Echoes of the Past

2637 Words
Francis Marcis walked slowly through the dimly lit streets of Judas Prime. The small human colony was situated right on the edge of known space and had a small population as far as a Terran colony was concerned. It was one of the first colonies to be established after the great expansion wars that the human race had had with the myriad other denizens of the galaxy. Francis had fought in the wars, the wars that had lasted for decades. He was born into the war with the Azraels, his father dying on one of the moons of Kronos. He had fought in the war with the Xaons, the war which once won, got the human race recognized as a class A species and allowed them membership into the galactic alliance. Francis hated the galactic alliance. They were a bunch of xenos snobs who knew nothing about how a human reasoned, or lived. The ‘higher’ races of the universe branded them violent upstarts, similar to the Krakors, or Uglets. An unwanted distraction. However, induction into the galactic alliance prevented other species from declaring war on the human race for no reason. An added bonus Francis guessed. As he continued walking he breathed in the air. So clean. So free of decay, unlike Terra, or his homeworld of Progenitus three. “I suppose colonisation has its perks,” he thought to himself as he continued toward his destination. Francis was not a tall man, not by human standards anyway. Standing at 5’ 11” he still towered over some races, but was dwarfed by others. His head was completely bald, side effects of the radiation he was exposed to during the war. He carried many mementoes from the war, some physical, some psychological. His face was a cross-stitch of scars, and his right hand always loomed over his holstered BH-99 series deatomiser, paranoia plaguing him for the six years since the wars end. Since the war he had been working as a freelance law enforcement officer, or bounty hunter, as most of his targets liked to call him. It paid horribly, but it was the only work an aging soldier with psychological issues could get. The Terran extra planetary military force was more for show now and they did not really want relics of past wars lurking in the ranks, and so almost all of the veterans were cast away like toys a child had grown distasteful of. However, it was his bounty hunting that was to blame for him coming to Judas Prime tonight. He had received an ominous summons from a mysterious contractor, an affair he never usually accepted, except for the price tag attached to it. One hundred thousand galactic units. More than enough to last him a year. The contractor had told him to come to Judas Prime and meet in the cathedral located in Rache city. Francis finally caught a glimpse of the gothic spires of the cathedral poking out over the tops of the smaller buildings and picked up the pace a little. Terran high command had mostly abolished religion after the final crusade which saw most of the world fighting each other over which god was the real one. Whilst not outlawed, religious buildings were very rare, and myriad denominations had sprung up since the galactic migration. This such church actually worshipped Judas, a character Francis was pretty sure had betrayed his best friend or something, but he was not a religious man. Francis was also pretty sure that there was actually an official religion of the galactic alliance that worshipped four vengeful gods or something, but he could not care less. Finally, he approached the doors of the great church and pushed them open slowly. Beyond was a completely empty, and quite foreboding atrium. “I guess nobody comes out for prayer time at this time of night,” he muttered as he made his way down the aisles to wait for his contractor to show up. He got to the massive statue of Judas that sat at the end of the room. Francis gazed at the statue, which depicted a man throwing a bag of money onto the floor. Crouching by the statue was an old Azrael woman wrapped in a black cloak. She seemed to be in some form of prayer, so Francis did not disturb her. He stood there for a few minutes, occasionally looking at the chronometer around his wrist. He grumbled to himself, realising that his contractor should have met with him five minutes ago. “Find what you are looking for amongst the faithful?” The Azrael woman asked, not even looking up from the floor. “I’m supposed to be meeting someone,” Francis replied, a little annoyed by the woman’s interest in him. “It appears that you have met someone, yes?” She said as she got to her feet and turned to face him. Like all other Azraels, her skin was stark white, and her eyes were a deep crimson with boring voids for pupils. Her teeth were all canines and her features were gaunt, like too little butter spread over a slice of bread. “You’re an Azrael I take it?” He asked her, trying to make polite conversation. “That is what your people call me, yes. In my language we call ourselves the Ul’gath’we. It means light-bringers. You are a soldier, yes?” “No,” Francis replied harshly. “Your stance, your walk. It tells me that you are a soldier,” she replied, her voice deep and smooth like the cool depths of what a Terran ocean used to be like. “I used to be,” Francis replied stiffly. “Ah, that is where you are wrong. Once a soldier, always a soldier. I feel that you willingly turned from that path because…” she paused to sniff the air. “Aha, yes, there it is. You carry a burden that weighs down your spirit. And there is it’s heart… the blasted fields of Morrigon… where you lost everything… and when you ran away… and where you run from still…” The clicking sound of a gun being unholstered echoed throughout the cathedral. His gun hovered before the gaunt features of the Azrael woman. “How do you know that?” he breathed. She smiled, showing her rows of fangs. “I know a great deal about you Francis Markis. I know how you signed up to fight the Xaons to make your mother proud. I know how you butchered their forces at Regon six, and I know what happened at Morrigon. When you were betrayed, and when she died in the fires you started.” “Enough!” Francis roared. “I may have turned from war, but I would not be opposed to shooting one last withered hag before the end!” “Did you ever really turn from war?” she asked coolly. “You still shoot people for a living.” “I shoot bad people for a living.” “Bad is a matter of perspective. Our people fought for years, but there is no reason that we should fight now.” “I lost my father in the war with your people,” Francis spat. “And I lost both my children,” the woman countered, “don’t see me whining about it.” An uneasy silence rose between them. The old woman glanced at the statue of Judas, Francis instructively following her gaze. “Do you