The First Covenant (Dark Universe Series Book 2) Read online

  THE TERMS

  COM — Core Operations Module. It is the command center of the Endeavor, a scaled-down version of a ship’s bridge.

  SLH — Super Luminal Highway. These are a network of wormholes discovered when the galaxy was settled. They connect the various colonized star systems. Spacecraft can move through it at faster-than-light speeds. It is not yet known who built them and when, but without the SLH, the Galactic Confederacy could not exist.

  SL MODE — Super Luminal mode, also known as Faster Than Light or FTL mode. This is the mode spacecraft switch to when entering the SLH. Outside the SLH network, spacecraft can use the ordinary mode.

  AP — Access Point. A gate that allows entry into the SLH. There is usually one AP per star system.

  GALACTIC CONFEDERACY — An alliance of four races—human, Norgoran, Mwandan, and the Octus. They are bound by laws that are passed by the Galactic Senate.

  CONFEDERATE SPACE COMMAND — The top leadership of the Confederate Space Fleet.

  GSO — Galactic Special Ops. It is the premiere defense agency of the Galactic Confederacy, where most students of the CAWStrat hope to score an internship. GSO recruits take a ten-year vow of celibacy when they “don the blue.”

  CAWSTRAT — Commerce, Administration, and Warcraft Strategy Institute, or CAWStrat. A premier institute in the galaxy where the scions of every notable family train before taking up a vocation of choice.

  NORGORAN — One of the allied races that form the Galactic Confederacy. They are green-skinned humanoids with long life spans.

  MWANDAN — One of the aboriginal races of the galaxy, and currently allied with the Confederacy.

  LOCUSTAN — Invaders from a distant part of the universe who attacked the galaxy a decade prior to this story.

  VIRIKSHI — An artificial intelligence of Locustan origin that is imbedded in Locustan fighter crafts. A Virikshi is supposedly a living entity who is fused with a craft, and considered the soul of the craft.

  PTEROSTRICH — A massive, predatory bird species from the planet Limitor. They are used for racing by Komilahns.

  THE EVENTS

  LOCUSTA-VANGA WAR — The Locusta-Vanga War began a decade before the events of Dark Universe. It started with the opening of a wormhole at Anomaly Point through which Locustan swarms arrived at the galaxy. The war almost pushed the galaxy to the brink of extinction and only ended when the wormhole closed. There have been no signs of the wormhole reopening. Regardless, the Confederacy has since erected stationary defenses in the area and positioned several Confederacy fleets around it.

  Somenvaar

  THE KIROFF CASTLE SOMENVAAR, the centerpiece of the family’s expansive holdings along the Batacan Coast, was a sight that made every spectator hold their breath. With a shimmery white façade crafted with the rarest sandstone quarried from a planet two systems beyond, and the spires and turrets that rose from its sculpted midsection, the castle could easily belong in a fairytale. Popular fantasies often swirl and grow with abandon around powerful people and their fanciful abodes, and Somenvaar, the unofficial power center in the galaxy, was nothing short of a living legend.

  The summer morning was glorious and young, only an hour or two away from turning into a sweltering day. Trysten Kiroff stood in his office—a massive room with a semicircular glass wall that soared twenty feet above him—and stared out at the deep blue waters of the Berianic Seas. Although his blue-gray eyes reflected the gentle waves that crashed along the golden shorelines, he felt nothing but anger roiling within him. If he could, he’d smash up a few things to let that anger ease a bit. No one would stand in his way. He was king of his keep; he could do as he pleased. But Trysten Kiroff knew better. Uncontrolled anger was the most useless thing in the universe. On the other hand, he could tame it, feed it, and use it, and there was nothing more powerful. He had wielded anger with absolute precision before, but this time was different.

  Trysten’s mouth stretched to lines as he pondered the setbacks he’d been handed in the past few weeks. First, the utter destruction of the GSO fleet and his factory in Sector 22. Then the missing Strykers. The worst was Milos, that grizzled, old buffoon, refusing to give up the one Stryker they had tracked down.

  Failures, one after the other. Trysten flinched at the thought. He was not used to failing. Teeth gritted, he reminded himself of the basics of power play he’d learned over the years. He couldn’t let his frustration show, or his fear.

