EVE®: Templar One (37 page)

Your imperfections are endearing to me.
They mean you still have a soul.
What are the next steps for my Templars?

“Though we are victorious, there are contingencies,” Victor said.
“Word of our conquest is spreading.
Reactions may be desperate.
I recommend moving the Templars offworld as soon as reinforcements arrive to secure our claim.”

You may proceed.

“There is something else,” Victor said.
“I have been concerned … You must already know.
Templar Six went rogue during the mission and needed to be dispatched.
We have not reanimated him: His essence is locked in virtual storage.”

Victor heard silence—a sign that a struggle was under way.

“There are flaws in the others as well,” he continued.
“Templar Six spoke in a dialect we cannot decipher.
They experience traumatic visions as they reclone.
Some believe there are dangers we must fully understand before moving forward.…”

There it was—the transformation.
When something else awoke inside of her.

The Templars are the saviors of man, Lord Victor.
By my decree, you will move forward with the Reclaiming at once.

DOMAIN REGION—THRONE WORLDS CONSTELLATION

THE AMARR SYSTEM—PLANET ORIS

EMPEROR FAMILY ACADEMY STATION

SOVEREIGNTY OF THE AMARR EMPIRE

Present Day

Jamyl ripped herself from the recesses of Victor’s mind and collapsed to one knee, blinded by pain and the ruthless intrusion of the Other.

But now she began laughing, even as it wracked the muscles surrounding her ribs.

“What do you keep hiding from me, you coward?”
she said.

Within her private chambers, there was pure, chilled water within reach at all times.
Even as the years passed and her ability to control the alien entity inside her improved, her immune system still revolted ferociously against the invasion.
Gushing with flash perspiration, her body temperature soared as the Other—with whom she was still locked in an anguishing battle of attrition—invaded her psyche.

You hear everything you need to rule well,
it said.

“Your secrets hurt us both,” Jamyl retorted between gulps of water.
“How can I help you if you won’t be honest with me.”

Your sincerity assures me I have all the help I need.

“The Templars succeeded at Pike’s Landing,” she said, shivering violently.
“You should be pleased.”

Humanity’s desire to destroy itself ensures their place in history.

“Strange how you always awaken when my curiosity about them heightens.”

I strike the weakness from you before it can harm us.

“Us?”

What is good for Amarr is good for us.

Jamyl learned that the entity sharing her mind needed her to survive.
Yet it had its own psychology, its own motives, and bespoke an intelligence suggestive of another time and culture, a civilization unlike any that had existed before.
Still, Jamyl managed to hurt it, wear it down, and demoralize it, even when she couldn’t know what its intentions were.
But somehow, the Other found strength at exactly the right times to block her awareness entirely.

The Templars were part of its plan.
But she couldn’t know how.
There was a sinister element to their existence, but she was prevented from developing the idea further: The Other kept an unbreakable lock on that part of her thought process.
Nevertheless, she was aligned with the potential they brought to Amarr’s cause.
Her father had glorified war and wanted her Empire to worship it.
Amarr nearly fell because of that delusion: The Joves, after all, needn’t have stopped at Atioth.
They could have marched all the way to the Throne Worlds.

In her mind, their civilization was that close to the brink.
She was determined to prevent that from ever happening again by using the technology of immortality to change the calculus of war to a zero-sum game.
The Templars would shatter the rationale of any sane adversary who believed war was worth the price.

The Other stepped into her thoughts seamlessly.

I am thousands of years old.
I have lived through the beginning and the end of hope.
You are wise to let me help you realize your vision.

Jamyl staggered to her feet.

“For now,” she growled.
“But when the time is right, there will be an end to you.”

I accept this fate knowing I have accomplished what I came here for.
Until then, I will save my strength, and act only when you lack it.

Jamyl’s concentration was broken by an electronic update from her Court Chamberlain.
Her Empire was run by a theocratic bureaucracy charged with enacting the policy she decreed.
Progress was delivered daily, and she would only inject herself into matters when her faith in the desired outcome faltered.
Given her condition, it was wise to limit her contact with advisors and even then to keep such contact as brief and authoritarian as possible.

