Chapter Four

  Enemies are never truly defeated. Not until their entire species have been eradicated from the battlefield.

  General Ashen Bordmone

  Outside the climate-controlled confines of the Forge’s main production hub swirled gusts of bitterly icy wind. At nearly a hundred hectans above the surface of Solon, the thin air which surrounded the miles upon miles of interconnecting gantry ways barely had time to register as cold or numbing before squalls of frigid daggers began to slowly freeze exposed flesh.

  Such an area on Earth is commonly known as the dead zone. The altitude at which your body realizes how over matched it is and gives up any hope for survival. A fact of life here that meant no one outside of the workers and a few hardened travelers spent any meaningful time visiting the construction bays.

  This was never truer than when the largest of the two stars fell below the horizon. It was at this time of day that the wind of Solon blew the harshest of all. So harshly, that most species who visited the Forge found their constitutions too soft to endure the unendurable… most of them anyway.

  “Damn the heavens!” A lightly armored figure said as he stood near the ore extraction landing platform. Dressed very smartly in an off gray combat uniform, the three-headed creature ripped at the fluttering cloak draped across his boulder-like shoulders and swore to no one in particular through a set of perfectly maintained teeth.

  Completely at wits end, the intimidating figure focused his thoughts on trying very hard not to let ancient grudges get the best of him. Which most of the time was a bearable task for him to perform. However, a question had been on his many minds for quite a while now. One that could not be held back any longer.

  “How much longer will I have to wait for such incompetence to end?”

  With no one around to answer such a loaded question, the agitated customer marched over to the waist high railing which separated the gravity of the main walkways from the near weightlessness of space surrounding the construction bays.

  With no consideration for being safe, he thrust a hulking arm forward and the sensation of disconnect instantly overtook the limb, causing his appendage to feel a sense of strangeness. Intrigued, he pulled back then forwards a few more times to engrain in his mind the singular awareness which came with unencumbered buoyancy.

  “Yes.” The figure’s middle and most cognitively formed head tilted forward and sneered expectantly at unfulfilled dreams. Long since relegated to exile on his home planet by the idiotic missteps of his utterly foolish ancestors, General Vasilex Suvo found himself in the unenviable position of being the greatest Tralon general never to have fought in any sort of war.

  “So, this is what fighting in zero gravity would feel like… amazing.” Yanking back on his arm, he screamed. “Damn this blasted peace!”

  Vasilex’s gorilla-like frame stomped back toward his original waiting point, fuming the whole way at his not uncommon lot in life. For as a people, the Tralons hadn’t known anything more than training for the last three hundred years. Consigned to a single opponent, legions of fighters occupied hundreds of encampments throughout his cold, tundra ridden world with nothing better to do but lay generational waste to training vehicles and each other.

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  All the while, they waited impatiently for the Arbiter’s retribution to run its course. And what a truly long course their anger had charted.

  Because after battling years without a real enemy, many generals which preceded his tenure questioned if their people’s day of pardon would ever come. Even Suvo had lost hope of commanding anything other than a terrestrial force when a lone Arbiter scout ship contacted Tralon High command eight days ago.

  Then, such a question seemed thankfully answered by an interesting offer made by a faceless jailor.

  “We grant you one interplanetary cruiser to patrol the borders of your space.” The lone arbiter relayed by voice communication from orbit high above their capital city of Dopara. “Send us your most modest specifications and a well-trained pilot. Once the Forge has completed their task and your ship completed, both shall be returned to you.”

  There was no other communications forthcoming. No feathering out of what such an innocuous gift meant for their future. Only a low frequency homing beacon used to guide one of their Orbiter skiffs to the rendezvous point and a long, lonely journey to Solon.

  So, with such little intel at his disposal, Suvo debated amongst himself the pros and cons of sending one of his senior lieutenants. The decision became even harder as news about the Arbiter’s leftovers quickly spread among the clans. In fact, hundreds of Tralon warriors immediately stepped forward to answer the call.

  Even his greying father with one foot in the Sacred Grounds of Paijem put his name forward for the task.

  In the end though, years of studying and training in Tralon warfare had taught the general a valuable lesson. One he never hesitated to apply. “Strike as fast and decisive as your weapon will allow. Anything less will surely lead to the ruin of your men, yourself, and your cause.”

  So, it was with those heady words and the authority of his position, the leader of the Tralon home world now found himself staring at an empty ore landing pad and a half-finished ship. One now abandoned by hundreds of workers as they scurried off to finish other projects, much to the general’s chagrin.

  “Why have you halted construction?” Suvo remembered questioning the retreating construction foreman as he hovered a few arms lengths away from the nearly naked superstructure. “My ship is not even halfway complete.”

  “The ore has fallen short in the fabrication pit, sir. We cannot move forward until our reserves have been replenished.” The little fluff ball said, trying very hard to keep his distance. “We’ll have to wait for another delivery of Ore.” With that, he zipped away into the abyss of ships on what appeared to be a repurposed Tralon assassination skiff.

  “Rubbish,” One of his heads spat into the wind as the thought of more delays prompted all of Suvo’s heads to chomp their teeth incessantly against the cold. Not out of misery mind you. For on the Tralon home world, such a light breeze would be considered an omen of relaxation and rest.

  No, Suvo chomped in response to the cold anger flaring up inside his massive heart.

  Born with three fully functioning heads, Tralons often found themselves fighting to reach a middle ground concerning even the inanest matters. Thankfully, only their middle head was conscious to the world in any meaningful way.

  The other two, flanking the central, didn’t verbalize anything more than the odd grunt or primal scream. Nor were they particularly deep thinkers. They merely preoccupied their silent time thinking of ways to either fight or fuck. And right now, his fighting head was battling for control of the whole.

  Which normally would not be a problem for him. But to be this close to having a ship, no matter how small and yet denied at every turn, was almost too much for his military training to bear.

  “Isn’t there someone we can scream at?” The Id part of this triumvirate complained loudly without speech. “Isn’t there someone we can destroy?”

  Then, like a prayer being answered in the dark, a door near the far end of the gantry way slid open, allowing his grey eyes a modicum of perceptible, unnatural light.

  “And the heavens have finally shit out something worth the pain,” his booming voice crackled with a controlled anger as a solitary figure appeared within a well-lit hallway before gracefully stepping out onto the wind-swept walkway. “For someone has appeared for me to destroy.”