Revenant: Book 1 of The Shadow War Chronicles

Revenant

Revenant

THE SHADOW WAR CHRONICLES

BOOK 1

I

Raymond Bayly

Copyright © 2018 Raymond Bayly

All rights reserved.

ISBN-13: 9781730807503

No part of this work may be reproduced in any way without the express permission of the author, excepting brief quotations for critical articles and reviews.

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This book is an original work of fiction. Names, characters, and events are drawn from the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to any real people, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. References to real institutions, agencies, organizations, public offices, establishments, or locales are intended to provide authenticity, but the characters and events involved are wholly imaginary. Any opinions given by the characters regarding any of the aforementioned settings and associations are fiction and should not be confused with those of the author.

For my Children

"While we try to teach our children all about life, our children teach us what life is all about."

- Angela Schwindt

CHAPTER

ONE

The Box

Captain Vasimer sat in the chair of the dimly lit observation lounge, contemplating the large display screen which showed an expanded view of the third planet in the system. He had found himself here more and more lately, staring at the real-time view of the small blue and green sphere, with wisps of white rotating lazily over its surface. Earth is a beautiful planet, with strange beings that he had marveled over for almost four decades. He witnessed their development through the stages of technology as they took their first unsteady steps into a new era of digital enlightenment.

Watching that screen was much like watching his own children as they grew into adolescence. He felt a kinship with these creatures, these humans. They had an amazing capacity for art and technology and were a people of inspiration and ambition where love was a quest and hope a shield. Yet, like his own people, some of them had a propensity for questionable morality, slavery, and war. As a result, parts of the world suffered from poverty and starvation. With parental-like hindsight, he recognized the signs of the electronic awakening.

Earth and its inhabitants were in the early stages of a truly global awareness. It was one that would transcend their political and geographical borders, eventually bringing the world together, sparking a technological revolution that would allow them to reach for the furthest stars.

Awaiting them was a new age of explorers and discoveries. In time, their theories and beliefs would evolve as the still unknown reality of the cosmos revealed its secrets. Faiths would be tested, and the eyes of a race would be opened to all the fantastic things that the universe had created. First contact could breed fear and doubt from preconceived notions brought on by decades of speculation.

Vasimer thought about the humans, they were about to recruit to their cause. He hoped indoctrinating them would help pave the way for an easier first contact later, maybe with a species bringing a simple message of peace, transforming doubt and apprehension into hope. He knew all too well that there was a darker side. This would also follow them out to the stars. If they weren’t careful, it could become the thing that defined them as it had his own people. Seared into his mind and soul were images of pain, destruction, and death, as well as a parade of species brought to their knees or entirely eradicated by his command of the Empire’s most magnificent fleet. This was his sin, his legacy.

He was known as The Conqueror, The Great Hero. He’d had numerous awards heaped on him for the tragedy and sorrow that he had caused during his time with the Armada. When he could no longer stomach what he had become, he resigned his commission and walked away. The hero turned pacifist, disappearing into obscurity. Vasimer shook his head.

More and more, his past had been returning to torment him. Every moment ticked closer to death. If there were gods or something after this life, he would have a lot to answer for.

He checked the chronometer in the corner of the giant observation screen. Then with a flick to the computer embedded into the underside of his arm, the screen blinked and displayed a human woman singing on a stage.

He smiled as the Britain’s Got Talent logo scrolled across the bottom of the screen. Of all the things he loved about the humans, reality TV was at the top of his list.

It wasn’t proper procedure to use the tachyon probe as an entertainment system, but he wasn’t in the military anymore. With the nanite translators that all Empire citizens received at birth, it didn’t matter where on Earth the show was from, it would always sound like Preaton Standard to him.

His entertainment was cut short as a feminine voice spoke from the audio relay in the ceiling. Captain, may I intrude? the voice tentatively asked.

He sighed and switched the monitor back to planet-view. Of course, Shiasla. You are always a welcome intrusion, my dear, he answered, smiling, the lines of his aged face becoming more pronounced with the action.

