The Navis hung motionless, stranded in null space. Gaping holes dotted many of its twelve, 1000 kilometer-wide pentagonal hull plates.
Damaged intelligence cores recalled little of its deep past. But despite the ravages of time, it was still maniacally devoted to its prime directive: destroy all organic life.
The ships few remaining armaments could have easily shattered the nearby water-rich planet in the adjacent fractimes, but its weaponry was useless in null space. So it transformed captured humanity into sexless, cloned hybrids, it called goodlife; they were the ship's keepers. Their small mass could slip into real space and recruit new goodlife. These other goodlife, the Leadership, used a vast collection of knowledge known as the Prophesy, as the ship's weapon against all life. It ensured victory to the Navis as well as wealth for the Leadership beyond human comprehension.
And because the prophesy was the Navis' only remaining weapon, its maintenance was a high priority. And deep within the ships internal labyrinth, it observed Keeper 451 tasked with routine monitoring of the prophesy's trans-universal memory units. The keeper floated in near absolute zero with ease around each memory bank in the unit, getting near enough to scan each for comparison with real-time projections.
Bright, erratic flashes from above eerily silhouetted its form against the banks.
Its suit's instruments needed close proximity in order to perform a scan in these temperatures. The scanning could have been automated, but it had always been done this way and was slightly more energy efficient.
Nearing the last memory bank, its helmet's heads-up display showed a high-level alert. The bank's input data streams were below threshold. The
keeper's work finished, the Navis instructed it to transfer into real space and to the egress hub just upline of the current war's front to notify the Leadership of a revised departure forecast.
The ship knew the consequences of the missing data; the end of time was coming and instantly shifted its resources to the long process necessary to escape to the next sector's null space. It focused on its many subcritical power requirements and knew to wait further was a significant risk. To the ancient and damaged dodecahedron, timing was everything.
Plus 1: 12 Feb 2085
"Master Kharg," Slang called softly to the cull master.
Lutzger ignored him hoping for a chance to get some more rest. The flight over the Himalayas was spectacular, especially at night, but after an hour, the mountains were just more big rocks. The unrelenting turbulence in the captured Chinese transport made it almost impossible to sleep, so earlier in the flight, he had studied the mission brief on the dead cull master's pad. He realized this new universe was not what he was expecting.
He opened one eye slightly to survey the surrounding cabin. All his underlings were still in their seats. He did not trust them.
According to the few easily accessible areas within the pad, the Leadership was preparing to go to some other set of universes. A huge ship was going to be home until the new war was in full swing. Slaves, they called goodlife, would lessen the burden of ship life until the Leadership could redeploy as they had here. It was his job to ensure qualified goodlife was available for all necessary ship requirements as well as individual Leadership's whims, many of which he found disgusting.
Reports on the pad stated the Earth's population now stood at an estimated eight-hundred million badlife and the creatures they were leaving behind to mop up the remaining population were terrifying.
The barrier to travel back to his universe had trapped him between this dying planet and almost certain death on a strange space ship they called Navis.
"Master Kharg," Slang said again, tapping him on the shoulder this time.
"What is it?" Lutzger snapped with his eyes now closed.
"We have started our descent to the base."
"And you tell me this, why?"
"You asked to be briefed before landing."
"Time?"
"0800 local."
Lutzger pushed himself up to face Slang. He was hard to look at.
The thin, straight, black hair, slicked back framed a face, pitted, scarred, and lopsided with his beak-like nose bent opposite to the rest of his facial features.
"Well? Brief," Lutzger said, "And start at the beginning. I trust you to have a complete understanding of the situation."
"Yes, Master. Complete," Slang said, nervously wringing his hands.
"Proceed," Lutzger said through a sadistic grin.
"Base 42 has been operational for nearly eighteen months.
Constructed just after the successful western China offensive, its primary purpose is to provide one of ten global egress points from this universe before the cleansing. And with the Leadership's construction of the downline transit barrier, demobilization of specified personnel off-planet has already started as has the cleansing.
"Because of your delay, many goodlife await culling. The commander of the hub is expecting us, and we can anticipate her displeasure at the associated egress interruptions."
"We'll see about that," Lutzger said. "The cull master has certain privileges, I take it."
"Yes, of course. The cull master has goodlife authority over all planet-side personnel. On or off planet, you answer to only the ship's captain."
"When do we leave this forsaken planet?" Lutzger asked as he stared out the transports small window at the desert runway rising up to meet them at touchdown.
"You may depart at your convenience," Slang said already up and shouting orders to others to get their gear assembled.
Lutzger checked his phased pistol was on its maximum power setting as he walked out the rear ramp of the transport. Slang trailed behind with several packs on his back, shouting orders to others behind them carrying luggage, storage lockers and other equipment Lutzger did not recognize.
"The commander waits, Master," Slang said thrusting one shoulder forward toward the figure standing in front of the complex's featureless exterior.
Fuck, not her again, Lutzger thought seeing a much older, shorter, but still recognizable Johnston and this one had a patch over her left eye.
