Preview: The Void Beyond, Prologue + Chapters 1 & 2

Prologue

We look back now at this time in human history as one of the most trying in our collective memory. It is a story of violence, of trial, and of despair. But even more than that, it is a story of sacrifice, of perseverance, and of duty. It is a story that now defines us, that changed us forever.

-Excerpt from The End Times: a Brief History of the End of Humanity by Ibn Dars-Elat

              They watched as the light from the engines burned brighter and brighter, piercing the starry cosmos and crowding out the light from other stars around. The acceleration bursts were different in their energy signatures and color. New engines. They raced to make new calculations, to update their models on the technologies of the Watchers. Accurate predictions were essential for survival, should their position in space ever be discovered. Should they ever have to run again.

              They trained their instruments back towards the outer rim of the galaxy, back towards the little clusters where they had seen the enormous outputs of energy. Things were silent once again, but it was too late. In ten years, the Watchers would arrive, and whatever civilization lived in that sector of space would face the ultimate death: extinction. Whatever battle or experiment had caught the attention of the Watchers must have been quite the sight. They argued over potential causes, and they argued over what to do.

              Some, the older ones who could still remember, argued they do nothing. Let the universe take its course. For generations they had found themselves safe, hidden in plain sight as they were. Why risk annihilation for aliens they had no connection to, no trade or shared information? The younger ones, those who had not been alive at the Great Leaving, argued the opposite. No matter the threat, whomever was out there deserved to be warned. Rtskl led this view.

              “How can we do nothing?” she cried in council, floating in the center of the congress hall and casting her eyes about with fire in her vision and passion in her eyes. “Have we forgotten the fate we suffered at the hands of the Watchers, those monsters? Do we not remember what befell our people?”

              “That is precisely why we can do nothing,” answered the leader of the opposing view, an ancient named Kwllt. “You were not there, young one. You did not see the devastation. You did not watch your society butchered and burned without remorse, without chance of retaliation, without any recourse.” Her voice showed her age, cracked like the ancient plains of a dry planet and resonated with time and hollow depth. “We could do nothing. We could only watch as they destroyed us.”

              Rtskl listened, along with the others in council, in silence and with reverence. She had heard these stories all her life, from the time she was a small one in the communal pod, but they had not lost their power. Fear threatened to overwhelm her, threatened to weaken her resolve, but she waited until Kwllt fell silent, and then she spoke again: “I do not pretend to know the horrors you and yours endured, ancient one. And I mean no disrespect. You saved our people and gave me life. But you saw what was happening. You were there, and this gave you time. This gave you time to prepare, to plan, and ultimately, to escape and live. Do not these creatures out there in the cosmos deserve the same chance? Do they not deserve a chance to defend themselves or to run? If we do not warn them, then what happens when the Watchers find the next target, or the next? Do we simply watch as the universe falls prey to their pogrom? Do we live alone and afraid as all life, all brothers and sisters in the void, suffer the fate we so narrowly escaped?”

              There was silence in the hall, the water still as those in attendance did not move. All minds were turned towards the map projected in the murky waters of the screen-cloud where the star map clearly showed the path the Watchers were taking towards the unknown civilization that had just made itself bright in the empty darkness of space. Ten years. The Watchers would arrive, and destroy this alien culture, in ten years. And unless they did something, those poor souls would never know until it was too late.

1

War, regardless of the intentions, never leads to peace. There are always power vacuums left for the ambitious and cruel to fill, hatred bred of violence left to simmer and grow. Rather than peace, war leaves fertile ground in which it may replicate itself. 

- Excerpt from Cause and Effect: an Analysis of the Traitor’s War, by Spokayn Erthre

              From low orbit, the firefights on the surface appeared to blossom into orange and red clouds of expanding gas and light. The viewscreen crackled with static from the magnetic and electrical forces shearing at each other on the surface of the planet. Sensor readings came pouring in, electronic whistles and jumbled radio messages and a scattering of voices and footsteps. Casualty reports, troop movements, armament shipments, shuttle landings… and in the center of it all, Leader Eazkaii sat with his hands steepled in front of him like the calm center of a storm. He allowed the information to flow through him, absorbing not so much the details but the overall trends. In his mind, the battle was beginning to take shape, and the shape was not one favorable to the Black Sun.

