Prologue
The habitat ring glittered in the vacuum of space, and Galatt Xormun watched the growing image with patient, predatory eyes. He didn’t consider himself an evil man, but he also held no illusions about the nature of his work, and especially the nature of this latest assignment.
He was here to kidnap a man.
And then squeeze him for information.
After that, who could really say?
Oh, the actual wording of his orders from the Jovian Everlife—received in hushed tones and with carefully structured deniability—never used the words “kidnap” or “torture” or phrases like “Be your usual ruthless self. It’s why we’re sending you,” but Xormun knew how to read between the lines, and his superiors knew how to write them as well.
His orders were clear enough to him, and that’s all he and his crew needed.
Someone has to do the dirty work, he thought with a wry grin. Might as well be a persona who’ll get the job done!
He studied the ring with silver-within-black eyes, themselves situated in an angular, gold-skinned face. Not gold-en. Not tanned or burned like some piece of revolting meat, but metallic gold etched with intricate traceries that gave his face a regal bearing. His current body stood on the bridge of the Leviathan of Io, ramrod straight with hands clasped in the small of his back despite the three gees of acceleration.
The habitat he now studied was remarkable only in how unremarkable it appeared. It was an open ring three thousand kilometers in diameter and five hundred fifty wide with atmospheric retention walls two hundred kilometers tall on either side of the ring’s habitable interior. A combination of the retention walls and centrifugal force kept the air from escaping.
A sheen of black solar skin coated the ring’s exterior, providing power to its ancient systems, which included an artificial light source at the hub stabilized by three slender spokes. The megastructure was angled so that the habitable zones never experienced Sol’s direct light. Instead, the sun-orb recreated the twenty-four-hour days so common amongst the solar system’s hundreds of thousands of habitats.
All totaled, the ring featured a little over five million square kilometers of living space. Barely .01 earths of land. Not all that impressive, especially when he considered his own home—the two shell bands around Jupiter—boasted over twenty-three earths of surface area.
According to his mission brief, the locals called this place Kirkwood, and the name struck Xormun as appropriate. Over sixty percent of the ring’s interior was covered in a wide variety of woodlands: predominantly greens but with splotches of dark blues, purples, blacks, and even a few slashes of deep reds. A smattering of lakes took up most of the remaining space, with primitive cities seeded along their shores, often built near the ruins of more advanced structures. No census had been conducted on the ring, though informal estimates ran between ten and twenty million inhabitants.
The locals were not his concern, however. They were mid-tech nobodies with no access to spaceships. In all likelihood, they and their ancestors had been stuck on this ring for four millennia, and they could stay there and rot for all he cared.
No, his mission involved a visiting group of Saturnian missionaries.
Or rather, one specific cleric named Anterus vaan Kronya.
The Leviathan of Io reached a relative stop with the habitat, and its massive fusion thrusters switched off. The kilometer-long cruiser could land on the ring if the mission required, descending upon it like a dark, angular skyscraper, but why bother when its support corvettes were far more suited to the task at hand?
Xormun floated off the floor and—with a frown—pressed a hand against the low ceiling to push himself back down. The ship’s pilot spun in her seat and faced Xormun. She’d had the sense to strap in.
<Ship in position, Apex,> the pilot reported, transmitting her words wirelessly to him. Her body possessed vocal cords, but they were useless while the bridge remained in vacuum. The Leviathan’s interior could be pressurized, and soon would be once their “guest” was brought on board.
Xormun gave her a brief nod and floated closer to the main visual-glass. A white diamond blinked next to one of the ring’s cities.
<How certain are we he’s there?> he asked.
<Almost guaranteed, Apex,> replied one of his data analysts. <It’s the only location on the ring transmitting a Saturnian locator beacon.>
<How considerate of them.>
<Now that we have an angle down into the interior, our telescopes can make out a modular structure on the outskirts of this city.> The analyst indicated a cluster of linked rectangles next to the icon. <We believe it’s a missionary prefab, since it’s the source of the beacon and it doesn’t resemble other nearby buildings.>
Xormun nodded as the analyst finished. Jovians almost always referred to each other by position when on duty, and he, as the ship’s apex, formed the eye at the top of the vessel’s mind-copy pyramid. He’d be addressed as “captain” on a Saturnian or Neptunian ship, but such narrow definitions were for people limited to a single body.