know why people worship Judas?” she asked. “Enlighten me,” Francis replied through gritted teeth. “Because people recognise that betrayals for the greater good are necessary. You have experienced this, as have I.” “I do hate to interrupt your philosophy lesson, but I have am supposed to meet someone.” “And as I have said before, you have met someone. Never once did you ask my name.” “What is your name?” Francis asked, a little tired of hearing the old woman’s voice. “I am Azaz’kul, and I am your contractor.” “Crap,” Francis muttered. “Come, let us walk the night and speak of my proposal out of earshot of the faithful.” With that, Azaz’kul made her way toward the cathedral doors, Francis close behind her. The cool night breeze of the Judas Prime streets ruffled Azaz’Kul’s robes as the duo walked down one of the flood-lit alleys, the rushing of hover-cars creating an eerie backdrop to their conversation. “So what exactly is this job?” he asked. “I seek to undo a great injustice before it ever happens,” she replied cryptically. “There is a small village on a remote moon of Azarg. It is home to a primitive race that has not yet invented the engine.” “They still use animal drawn carts?” Francis asked incredulously. “That they do,” she replied. “Anyway, there is a relic buried underneath their village that is able to raze worlds, bring judgment upon the sinful, and lead the righteous to salvation. Or so they say. The Order has located it and it is situated under this primitive village.” “The Order?” Francis asked. “The Order is the central religious power in this galaxy. I was once a member but they exiled me because my teachings… shall we say conflicted with theirs.” “Or contradicted?” Francis grumbled. Azaz’kul only smiled. “I need to ensure this relic never makes its way into their hands. That is why I came to you.” “Me? I’m a bounty hunter, which means-” “You will be compensated for your troubles,” she cut in. “Fine, but what makes you think I’ll help anyway?” “Because you seek to rid this universe of injustice, and those people’s lives, destroyed for a rich mans lust? That is why you will help me.” “As much as I hate for innocents to get caught in the crossfire-” “You will also find closure of wounds from your past. Wounds that continue to bleed now.” “What do you mean?” “The Order has hired a thug by the name of Sebastian Sharrack to perform the… relocation of the Azargians in question… I believe you two have met.” Francis inhaled deeply. “Sharrack you say,” he replied slowly. “Yes.” “He and I have… unfinished business.” “As I thought. I assume you are going to help me.” “You assume correctly.” “Excellent, I hope you have a starship to transport us off of this rock…” “Once again you assume correctly,” Francis replied as he began to walk toward the star-port, Azaz’kul close behind him. “I should take you to the town immediately,” she began, but Francis cut her off. “No. There are a few people that I need to help us.” “What do you mean?” “Sebastian got real rich after the war because he managed to cheat a drone manufacturing company into his hands. He stole it directly from another con man that I knew during the war. He will use the drones as a labour force, or an army once he realises we mean to stop him.” “How many drones are we looking at?” “Fifty to one hundred. A small army at any rate. However, I know the guy who designed the drones, and unless he was being paid not to, he would have installed triggered commands only he could use.” “So we can turn his entire army against him?” “Or shut it down, but, yeah.” “Sounds like a plan, where can we find this man.” “That’s the part you’re not gonna like.” Sebastian Sharrack walked through the automatic doors and onto the bridge of his small freighter Angel’s Kiss. He was a bulky man, but much of the muscle that had made him so fierce during his youth was slowly turning to fat, a haunting reminder of how privilege can kill all warriors. He wore a battered suit of black shock armour commonly worn by Terran Special Forces, although this suit was far superior having being fitted out with multiple modifications over the years. His head was completely bald, like most frontline vets from the Xaon wars, and his face had its fair share of scars, much like the rest of his body. Sitting in the navigators chair was Charles Ulrig, a techno-wiz Sebastian had picked up on the streets of Manhattan three. Flanking either side of the doors were Sebastian’s personal muscle brigade. Two hulking Krakors. Krakors were among the most primal and violent class A species, with massive frames and a natural strength only the greatest human strongmen could match. Each one had green-grey skin and a mess of little tentacles for a beard around their circular mouths. Sebastian nodded to each in turn, then approached the holo-communication array. The small device was flashing, meaning somebody wanted to speak to him. “Who’s it from?” he asked Hangral, the larger of the two Krakors. “Said it was The Order,” the huge alien croaked in response, Galactic common not suiting it’s voice box well. “What do they want?” Sebastian grumbled. “The wanted to speak to you,” Grenak replied. With a sigh, Sebastian pressed the accept button and a 3D replica of one of Sebastian’s least favourite people materialised atop the table. High Cleric Serron stared down at him with characteristic contempt. “Your holiness,” the human addressed with mock reverence. “The Order demands an update on the mission,” the Azrael man spat. “We are almost ready to go, I just need to get to one of my warehouses to pick up the drones and we will be all set to dig up your little ark of the covenant or whatever the hell it’s called.” The Azrael inhaled sharply. “It is called The Crucible of Arekn’an.” “Yeah, great, fine, whatever. Like I said before, you’ll have your holy grail before the end of the next cycle, I just need to pick up my soldiers from Mechanis two. Then I’ll set sail for Azarg immediately.” “We are sending a cleric to oversee the mission,” Serron said, clearly not interested in continuing the conversation. “I assure you that won’t be nessecar-” “He will meet you at Mechanis two. Farewell, I have more important matters to see to.” The hologram faded away. “Grenak?” Sebastain asked. “Yes boss?” the Krakor replied. “Remind me never to accept another job from ‘The Order’.” “Sure thing boss,” the Krakor grumbled. “Charles?” he asked the navigator, “ETA to Mechanis two?” “Two hours and thirty seven Terran minutes,” he replied merrily, “providing we don’t get stopped by a Galactic alliance patrol or something.” “That will be all gentlemen,” Sebastain said as he twisted on his heels and exited the bridge. He needed some sleep.
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