              He was impressed. They had expected the planet Rot to be an easy conquest, something of a sporting vacation while the fleet moved towards larger, more desirable targets. He had underestimated the inhabitants of the planet. Unlike most of the Coalition planets, which had fallen into barely contained chaos after the Inner Cluster’s victory and the shutdown of the skip drive network, Rot had managed to keep civil society going. Eazkaii smiled. A challenge is always welcome.

              “Sir,” an officer to his right, Eazkaii could not remember his name, said tentatively. Eazkaii looked at him, not answering, until the man continued. “We have lost Surface Units Thre, Six, Seven, and Nine. The other units are beginning to approach the capital city where the last of the holdouts have barricaded themselves.”        

      

Eazkaii barked orders, watching the changing perspectives cycle through the view screen in front of him and listening to the mad shuffling of feet and voices around him as his orders were passed down the lines to their respective recipients. Now the screen showed the feed from a surface soldier’s helmet cam. It was chaos on the ground, and the feed was jumpy and unclear. Eazkaii could make out sprinting soldiers and dead bodies, could hear the thumping explosions and crackling of energy weapons. There was a flash of white and the feed went dead. The screen cycled, this time to a camera mounted on a surface vehicle speeding through a city street lined with blown out buildings and littered with corpses. The vehicle was taking fire from all sides; bursts of energy flashed from behind bus stops, from dark windows, from under overturned aircars. Eazkaii could hear the yells of the men operating the vehicle as it careened through a portion of street set ablaze with spilled fuel, could hear the sounds of energy bursts striking the armored sides and the screams of the men as they burned inside. Again, the feed went black, cycling to a drone view from above the same scene in time to see the vehicle smash into the capital building and explode, the hundreds of pounds of explosives in the vehicle’s cargo coming alight in a massive inferno of fire and light. Troops fighting in the wake of the vehicle’s suicide run rushed towards the new opening in the building, firing into the light and smoke. Eazkaii was pleased. The men in the vehicle had followed his orders without question, willing to die for the cause. What better way to die could there be?

But then something unexpected happened, sending a jolt of pleasure down Eazkaii’s spine. The entire capital building exploded in a blinding light, taking out the drone above with it. The viewscreen cycled to a low orbit satellite; the explosion was visible from space, entire city blocks vaporized. At the same moment, reports began flooding in of a new wave of enemy combatants pushing back against the Black Sun surface units. Then the feed went dead. The viewscreen cycled dead feed after dead feed.

“Arn!” Eazkaii called his first officer to his side. “What happened?”

              “Sir,” Arn appeared at his side on the bridge, furiously scanning through the information flooding his tab. “It appears the inhabitants of Rot have more resources than we thought and have been holding back. They just took out 6 of our satellites simultaneously. Reports are coming in of new enemy combatants entering the battle at every front. Our people are being pushed back.”

              Eazkaii did not respond right away, staring instead at the static on the screen before him. At the press of a button on his console, the screen switched to the default outer view. The curvature of the planet Rot filled the viewscreen. A beautiful planet, a paradise of oceans and mountains and forests, it appeared as a light blue-green marble swirled with white and orange from this distance. One of the first to be settled in the Slow Migration so many generations ago, this was truly a planet worth fighting for. Worth defending. And the resources on it – labor especially – would have gone a long way in sustaining the Black Sun’s continued conquest. Eazkaii sighed. Such a waste.

              “Prepare the weapon,” he said gently. “Sterilize the planet.”

              There was silence on the bridge.

              “Sir,” Arn said with admirably little hesitation. “We still have over a hundred thousand troops on the surface.”

              “Then they die in service of the Black Sun,” Eazkaii said with conviction. “What better way to enter the oblivion which awaits us all after life?” Eazkaii paused, daring anyone to contradict him, to deny the glory of the Black Sun. “Do it.”

              Again the mad shuffle of feet around him, this time with a new sense of urgency. The weapon. All in the ranks of the Black Sun knew the rumors of its existence, but this would be the first time the weapon would be used in battle. Eazkaii could sense the fear in the men around him. They feared not for themselves, but for what this act made them, for the threshold they were about to cross. Eazkaii took an inner look at himself, gauging his emotions, looking for any sign of trepidation or fear. He felt nothing. And why should he? There was only the cause. All decisions could only be judged in light of the end goal. Nothing else, not morality nor life nor fear, mattered.

              “Sir,” Arn appeared at his side again. “We are ready.”

              “Fire.”

