The Truth (The Seryys Chronicles) Read online

  Now he was a seasoned commander of a fleet, and he vowed to never attack a civilian population that had no tactical value again. Needless killing was not going to end the war, only fuel it. Yes, civilians died in war, especially when the home world was within striking distance. It still bothered him whenever he was ordered to orchestrate a hit-and-run on Seryys, but his hope was to pound the Seryysans into submission. If by sheer force, they could get Seryys to surrender, the needless killing could stop and negotiations could begin. But he knew as well as any Vyysarri that they would not submit until every soldier was dead or dying and the entire Vyysarri Navy surrounded their home.

  As these thoughts roamed through his head, his communications officer called out to him.

  “Commander,” he said, his voice deep and resonate. “I have an incoming transmission from Colony One.”

  “Put it through.”

  The screen blinked to the visage of an older Vyysarri. One with hardened features from nearly a century of combat stood before them. In order to hold office, one had to have a military background—unlike the Seryysans’ form of government where a civilian was most likely to hold office. In their government, it was the strongest leader with most the impressive military record. Sumptaruul currently held the title of Former Supreme Commander. When the past Prefect died, he announced his candidacy for office and there were none to oppose, as he held the highest rank in their Military and the other Supreme Commanders were either engaged in battles or on their deathbeds. Once sworn in, he would hold office indefinitely, until death took him. The Seryysans won their office through elections and campaigning. Victory usually came to whoever spent the most money on their campaign, and usually not to the most competent. That limited candidates to only those who had the funds to run for office. How could any form of government function with a Prime Minister who knew nothing of the suffering and toiling in the trenches of war? Maybe that was why they were losing the war, Sibrex thought. It took a military thinker to win a war, not a man of privilege and popularity!

  Sibrex stood up from his chair and dropped to one knee, his fists on the floor and his head bowed low. “My Prefect,” he said reverently.

  “Sibrex, rise,” Sumptaruul said.

  Sibrex did so and locked eyes with his leader. “To what do I owe the honor?”

  “My sources tell me that the Seryysan facility still stands,” he said. “Explain yourself.”

  The tension on the bridge rose to an alarming and almost tangible level. “My prefect,” Sibrex humbly started. “It was my command to salvage the facility as it has a fully-functional and expansive hanger in the sublevels that opens into a deep canyon along the south side. The materials left behind would be invaluable and having a hanger large enough to fit three Fang-Class Destroyers and several smaller craft within the borders of Seryysan Space would give a foothold of high tactical value.”

  Sumptaruul was silent for a moment, as if digesting what his commander said. At length, he spoke again. “What do have planned for this facility?”

  Instantly, the tension nearly vanished. “My plan was to leave the ground level in ruin and occupy the lower levels. If a Seryysan high orbit recon scanned the surface, they would only find the remains of their razed facility. We were unable to detect a majority of the sublevels and found them as we cleared them with ground forces. I postulate that since the ground around the facility has a high lead content, it blocks sensors from getting deep enough.”

  “I see,” Sumptaruul said. “Proceed with your plan.”

  “Yes, my Prefect. Thank you.”

  With that channel cut, they all stared at the spinning moon once again. With the plan enabled, underway and the expansion fleet there to take over, Sibrex returned to Colony One with his fleet. It was less than twenty-two standard hours later that Prefect Sumptaruul summoned him to his office.

  The double doors to Prefect office opened and it was ominously dark beyond.

  “Commander Sibrex, enter.” The familiar voice came from the deep umbra of the office.

  Sibrex stepped in and the door closed behind him. Sumptaruul sat at his desk where the only light source in the room sat in the form of a lamp on his desk. The Prefect looked old and frail. Nothing like the man he saw less than a day earlier on the main view screen of his ship.

  “Please, sit,” he said to Sibrex who obeyed without so much as a questioning look. It was highly unusual for anyone to stand at anything other attention in the Prefect’s presence, much less sit. Something was wrong, very wrong.

