Armageddon

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Authors: Jasper T. Scott

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BOOK: Armageddon
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DARK SPACE VI: Armageddon

(3rd Edition)

by Jasper T. Scott

 

http://www.JasperTscott.com

@JasperTscott

 

Copyright © 2015 by Jasper T. Scott

THE AUTHOR RETAINS ALL RIGHTS
FOR THIS BOOK

 

Reproduction or transmission of this book, in whole or in part, by electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or by any other means is strictly prohibited, except with prior written permission from the author. You may direct your inquiries to
[email protected]

Cover design by Thien A.K.A “ShooKooBoo”

This book is a work of fiction. All names, places, and incidents described are products of the writer’s imagination and any resemblance to real people or life events is purely coincidental.

Table of Contents

 

Acknowledgements

Six books in three years. It’s been a wild ride. In that time you, the readers, have bought over 250,000 books, and I couldn’t be more thankful. Whether you write a review, buy a book, help edit an advance reader copy, or all of the above, you’ve all made this an incredible journey, one I hope to continue on with you for many years to come.

As always I have to thank my wife and stepson for this book, because they had to put up with my obsessive working habits!

I also owe a big thanks to my editor, Aaron, who managed to get this manuscript back to me in record time, and my cover designer, Thien, who came through at the last minute with an exceptional cover.

And finally, thanks to all of my beta readers, without whom, this 1st Edition would be a mess of missing words, muddled prose, and cockamamy (that’s right, cockamamy) mistakes. In particular, I’d like to thank, Bill Schmidt, Clair Gassoway, Daniel Eloff, Dani J. Caile, Dave Cantrell, Dwight, Gregor, Gary Watts, Gary Wilson, H. Huyler, Ian Seccombe, Indra Johnson, Jim Meinen, Michael Madsen, Peter Hughes, Rob Dobozy, Rafael Gutierrez, Rod Gotty, Shane Haylock, Sandra Roan, and Wade Whitaker. You guys made editing this book a whole lot easier!

Thank you, all of you!

To those who dare,

And to those who dream.

To everyone who’s stronger than they seem.

“Believe in me /
I know you’ve waited for so long /
Believe in me /
Sometimes the weak become the strong”
—STAIND,
Believe

Dramatis Personae

Ortane Family

Ethan Ortane

Alara Ortane

Trinity Ortane

Atton Ortane / Darin Thardris

 

Heston Family

Strategian Hoff Heston

Destra Heston (clone)

Atta Heston (clone)

 

Avilonians

Valari Thardris / Neona Markonis

Grand Overseer Vladin Thardris / Omnius

Strategian Galan Rovik

Jena Faros

Lena Faros

Nulls

Farah Hale

Ceyla Corbin

 

Human Refugees

Destra Heston (original)

Atta Heston (original)

The Rictans

Rictan One Sergeant Cavanaugh - Deceased

Rictan Two Lieutenant “Magnum”

Rictan Three “Hop”

Rictan Four “Rockhead”

Rictan Five “Streak”

Rictan Six “Blades”

Rictan Seven “Carnage”

Rictan Eight - Deceased

 

Gors

Torv

Matriarch Shara

General Raka

 

Sythians

Shallah “The Supreme One”

Queen Tavia

Lady Kala

High Lord Kaon

High Lord Shondar

High Lord Worval

High Lord Rossk

High Lord Thorian

High Lord Quaris

 

Drones

Drone 767 / Bretton Hale

Drone 999 “Triple Nine” / Lena Faros

 

Others

Captain Marla Picara

Therius “The Redemptor”

Part One: The Shadow of Death

—The Year 11 AE (After Exodus to Dark Space) Twelve Years Since the Original Sythian Invasion—

“There He will remove the cloud of gloom, the shadow of death that hangs over His people.”

—The Etherian Codices

Chapter 1

D
estra Heston sat on a hard cot in her prison cell, staring at the cracks in the castcrete floor between her feet. She eyed one toe, which had begun to peek out through a hole in her left boot. That hole had been worn not from the month of being stranded in the frozen warrens of Noctune, but from the past five months of endlessly pacing around her cell.

It was hard to understand her captivity. After daring to explore the labyrinthine depths of Noctune and its ancient ruins, she and the other survivors from the expedition had stumbled into none other than the lord of all the Sythians, Shallah.