I have mapped the results, and they are positive. It is recessive, but I have located a percentage of humans who possess the marker.

Vasimer closed his eyes, saying a small prayer to those same gods he reflected on earlier. They had sampled thousands of humans over the decades, always turning up nothing. He had been afraid that they had been wrong about the marker. The vertical slits of his irises tracked a small metal satellite as it passed along the screen in a geosynchronous orbit of Earth.

Shiasla, said Vasimer as he continued to stare at the planet, what is the rarity of the marker?

One in six hundred and fifty thousand, she responded quickly.

Hoisting his lanky frame off the couch, his old bones creaking and the joints in his seven-foot body sounding off with small bouts of pain. He slowly shuffled towards the wall, reaching for a small indent. At his touch, a steaming mug of dark liquid slid from nowhere. He grabbed the cup and sipped as he considered her answer.

So, your creators seeded a control marker into the DNA of creatures it saw as potentials for the role of guardians millions of years ago. They could tell then that the evolution of this species would one day have the capacity to fill this role; yet, they didn’t have the foresight to seed enough of the markers to make it a common trait? If they could have made such a monumental calculation error when introducing the marker, how do we know they didn’t make a mistake when they assessed the early evolution of humans? Vasimer asked, pacing the floor as he tried to contemplate the ramifications of this new discovery.

We only have one shot at this, Shiasla. If we get it wrong… Shaking his head as his voice trailed off.

I know, Shiasla responded, eliciting yet another sigh of irritation from Vasimer as he rubbed the slightly protruding ridges on his forehead.

He pointed at the planet on the screen. "I just want to make sure this whole effort wasn’t wasted. When you approached me all those years ago, I was drinking myself to death. You convinced me we could save these young planets from the Empire and their like; to finally make right all the wrongs I have perpetrated against races like this.

I jumped at the chance. I called in every favor to get assigned as the captain of this. I orchestrated the emergency that sent the crew off in life pods. I branded myself a traitor to my people and the other races that control the Empire. I did it willingly on your assurance that you knew of a planet that hosted beings that had been encouraged, through DNA manipulation, to accept and excel with the bio-electronic pairing. We raced across galaxies to these coordinates and have waited here for decades. I just need to make sure all our preparations were not for nothing. Vasimer said, feeling tired. Even arguing with Shiasla wore him out. He lowered his body into a chair and looked expectantly at the speaker above.

Vasimer, my friend, Shiasla said tenderly, I took a chance on you and you on me. Together we have accomplished so much in preparation for this moment. I would not have done this had I not been sure they were the right ones. This will work. When it is done, we can start to bring justice to those worlds that have lost hope and protect those that have not-

Why can’t you reconsider Seafu’s initiates at the Temple? he interrupted, dredging up the old argument with a weary tremor in his voice. They are all chosen because they have the marker and have been trained in the lore of what your kind are and what you can do.

I know you have some misgivings, but we need beings who will follow their heart and conscience over orders, those who aren’t afraid to stand up for what needs to be done. We need strong beings who will follow their principles and conscience in the absence of directives. In simple terms, we need warriors, not monks. Humans have an amazing capacity to inspire greatness in their own people. We have to believe that that can translate over to other races, Shiasla pointed out.

Vasimer nodded and smirked. You want royal pains in the ass then.Be careful what you wish for, dear…you just might get it.

He stepped over to the console on the wall and brought up the ship’s status, though he seemed to look right through it. Shiasla, I know you feel you have to guide these beings through manipulation, but remember, they are a species that values free will. If you point them in the direction you want them to go and inspire them, I think they will surpass all your expectations and surprise even you. However, if you try to control their actions, they will push back, and you might lose your only shot at this.

Vasimer tried to concentrate on the status displayed in front of him, but his own statement had hit a nerve. How often were the soldiers of the empire coerced instead of inspired? It was one of the things he hated about his old job.

Time and time again he commanded soldiers to invade against people who posed no threat, misleading them into the belief that it was them or us. Maybe that’s what was really bothering him; Shiasla was using tactics that he had so despised.