  “What might I do for you, my Prefect?” Sibrex asked, surprising even himself by how calm his voice sounded.

  “I feel old, Sibrex,” he said, ignoring the question. Sibrex simply stared at him paralyzed with shock. For a Prefect to admit weakness was basically putting a gun to his head and pulling the trigger. When Sibrex didn’t respond, Sumptaruul continued “I am going to show you something that will change your life. For the better, I hope. It is time for you to know the Truth. I can no longer do what is required of me anymore, the burden is too great.”

  “To what truth are you referring?”

  “I will show you,” Sumptaruul said as he tossed an envelope on the desk and slumped back in his chair.

  Now, with a very, very confused look on his face, Sibrex took the envelope and opened it. The first thing in there was a letter apparently describing what was in there. It read:

  “One Picture: Found in the cargo hold of a derelict vessel of old Vyysarri design. The discoverers were silenced—” Sibrex knew that “silenced” meant killed, and that angered him immensely. It was against their code of honor to kill another Vyysarri, their brethren, and it was highest form of treason known throughout Vyysarri Space. They killed Seryysans, not each other!—“The ship was impounded as government property, its computers were wiped and it was promptly dismantled for parts. The cargo was cataloged and stored on a barge in proximity to Colony One under close guard.”

  Sibrex removed the picture and regarded it for some time. The picture was clearly old, printed on a type of paper that didn’t even exist anymore. It was faded, tattered and the corners of the picture were worn down. If it was cataloged and locked away under guard and key, the thing was genuine article. They wouldn’t go through all this trouble for a fake photo. The picture made Sibrex’s knees shake. Had he been standing, he might have collapsed.

  The picture had three hundred or so people standing in front of a giant ship. Sbirex had to squint to get a good look at the image. The ship was of ancient design, a Star Jumper-Class vessel, Sibrex thought, if his memory served him. Just below the nose, written in fancy script was the name of the vessel. At first, Sibrex couldn’t—no, wouldn’t—believe what he was seeing. There was no way that what he was looking at was possible.

  “This cannot be real,” Sibrex insisted.

  “Indeed, it is,” Sumptaruul said.

  “But these aren’t Vyysarri, these are Seryysans,” Sibrex growled.

  The name of the vessel in the picture, behind its crew was the Starship Vyysar.

  “But this implies—”

  “That we are of Seryysan descent, yes,” Sumptaruul finished.

  “Then the rumors were true!” Sibrex gasped. A little less than a hundred years earlier, a faction known as the Crimson Truth said they had irrefutable evidence that Vyysarri were descendants of the Seryysans. Of course, the government stepped in and squashed it quickly and quietly, but the damage had been done. Unfortunately, their efforts were in vain, as current events faded into memory and then to the backs of everyone’s’ minds and, eventually faded into nothing. “How did you come by this?”

  “I told you, it was in the files of my predecessor.”

  “Where did he get it?”

  “As you know, Graan had an affinity for history. He always wanted to know all of the whys, even ones that he shouldn’t ask. When he sought answers about the war, he went into the restricted archives. The archives only the Prefect can access. There he f
ound information about the barge. In the barge, he found the mysterious, unmarked cargo. That was when he found this picture. Carbon dating puts the age of this picture well over ten thousand years old. When he found this picture, he dug deeper. What he found got him killed.”

  “Graan was assassinated?”

  “Yes,” Sumptaruul said. “And I was issued the same threat by the same people who wish to keep the Truth from us.”

  “Who are these people?”

  “They call themselves The Black Gate Society,” he responded. “They are a group of extremists who have their claws into everything, including the production of wartime materials. They stand to lose a lot if the Truth were to ever get out.”

  “How come you did not just destroy the evidence?” Sibrex asked.