In the blink of an eye, reports from every corner of the Empire materialized in her consciousness: Her admirals described progress on the Minmatar front.
The Empire’s coffers were being depleted faster than replenished; fiscal measures to stimulate tax revenues were being considered.
Her inspirational presence was recommended at the site of several worlds where natural disasters had taken a large civilian toll.
Social unrest was rising in regions loyal to Yonis Ardishapur.
At present she was the guardian of more than one trillion souls across thousands of worlds.
The people were anxious for her to fulfill the prophecies of her reign, and to end the war that had cost them so much.

Amarr will end all wars, Empress Jamyl.
That will be your legacy.

“Of course it will,” she stammered.
“Why wouldn’t I believe you?”

The sooner you learn to trust me, the more comfortable you’ll be with destiny.

“You’ve given me every reason to despise you unconditionally,” she said, feeling a tinge of strength return to her.
“There is neither trust nor common ground between us.”

I spent many lifetimes surrounded by strangers.
Yet I was alone.
I am forced to bear a burden I do not want.
I am deeply jealous of those who live ignorant lives while I suffer knowing the truth of their world.
I am like you in more ways than you can imagine.
We are survivors, Empress Jamyl.
We are alive because true life finds a way.
Always.

“Life?
You wanted me to think you were a god,” she said, strong enough now to feel rage.
“I’ve watched you kill thousands.
What do you know about life?”

I know what must be done to preserve it.
Now you do as well.
People will recognize you as a deity.
As you really are.
As I will one day become.

Jamyl felt a potent surge of her vitality return; the Other was fading.

The Templars are flawless.
They are Heaven’s army, and they are yours to command.
They shall Reclaim God’s creation, and begin the reign of Amarr everlasting.
And your name will be heralded for the rest of time.

28

HEIMATAR REGION—HED CONSTELLATION

AMAMAKE SYSTEM—PLANET II: PIKE’S LANDING

THIRTY KILOMETERS SE OF CORE FREEDOM COLONY—BADLANDS GRID

SOVEREIGNTY OF THE AMARR EMPIRE

Staff Sergeant Garrett Lyons loosened the jump straps of his safety harness, contemplating the time when he joined the Federation Marines.
He was honest in telling the recruiter everything she wanted to hear: He loved his country, felt a patriotic call of duty to defend it from Tibus Heth and the Caldari State, and was a pure adrenaline junkie.
Shooting plasma rifles, jumping from gunships, and traveling to different worlds were all parts of the brochure that spoke to him.

Three years later, here he was, cramped inside a Kruk-class gunship on a covert national security op for the 626 Recon Element, Black Eagles SPECFOR, somewhere over a planet he’d never even heard of until forty-eight hours ago.

By the age of twenty-one, Garrett was a veteran with enough decorations to impress a career soldier.
Most of those, he readily conceded, were due to luck and had nothing to do with heroism or valor.
The running “joke” in the Marines was that just making it to an LZ without getting spaced by a capsuleer was worth its own medal.
But all comedy aside, he’d seen action on both sides of the border-zone constellations, where the most gruesome fighting had taken place, at least in the eyes of the media.
No matter how good the psych treatment or medicine, Garrett knew he wasn’t the same naïve kid who walked into that recruiter’s office on Crystal Boulevard.
The war takes a piece of everyone.
It was hard to not roll his eyes at the person he used to be.

But all that experience was coveted by the Federation military, and they’d made him part of the 626 because of it.

Garrett took long-drawn breaths, willing himself into a pre-mission meditation.
The stealthy Kruk was skimming over the plateaus and rock steppes of Pike’s Landing below, as it had for the last four hundred kilometers of the journey.
He felt the bottom lift from his stomach as the craft finally descended below sea level, into the badlands to the southeast of Core Freedom, beneath the X-band radar sweeps of the fortifying Amarr forces to the north.

With the 626, he found himself among soldiers whose covert service records would be legendary, if only they were allowed to be publicized—unsung elite Federation heroes whose actions would likely remain lost to history forever.
Deployments were clandestine, rather than “loud and full throttle” alongside tanks and MTACs.
Most times they were invisible: He’d done takedowns in civilian clothes, infiltrated secure mega-corporation networks using his cybernetic augmentations, and recovered hoards of actionable intelligence about Caldari operations.
They went “loud” only when they had to, and they were good at that too.