  The universe—brutal and envious—was always watching. One crack and they’d descend like a pack of vultures on a prone carcass. They’d take away everything he’d built over the years.

  Intent on subduing his frenzied thoughts, Trysten walked up and down along the glass wall scrutinizing the manicured gardens that lay between the sandy shore and the castle. Not a leaf out of place. Somenvaar, at least, was perfect, flawless. Or was it?

  Trysten hated to admit it, but something was missing. Life . . . Somenvaar was missing a soul. This place, his home, was an empty shell. A beautiful, impeccable, but empty shell. He half turned to look at the life-sized portrait of his wife who was never present. Her liquid brown gaze was distant even in the picture and her petite nose tilted up as if in contempt. Lady Sonya, the famous socialite, spent most of her time galaxy trotting with her elite coterie of friends. Somenvaar didn’t interest her, never had.

  Trysten, however, liked to spend most of his time at the castle and that fondness was growing with every passing year. He often wondered why. Was it because he liked spending time with his rapidly aging mother, or was he getting too old to run around anymore as if he were in his twenties?

  Neither! Trysten swiftly and expertly banished the sentimental thoughts that were threatening to encroach on his mind. He liked being at Somenvaar simply because it suited him. The first benefit was the appearance. His reluctance to travel outside his abode added to the air of mysticism around him. It kept him unreachable, a specter of boundless authority and infinite power. A myth was a good thing to have.

  Besides, he didn’t need to run around—travel was a waste of valuable lieres and time—like his predecessors to keep on top of things. With technological advances, he was no less connected to any business aspect. For the most part, the Confederacy’s vast communication network across the galaxies sufficed, but Trysten had also built his private networks to manage his business affairs, reserving traveling out of Somenvaar for the most important matters.

  A gentle buzz sounded behind him and his brows furrowed. With a heavy, frustrated sigh, he turned and walked over to large desk that stood at the center of the room. A sizeable flashing button imbedded into the wooden desk was screaming for attention. Etched on the transparent surface was the word “Access.” One of his men—had to be Wultoph—was outside, requesting permission to enter.

  Trysten grimaced as his finger hovered over the access button. Wultoph was not supposed to be here now, and it was likely that he hadn’t brought good news. A week ago, five Strykers from Trysten’s secret research center in Sector 22 had gone rogue, destroyed an entire GSO fleet, and disappeared from the face of the galaxy. Since then, all Trysten and his men had been doing was trying to find the missing Strykers. With little luck.

  The buzz sounded again, louder this time. “All right, all right,” Trysten seethed under his breath. Part of him wanted to wish the man away, but he knew there was no wishing away the disaster at Sector 22. Whatever news—likely bad—Wultoph had brought had to be heard. There was no point in delaying the inevitable. Besides, he was Lord Paramount, not a weakling.

  Trysten slammed his palm onto the button. The dark-grained panels between two massive bookcases on the opposite wall glided apart. Wultoph Aristide, wiry and anxious, rushed in, taking care to keep his gaze stuck to the floorboards. He stopped near the desk and quickly bowed.

  “There’s news,” Wultoph said in a tight whispery voice, his gaze scooting across the shiny surface of the moshon-wood table. “There was a sighting of the Endeavor.”


  Trysten stiffened. About time. Two days ago, Trysten’s agents had tracked down one of the five missing Strykers. A beat-up old freighter, the Endeavor, run by Terenze Milos, an ex-captain of the Confederacy fleet, had picked it up from Sector 22. Trysten had asked Milos to return the Stryker back to him. Nicely too. But Milos, true to his honor-bound form, refused. He was going to deliver the Stryker to the Confederate Space Command and no one else. Trysten’s men had had Milos cornered, but the old fool escaped, Stryker and all.

  A moment of silence and then Trysten let the question leave his throat growling. “Where?”

  Wultoph looked up, his startled brown eyes momentarily meeting Trysten’s before they drooped again. “At Totori. They destroyed a Drednot.”

  Trysten let out a long sigh before waving distractedly at a chair across from him. “Sit, Wultoph,” he said. Wultoph rushed to pull a chair. After he had sunk into it rather noisily, Trysten spoke again. “Now, explain.”