  Sumptaruul unbuttoned his tunic and revealed a tattoo on his chest just over his heart. The tattoo showed bright red on his white skin. It was an equilateral triangle with objects at each corner. At the bottom left corner was the planet Seryys clearly identified by its landmasses. At the bottom right was what he knew to be Vyysarr. At the top was the Vyysarri symbol for perpetual peace signified by the infinity sign. Within the triangle was a marking in script that read “Father.”

  “I understand,” Sibrex said. “You are the leader of the Crimson Truth.”

  “I am,” Sumptaruul said. “I protect them. I lead them. I want you to take on this role.”

  “But why me?”

  “I have seen the way you treat your subordinates, it is with an ounce compassion and respect, and I respect that. If you have compassion in your heart, then you will be able to handle this truth and act accordingly.”

  “What am I supposed to do with this new-found information?”

  “You will take this information and hide it away. I have secretly sent orders to my Supreme Commanders—the ones I can trust—to give each of their soldiers a memory stick with more information on it. None of them know what’s on it, but they have strict orders to upload it into any terminal with the ability to upload to the Seryysan Mainframe. I am also entrusting you with the original copy of the information on those mem-sticks. Watch it.”

  “It will be done,” Sibrex said, standing and saluting.

  As he left for the door, Sumptaruul called to him.

  “Sibrex, share this with no one and watch your back. You and family may be in grave danger.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Sibrex watched his back the whole way home to the residential sector of Colony One. After his children went to bed and his wife retired to the bedroom, Sibrex stayed up and scanned the ancient disc with his computer. The only file on the disc was a video file.

  The image of a battered and beating Seryysan female filled the screen. Before he could even play the video, he could tell that she was terrified and tired. It was obvious that she had been tortured by the Vyysarri Intelligence Agents.

  He pushed play.

  “This is Doctor Tash’Door Tashar and I am the lead physicist of Operation: Bright Star. If you are viewing this, then the Vyysarri were successful in their mission. This is a warning for the Seryysan People…”

  After watching the whole video, he went to bed. He couldn’t sleep. How could he go on, knowing this information? This information was dangerous; he was actually angry with the Prefect for putting him in a situation where he and his family were in danger, not to mention the fact that he would have to give up everything and leave Colony One. He got up early the next morning and returned to Prefect Sumptaruul’s office, where his leader was waiting.

  “You watched the video,” it wasn’t question.

  “Yes,” Sibrex said. “To what mission was she referring?”

  “To spread the Truth to the Seryysan people in hopes of stopping a war before it began. But the Black Gate stopped it from happening by placing a Prefect in office that wanted revenge for Vyysar. They got their war.”

  “But all this means that the Seryysans are our ancestors and thus—”

  “Our brethren,” Sumptaruul finished. “Which means that every Seryysan you kill is just like killing a Vyysarri.”

  Had Sibrex fed before he left, he would have thrown it up. They killed Seryyans, not each other. That was the mantra that had been drilled into all their heads since the day they were born. But now the Seryysans were brothers of the Vyysarri people! How could be possibly kill another Seryysan knowing the truth?

  It was time for a change of career, which was heartbreaking, being that he had devoted his entire life to the Navy and Vyysarri. What was he to do?

  “The Crimson Truth has a colony out in the farthest reaches of Vyysarri Space,” The Prefect said as if answering his internal question. “I want you to go there and start a new life for yourself and your family. I want you to be their leader, their mentor, their father. Teach them to follow the Truth, that fighting is no longer the way we as a people should live.”

  “You are asking me to give up everything for which I have fought and toiled my whole life, to give up everything I hold dear. And for what? An idea?”

  “No,” Sumptaruul whispered, looking older than ever. “A brighter future, a future of peace with our Seryysan brothers. It is so much more than just an idea. You are a man of both honor and conscience. You are the man unto who I have waited to pass this responsibility since I retired from the military. Was it any wonder why I left a very successful career in the Navy? Why all the other Supreme Commanders were deployed or dying when my vote came for the New Prefect? I have already given up everything, and I have lived every day knowing that my decisions as Prefect have cost lives of both my Vyysarri and Seryysan brothers. We are not fighting a war with a distant race; we are fighting a galactic civil war. I can no longer make decisions that will be killing our own kind.”