Maybe a little too good,
Garrett mused, looking over the three squadmates around him.
The missions had only become more “challenging” with each success, which in their world meant more “unlikely to survive.”
That,
he thought,
was the curse of competence
.

“Ready up,” he ordered, checking his own equipment.
The “beehive” was the heaviest item in his kit, but crucial to the mission.
The basket-size metallic casing contained eight CreoDron NARC-10 drones, each about the size of a large insect.
These tiny marvels were autonomous reconnaissance variants, capable of terrain mapping, audio tracking, and high-resolution optical scans.
Give them something to look for, and they would find it, returning to the hive to recharge and upload their data to the transmitter inside the casing.

A typical infantry beehive cost about a million credits; this one was ten times that, and each man was equipped with one.
The brass needed to know what happened here, and no expense would be spared to find out.

Garrett reviewed the mission again.

Primary Objective: Establish mobile reconnaissance platforms on the Core Freedom perimeter.

Recon Target: Conventional Imperial forces and any evidence of new cloning technology.

Observe and report.
Do not make enemy contact.

That last part was fine with him.
Huge corridors of Pike’s Landing were completely uninhabited and, more importantly, unmonitored.
Their gunship had already dodged Imperial starship patrols and managed to drop into the atmosphere undetected.
The flight plan took them over vast, undeveloped corridors of land under the cover of darkness.
But the closest they could get to the colony without being seen was through the badlands.

The problem was that anyone who wanted to observe the colony from up close—and all indications were that a few governments did—would know this as well.

“Neutrino spike,” the pilot warned.
“And X-rays.
Coming from the badlands.”

“Go quiet and check it out,” Garrett said.

“Roger,” the pilot said, slowing the craft down and activating the gunship’s advanced stealth systems.
Nearly all spacecraft relied on aneutronic reactors to generate power; 98 percent of that output was proton emissions.
But the remaining 2 percent was neutrino emissions, whose signature could be dampened but never fully masked.
By sheer luck alone, the Kruk flew through a neutrino stream whose trajectory vectored from the terrain ahead.
Chances were these weren’t random particles tunneling through the planet at that exact spot.

“Got it,” the pilot warned.
“Unidentified gunship dead ahead, parked and camouflaged a few meters from the valley floor.”

“Unmask and orbit,” Garrett said.
“Guns ready.”

“Wilco,” the pilot said.
“Let command know?”

“I’ll do it,” he answered.
Weapons lowered from the Kruk’s wings as the pilot performed a cautious circle of the strange craft.

“Command, this is Hotel-Actual.
We found an unidentified bogey near the LZ.
Telemetry on the way.
Please advise.”

Garrett could see what the pilot was referring to through an augmented reality of the optics.
The tech aboard the Kruk was advanced enough to see through the mysterious gunship’s cloaking mechanism and scan its hull design.

“Can we get a look at the interior?”
Garrett asked.

“Negative,” the pilot answered.
“Terahertz just scatters, infrared is cold, and everything else shows a black hole.”

Garrett became alarmed.

“Then how’d you unmask the visible wavelength?”
he asked.

“I didn’t,” the pilot answered.
“The laser designator just picked it up.
It’s not doing anything tricky to cloak the fuselage.”

Though there were hundreds of stock-model gunship types in operation around New Eden, Garrett was confident this was the only one of its kind.

Director Mentas Blaque answered the comm directly.

“Hotel-Actual, this is Blaque.
You’ve got new orders: Disable that craft; board and report.
Make sure it can’t broadcast.
We need to know who owns it.
Use nonlethal force if you can, but I won’t hold you to it.”

Garrett looked at the rest of the commandos.
It was time to get serious.

“Hotel-Actual copies,” he said.
“We’re on it.”