I know, my friend, she said. I will keep your advice in mind. As always, you know I value your opinion.

Giving up on the display in front of him, he had tried viewing it multiple times and retained nothing. Vasimer shut down the console and stepped away from it.

He left the common room and strolled down the narrow black metal hallway that ran down the center of the ship. It terminated at a large bulkhead door which hissed open as the sensor above the door anticipated his entry into the engineering compartment.

This would be his last tour as captain, and he wanted to ensure the ship was left in good shape for the next crew. He began the ritual of walking through the systems checklist, a routine he had done every week since boarding. Knowing this would be the last time suffused him with sorrow. Running his hands over the engine housing, he said a small thank you to the ship that had been his home for the last forty years.

There was sadness as Shiasla’s voice interrupted his reverie. It’s almost time, isn’t it? I am so sorry, my friend. I wish there were something more I could have done.

Smiling, he looked up at the speaker in the ceiling. I am old. It was bound to happen, and we agreed once it did, you would start the next phase. The ship needs to be reconfigured for your new crew. Besides, it’s probably better there wasn’t an alien on board when they got here...they might try to probe me to get answers to questions that neither of us wants to be answered yet, he chuckled.

Leaving the engineering compartment, he made his way toward the front of the ship.

The dim hallway could have been brighter, but he liked the muted light. It always calmed him. Passing a doorway, he could make out the observation deck with its large window overlooking space. He continued down the hall and entered a door to the left of the bridge entrance. Vasimer could hear the whirring of computer cooling systems, as they ran to keep the room temperature lower than the rest of the ship. Vasimer approached a small red monolith that stood three meters tall in the center of the room. Running his hand over the front, he found the slight depression and pressed it.

With a soft click, a small hole opened, and a tiny, blue, translucent box, no bigger than the tip of his thumb slid out on a tray.

He slowly caressed the object. I wish I had been worthy of pairing with you, Shiasla. It would have been glorious to receive your knowledge and insight, but it was not my destiny. At least I could play a part to ensure that the will of The Ancients came to pass, to be a force that would protect those who could not defend themselves. Maybe in this, I will redeem myself for my past actions. I know because of my inferior nanite treatments, you were unable to lengthen my life with your advanced knowledge. Do not fret, my dear, for everyone has a time, and it will soon be mine.

A tear escaped his reptilian eye as he whispered his lament, yet he smiled affectionately at the small box. The box pulsed in time as the voice emitted from the speaker near the door. My dear friend, I will miss you. Know that without you, my mission could not have been realized. You have been my closest friend and confidant. I will never forget you.

Vasimer carefully slid the box back into the monolith. Wiping away the wetness on his cheek, he made his way to the medical bay. He slowly, painfully got up on the silver-colored table set in the center of the room. Once he was settled, a metallic arm with three fingers slid out from the wall. He held it at bay for a moment.

Shiasla, send out a message to Seafu and give him our coordinates. He will need to prepare the base once he receives the signal to protect the new crew and offer aid when he can. The other elders cannot know he is in contact. Prepare the humans quickly, for they will be tested. If they fail, we all fail.

With his final request finished, Vasimer released the arm. It began to go to work, injecting painkillers and other chemicals into the ailing captain. As the drugs began to take effect, he shifted to make himself more comfortable on the cold table, feeling a sense of euphoria as he made his final journey into oblivion.

Rest well, my friend. I hope we will meet in the next life, Shiasla said sadly. She felt sadness at the impending loss of her companion. Shiasla remained quiet as the captain lay unconscious on the medical bed, the computerized doctor monitoring his vitals. She had experienced loss many times while paired to beings over the last few centuries, but she could not remember ever having just a friend, someone whom she could talk to and experience a relationship as biologics do.

He had given her the most precious gift she had ever received, True friendship.