  “Admiral Kanaa met them at Totori. She had four Drednots with her. There was an encounter, and one Drednot was decimated.”

  Trysten pulled his chair and slowly lowered himself into its smooth yet firm embrace. None of it made much sense. He absentmindedly tapped the red folder on the desk.

  “Why would they fight the Confederacy?” he said after a while. He didn’t expect Wultoph to answer; speaking out loud was just a way to help his mind connect the dots. “Milos wanted to hand the Stryker over to the Confederacy. That’s why he fought us.”

  Wultoph leaned forward, and for the first time, fixed a steady gaze on Trysten. “And why would the Confederacy bring four Drednots to the rendezvous?” he asked. “Why bring any Drednot at all? Unless—”

  “The Confederacy was prepared for war,” Trysten said, rising from his chair abruptly. He walked back to the glass wall and stared intently at the incessant waves crashing on the shore. “Why? Did Milos refuse to give them the Stryker?”

  There were too many questions. Even the normally unobtrusive and daft Wultoph was brimming with them.

  “And why meet at Totori when Alameda is right next door?” Wultoph said.

  He had a point. Totori was a nearby system . . . .

  Even though there were far too few answers, Trysten had one for this particular problem. He turned toward Wultoph, smiling.

  “It’s Milos,” he declared. “He had to have picked Totori because of the asteroid belt. That’s one damn good spot to hide.”

  “But, Lord Paramount,” Wultoph protested in a rare show of boldness, “why would Milos hide? He’s the one who wanted to hand the Stryker over to the Confederacy.”

  “Something must’ve changed. He refused. The admiral attacked. What I don’t understand is how an obsolete ship like the Endeavor could destroy a Drednot. Are you sure the information is correct?”

  “Yes, I’m sure. A Drednot was destroyed. My source tells me that the Confederacy is about to declare the Endeavor a rogue ship and announce a bounty on it.”

  “What?”

  Wultoph slinked backward into his chair, clearly rattled but his tone. Any other time, Trysten would’ve reveled at the effectiveness of his power over Wultoph, but not this day. Wultoph was a valuable tool—his house a trusty ally of House Kiroff for three generations—and Trysten needed to keep him loyal at this critical juncture.

  “Are you sure?” Trysten asked, his voice practiced and calm this time.

  Wultoph nodded. “That’s what my source said.”

  “We have to find them before the Confederacy does.” Trysten rapped his desk, his mind racing once more to assess the possible damages if they failed.

  “Don’t worry, Lord Paramount. We’ll find them,” Wultoph said, nodding eagerly. His watery brown eyes brimmed with hope. “The Confederacy forces are stretched thin. Outside of the prime planetary regions, their presence is laughable at best. And that Milos is too crafty for the likes of Admiral Kanaa.”

  Trysten didn’t want to scare Wultoph again, but he knew his cold gaze had turned glacial when he looked up at the man. “Milos is crafty for anyone, Wultoph. He’s as smart as they come. Before he destroyed a Drednot, he slipped past us. He won’t be an easy catch for anyone, including us. Keep that in mind.”

  “I-I . . . my apologies,” Wultoph stuttered. “I understand.”

  “I hope you do,” Trysten didn’t bother to stop himself from snapping. Wultoph needed to wake up for his own good. “Do you realize what’s at stake here? Everything—our status, our reputation—could be destroyed if the Confederacy gets its hands on the Stryker.”

  Trysten didn’t say it out loud, but the fact was, they could even be tried at the Galactic Senate for toying with dangerous alien technology. And if proven guilty—

  “What’s the plan, Lord Paramount?” Wultoph interrupted at the perfect moment, scattering the worrisome thoughts.

  “Like I said, we find the Stryker before anyone else does. They couldn’t have gone far after a brawl with four Drednots. Get people to look at every system around Totori.”

  “Already have. I have a team analyzing the region to determine a possible refuge.”

  “Good. Let’s also get the core committee together. We need every ally working for us.”