HEIMATAR REGION— HED CONSTELLATION

AMAMAKE SYSTEM—PLANET II: PIKE’S LANDING

CORE FREEDOM COLONY—PERIMETER GRID

SOVEREIGNTY OF THE AMARR EMPIRE

The temporary staging area for cloning repairs was right alongside the Able spaceport, where a small farm of mobile CRUs was established.
A startling transformation of Core Freedom was under way, as gold-plated MTACs and Paladins now patrolled the grounds.
The space elevator’s main freight platform had just concluded its second descent from space, bringing with it mobile surface-to-air missile (SAM) batteries, construction materials, and armored vehicles.
Despite this voluminous cargo, most of the platform remained empty.
The engineering marvel could bring down much more, if only the ships above could supply it quickly enough.

Vince staggered alone toward the CRU farm, avoiding the gaze of onlookers.
He felt much hotter than before, and it was becoming difficult to breathe.
His injured shoulder throbbed with each heartbeat; he placed his hand in front of his face and found he had trouble focusing.

Concern became outright alarm as he nearly fell, leaning against a wrecked APC for support.
His TACNET biometrics flashed online:

>BIOSYS ALERT<

>BODY TEMP 44C, BP 225/120<

>ELEVATED RECOVERY MODE<

>SYSDIAG: VASCULAR NANITE IMBALANCE DUE TO HUMERUS-SCAPULA POSTERIOR DISLOCATION<

>RECOMMENDED ACTION: VITALS WILL STABLIZE WHEN JOINT IS RESET.
PAVE-MEDIC NOTIFIED.<

It felt as though molten lead were pumping through his veins.
“Pave-Medic” was the online system monitoring the performance of his clone and that of the other Templars.

“Templar One,” a voice said.
“Did you receive that warning?”

“Yes,” Vince said.
“What does it—”

“Your clone is trying to repair an injury it can’t fix on its own,” the voice said.
It was likely a physician somewhere in the space above, watching and recording every single thing he did.

Vince felt a tinge of anger, then succumbed to desperation as his condition deteriorated.

“The bionanites in your plasma are racing through your vascular system looking for the source of pain you’re feeling,” the voice said.
“Congratulations: You’ve found a bug in your clone design.”

Though he was clearly in physical distress, dozens of people had just walked past him without offering assistance.
Stumbling toward the nearest building for shade, Vince caught a reflection of himself in some debris and froze.

“Reset the shoulder yourself,” Pave-Medic informed.
“Bend the arm ninety degrees at the elbow, keep your arm in an L shape, hold the elbow against your body, and rotate the forearm outward from the chest as far as you can, maintaining that L until it reduces.
It’s going to hurt, but fight through it.
This is a silly reason to lose an expensive clone.”

What the hell am I?
Vince thought, staring at the pale ghost of himself in the reflection.
He had no idea what he even
should
look like.
Self-image was an unfamiliar concept.
Instead of seeing a person, he saw memories from a short life filled with nightmares.

“Do it now, Templar,” Pave-Medic warned.
“Or else you’re going to have bigger problems.”

Vince clenched his fist and did what he was instructed to, forcing his shoulder through agony that would make most men faint.

With a muffled
pop,
the joint slipped back into place.
The pain receded almost immediately, and he felt the equivalent of needles rush through his veins as his cybernetic vascular system restored equilibrium.

The sound of Lord Victor’s voice startled him.

“I have new orders for you, Templar,” he said.
Vince had no idea how long he had been standing there.

“Two new tests,” Victor continued.
“One of faith, the other of your abilities.”

Blinking away phosphenes, Vince straightened his posture.

“I am eager to serve, my lord.”

“Good,” Victor said.
Vince’s TACNET was now displaying a map of the colony.

“The badlands south of here are geologically impervious to surface-based radar.
We have eyes overhead in space and occasional gunship patrols, but we need boots on the ground.”

“Of course, sir.
We can be ready to deploy within—”

“Not ‘we,’” Victor interrupted.
“Just you.”

On one hand, Vince was thrilled to explore the terrain.
On the other, it was becoming apparent that the master he served no longer trusted him.

“Should I expect enemy contact?”
he asked.

“A number of Valklears fled during the invasion,” Lord Victor said.
“Sending a full patrol would attract attention.
This is a scouting op.
One man, operating with stealth, is what’s needed.
Observe and report.
Under no circumstances are you to make contact.
We will send support.
If things go badly, you will revive at the CRU farm with immediate access to vehicles that can return you to the badlands quickly.
However…”