Some hours later, the captain stopped breathing, and the monitors began to sound alarms. Merged as she was with the ship instead of a being, she grieved the only way she could; systems all over the ship began to overload, screens began to flicker, and the ship went dark. In that darkness, she offered him a final gift by transferring every memory of her friend to her permanent archive, allowing her the ability to visit him anytime, thus granting the captain a kind of immortality.

After a time, the lights came back on as the systems began to operate normally. Shiasla turned to the task at hand. The captain’s body was moved with reverence by the maintenance bots to the weapons room, where it was loaded into a missile and set carefully in the launch tube. After a moment of silence, she said a prayer for her friend and launched the captain towards the sun.

However, unknown to her, deep in the bowels of the ship, a small device came to life. It scanned the ship for the captain’s thermal image and found nothing, then accessed the telemetry data that the system had recorded. The device confirmed the captain’s death. It recorded the event efficiently and dispassionately as only a computer can do; the event activated a subroutine in the hidden device. The small rectangular-shaped box sent a signal through the bypassed system, giving it direct access to the ship's long-range antenna. This bypass had been created just for this purpose; its distress signal shouted out into the vastness of space searching for a recipient.

Shiasla sensed the moment the transmission burst began. Within a few minutes of breaking the basic encryption, she knew what it was; a distress beacon. Searching the ship, she could find no sign of its origin; it had to be isolated from the network. This had not been anticipated. She surmised that the death of the captain must have set off a built-in fail-safe in the ship she had not been aware of.

She now realized she would have to move fast before the Empire could gain the location of the vessel.

She would no longer be able to take her time and ensure that humanity itself was indeed ready. Now they would have to be. The fate of not only their planet but also the galaxy as a whole was in the balance.

With speeds only a machine can achieve, Shiasla began to reconfigure the environmental systems, then loaded and launched the three preconfigured probes. Each one carried limited copies of her intelligence and would carry out the retrieval of her new crew. As promised, she launched a high-speed probe with the message to Seafu at the Temple, letting him know the final phase had begun.

Shiasla knew it would be months until Seafu received the communication. They had chosen the backwater system because of the lack of comm nodes. That would probably save her and the ship as no one could track a distress beacon accurately this far from a relay. They had been preparing for this for decades, and now she would soon return to Empire space. Should they fail, it would mean the end of her existence.

If the ship were captured, she would have to destroy herself to protect the others in hopes they would one day be able to complete what she couldn’t. Shiasla hoped it would not come to that. Checking the ship and settings one more time, she hoped that her assessment of the humans wasn’t flawed.

Too much depends on them, she thought as she began to power down and wait. Her last action, before entering the darkness of a machine's slumber, was to assign herself a new designation, a human one, she would now be known to the humans as Morgan.

CHAPTER

TWO

Ashville

Seriously? This is all you have? No drizzle, no whipped cream? Hell, how about a little steamed milk? I’ll even take basic creamers, Blake told the man behind the counter with an annoyed tone that bordered on hostility. The old man just stared blankly at him.

This is probably not the first time he’s had this conversation, Blake thought.

He could be an imposing figure when he wanted to be. At six feet and two inches tall, with a slim waist and piercing blue eyes, he could see why. Blake’s time in the military had helped to tone his body and mind.

This gave him a look that always seemed to be assessing everyone and everything. A few friends had called it spooky, only being half-serious.

Some would have referred to him as a man’s man for his infatuation with motorcycles and classic cars. For all of his masculine bravado, Blake always liked his sissy coffee, as his ex-wife had referred to it, with lots of caramel and sugar topped with whipped cream. Sure, he had been teased about it often enough, but it didn’t bother him. What could he say? He loved his sweet concoction, and it was a great way to start the day.

Come on, Sparky! Blake said as he waggled his small, white Styrofoam coffee cup at the proprietor of the shop. Do you mean to tell me that with all the tourists in this town, you don’t even have a damn flavor bottle, or maybe even an actual coffee flavor aside from this mud?

The old man rolled his eyes, obviously annoyed at what should have been a simple transaction. "Listen, sport, coffee is coffee. That’s what we serve. So, unless you see a Starbucks magically appear nearby, that’s all you’re going to get. Now can I get you anything else, sir?"