  Wultoph shifted uneasily. “But . . . but they don’t know about Sector 22. How—”

  “We’ll tell them it was confidential research. We’ll tell them the Confederacy is trying to steal it from us. That has happened before, so it won’t be hard to believe.”

  “What if they refuse to help when they hear about the Locustan bit?”

  Trysten scoffed, and then let out a long chuckle. “When they understand how much money is to be made, they’ll all fall in line. Besides, we don’t need to share every detail with them. We can keep a few things out of the discussion.”

  “Understood,” Wultoph said, hurrying to get out of his seat. “I shall get that arranged.”

  “Thank you.”

  Wultoph had almost reached the door when Trysten called. “Wait, there’s one more thing I need you to do.”

  “Yes?”

  “Find out more about Totori. I want to know the extent of damages on the downed Drednot. Find out. I don’t care how much it costs.”

  “Yes, of course,” Wultoph replied.

  “Thank you.”

  The doors closed behind Wultoph, a hush engulfing Trysten once again. It was a welcome quiet, a needed pause to let him think.

  Trysten Kiroff didn’t become Lord Paramount in a day. He had worked his way up to the title, slowly acquiring riches, building influence, and then asserting it across the galaxy. He liked to think he had a sharp mind; his thoughts were ahead of most of his peers. Not being in control flustered him like nothing else. Now it was even worse. He could hardly make sense of what was going on.

  What the hell was Milos up to? Was he planning to use the Stryker as leverage? Perhaps the man needed money. The Confederacy would pay handsomely to get their hands on the craft, and Trysten himself would happily part with a billion lieres.

  No, Trysten struck that idea off. He had known Milos—his father’s favored underling—most of his life. Milos was smart, brave, and scrupulous. Pawning things that didn’t belong to him was not in Milos’s nature. There had to be something else. But what?

  Then there was the matter of the destroyed Drednot. That gnawed at him endlessly. The Endeavor was a Class II battleship from before the Locusta-Vanga war. Even if Milos had it retrofitted with modern weapons, it couldn’t stack up to a standard-built Drednot, a Class V model. It was impossible. Yet, it had happened. The Endeavor had fought and won a battle against not just one, but four mighty Drednots. And destroyed one. That brought him to the even more unbelievable thought: What if it was not the Endeavor’s doing? Could the Stryker have caused the damage?

  Trysten quickly quashed the thought. It was impossible. The pilots chosen for the Stryker program had all been vetted thoroughly. It had taken years to find people who were just as loyal as they were
skilled. These pilots would only answer to a Kiroff, and fly only for one. There was no way in hell a pilot would use the Stryker to attack a Confederacy ship. They’d know such action would compromise the program and they’d die a million deaths than do such a thing.

  What if . . . what if the pilot was dead?

  Could someone else—one of Milos’s ratty crew—have flown the Stryker? But how? The Strykers were not just any spacecraft. They had been fused with Locustan Virikshis, evolved AIs that wouldn’t allow anyone to take control of the craft unless specifically programed to do so. In the development phase the Strykers were currently in, they were paired with just one person—the pilot—who could command the craft. Only one thing in the universe would supersede that: a Kiroff directive.

  Trysten rapped the edge of his desk, trying to wither the frustration before it turned into an inferno in his head. This was an impossible situation. Perhaps this last Stryker had gone berserk just like they all had earlier in Sector 22.

  “Damn!” Trysten slapped the back of his chair while he ran his other hand through his hair. Were the Strykers a mistake? They had caused enough trouble already—wiped out an entire GSO fleet and killed thousands before going missing. And now, the one Stryker that still remained had mounted a direct assault on a Confederacy ship?

  Trysten’s mind almost ground to a halt as worries streamed in like a draft of frigid winter air and chilled his insides. Was this going to be the end of his illustrious career?

  Trysten fell back into his chair and rubbed his temples. Even after the destruction of the GSO fleet at Sector 22, he had avoided the expected uproar, mostly because of his younger brother, Lynden. Fifteen years ago, Trysten had moved the stars to get Lynden into the High Council of the Confederacy. It had been a good move. The boy had done well to prevent fallout over the recent incident in Sector 22. So far, none of the nosey folk in the Senate had demanded an inquisition. Hell, people barely knew.