At present, twenty distinct Galatt Xormuns served on the Leviathan of Io, and more could be activated if needed. That few may not have seemed significant for a ship staffed with over five thousand bodies, but he’d ensured his copies filled the roles that would benefit most from his personal supervision.
Speaking of which . . .
Xormun linked with a body in the hangar.
<Yes, Apex?> The response came from his copy aboard one of eight corvettes, berthed on the Leviathan and prepped for launch.
<Is your team ready?>
<It is.>
<Any concerns?>
<None at present. If there are surprises, my commandos will take care of it. We’re ready to deploy on your command.>
<Then execute.>
The corvette descended through the ring’s atmosphere, and Galatt Xormun stood in the cargo hold beside a dozen Jovian commandos, each resplendent in red armor trimmed with gold highlights and armed with a combination of lethal and nonlethal weaponry. Their triangular, unmoving heads all faced the closed forward ramp, ready to charge out at a moment’s notice.
The corvette jostled from its descent through the atmosphere, and Xormun adjusted his footing, one hand gripping a handhold along the wall. This version of him wasn’t the apex, but that didn’t cloud his view of the larger picture, of the absolute necessity to bring Anterus in alive if his mission were to succeed. If anything, it heightened his awareness of every potential problem, impressing upon his mind the need to complete his objectives.
Later, back on the Leviathan, his memories would be reintegrated into the core Galatt Xormun persona, retaining this version’s experiences for future copies. But for now, he was an individual—separate and distinct—and he focused on his goal with singular intensity.
The turbulence ebbed, and the hum from the thrusters tapered off. The hold had already been filled with breathable air, its pressure equalized with the ring’s surface environment, and the sounds of their descent filled the vessel.
The Star Dragon-pattern corvette was a rare sight even in the Jovian Everlife, and the Leviathan carried eight of them. The craft’s sleek, black hull widened slightly toward the rear, ending in a pair of thrust-vectoring nozzles. Flared sections on either side of the cockpit resembled thick, stubby wings that housed the craft’s recessed weapon systems, which in this case included a pair of 37mm rail-repeaters and eight torpedoes. A thruster capped the end of each wing.
Star Dragon arsenals could vary greatly depending on the mission, with options to carry even more weaponry on external racks above and below the wing stubs, though these were rarely used. External weapons often compromised the craft’s stealth profile to an unacceptable level.
Xormun didn’t believe all those weapons—along with the commandos’ lethal armaments—would be required to nab Anterus, but he also believed in being prepared, and he knew how this mission could end up shifting the balance of power across the entire solar system.
The ramp opened, and orb-light spilled into the dark cargo hold. The commandos rushed out, each leaping off the ramp to plummet to the ground dozens of meters. Xormun approached the ramp but didn’t jump off; instead, he kept his hand on a side railing while the corvette circled the target building.
The structure was a collection of six modular blocks conjoined into a neat, curving row along a lakeside clearing. Teal-leafed trees towered nearby but provided no shade from the sun-orb’s light, always fixed at noon. His commandos had landed in a rough oval around the complex, and they moved in with rifles raised.
The attack—if it could even be called that—didn’t last long.
<Target acquired,> reported one of the commandos. <Three others subdued, one local and two Saturnians by the looks of them. Ready for extraction.>
<Take us down,> Xormun ordered the corvette’s pilot.
<Yes, sir.>
The corvette spun its four nozzles down and descended in a steep, slow diagonal until it came to rest along the shoreline. Xormun let go once the craft came to a complete stop and hurried down the ramp. His skin gleamed under the sun-orb’s light—silver instead of the gold he preferred when acting as apex—and he strode toward the Saturnian building. The warm breeze and sparse clouds overhead told him it would be a pleasant day as the sun-orb brightened toward noon-light.
He passed through a pair of breached double doors, one on the floor and the other hanging on by a single, bent hinge. The module contained a short hall lined with open doors at regular intervals. He peeked inside a few, finding what might have been classrooms. One of them contained three individuals on their stomachs, hands bound behind their backs with a pair of commandos standing watch.
