Sigma 16 - Chapter 52 – A Centurion and Miner (Patreon)

Centurion Terraxxus sat upon his command dais, a stern and imposing figure. His eyes scanned the parchment Cornicen Verrrox had provided as his report. The cool lighting of the great hall was provided by monitors and screens in the most technologically advanced section of the Century’s planetary headquarters. It was the heart of Centurion Terraxxus’ power, and of his family’s status.

Legionnaires and Optios stood at silent attention throughout the hall, awaiting Terraxxus’ command. None of Verrrox’s men had been allowed to join him, leaving him alone and isolated and on one knee with head lowered in submission.

“Cornicen, you have lost more men, and this time a chariot has gone missing as well,” Terraxxus said. The Cornicen had done well on the world of his previous assignment. It had been a fine addition to his allotment of one-hundred worlds.

Terraxxus had rewarded him with a higher rank and the highest command of his own exploratory group, despite Verrrox’s race being of one of the lower castes, barely worthy of citizenship in the Empire.

That had been the end of his rising star. The world in question was of low importance; the biosphere was hardly a candidate for urban colonization, and the resource survey had performed poorly.

“What would your ancestors think of you now, kneeling here in disgrace to inform me that thirty-seven of your cohort have perished to sewer servants? To lose a chariot to non-humanoid ilk?”

Silence reigned throughout the hall, the Cornicen knowing better than to speak without authorization. Terraxxus granted it to him. “Stand and speak.”

Verrrox rose slowly, his face flushed with shame. “Centurion Terraxxus,” he began, his voice trembling slightly. “I apologize for our failures. We were caught off guard by their tactics and underestimated their capabilities.”

Terraxxus’ gaze bore into Verrrox, his disappointment palpable. The hall remained silent as tensed breaths filled the air. The Centurion contemplated the situation, weighing his options and considering the implications of Verrrox’s report.

“Your apology is noted, Cornicen,” Terraxxus finally said, his voice cold and measured. “However, apologies will not bring back my fallen soldiers, nor recover a lost chariot. You have been granted a great honor and responsibility, yet your performance thus far has been lacking. What have you done to redeem yourself?”

Verrrox cleared his throat, keeping his head bowed. “Commander, World 416 continues to hamper our progress, as you saw in the report. Communications are impossible on the surface. The servants are unhelpful and sulk during the night, stealing our equipment and men. I’ve put into place efforts to subdue them and prepare them for transport to Her Holiness’ altar-world.”

Terraxxus growled. “You offer me excuses? I’ve seen the reports. These arachnids barely have a single trace of the spark. When they are processed and distilled, the reward will scarcely repay the cost of a chariot. What of the relics you have reported? And the traces of dust?”

“Centurion, the sand fields where the dust was discovered prove to be fruitful. I’ve already dispatched a cohort to prospect more deeply. The first extraction has already been examined, and it appears quite promising, with a density that could rival the most profitable fields in the Empire.”

Terraxxus considered Verrrox’s words, weighing the potential gains against the potential risks rapidly revealing themselves on the world. If they could secure this valuable resource, it would indeed strengthen his family’s position in the Empire. Yet, he couldn’t shake off a nagging feeling that this world held more challenges than he could foresee.

Verrrox swallowed and continued. “The Technicus have reiterated their report. They believe it is part of a star-vessel that likely crashed to the surface. I have placed the first and second cohorts in place with the diviners to delve into its secrets, but they have been unable to enter.”

Terraxxus’ nostrils flared at the inciteful statement. A star vessel crashing upon the surface of one of the holy worlds of the precursors? He stood and raised his bracer, casting before the entire hall the holy light of his century. The list of a hundred worlds showed all the conquests that he and his father had made since the founding of his family’s command.

At the top were two temperate worlds, fledgling urb worlds sprawling with millions of servants that served as the cogs of the Empire, and Terraxxus’ primary source of wealth. Below them were the throngs of resource bearing planets that supplied those two worlds with the much-needed food and minerals they required to continue to grow.

Near the bottom, World 416 had replaced a failed survey world that had been cut off and cast away from the Empire. Around its icon, a bright green circle persisted, indicating that the world’s protection remained active.

The ancient had once spread throughout countless galaxies, creating numerous species of races to serve them. Throughout countless eons the precursors improved themselves until, in a final moment, they all left the universe to a higher plane. Before doing so, they had granted their heirs, the Ferroin, the keys to the network that spanned countless worlds.

The other races had not enjoyed being subservient to their new masters, but Terraxxus’ ancestors had been strong enough to force them to submit. With sole control over the gates, civilizations that refused to obey starved or wilted when cut off. Those who fought found the Empire’s legions organized and powerful. And many.

Imperial law prohibited any world that had not been sanctified by the Emperor’s tribunes from lowering that protection. Only the most urbanized and high-ranking worlds could cast away those fields and begin to exploit the local interstellar space. Those shipyard worlds were the center points of the Empire’s expansion outside of the network. Something far behind his small century’s purview.

Throughout history, many interstellar civilizations had attempted to breach the protective field of the ancients, only to have their ships and armadas ground into stardust. There had never been a breach.

A world that found a way around the precursor’s protections without authorization, and launched their own star vessels, would be purified, or in the few cases in history where that was not possible, cut from existence. It was imperative that the Empire and the holy worlds not be infected by outside interlopers.