  The words of his Prefect sunk in and left him speechless save for one question: “When do I leave, my Prefect?”

  “Tonight. There is a ship docked in a civilian space port at this address,” Sumptaruul said, sliding a piece paper with the address written on it. “Also, you need to memorize these coordinates.” He handed Sibrex another piece of paper with handwritten coordinates to someplace out on the edge of Unknown Space.

  “Have you memorized them?”

  “Another moment, please,” Sibrex said. It was a complex set of numbers for an Eve’Zon jump; one wrong number and he could end up in the corona of a sun or within a planet.

  “Have you memorized them?” Sumptaruul asked again.

  When Sibrex was confident that he could input those numbers into a navigational computer, he said, “Yes, I have.”

  “Good.” Sumptaruul snatched the paper and set it ablaze on his desk. They both watched as the paper shriveled up and reduced to small pile of gray ash.

  “You must go now,” Sumptaruul said. “My time here is coming to an end.”

  “What do you mean?” Sibrex asked. “Come with me! We can escape together!”

  Sumptaruul sat quietly at his desk for a moment. “Yes, perhaps you’re right. But we must move quickly.”

  As they stood, Sibrex looked over his leader’s shoulder out the window of the office. He saw a flash of light in the distance. Instantly, his training kicked in and a second later, a second flash—a muzzle flash—came from the same direction. By that point, Sibrex was already moving. “Get down!” he shouted as he shoved Sumptaruul backward, sending him tumbling over his chair. Just as his back hit the seat, the window shattered and a bullet ripped through Sibrex’s shoulder sending him pirouetting to the floor with a growl of pain.

  “Run!” Sibrex shouted from the floor, clutching his wound.

  Sumptaruul got to his feet and ran for the side door that led to an emergency exit. From there, they could take his hovercar to Sibrex’s home for his family, and then to the spaceport where the ship was waiting.

  As dark, black-red blood oozed between his fingers from the bullet hole in his shoulder, Sibrex slowly got up and staggered for the door. It was a flesh wound, certain
ly not life threatening, but it did knock the wind out of him, and disorient him momentarily. As they made their way, more bullets rained on them, turning the office into a battlefield. The marksman was a poor shot, Sibrex thought, as most of the bullets went wide one way or the other. Sumptaruul hit the door and put his hand in the scanner. A small needled dropped down quickly and pricked his skin. Seconds later, as more bullets shot the place up, the computer said, “DNA match confirmed,” and the lift door opened.

  Sumptaruul got in and waited as Sibrex stumbled and dived into the lift car. A second later the door closed and the lift started moving for the subfloor, where the Sumptaruul’s hovercar waited. In the seconds between getting in and getting out of the lift, Sibrex was able to gather his wits about him. Shunting the pain, he pulled his gun and led the way into the sublevel parking.

  The area was dimly lit, but it didn’t matter to Sibrex, who was able to see well in the dark. Gun in hand, he ventured briefly into the vast expanse of hovercars and bussess, loading equipment, police and other emergency response vehicles, storage areas, etc. It was an ambusher’s paradise, and his worst nightmare. There could have be one or a hundred people waiting in there for them.

  As he moved slightly deeper into the cavernous sublevel, he spotted the Prefect’s car in its spot fifty yards from the door. It was typically brought to the Prefect to decrease risk, but the driver wasn’t moving the car.

  Sibrex returned to the Prefect. “Stay here,” he said, once again stepping out into the room from the lift alcove. Slowly approaching the vehicle, he was able to peer in and see that the driver was indeed dead with gunshot wound to the side of the head. It must have been execution style because there was no visible damage to the outside and small arms fire like hand guns and or assault rifles would pose no threat to the vehicle whatsoever.