The Expanse - J.M. Dillard [3]
The ancient ceremonial armor, thicker and heavier than the sleek battle armor to which he was more accustomed, made his fingers feel thick, even clumsy, as he pressed the controls; beneath it, his scales had grown overheated. Since there was nothing he could do to help his body cast off the unwanted heat, he shrugged off all concerns about himself—they were, at this stage, useless—and watched, with grim delight, as the weapon performed exactly as designed.
He glanced at a small monitor showing the destroyer/probe from the exterior: The concentric spheres rotated into position so that the emitters lined up perfectly.
The deck beneath his feet began to hum as the weapon powered up. He watched the bitter-named Earth on the viewscreen as a blast of pure destruction streamed from his vessel and strafed the island and peninsula, as well as the body of water where they rested. Even from the stratosphere, the warrior could see plumes of steam rising from the sea, black smoke streaming up from the land.
Marvelous; just as in the simulations.
The warrior finished his task with a sense of accomplishment, and sent the triumphant information back to his leaders: the weapon had worked precisely as designed. So this had been the source of his anxiety: the possibility of failure. Now that it was gone, he feared nothing.
He received back a prerecorded message of congratulations and farewell.
He programmed his vessel to self-destruct without hesitation or reluctance. He did not think of his children, his mates, his parents, or his fellow warriors. He did not, in fact, permit himself to think at all. He merely braced himself physically for what was to come, and when at last the destroyer/probe imploded, there was no time even to flinch.
He was, like his victims on the surface, killed immediately, his scale-covered flesh seared in a blindingly bright millisecond. However, an explosive in the vessel’s engine failed to ignite; the exterior of the destroyer/probe remained intact, and tumbled towards the planet surface—evidence for alien hands to paw over, alien minds to contemplate.
Even his corpse failed to be incinerated—more evidence, to indicate the involvement of his species.
Had the warrior lived to know this, he would have been deeply disappointed.
Chapter 2
With a warrior’s fierce stoicism, Duras, son of Toral, stood upon the dais before the Klingon High Council. He did not permit shame that had gnawed at him for months to show; indeed, at times it had come close to overwhelming him, and he had almost yielded to the temptation to end his life at his own hands.
Two things had stopped him: the possibility of revenge so long as he lived, and the shame that suicide without honor would bring to his family. So long as there was any hope of revenge, he would live for that moment.
After many unsuccessful petitions, and months of Duras grinding his teeth, the Council had at last agreed to see him. Duras had returned to his home planet to appear before the Council members; it had been a long journey from the Ty’Gokor defense perimeter, a place for the incompetent, the humiliated, the disgraced.
Those who worked there—and, unfortunately, many who didn’t—referred to it as the latrine of the Empire, the place where all refuse was funneled.
Duras had never appreciated the metaphor.
Now he stood and listened with respect and forced patience to the words of the chancellor, who stood in the central position of honor amidst the other members.
“Twice!” the chancellor roared, emphasizing the word by striking the podium with his great fist. Silver hair spilled past his venerable shoulders; he was broad of build, broad of face, still thick of bone and muscle. His very presence emanated the power that was rightly granted him. Even Duras, in his prime and strong, doubted he would emerge the victor in hand-to-hand combat with the ancient warrior.
“Twice he