Ascension Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  The Last Archide: Ascension

  Dedication

  Final Solution

  The Quarter

  The Dragon

  From Slavery to Bondage

  Elesya Celeste

  The Perfect Sport

  Friends

  Deals Honored and Deals Struck

  The Draft

  Bounty

  Living the Dream

  An Interested Buyer

  Rematch

  Distant Observers

  The Will of Lucius Kovac

  Public and Personal Relations

  The Last Archide Series

  About the Author

  The Last Archide

  Copyright © 2018 by Chad R. Odom.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, distributed, stored in or introduced in any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical without express permission of the author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages for review purposes.

  This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogues, in this book are of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead is completely coincidental.

  Editing by CookieLynn Publishing Services

  Cover design by Ampersand Virtual

  For my sister who continues to love and support me from the other side of the veil.

  Final Solution

  Virallo’s finger hovered over the button. It was the final command in a sequence that would obliterate entire solar systems, murder billions, and erase the greatest Empire ever forged. In the end, it seemed, his mind dwelled on the beginning. Tens of thousands of years, trillions of lives, peace, prosperity, technology, and wisdom beyond measure had been achieved throughout the history of his people. Yet, their legacy would be that their society gave birth to a monster and they became monsters themselves to stop him. Damrich, the man who brought down the glory of the Archides.

  He glanced at the small room around him. The monitors displayed images of the inside of the shuttle that carried their last hope. Inside the ship, he could see the cargo—precious lives that had been chosen to perpetuate the human race. Peace settled on their resting faces. With a sigh, he acknowledged just how envious he was of them. Not that they had been chosen to live, but that they were ignorant and therefore innocent. His conscience was stained with guilt.

  Sitting in counsel many months ago, this decision all seemed so logical. Yes, it was to be murder, but a merciful death was better than what awaited the people of Andromeda if they didn’t do this. He would finish the sequence, and all life would stop. Not a single soul of the masses still surviving would feel anything. They would be alive one second and ripped apart at a subatomic level the next. Every element that made them what they were would be sent back to its original state, as though they never existed.

  It would be over not just on this planet, but on every planet in the solar system as well as any planet in any solar system the Archides colonized. Virallo hoped that the Architect’s weapon of pure destruction had limits, as he promised.

  As awful as it was, the monster would be gone as well. No matter how far his reach, how well he eluded them in the past, or how powerful he had become, Damrich couldn’t escape this weapon. The Archides decided it was better to simply be erased than to allow Damrich’s evil to live on. Better to sacrifice billions to save countless lives to come.

  This, of course, meant Virallo wouldn’t make it either. Only a handful of clones were to live on. They were to be flung to the farthest corner of the galaxy in hopes of finding a new home to rebuild on. Clones were a brilliant choice; they were engineered humans with no ability to think or reason on their own. Without proper programming, they would remember nothing of their home.

  “Is there a problem?” a steady voice asked. The source wasn’t in the room but rather in the ship, awaiting launch.

  Virallo’s tongue clung to the roof of his mouth, and he couldn’t find the words to reply. Until now, he had been lost in thought and hadn’t acknowledged the avalanche of emotion that streamed from his eyes and silenced his voice. His family was already dead—casualties of the war. Most of his friends were gone as well. He was ready to join them, but his mind turned to the families not yet torn apart. He could see mothers playing with children in their homes and husbands holding their spouses tightly. The shadow was falling, but there was still light and life. Could there still be hope?

  He choked back the emotion and imagined that child being ripped from a weeping mother’s arms, her husband dead and cold on the ground next to her as she was dragged away to be raped and murdered by Damrich’s soldiers. In another scenario, he envisioned the father sitting in a chair in some quiet corner of their home, holding his dead child now ravaged by the cruel disease no one could stop. He could see the look in that man’s eyes, resolute never to let go of his child as he waited for the disease to take him, too. That was the inevitable fate of light and life if he didn’t do this.

  “No,” his voice cracked as he swallowed hard, wiped the tears from his face, and prepared to push the button. “I’m fine.”

  He took one last glance at the clones. “Safe travels. All our hopes…” A sob caught in the back of his throat stealing his goodbyes.

  A clone stirred. He snapped from his inner turmoil and cleared the tears from his eyes. The clones were in a comatose state. They shouldn’t be moving.

  He frustratingly fought back fresh tears and stared hard at the image of the clones. One of the clones raised her head and seemed to be looking directly into the monitor… at him.

  “There’s a problem…” he thought out loud.

  A cruel, mischievous grin slithered across the clone’s lips, followed by a devious wink before she blew him a kiss and laid her head back down.

  His heart raced. The clone wasn’t just moving; she was moving in response to his last statement. She understood him. That was unsettling enough, but that smile and those eyes… He knew those eyes and the menace behind them, but that was impossible.

  “Uh…uh...we have…we have a serious problem here,” he stammered, unable to articulate what was happening. His face went pale despite his heart beating like a drum. A cold sweat began to soak his shirt.