Terraxxus’ eyes flickered back to the parchment report. World 416 had been nothing but non-standard from the first arrival of the exploratory team. A small tendril of thought whispered to him he should close the connection to the world immediately. To sever all ties with it, forever. There were countless more worlds for his Century to explore and exploit for the procession of the Empire.

But losing one-third of a cohort, and the destruction of a chariot, cut deep. Despite the wealth of his worlds, the military budget approved by the Tribune was a pittance. Steel filled Terraxxus’ spine. If the Ferroin had cut and run the moment they had met resistance, they would not be the rulers of the Empire.

“Tell me about the anomaly,” Terraxxus ordered.

“One legionnaire returned from a scouting expedition, Centurion. He reported combat with one of the servants, but then an unknown humanoid assisted them. His gunner was slain, and the autopsy revealed it had been caused by a projectile weapon.”

Terraxxus scoffed. “Rebels? World 416 is connected only to this command post. There is no way they could slip through.”

Verrrox hesitated before answering. “We believe it to be a survivor of the crashed star vessel, Centurion.”

“A survivor of a star vessel that somehow survived intact enough after experiencing the precursor’s planetary defense to crash to the surface?” Terraxxus demanded.

To his credit, the Cornicen didn’t cower or shake. “As outlandish as it seems, Centurion, this is the best we can come up with. The planet is full of strangeness that cannot be accounted for.”

“I have seen your best, Cornicen. Your performance so far has not been it. I am assigning the third and fourth cohorts to bolster your numbers. Break open whatever relic you have found, star vessel or not, and bring to me its secrets.”

***

Miner Raxion coughed as a wave of heat pressed against the back of his mining leathers, emanating from the mining cart. Unlike the other legionaries, he was well into his fortieth cycle of service. The young men around him had looked at him in confusion when he had shouted “Flashfire!” and were undoubtedly already in the Empress’ embrace.

He had spent the first thirty years of his life in the infamous dust-mines of Cerxxus, where thousands of young, low-caste individuals were sentenced to spend the remainder of their short lives digging for a pittance and a slim chance of eventual freedom. That half of the workforce died each year, from flashfires to demanding overseers, turned Raxion into more of an oddity than a slave.

Overseers had attempted to break him, but he had outlived every one of them. He had exceeded even the most absurd quotas, survived the envy of his peers after being rewarded. For tens of cycles. Until at some point, he had saved a visiting tribune who had been inspecting the mines.

His reward had been service in the military, a chance to earn his citizenship, a chance for freedom. It had been the worst event in his life. A low-caste in the military was treated worse than dung, but his experience and expertise in mining had granted him a place within the exploratory legions that were tasked with feeding the Empire.

He never understood what type of sixth sense alerted him. The ore of this new world was unlike anything he had ever seen. His compatriots didn’t grasp its value.

Dust was dust; until it wasn’t. The blue rocks were solid, pure, and dense. The surface deposits resembled those of the Emperor’s mines, but whoever or whatever had created the rocky tunnel into the depths had led him on a path to insanity.

Dust, not in the form of dust, but of ore. When ground up, a chunk could have provided the entire quota of a thousand low-caste workers for an entire week. He had ventured deep, all the way to the end of the tunnel, and the ore had only become denser until he thought he would find walls of pure blue. The veins of the gods, of the ancients.

His lips and nose burned, and he held his eyes tight against the noxious fumes. He’d pulled his mining cart over his head, then opened his incinerator and shattered the ammo cartridge on a small pile of dust he had in a pouch he always kept as good luck. It was an old habit that had saved his life more than once.

A Dust flashfire wouldn’t just suck the oxygen from a miner’s lungs and then incinerate them, although it would do that too—dust would burn away everything elemental, anything based on carbon would disintegrate, used up in its sudden release of energy.

The overseers never had to worry about the mines becoming a vast tomb; the mines cleaned themselves out every few cycles.

But if you dumped the fuel cell of an incinerator on a pile of dust, you’d receive an endothermic reaction instead of an exothermic one. And it would reduce the volume of gas inside of a confined space, creating suction. The cold-burns on his hands and face demonstrated exactly how desperate an action it was.

When Raxion couldn’t bear it any longer and thought he was near passing out, he stood, forcing the mine cart to pop off the ground with a thump. He fell to the ground, exhausted, and spent, laying on his back while spreading his arms. He took a deep breath; the taste of the air was familiar, a heavy smell of spent dust.

If he was lucky, the flashfire wouldn’t have consumed all the oxygen. Somewhere in his kit was an oxygen canister. He was going to need to find it; he doubted any of his cohort would be coming to rescue him anytime soon.

He struggled to collect himself and put on his breathing mask, then grabbed a metal bar to use as a walking stick. Carbon burns on the ground were the only remains of his companions. When the glaring headlights of a vehicle blinded him, he was surprised someone had bothered to mount a rescue.

Then the nightmare started. A deadly looking arachnid silhouetted itself in front of the light. An angry shriek of rage and death filled the tunnel, and his knees gave out.

A feminine voice called out, a melodic chime completely at odds with the earlier alien sound. He knew he had gone mad when a female praetorian stepped out and put her hand on the spider, calming it. It was one stressor too much, and the world went black.