Naleen's Shadow, Chapter 2: The Reckoning of Hinsman
Sat, 26 Oct 2024
Continued from Chapter 1: Naleen's Bite.
Ghosts of Saros Four
The air hung thick and acrid, a blend of ozone, scorched metal, and burned flesh. Dust swirled over a ravaged landscape, a cratered wasteland, littered with broken machines and broken bodies.
A lone figure hid behind the wreckage of a dropship. His cough sounded harsh in the deadly silence following the clamor of the battle. Face streaked with sweat and grime, he tasted blood. Probably his own. Terror clawed at his mind.
He was young, barely a man, but the Iron Wars had aged him like so many others. The violence and the horror had stripped away all ideals of glory or heroism, leaving only the will to survive. His uniform, once clean and crisp, hung in tatters, caked in dirt. He stood on the earth of a planet that didn't want him and was trying to kill him.
Around him, his squad lay unmoving, bodies twisted unnaturally, faces frozen in pain. They had been picked off, one by one. The enemy seemed to anticipate their every move.
"Delta Six - sitrep." Hinsman rasped into his comm unit. The only answer was static. He was probably the last survivor.
He could see the silhouettes of the enemy troops through the smoke now. The Xei moved with a fluid grace, coordinated, like a ballet performance. A deadly ballet. Their armor gleamed in the light of the dying sun.
And from the smoke emerged a figure, human. Not as large as the Xei, yet he moved with confident authority among them. He wore a dark, intricately patterned cloak that seemed to absorb the light, making him a walking shadow, a black hollowness. A single glowing lens was set into the forehead of his helmet like a third eye.
Hinsman recognized the unique armor the man always wore. He'd seen it often enough on the Net.
Mihrab Vanco Petrovski, the man largely responsible for the Iron Wars, for the death and destruction around him, for the death and destruction all across the galaxy.
The rumors that followed on the heels of every Xei victory always centered on Mihrab Vanco Petrovski: strategist, manipulator, a man responsible for the fall of empires. Hinsman had dismissed most of the hyperbole as propaganda, meant to demoralize him and his people.
But seeing the man on the battlefield, Hinsman realized the truth. Petrovski radiated an aura of power, immense power. And he knew he was staring at the executioner of the human race.
A Moment of Calculated Mercy
A fresh wave of Xei troops surged forward. Their energy weapons spit emerald fire, driving Hinsman farther back into the wreckage. Shooting back blindly, he depleted the last of his ammunition.
He was out of time. Around him, the last vestiges of resistance crumbled. He heard his best friend's voice cry out in pain, the cry abruptly cut off.
Despair washed over him. He closed his eyes, waiting for death. But the blow never came.
The firing ceased. The hiss of plasma weapons faded, replaced by silence. Hinsman opened his eyes.
Mihrab stood motionless, a silhouette against the burning cityscape. He was no longer issuing orders. He was watching.
Heart hammering, Hinsman followed Mihrab's gaze. Then that gaze settled on him. The helmet's glowing lens piercing the darkness. Time seemed to stretch as the two men locked eyes. Hinsman felt exposed and vulnerable before a being of immense power. He was frozen by fear and by a reluctant fascination.
Then something shifted.
Mihrab lowered his hand, a small gesture that Hinsman almost missed. He saw light glint off Mihrab's helmet, a reflection of the tactical display projected onto his visor. For a moment, their roles were reversed: hunter becoming hunted; the prey given a glimpse into the predator's mind.
Hinsman realized that Mihrab wasn't just observing him. The man was analyzing him, calculating his own next move. Then Mihrab did something totally unexpected.
Instead of ordering a final assault, crushing the remains of his enemy under his heel, he gave orders to withdraw. The Xei troops, with weapns pointing at Hinsman's position, hesitated.
Mihrab snapped in a low rasp, "Fall back!" The words echoed through the comm systems and reached the ears of every survivor waiting for certain death. "Let them go. This one... he is of no consequence. Let them go."
The troops obeyed, their discipline overriding their confusion. They melted back into the smoke and the shadows, leaving Hinsman alone, mind reeling. He had been spared. But why?
As the adrenaline settled, Hinsman realized that Mihrab's mercy had not been an act of compassion. It was a calculation, a whim. Mihrab played games with the lives and the deaths of people because he could.
And Hinsman, the insignificant ant whose life had been spared by a god, was left with that valuation, a burden that would shape his actions, his decisions, his life for years.
Orders from the Shadows
A chime cut through the ambient hum of the command center and brought Hinsman back to the present. He didn't need to check the source to know what it meant. This high up, on this level of security clearance, there were only two kinds of summons: accolades and executions.
He deactivated the display on his console and stood up. He ran a hand over his close-cropped hair, a nervous gesture that he couldn't shake.
"Report to conference room Theta One." The voice was distorted beyond recognition by a voice modulator. "Priority Alpha."
The door to the command center hissed open. The corridor beyond was white, sterile, with no windows, doors, or decorations. Two guards in the black and crimson armor of the PTSC, stood waiting, visors reflecting nothing but white. They gave equally minimal nods to acknowledge him. Protocol dictated that within the inner sanctum of the PTSC, anonymity was power, and power was everything.
The guards turned as one and set off down the corridor. Hinsman stepped in behind them, footsteps synchronizing with those in front of him. The corridor seemed to stretch out forever, a sterile tube. He'd walked this way before. This time, however, there was a knot in his gut and a prickling at the back of his neck.