They’d all been promptly thrown into isolated jail cells, and since then the Sythians only came to give them food, water, and soap. Their captors never spoke, never lingered. They hadn’t interrogated or executed any of the prisoners—at least not that she knew about. All she knew was the endless monotony of her cell.

From what little Shallah had divulged at the moment of their capture, Destra had realized that the Sythians were hiding from Omnius, the ruler of Avilon. That was a strange concept given that what she had learned of the Sythians was that they were impossibly numerous and they had invaded the Adventa galaxy to find new worlds to colonize. Was Omnius powerful enough to frighten a species whose warships numbered in the millions, and whose people numbered in the quadrillions?

Destra didn’t know much about Omnius, but based on what she’d learned from Admiral Hale and the rest of the Avilonian rebels who had traveled with them on their fateful expedition to Noctune, he was a force to be reckoned with. Omnius was an artificial intelligence who had somehow managed to clone and resurrect everyone who had died during the Sythian invasion—including her husband Hoff.

That was probably the worst part of all, knowing that Hoff was alive, and that she was stuck on Noctune being held prisoner by Sythians, unlikely to ever see him again. Somehow she’d ended up on what was probably the wrong side of a civil war, a war against the ruler of the planet where her husband now lived.

Destra felt despair begin a slow march toward her heart, the one warm spot left in her body. Even here, in the heated confines of the Sythians’ refuge, Noctune was freezing. Destra shivered violently, and something stirred in her lap.

Atta moaned softly and buried her face into the relative warmth of Destra’s insulated pilot’s suit. Destra reached out with a cracked and worn glove, and stroked the back of Atta’s head, admiring her daughter’s long, dark hair. Somehow it still looked lustrous and healthy. That was a good sign. It meant that the cold green mush they were given to eat every day must have sufficient nutrients in it to keep them healthy. Atta’s cheeks were rosy and red, her small, button nose flushed pink at the tip from the cold. Destra supposed it was too much to ask the Sythians for a blanket. Not that she hadn’t tried.

They were trying to drive her skriffy with isolation, but it wouldn’t work. She still had Atta to talk to. Dear sweet Atta. Seven years ago she and Hoff had conceived her while stranded together on a world not unlike Noctune. Now she and Atta were back on another dark and frozen world. There was some irony in that.

Seven years…

No, that wasn’t right. By now Atta had to be close to eight, but there was no way to know for sure. Destra’s eyes burned with a sudden heat. She didn’t even know when to celebrate Atta’s birthday. A tear ran hot and wet down her cheek. Destra sniffled and laid her head back against the castcrete wall of her cell.

Thud.

She rocked her head back and forth, as if to deny the reality of their circumstances. A lump rose in her throat, and then the sobs came. She kept them muffled for Atta’s sake.

Atta stirred once more, and Destra took a deep, shuddering breath. She forced it all down, kept it bottled in. She had to be strong. Had to show Atta that there was still hope, even if they didn’t know exactly what they were hoping for.

Destra’s despair retreated a step, and in its place came a creeping numbness that had nothing to do with the cold. She rolled her head to one side, her ear pressing up against the frozen wall of her cell, and she allowed her eyes to drift slowly shut. Her mind gave up the agony of consciousness. It was a sweet surrender of not-knowing and not-feeling.

And then the dreams came.

She saw herself sitting on the floor of her cell, mindlessly scraping away at it with some kind of stick that she’d found. Atta was nowhere to be seen, but perhaps she was asleep on the cot behind her.

Scrape. Scrape. Scrape.

Her stick broke. She stared at it in her callused and shaking hands. Dirty fingertips showed through holes in her gloves. The tool she’d been scraping the floor with was white and dirty, splintered on the end that she’d been scraping against the concrete. Then she saw it for what it was.

It was a femur—the longest and thickest bone in the human body. Destra recoiled from it, dropping the bone with a hollow-sounding clatter. She scuttled back into the farthest corner of her cell, terrified and sick with horror.

Scrape, scrape, scrape,
came the echoes inside her head. Where had that bone come from?
Scrape. Scrape.
Where?

Scrape.

Where was Atta?

Suddenly she felt something sharp and protruding between her and the wall, something had been pushed into that shadowy corner, something that was not meant to be seen.

Destra felt around behind her. Her fingertips grazed more bones, and she screamed.

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