  There were implications. Not just that one of the clones seemed to be cognizant, but how and why and who? If she was aware, what else did she know? What did this all mean for their plans? It could be just a glitch, but then again, it could mean the end they were trying to avoid was inevitable.

  “We have to abort. Something is terribly wrong. Confirm abort?”

  He waited for what felt like an eternity, the silence only broken by the pounding of his own heart in his ears. He stared at the clone, looking for any sign of movement. Maybe, just maybe, he had imagined it.

  “Abort. Say again, abort, please confirm?” Virallo nearly shouted.

  “Calm down,” the voice finally responded. “This isn’t a time for second thoughts.”

  “Sir, you don’t understand. One of the clones—”

  “Slow down. Communicate. What is going on?”

  He closed his eyes, realizing he hadn’t blinked since the clone moved, and steadied his breathing. It sounded ludicrous, but he had to be sure. “One of the clones, sir… she moved.”

  “Involuntary muscle movement. We both know induced comas aren’t a guarantee of complete motionlessness. There’s no reason to—”

  “No just moved, sir. Smiled and winked at me. She was responding to me, I think.”

  “You think?”

  “Yes, sir. I was sayi
ng goodbye…”

  “I heard that.”

  “And after I said it, she looked right at me, smiled, winked, and…and then went back to sleep. I think she’s displaying cognition.”

  “That’s not possible.”

  “I agree, sir. Which is why I’m asking you to check out bio-signs and readouts. If it comes back normal, then I’ll do this without another moment’s hesitation, but I have to be sure. We have to be sure. There’s too much at stake.”

  “You’re right. I’ll take a look.”

  “Thank you.”

  Virallo continued to stare at the monitors. A few seconds of anticipation turned into a few minutes, but he could see no movement of any kind. Not even someone coming to check the clones.

  A red flashing light appeared out of the corner of his eye. Someone was initiating the launch from inside the shuttle.

  “Sir, sir! We have another problem! Someone has started the launch cycle!”

  His eyes darted from monitor to monitor only to find the source of the steady voice at the main console, punching the launch sequence.

  “Sir, what are you doing? What about the clone? Did you confirm?”

  The person seemed to take no notice. He simply ignored the call and punched the last few codes. Was it possible he couldn’t hear him?

  “Sir, what are you doing?” he screamed frantically, rising from his seat. “You’re in danger…the mission, it’s all in danger! You could be…”

  Then it sunk in. He was intentionally being ignored. The man on the shuttle knew about the clone and that meant…

  He began punching codes and calling out commands as fast as he could. He had to stop it. The man in the shuttle knew the codes for launch, and he also knew something else.

  He was madly overriding the system—encrypting it so the weapon couldn’t be detonated remotely. He could see the man in the shuttle activating a console and working quickly. In his brain, he knew he couldn’t stop this. The activation sequence was far easier to complete than an attempt to subvert it.

  He glanced at the monitors again. The man in the shuttle was gone from the console, and a small blue light was now flashing. The weapon had been activated.

  He flopped into his chair, no longer able to stand. A drop of sweat fell from his nose onto his thumb. His damp clothing clung to his body when only moments before they had been dry. Tears welled again in his eyes. All hope was lost. They had been betrayed.

  The small shuttle grew smaller on his monitor. There was a flash as the hyperspace engines fired, sending it to the other side of the galaxy in a blink. Virallo’s shock turned to blind hate. He tore at the terminal in front of him with his bare hands. Blood covered the shattered remains before he stopped. He breathed in ragged gasps, nearly hyperventilating before the weapon detonated, silencing him and trillions more across the stars.

  An Empire erased from existence. The only survivor was the devil who brought it down.

  The Quarter

  For this time of year, it was a miserably humid day. Sweat dripped from Oryan’s face, and he was only warming up for the first round. The usual crowd of spectators had gathered around, vying to see the action. Oryan searched their faces, looking for the one that should be there, but was absent.

  Oryan was only twelve, but life in the Slave Quarter forced him to grow up far sooner than any normal twelve-year-old. When most boys were playing games on weekends and attending school during the week, he was performing long hours of hard labor, but he knew nothing else.

  He had a roof over his head and three square meals a day; all with the only family he had in the world—his father. Like any boy his age he had his friends and a few girls he chased, but it was in sports that Oryan found his calling. His father had been in the military and a true hero before becoming a slave. He passed his knowledge of fighting skills onto his son, their applications for sport, not killing. Armay’s skill at teaching was matched by Oryan’s ability to absorb and apply what was being taught. He was fast, he was strong, and he was smart.

  These sports weren’t always allowed. When the old Quarter leadership left, its replacement was far more lax. Not only was there a significant change in the performance and appearance of the guards, the new Captain encouraged teaching the boys to learn what he called the “lethal arts.”