It was amazing how that ‘sir’ sounded an awful lot like ‘asshole.’ Blake sighed and turned to go.

He took a sip of the bitter sludge in his hand, pushed open the door and stepped out onto the sidewalk.

He had been in town for almost two days on vacation: his first one in years. He’d finally get to enjoy a little hiking, camping, and, more importantly, no cell phones or any other electronics.

This trip was just him, his pack, and his thoughts. Blake had checked out of his hotel that morning and was in the process of picking up supplies when the coffee incident happened.

Crotchety old bastard, Blake thought. Whatever happened to customer service?

Standing in the hot summer sun, the annoyance of the conversation melted away. Asheville had a way of doing that. Ever since he was a kid, Blake had been coming here with his grandparents. Asheville was a small city surrounded by some of the most beautiful mountains you could find on the East Coast.

The sky had turned a deep blue; there was a warning of coming rain as the clouds settled low over the distant peaks. Blake wasn’t too worried. Carolina storms were like most of the relationships he’d had before getting married: intense and torrential but lasting all of five minutes. He smiled and then sighed. It would be funny if it weren’t so damn true.

He shook off the thought and continued on. He always liked the artsy feel of the mountain town and the laid-back nature of its residents. As he strolled down Haywood Street, he stopped to admire the Basilica of St. Lawrence.

Blake had not gone to church since he was a child, but this church spoke to him. It might have been the Anglo-Saxon architecture that reminded him of English castles. The building drew him in. After a few moments, he crossed the street to the parking lot and scanned the surrounding area.

He could see the large, stone building overlooking Battle Square. He could never remember the name of the thing, but to his left stood the stalwart profile of the Vanderbilt apartments. He smiled to himself and closed his eyes as the light breeze coming off Black Mountain caressed him tenderly and filled his nostrils with the fresh scent of pine and a hint of Carolina Cedar. It had the desired effect of relaxing him. That was the reason he had come here: to heal.

Asheville was good for the soul.

CHAPTER

THREE

Rocky Mountain High

After leaving town, Blake drove southeast to Lake Lure where he began his hike around to the far bank. He planned to set up camp at the base of the Blue Ridge Mountains. As it sometimes happens in the Carolinas, the anticipated rain did not come and instead yielded to a sunny July day.

Lush green trees covered the side of the mountain, blocking the direct sunlight, and leaving the air a bit cooler for his hike. After walking for nearly an hour, Blake found a level spot, pitched his green, two-person tent, and unpacked his old Army rucksack. From the small pile, he pulled out a collapsible fishing rod, a folding seat, and a dog-eared copy of ‘Tunnel in the Sky.` With the items organized under one arm, he snatched up a six-pack of beer with his newly freed hand and strode towards the lake whistling ‘Simple Man’ by Skynyrd.

The hook sat motionless in the water for nearly two hours. Sipping at his lukewarm Corona, Blake flipped another page in the novel he wasn’t really reading. He had come to the mountains to relax away from both work and the stress of the situation at home. As he gazed out over the dark blue mountain lake, the ripples caught errant rays of sunshine, giving it that midday sparkle.

A breeze made its way down from the cooler mountaintop and across the water to caress his bare arms and face, making an otherwise humid day tolerable. There was always something about the mountains that soothed him. Maybe it was the pure, untouched wilderness, unmarred by man’s endless need to expand and conquer.

Unfortunately, every time his mind became truly quiet, thoughts of Donna and Gracie would start to creep in and destroy an otherwise peaceful moment. The words Donna had said to him when she handed him the divorce papers, I can’t handle it anymore. It’s like you left the war, but the war never left you, resonated in his mind. He couldn’t blame her.

After two tours in Iraq, a Purple Heart, and a Medal of Valor, Blake Campbell had come home a hero only to find that civilian life wasn’t as easy to settle back into as he thought. Every time a car backfired, or someone walked by with a knapsack, he would break out into a cold sweat. No matter how hard he tried, he could not leave the war behind. Donna could never understand what it was like, and the more she tried, the more the rift between them grew.