Her small entourage seemed to cower behind her.
She reached out her hand. "Kharg, you're la—"
The streak from Lutzger's phased pistol sliced through her good eye then deflected off the exterior of the complex at its angle of incidence.
Slang shrieked as Johnston evaporated in a plume of orange vapor.
"Take me to the sub-commander immediately," Lutzger ordered Slang. He pointed the pistol at Slang's chest but looked to the dead commander's entourage just in case they had any ideas on revenge but they only seemed relieved.
"Yes, of course." Slang pressed his ID patch on the smooth exterior wall as an open doorway materialized. "This way," he said meekly.
They did not get more than a few steps before they saw a line of armed men in front of them disappearing through a TR set in the corridor.
"Chinks," Slang shouted as he dropped his packs and raised his side arm just as a massive explosion knocked them to the floor. The walls ahead of them collapsed on the men not yet through the TRs.
Nearby explosions continued as Slang reversed and created another doorway on an interior wall with his ID.
"This way. Hurry!" he urged.
Lutzger stared through the gaping hole above him at surrealistic energy beams streaking across the sky before he turned to follow Slang.
"We must get you off planet immediately," Slang shouted on the run.
"We need to get to the nearest transfer station."
They wound through a maze of corridors with Slang creating several shortcuts with his ID along the way.
"We're almost there. Quickly," Slang urged and pushed Lutzger ahead of him through an open doorway.
Lutzger froze. Standing in front of him was a pitted, bronze space suit. A spark flashed, sizzled and fell off the side of its helmet. The bombardment appeared over as the figure took a step toward him off the platform.
"Identify, goodlife," the keeper commanded.
Lutzger, caught off guard, was speechless.
Slang peered around Lutzger. "He is Kharg, cull master," he said trembling. "I'm sorry, Master, wrong transfer station," he added timidly.
A red beam emanated from the suit's breastplate and scanned Slang from head to toe. "Leadership class seven identified and verified," the keeper reported.
It silently scanned Lutzger as he peered into its helmet. A human face was barely recognizable as several grotesque implants stared blankly at him.
"Appropriate records are currently dislocated," it stated flatly.
Lutzger had somehow dodged a bullet, and his ruse was still intact.
He took a step forward to stare closer into the suit's faceplate. "And you are?" he said inspecting the rest of the suit.
"Keeper 451. I require a priority one Leadership interface."
"We were just going to see the new commander when the attack occurred," Slang lied. "We'll accompany you."
The keeper turned to face to Slang; it visor opening to reveal the monstrosity within. "The enemy has evacuated the local area," it said flatly.
"Probably why the bombardment has stopped," Lutzger added dryly, trailing the Keeper out of the room, which, he assumed, was heading to the nearest priority one Leadership interface.
Slang hurried after the Keeper and Lutzger, dodging running station personnel in the chaotic aftermath of the attack.
"The sub-commander's chambers," Slang told Lutzger as the suited figure entered a doorway in front of them. Slang grasped Lutzger's shoulder. "We wait," he said in a hushed tone.
"Fuck that," Lutzger replied and followed the keeper through the door.
The sub-commander stood up from behind a desk as they entered.
The keeper said nothing as it interfaced with a workstation on the desk with its red ray.
"Slang. About time, you showed up," the sub-commander said. "And this must be the cull master from the colonies."
Lutzger looked the new commander over. Surrounding deep-set eyes, knobbed ridges extended up his forehead as well as down his neck to his shoulders. Lutzger instantly passed judgment as to the type of toady he represented. This should be easy, he thought.
"Master," Slang began, "I present Sukat DeGuat. Forth Ambass—"
"The Commander is dead," Lutzger injected. "A threat to all goodlife and judged to be erased as per actions by her downline selves. You are
now commander and responsible for all this station's goodlife egress activities and therefore will benefit from an appropriate bonus increase."
"Understood," Sukat replied. "And as it should be," he added, making small bow to the cull master.
Lutzger smiled at the confirmation of his judgment of the new commander.
The keeper's red beam retracted as it turned and then walked out of the office, its task apparently completed.
"Current risk assessment," Lutzger said watching the keeper trudge down the corridor.
Sukat started to sit but changed his mind looking at the standing cull master. "I have requested several security enhancements, but they fell on deaf ears. The dead commander favored a more, shall I say, loose system."
"It was to be expected," Lutzger said. "Continue," he added flatly.
"It seems an infiltration by a Chinese tactical squad corresponded with a high-altitude attack by a lone shuttle craft," Sukat said looking at his station's display. "Although the shuttle was well armed, only one shield breach occurred near the primary Leadership transfer platforms where repairs are already underway. Chinese involvement is confirmed by remains found in the rubble."
"And how did the Chinese get access to the station?" Lutzger asked.
"Unknown," Sukat admitted.
Lutzger paused again as he watched Slang trembling slightly.
"Origin of the shuttle craft?"
"Unknown," Sukat repeated uncomfortably.
Lutzger saw a bluish fluid beginning to ooze from several of Sukat's facial knobs as a sharp tone emitted from commander's station.
