the other side of the dustbin, slid out quickly, and re-engaged the low-level security from the other side. The marines knew something was up. He caught a glimpse of a red-faced Baaii.
The next bulkhead closing behind him locked out all human voices, furious, and otherwise.
Cold storage was to the left. He had a mental picture of where the memory units were strapped to the floor. He pressed his automatic’s buttstock firmly into his shoulder pocket, flipped the selector to burst-mode. Four shots, from the leftmost unit to the right, one burst each, twelve bullets total, enough damage to neutralize the slave AIs. No AIs, no trigger mechanism.
If the Shaajis still wanted to talk after the shooting, he would gladly surrender to her mercy. But he doubted he’d receive any.
His body became light, his thoughts dizzy. The door in front of him zoomed away as his vision narrowed. Tall brush lined the walkway. Plants from all over the Ancestrate. The air was crisp with a sweet aroma, the smell of home. He forgot what it was called, but he knew it was his home. And hers. The young woman in front of him. He lowered his weapon. She was not a threat; quite the opposite. He had sworn to protect her. She talked to him. The wind ripped the garden away, leaving the two inside a dark metal walkway. He knew the woman’s name, but only called her Shaajis. Only when spoken to first. He wished he knew his own name.
“Commander Dzeeny,” said the Shaajis. That was it—his name. He was a commander of the Royal Guards. The Shaajis was his ward, his sovereign, his high priestess.
“Split your marines between both freighters and ready the Pyahwi for warp. We’re returning to Green Wave.”
Commander Dzeeny had been to Green Wave. A dangerous place where the Shaajis would need his protection. He was eager to please—ready to serve.
Cha heard himself say, “Yes, Shaajis.” It was his words, his voice, his duty, his oath.
It was also…
Wrong.
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