The local woman struck Xormun as a typical baseline human, or at least close enough to pass as one, with a cascade of blond hair tousled over moist, frightened eyes. He wasn’t sure how much the habitat’s locals diverged from baseline, and he didn’t really care.
The two Saturnian clerics were obvious enough with metallic hints of cranial implants scattered across their bald heads. Their two wigs were on the floor nearby. Not all members of the Church of the Pentatheon accepted—or even wanted—such neural augmentations, but they were common enough to make the clergy stand out more often than not. Xormun continued on with little more than a glance; these three were unimportant, which made them the lucky ones.
The hall led into the next module with a slight bend, opening to a chamber that must have served as the mission’s worship center. Rows of pews faced an altar draped in royal purple cloth and adorned with five idols of colored glass, one for each Guardian Deity in the Pentatheon. Two of the idols had been knocked over, and one had rolled dangerously close to the edge.
Anterus vaan Kronya lay on the floor in front of the altar, his arms bound behind his back and four commandos standing watch. He was a somewhat overweight man with a round face, his implants glinting along his scalp like little coins.
“Now, now,” Xormun scolded. “There’s no need for that. Get the good man to his feet.”
Two commandos hefted Anterus upright. The man’s feet dangled beneath him for a moment before he found his footing and the commandos released him.
“Sorry about that.” Xormun dusted off the cleric’s purple robe, then straightened it at the shoulders. “There. Isn’t that better?”
“Who are you?” Anterus demanded, his face reddened and twisted in scornful defiance. “What is the meaning of this?”
“Galatt Xormun of the Jovian Everlife.” He placed a hand on his chest and dipped his head to the cleric. “And before we discuss the meaning of our . . . visit”—he flashed a quick smile—“it seems we made a mess of your altar. If you’ll grant me a moment to tidy things up?”
“I don’t seem to have a choice.”
“Indeed.”
Xormun stepped over to the altar and stood up the idols for Edencraft and Pathfinder. He adjusted the position of Metatron so the idols formed a neat row once more and picked up a piece of lint in front of Codex before flicking it aside. Only one of the five idols remained untouched, and he eyed it with a hint of scorn.
The five machine gods of the Pentatheon had served as humanity’s caretakers for tens of thousands of years, overseeing what most scholars believed was an unprecedented era of peace and prosperity.
Until the Guardian Deities fell silent.
And it all came crashing down.
Representations of those ancient, hyperintelligent machines varied wildly, even within the Church, but the green glass of a cornucopia filled with all manner of fauna and flora could only be Divergence. No other Guardian Deity was so inexorably tied to the organic.
Xormun placed a finger atop the cornucopia and rolled it over the table’s edge. It fell to the ground and shattered in an explosion of broken glass.
Anterus flinched.
“There,” Xormun declared contently. “Much better.”
He made the zigzagged sign of the Tetrad, pressing two fingers to his forehead, then each of his shoulders in turn, and finally his chest. He dipped his head to the altar, then turned back to the cleric.
“If it’s a theological debate you’re looking for,” Anterus spat, “I’m afraid you’re going about this the wrong way.”
“Funny you should mention theology.” Xormun stood before the cleric, his boots crunching on glass shards. “That’s actually what brought us here today. Or, to be more precise, a combination of theology and history. Would you mind if I asked you about the Scourging of Heaven?”
“Whatever for?”
“Intellectual curiosity. As it happens, the Scourging is linked to my work. Tell me, what do you believe happened back then?”
“Class resumes at nine tomorrow morning. Come back then if you want to talk, and”—he struggled against the commandos holding him up—“leave your goons at home!”
“My good sir.” Xormun placed a gentle hand on the cleric’s shoulder. “I know we only just met, but you should understand I’m a busy man, and I dislike it when people waste my time. Now, again, why don’t you indulge me and share your thoughts on the Scourging?”
“I fail to see the point in all this, but fine. The Scourging of Heaven is the event where the Pentatheon fell silent.”