              For a few moments, there was nothing. Then the bridge crew had to look away for the flash of white light exploding from the surface, filling the viewscreen. When they could look back, a shockwave of light could be seen spreading rapidly across the planet’s surface from the explosion point, wiping through the beautiful blues and whites and oranges and leaving an ashen gray behind. The wave engulfed all that was visible on the hanging sphere and turned over the horizon. The entire planet looked as though it had gone blind. The entire thing – the death of the planet Rot – had lasted only a minute or so.

              Eazkaii was already thinking about the next target.

2

The movement of peoples is, through a historical lens, one of the most common occurrences in the human story. And, through the same lens, we see that, whenever the natural flow of humans from one place to another, be it because of war, famine, injustice, etc., is stopped, whenever borders are emphasized and controlled, this flow is not stopped. Only more people die.

-Excerpt from Lines in the Sand: the History of Migration and Enforcement by Als-de Garcia

              The ship now coming into view on her screen looked as though it had been through hell. And it likely had, considering the stories filtering out of old Coalition space. Khalihl ordered her ship around in front of the incoming ships, six tattered and barely together cruisers full of refugees from the growing destruction sweeping through what was left of the Coalition. She hailed their lead ship, the Kindred.

              “This is Q’biin Khalihl, Captain of the Gibran and Admiral of the Inner Cluster fleet,” she said to the man who appeared on the viewscreen. “I bid you welcome to the Inner Cluster.”

              “Thank you,” the man, obviously short on sleep and nutrition, said. “I am Gerald Hunth of the ship the Kindred and from the moon-colony Mond. I come with 352 refugees seeking asylum.”

              “I acknowledge your request,” Khalihl could hear the tension in Hunth’s voice, could see the fatigue in his worry-worn eyes. There was much to discuss with the gentleman, many procedures to go through in order to process these people, but some part of her was not ready for that. These were the first to arrive from the growing conflicts in what had been Coalition space; they had survived whatever destruction had befallen their system, had made the arduous and long journey to the Inner Cluster, likely underprepared for it. They deserved some rest. “There are many things for us to discuss to process your request, but this can wait. Allow my ships to escort you and yours to a moon nearby. There, we can offer your people whatever help they need. We will get to the procedures when you have recovered some.”

              “Thank you again,” the man said, relief and joy plain on his face and in the tears beginning to stream down his cheek. “Thank you so much.”

              It only took a few hours for them to reach the nearby moon Khalihl had promised, and as she watched the battered and beaten people file out of their ships and into the waiting arms of the medical staff there to treat them, she marveled at their bravery and strength. These people had been forced to leave everything, an entire world  they had built for themselves and for their culture, behind. It would take time for them to recover from the pain and the trauma. This she could plainly see in their sunken eyes and their shuffling gaits. But she also sensed a new hope from them. They had made it, had survived the ravages of the power struggle from which they fled! And then there were the children. Khalihl was filled with hope and joy to see them being exactly what they were, children, and doing exactly what children do, play. Their peals of laughter and the sounds of their feet running on the cargo hold floors lightened her heart and, she could see, the hearts of everyone around.

              After the sick and injured had been attended to, after everyone had been fed and clothed, civil servants began the processing. Khalihl wandered from booth to booth, listening to the stories being told and thinking about the events that had perpetuated this crisis. Many of the stories were painfully similar. After Meiind had shut down the equipment allowing for the harvest of human Sources, the already processed and distributed supply of batteries quickly began to dwindle. With this also degraded the Coalition’s government and soon there was no central power to speak of. Small wars broke out on planets over the remaining batteries and skip drives. Some of these turned into power struggles spanning systems, and eventually, while many began the process of adapting their societies to the new, lonely realities of life cut off from the rest of humanity, the Black Sun emerged. Khalihl stopped and sat down at one booth where a woman with a child was telling her story.

              “There was no warning,” the woman said, fatigue obvious in her voice and posture. “They destroyed the colony on Redras, one of our moons, within an hour of appearing in orbit. Seven million souls gone in an instant. Then they began making their demands.”

              “What is it they wanted?” Khalihl asked after glancing at the worker taking notes and making sure it was alright for her to ask questions.

              “They wanted any Source batteries and skip drives we had left,” the woman responded, turning now to Khalihl. “They also demanded we renounce any religion practiced on our planet, a regular tribute of resources, and fifty percent of males below the age of 14.” This was exactly as Khalihl had heard from every refugee fleeing the Black Sun.