Conference room Theta One was spartan, all polished steel and indirect lighting. A long oval table dominated the center of the room, its surface bare of anything. Five figures sat around the table, cloaked in shadow with holographic filters obscuring their faces. Their voices were all the same, androgynous whispers carefully modulated.
"Hinsman," said one of the figures. "You are aware of the situation on Naleen?"
"Of course," replied Hinsman. "Awaiting further instructions."
"We have a delicate operation. Time sensitive. High risk."
The voice continued. Hinsman couldn't tell which one was speaking. They made no motions. "The operation is... extraction of a vital asset." The voice expressed no emotion, but using the voice modulator, it couldn't.
"An asset essential to the stability of the sector." Hinsman thought that was probably another of the figures, adding its two creds.
Hinsman said nothing. He had learned long ago that silence was probably the most valuable weapon in these meetings.
"The asset is considered... volatile," the voice continued. "Unpredictable. Extreme caution is advised."
A holographic projector rose from the table and flickered to life. An image appeared: a man's face, thin and angular, his eyes a startling blue that pierced the holographic haze.
Hinsman's breath faltered very slightly. He knew those eyes. He'd stared into them across a battlefield years ago.
Mihrab Vanco Petrovski.
The voice said, "This is your asset."
His face a mask, Hinsman's mind could only comprehend one thought. Fate had a very twisted sense of humor.
The Weight of Choice
The figures fell silent, waiting for his reaction. He, too, kept quiet. He had nothing to say. Dissent was not tolerated at his level of the PTSC.
"You have your orders, Hinsman," the voice finally said. "Report to Briefing Room Epsilon Three in one hour for mission parameters. Dismissed."
Hinsman turned and left the conference room. He went to his quarters to pick up his ready-bag. As he walked, the weight of his orders pressed down on him like a physical burden.
Extract Mihrab Vanco Petrovski from Naleen.
They were insane. It would be a suicide mission. Naleen was impregnable. It was a black hole from which no prisoner, no matter how cunning or resourceful, had ever escaped.
And Mihrab was not just any prisoner.
Memories arose of another battlefield, another time. He was huddled around a campfire with Kel and Alejandro, sharing a bottle of scavenged whiskey. Their laughter, fueled by cheap liquor, echoed in the night, a fleeting moment of warmth in a galaxy gone cold.
"Do you think we'll ever see the end of this war?" Kel had asked then, his voice barely audible above the crackle of the flames.
Alejandro, ever the pragmatist, snorted. "See the end of war? Don't be stupid. There'll always be another fight, another reason to kill each other."
Hinsman looked at Kel and saw his own doubts and fears reflected back. "No," he said. "We can end this. We must. For Alejandro's sake, if not for our own."
Alejandro had laughed, but his canteen trembled as he raised it in mock salute. "Here's to hoping you're right, Hinsman. Here's to hoping."
A week later, Alejandro was dead, cut down in a firefight that left Hinsman with a shattered shoulder and a lifetime of regrets. He'd carried the weight of that promise ever since.
Preparations made, he proceeded to Briefing Room Epsilon Three. He hesitated at the door, his hand hovering over the door control. This mission... it was madness, suicide. And yet...
Mihrab Vanco Petrovski. He had been the cause of so much suffering. On his head lay the deaths of countless souls, including all of those that Hinsman had loved. In Naleen, Mihrab was locked up, neutralized. Almost as good as dead.
Or was he? Hinsman shook his head. It was just a matter of time before someone found a way to unleash him on the galaxy again.
Hinsman made his choice. He would go to Naleen. He would go for Kel, for Alejandro. For the ghosts of Saros Four.
He would extract Mihrab Vanco Pterovski from the prison. But he would do it for his own reasons.
Scars That Never Fade
The continuous hum of the PTSC Command Center usually didn't register on Hinsman's consciousness. Now it was irritating, making his teeth clench and increasing the pain in his left shoulder. He shifted his weight, the cybernetic servos whirring almost silently.
Before him, a holographic display of the Naleen prison floating lazily. Every corridor, office, cell, airlock, and sensor grid was mapped out. Ventilation ducts ran through the rock in yellow. Hinsman ran simulations, tracing his team's projected paths through Naleen's steel arteries. Each iteration ended similarly in a successful extraction with minimal casualties.
Simulation showed a textbook operation every time.
But Hinsman knew that nothing involving Naleen, and certainly nothing involving Mihrab Vanco Petrovski, was ever textbook.
The official reports, the ones on his desk with the red stamp of PTSC HIGH SECURITY INTEL, painted him as a monster. They said he was a ruthless strategist spreading unimaginable cruelty with his campaigns, a master manipulator who never bothered to set foot on the worlds he had ruined.
And yet...
Hinsman couldn't shake the memory of that day on Saros Four. He remembered the way Mihrab had stood in the middle of destruction and death with the cool detachment of a surgeon. He had looked at Hinsman not as an enemy but as a problem to be solved. And that unexpected mercy. Why?
Why spare a single soldier amid wholesale slaughter? Was there something human behind those cold, blue eyes?
Hinsman rubbed the stubble on his face. He had a mission to execute. He couldn't afford doubts or sentiment. Extract the asset at any cost. Yet as he stared at the projection of Naleen, he felt afraid. Afraid of what this mission would cost him. Him and the rest of the galaxy.
He was walking into a trap, created on a battlefield years ago. And he wasn't sure anyone would be walking out.
Continue to Chapter 3: Uneasy Alliances.