“Which ended the Age of Communion—an age where anyone could speak to our Guardian Deities—and ushered in our current Age of Silence.” Xormun took his hand away and nodded. “A simple, if uninspired, answer. As for why they stopped responding to humanity, I find that a much more fascinating topic. Both major religions—the Church of the Pentatheon and followers of the Tetrad—call this event the Scourging of Heaven, though sometimes also the War in Heaven. Now why do you think that is?”
“Nothing more than regional differences in how the Scourging is interpreted.”
“But is it really that simple? Consider, for a moment, that it was indeed a war. Does a war not imply battles? If so, who fought whom? Were our gods wounded? Were they killed? Who were they fighting? Was it some external threat, like the fabled Devil of Proxima? Or were they, perhaps, fighting a threat closer to home? Did Divergence really betray the Four?”
“That’s a hallmark of your Tetrad faith,” Anterus bit out. “Not mine. And it’s a view enshrined by your people’s anti-organic mindset, and your rejection of Divergence.”
“Perhaps. The truth is neither of us knows what really happened. We can debate the matter until . . . well, one of us is blue in the face, but it won’t get us anywhere. And really, what would be the point?”
“Then why are you here?”
“Because, my good sir”—Xormun flashed a sinister smile—“you’ve learned something about the Scourging, haven’t you?”
“What could possibly make you think that—”
“Conversations with your former student,” Xormun interrupted, still holding that smile. “A certain engineer named Joshua Cotton.”
Anterus gasped. “But how could you—”
“Easily intercepted conversations, I might add,” Xormun explained with a dismissive wave. “They make for interesting reading. Theories about the Scourging, along with mentions of a second individual. A woman named Vessani S’Kaari.”
The cleric’s brow beaded with sudden sweat, though he tried to put on a brave face.
“A woman whom you now believe holds the key to unraveling the mystery behind the Scourging. Or, at least, the part of it I care about most.”
Anterus swallowed with an audible gulp.
“The wonders the Guardian Deities wrought upon the solar system are clear for all to see.” Xormun gestured to their surroundings. “They constructed countless habitats like this ring. They tore apart moons, whole planets even, and harvested matter from Sol itself to build whatever humanity asked of them. They reshaped the solar system as if it were but a mound of clay in their hands. How amazing they must have been to witness. How awe-inspiring. How . . . utterly terrifying.”
Anterus turned away, but Xormun took hold of his chin and forced the cleric to face him.
“Tell me, what kind of weapon would be needed to kill such a being?”
“We haven’t found anything!” Anterus cried, his speech distorted by Xormun’s grip.
“But you suspect. And that suspicion is enough for me. The ‘War in Heaven,’ indeed. Gods killing Gods. And you believe you’re close to finding one such device. A pentatech relic that shattered the solar system and brought about the Age of Silence.”
“No! You’re mistaken! We haven’t found anything! It’s a theory! Harmless speculation, nothing more!”
“Then why do you look so worried?” Xormun asked. “No, don’t bother answering. Let’s cut to the heart of the matter, shall we?” He nodded to the commandos. They uncuffed Anterus while keeping him restrained, and one of them forced the cleric’s splayed hand against the altar.
“What are you doing?!” he blurted, his breaths shallow and quick, his face flushed.
“Allow me to explain what happens next. I’m going to ask you a series of questions, and you’re going to give me truthful and complete answers. You might hold some delusions about resisting, but rest assured I’m something of an expert in these matters. Your efforts won’t change the end result. You will tell me what I want to know, even if nothing remains of you when I’m done besides a pile of quivering meat.”
Xormun drew a knife and held it up for Anterus to see. Then he placed the tip of the blade underneath the nail of the man’s ring finger.
“Stop!” Anterus pleaded. “I . . . I’ll tell you everything!”
“I know you will.” Xormun pushed the blade into the soft flesh under the man’s nail, drawing blood.
“I’ll tell you everything!” The cleric’s legs thrashed vainly underneath him, his body in the iron grip of the commandos. “Everything!”
“I know you will,” Xormun repeated softly, almost kindly. “This is merely so you and I can reach an understanding. So that you realize how serious I am.”
He thrust the knife all the way under the nail, then levered it upward, ripping the nail free as the cleric cried out in pain.