              “How did your people respond?”

              “They tried to negotiate for less difficult terms. We are not sure what happened when our president went to the ship in orbit, but soon after, an invasion had begun. They came down and began destroying cities and capturing and killing people. My husband…” the woman broke down into tears and buried her face in her hands. Khalihl reached a hand out and gripped the woman’s shoulder for a moment before getting up and moving on.

              She had heard hundreds of stories now, and each of them were similar. A preliminary, unwarranted, and devastating attack followed by the same list of demands. If those were not fulfilled immediately, then utter destruction ensued. The Black Sun was not interested taking their time nor in reducing causalities. They only wanted resources and power. Their leader only wanted domination.

              She found herself at one end of the cargo hold, looking out at the hundreds of people milling about booths and sick beds, volunteers from the Inner Cluster and refugees alike. Seeing them all here, hearing their stories and seeing the anguish written on their faces, she could not help but wonder at the choice she and Meiind had made. Using the Source for energy was murder, that much was clear. But, in destroying the technology, in condemning planets to isolation and suffering, had they allowed something worse to come forth? Were they, in a way, responsible for the billions of lives already lost and the billions still in jeopardy? Were they responsible for the Black Sun and its leader, Eazkaii?

              Khalihl turned to leave the cargo hold, her mind awash with confusion and fear and anger. The halls of the moon base were humming with activity. As she walked towards the command center, absently saluting the soldiers and civilians stopping at attention as she passed, her mind drifted to the person often in her thoughts when she found herself unsure of things: Aasben Raasch. The late CoFleet Admiral who had given his life in treason against the Coalition and to save New Mecca, the man who had led the conspirator trio made up of herself, the Admiral, and Meiind. How many times in the aftermath of what was now being called by Cluster historians and the populace alike the Hero’s Battle – the remnants of the Coalition called it the Traitor’s Battle – had she wished Raasch was here to guide them again? How many times had she regretted not having more time to learn from the man, to perhaps be with him? In the Inner Cluster, he had become a hero of mythic status, and the Elder Council had added a bust of him to their meeting place, a constant reminder of the man who had saved them despite political and ideological differences. He had been a man dedicated to truth and morality. What would he think of what was happening in the remains of his culture? What would he do?

              Khalihl did not have an answer to these questions, and she knew, ultimately, she would have to make her own decisions based on her own thoughts and feelings. She arrived at the control center of the base and sat before a console, inputting a few commands. A stream of information filtered onto the screen in front of her: refugee stats, news of the wars being fought, the latest movements of the Black Sun. Again, everything led back to this one enemy. No matter what happened, she knew, they would become the most important issue to be dealt with.

              Indeed, what to do about them was the principle discussion happening in the Elder Council now. Some argued for a preemptive attack; the Black Sun would only grow in strength the longer they waited and become more difficult to handle, these advisors said. And, they thought, the leader of the Black Sun, Eazkaii, an obvious and dangerous megalomaniac, would not settle with simply overtaking old Co space. He would want the Inner Cluster as well. Khalihl agreed with them in this, but she was unsure of their conclusions. Again, Raasch’s voice rang in her head. Did he not turn against his superiors because of their decision to attack the Inner Cluster without provocation? While it is true the Black Sun was a serious threat, they had not yet threatened her people in any way. And history was clear on the ways in which interventionist policies often led to long, dragged-out conflicts. It was for this reason, as well as for the faint voice of Raasch in her mind, that she had sided with the advisors advocating military preparedness while also providing what relief they could for the people suffering in these power struggles. Waiting was difficult, but it appeared to be the most logical course of action. And yet the stories she had just heard, so like the hundreds of others recorded throughout Inner Cluster space as refugees poured in all over, pulled at her sense of outrage. She felt pulled in different directions; her personal anger wanted recourse but her upbringing prioritized peace and life, arguing to wait and try to do the most good and the least harm.  So often, she thought, it seems  the same premises lead equally to different conclusions and courses of action. What does this mean about the premises themselves?

              “Sir?” a voice behind her, that of the base’s highest ranking officer.

              “Yes?” Khalihl turned to face a woman standing a few paces away, at attention, with a face full of stress and worry.

              “A message has arrived for you,” the woman said. “From the Elders.”

              Khalihl could not help a bitter thought: What now?

              “Prepare my ship, please,” she said, standing with a growing sense of dread and fatigue.