The instincts he had cultivated to keep himself alive were now working against him. Many nights, he woke up covered in sweat, screaming of names and places he had tried so hard to forget. Donna would always be there holding him and telling him it was okay. He felt as if he had failed her, and it shamed him.

She didn’t sign on for this. He had left a happy, innocent kid with a new wife and infant daughter, and come home a broken shell of his former self: a deranged, paranoid man who couldn’t leave the past behind him. Donna had tried to hold the marriage together. She’d wanted to keep him together.

Then, about a year ago, he had been woken up by someone slapping him across his face and arms. When the sleep had finally left his hazy mind, he blinked and looked down in surprise to find himself straddling Donna with his hands around her throat.

She had been gasping and begging for him to let go as tears streamed from her squinted eyes.

Blake released her, flung himself out of bed, and raced downstairs into the waiting arms of the liquor cabinet.

He didn’t remember much after that, just Donna waking him from the living room couch with a cup of coffee in her hands and bruises on her neck. He could see the fear in her eyes and in the way her body flinched when he reached for the coffee. At that moment, he knew their relationship was over. He apologized for days and had moved into the guest room.

No matter how many times he had said he was sorry or that it would never happen again, the way Donna looked at him had changed. The fear was ever-present, and he loathed it. Blake cursed the war, both for the mental scars he now had to bear and for not returning him whole. Sadly, he was also angry at Donna for reminding him he could be that monster: the one he had tried to leave over there.

It had not entirely left him and was just waiting for a reason to return.

His thoughts and actions mortified and shamed him. His secret hatred for Donna made him hate himself because it wasn’t her fault. Thank God his daughter Gracie had not come into the room at that moment!

I would have quite literally shot myself, he thought. I would have pulled the old forty-five my father left me out of the dresser drawer, put it in my mouth, and pulled the trigger.

Better that than seeing that look of fear that Donna had developed in the eyes of his precious baby girl.

He shook himself out of his oncoming depression. The divorce had been finalized about a week prior. He had agreed to all of her terms: giving her the house, the savings account, half his retirement, and most of his military pension... anything she wanted.

His only regret was that Donna had not allowed for joint custody and had demanded supervised visitations, claiming that he was a danger to his daughter. That had struck him like a lance through the chest. Donna knew he would never hurt Gracie, didn’t she?

Didn’t he?

Should he be worried that one day he’d find himself with his hands around their child’s neck like he had done to Donna?

No! He shook his head.

That would never happen.

He would never let it happen.

His solution was to run, to get as far away from those he loved as possible. They would be better off without him. Unfortunately, like many soldiers find out when they return home, the ideals and way of life he had fought for were not his to reap.

Blake reeled in the fishing line and stared forlornly at the empty cooler where his fish should’ve been. Looks like it's diner food tonight, he said sadly to the worms as he tossed the wriggling mass into the dirt next to the shore. Blake grabbed the small seat, fishing pole, pushed the worn novel under his arm, and stared forlornly for a moment at the empty six-pack container.

With a sigh, he headed back to camp. A cloud seemed to settle over his head as Blake thought about what he was going to do next. He didn’t know where he would go, but he knew for sure it would not be back home. His daughter did not need a reminder of what her father had become.

Donna would find someone better who could help raise her, and Gracie would never experience the horrors of what happens when soldiers return home.

He returned from town later with a couple of cheeseburgers and another six-pack of beer.

The mountain drive had done wonders for his melancholy mood, so he settled in to enjoy a restful evening.

There’s nothing like living off the land, Blake chuckled to himself as he bit into the fast food burger.

He sat there and listened to the sounds of the night; animals rustled through the underbrush, and frogs sang in the trees.

A breeze cooled the area and sent sounds of moving branches and rustling leaves through the woods as it filtered through the canopy.

When it turned dark, he crawled into his tent and began to read.

Sometime later he dozed off, still holding the