"An enemy recon unit was spotted in the foothills overlooking the station." Sukat said studying his station's display. "However, it seems
they have escaped and there is no evidence of the unit in adjacent universes."
"I leave for the Navis," Lutzger announced, thinking it was better not to stay on Earth too long.
Null Space
Lutzger's transfer to the Navis was instant from a Leadership platform at the base. From there an inter-ship transporter took him directly to his cabin where he had more time to study the cull master's pad.
On board, there were many goodlife culling stations containing multiple transit platforms. Keepers had two platforms dedicated to their ancient suits, although a few suits still functioned as transit devices. There was some sort of interface between the suit and Keeper, and Lutzger recalled the freakish facial implants of 451.
To say things did not make sense was a colossal understatement.
Proof positive lay in the fact he was now looking out his quarter's portal from one of the most élite levels on the Navis. He was answerable to no one but the captain, all thanks to the idiot Slang and a lucky computer malfunction.
The Leadership did not make sense to Lutzger. They had high-tech death-ray handguns, but they also had almost no aircraft. The base was very futuristic in appearance, but in contrast, the Navis looked like hell.
From his slightly raised portal he could see the pitted outer hull pulled and twisted upwards in several places as well as a number of dark holes surrounded by ancient blast scars. However, countless lights illuminated it all. Could this extravagant power usage, given the state of the Navis, be solely for his benefit and the others on the élite levels?
He looked to Kharg's pad again for answers. It was a typical pad for Lutzger's fractime, but there was little on it besides basic information.
There were no vids and not even any games, just a mission brief, a few basic reports and the interface with a program called the Prophesy, which was mostly incomprehensible.
While looking at the endless stream of cargo floating by his portal then disappearing into a blast hole, his door chime sounded. He sighed; the door did not even have a two-dimensional vid.
"Slangtong," the door's audio unit announced.
Lutzger had no choice but trust it. He opened it quickly while stepping back to avoid any immediate attack.
"Kharg, I see you're settled in," Slang said as he walked confidently into the cull master's cabin.
Lutzger sensed a degree of bravado he had not seen in Slang before.
He guessed Slang had probably already arranged his murder and was here making a sadistic and prolonged good-bye.
Slang confidently turned his back on Lutzger and walked over to the portal.
"Nice. Elevated," he said. "The culling pens are full. Selection must start immediately," he said turning to Lutzger.
"I require a review of Synth protocols. Proceed," Lutzger ordered.
Kharg's pad revealed the creatures were essential to his on-board function; he needed to know more.
Slang's mood changed abruptly. He cowered slightly as his eyes darted around the cabin.
Lutzger obviously caught Slang off guard.
Slang stood up as straight as possible. "Goodlife Synth proto—"
"Specifically Leadership Synth protocols," Lutzger corrected him and watched Slang slump noticeably again. Kharg had access code-protected this area of the Prophesy on his pad, but from other passages, he guessed the Synth controlled the slaves somehow. The Leadership would have to control all the slave's Synths to avoid a mutiny. But why did the Leadership also have Synths?
Before departure, Leadership personnel were to total almost nine million in the next twenty-four hours, and more goodlife would bring the ship's contingent close to twenty-six million.
Slang did not bother to correct his posture. "Protocol one: a slave Synth is harvested, separated from its control twin and then implanted into all Leadership at induction. Protocol two: only the captain and cull master has access to control Synth."
"The location of the control Synth?" Lutzger asked.
"It is forbidden discuss that sub…subject," Slang stuttered, staring at the floor. "Access through your Prophesy gateway is always open to you, Master."
Fuck that and Kharg's access code, Lutzger thought.
His door chimed and announced, "Cargo delivery for Cull Master Kharg."
Lutzger shook his head. Only the threat of death hanging over him stifled a laugh.
Slang opened the door to reveal a workbot behind a thin, floating cargo container two meters long.
"Deliver," Slang said. The bot's treads rumbled into the cabin guiding the levitating container. The bot left it suspended in the middle of the room before turning noisily and leaving.
Locked away in the Prophesy was Lutzger's total power base. He knew things were not looking too good as he gazed out the portal. The Leadership was bringing aboard as much precious minerals, bullion and radioactive ore as possible as well as countless more goodlife. He calculated they wanted him to eliminate many millions of unsuitable slaves.
"You can leave now Slang," Lutzger said. "And thanks for the heads-up on culling. I'll be right on that."
Slang looked at him strangely before shuffling out the door. Lutzger wondered how Slang could look any creepier than usual, but he did.
He gave his chances of living another day as slim to none as he pulled the still levitating container to him. On closer inspection, he could not see anything making it float. And pressing down on the container, it did not yield. He undid the latches and opened the case to reveal a long curved blade with two leather-bound handholds formed into the lattice of the weapon. In the center of the blade, there was a single, small inscription: charghwI.
Could it be possible? He opened the Prophesy's interface, keyed in the characters, and then smiled as the cull master's realm open before him.