  So, since he was six, Oryan had been boxing, wrestling, and fighting with other boys his age. Events were overseen by guards, who used them to escape from the monotony of Quarter service, and as a way to put a little money in their pockets from betting on the fights. Some of the events had created bad blood between the boys, but the adults were able to keep things calm, knowing the consequences for letting the fun get out of hand. For the most part, rivalries were settled during competitions.

  Oryan had agreed to fight a boy three years older that day. As a general rule, since the Quarter housed a limited number of children, one had to fight opponents of various ages or risk being sidelined for extended periods of time. Oryan had defeated everyone from eleven to thirteen, so when the opportunity to fight a fifteen-year-old arose, Oryan couldn’t resist. Usually excited for the opportunity to test his skills, Oryan now paced the grass, as uneasiness clenched his stomach. At this critical moment, he was looking for the one person who should be there—the person who had trained him and was always in his corner. He was never late. Today of all days was a terrible time to start.

  ***

  “Don’t start with me, Halgren,” Armay snapped at the Captain. “I keep everything out there quiet. I make sure everything runs status quo so that no other Imperial brass has to come asking questions. We both know how I feel about this place, and if I wanted to, I could make it miserable for you. Without my cooperation, you would be manning a security tower in the north. Just ask your predecessor.”

  Captain Halgren leaned his chair against the wall behind him. A small fan circulated air in the room but didn’t take much edge off the oppressive humidity. Sweat beaded on his forehead and upper lip. He wiped it away, a look of disgust passing like a shadow across his face. “At least it would be cold,” he said disdainfully.

  Armay threw up his hands. “Have it your way,” he said, turning to leave.

  “Oh, Armay,” Halgren stopped the large man with an almost jovial tone. “I sometimes wonder if you remember who runs this place.”

  Armay snorted. “Funny, I was thinking the same thing.”

  Halgren was losing his patience. He leaned forward, letting the legs of the chair bang loudly against the wooden floor. He propped his elbows on the table and folded his hands beneath his chin. “You really think you have me figured out, don’t you?”

  “I’ve dealt with hundreds of punks like you.”

  Halgren smiled a cold, malicious thing, spreading from ear to ear. “Oh no, General, not like me.”

  “You would do well, Captain, to remember at one time my title meant something, and not because I knew whose boots to polish, but because I earned it. I knew how to make men follow me then, and I haven’t forgotten how. Just ask your guards.”

  Halgren’s deep, guttural laughter filled the air with the sound of true sadistic pleasure. “You have the audacity to believe you can control those men out there? Those men wear the same uniform as me, Armay. They wear the standard of the Empire, and they follow orders from their superiors who wear the same standard, not slaves who disgraced everything it stands for.

  “How many revolt attempts for you since you got here, my friend? Seven? Eight? The last two cost you an eye.” Halgren stood and casually walked across the room, standing nearly chest to chest with Armay. He spoke quietly. “You give me one reason-one, Armay, that’s all it takes, and I’ll take something a little more precious.”

  “Try it. Maybe you should remember how many men I’ve killed who wore that uniform.” He straightened the Captain’s lapels and brushed some dust from his shoulder. “If that’s all, Captain, I’m late.”

  “I hear he’s doing very well. Your son, I mean,” Halgren
replied.

  “He’s none of your concern.”

  Halgren shook his head. “As Captain of this facility, everyone within these walls is my concern. I’ll be keeping an eye on him. Wouldn’t want anything to happen to such a promising young man, would we?”

  Armay showed no sign the threat had any effect. “It’s what you don’t see that should concern you, Captain. Have a nice day.”

  With that, Armay left Halgren’s office and headed across the Quarter to meet with Oryan. He was sure he had already missed warm-ups, but if he hurried, he would be where he belonged: in his only son’s corner.

  ***

  Round one was over. Oryan won it in decisive fashion, but his opponent was still on his feet. The first round was three minutes of wrestling. The second, three minutes of boxing, and the third, three minutes of any combination the combatants could muster.

  Armay had showed up just as the first round began, so he and Oryan had no time to strategize, but Oryan handled himself with the usual perfection they had both come to expect. With a few seconds left before the second round, they got a chance to talk.

  “So, what do you think?” Armay asked his son.

  “I think I was worried for nothing,” Oryan said with a smile in his voice.

  Armay smiled back but gave his council. “He didn’t see you coming in the first, but he will be more prepared in the second.”

  “Dad, look at him! He’s sitting there like he’s been humped by a—” Oryan stopped, remembering he wasn’t talking to his friends.

  “See that look in his eyes?” Armay countered.

  “Not really. He would have to look up for that.”

  “It’s there, every now and…there! Did you catch it? He’s not that out of shape. It’s an act. He wants you to think he’s worse off than he really is. From the looks of him, I’d say wrestling isn’t his strong suit, but I’d wager boxing is. Stay away from him. He’s got longer arms. When you come at him, come in quick, snap a few, and then back out. Don’t get caught flat footed, and don’t forget to protect yourself. He’s going to try and end this here so he doesn’t have to grapple again.”