Chapter 11
CHAPTER ELEVEN
T he warships arrived like specters of death, casting elongated shadows over the tranquil ocean below. Director Andri Andronikos stood at the viewport of his personal command vessel, his sharp gaze scanning the expanse of blue, his jaw tightening with every passing second. The floating islands were gone. At least those that had been inhabited. All that remained were the small, less fertile ones.
He turned to his officer, his voice razor-thin with control. “Confirm.”
“Majority of the landmasses have submerged, Director. No sign of the Ancient Knight. No confirmation of General Landais,” the officer reported, his voice clipped and professional, though there was no mistaking the undercurrent of unease.
Andri’s lips pressed into a tight line. Another failure. Another embarrassment.
His anger was a cold, calculating thing, sinking deep into his bones. He had tolerated his half-brother’s shortcomings before. This, however, was inexcusable.
With the deliberate slowness of a man who did not need to rush to assert his power, he turned on his heel. “Prepare my shuttle. I will see my brother personally.”
The officer hesitated. Andri looked at him. Once.
The man paled and snapped to attention. “Yes, Director.”
Andri exited the bridge and strode through the brightly lit corridors of his battle cruiser. Service members immediately stepped to the side, stood at attention, and snapped a salute, not relaxing until he had moved far down the corridor.
His footsteps were measured, each step reverberating through the cold, sterile corridors of his ship. He took the lift down to the docking bay. Minutes later, he, along with his personal guards, were exiting the battle cruiser. Ahead of him, he could see the damage to his brother’s warship.
You have much to answer for, brother. I hope you answer wisely, he grimly thought.
* * *
Nearly an hour later, Andri disembarked his personal shuttle. Soldiers stood at attention, observing with wary expressions as he and his personal guard crossed the docking bay and entered the lift.
Andri knew his brother would be aware of his arrival. The fact that he didn’t meet him in the docking bay revealed his brother’s underlying resentment to what he would consider Andri’s interference in the military matters. Normally, he left the military aspects to Coleridge—and his son. With Roan’s defection and Coleridge’s failures, that would no longer be the case.
With the council on Jeslean destroyed, there is no longer any need for me to handle the political situation any longer. The Gallant rebels needed a firmer hand with their continued defiance.
He waited impatiently as the lift rose to the bridge. Two of his guards stood in front of him at the ready when the doors opened. Only when they moved forward, did he. He was always prepared. The fact that he was on his brother’s warship made no difference. Assassins could be anywhere. The fact that Coleridge knew he would be upset with him made his brother dangerous and a threat.
Andri strode down the corridor. The double doors slid open with a soft swoosh, revealing an active interior. The temperature in the room seemed to drop the moment he stepped onto the bridge.
Silence fell like a guillotine. Officers stiffened, hands twitching at their consoles but never looking up. No one wanted to be noticed.
Andri didn’t rush. He never did. His steps were slow, deliberate—each one landing like a death sentence.
Their commander had failed… and the Legion Director was here to collect.
Andri turned to the right and rounded the upper level of the bridge. The door off the bridge hissed open to reveal his brother standing in front of the viewport in a relaxed posture. Andri’s eyes narrowed when he noticed that Coleridge’s hands were behind his back.
His brother must have sensed his displeasure—and suspicion. Coleridge slowly relaxed his shoulders until his arms hung loosely by his side. Andri nodded to his guards.
“Wait outside,” he ordered.
“Yes, sir,” the guards replied.
Andri studied Coleridge’s expression. If it wasn’t for the slight flush of red, the visible wounds, and the cold wariness in his eyes, his brother’s face could have been mistaken for that of a marble statue. Andri walked over to the bar and pulled out two glasses. He remained silent as he poured the light green liquor from the decanter.
He turned, walked to his brother, and held out the drink. Coleridge extended his hand, accepting the drink, and immediately placed it on the conference table. Andri’s eyes glittered at his brother’s caution.
“I wouldn’t poison you, brother. That would be too quick,” he stated before lifted his glass and swallowed the contents in a single gulp.
Coleridge’s eyes flashed with fire before he concealed his emotions. Andri set his empty glass down on the table next to Coleridge’s untouched drink. His movements were very precise. It matched his thoughts on how he should handle his brother’s ineptitude.
* * *
Coleridge Landais stood at the viewport of his own ship, a thin cloth pressed to his cheekbone, absorbing the slow trickle of blood from where the Ancient male had struck him.
He watched as his brother’s shuttle disappeared into the belly of his battle cruiser. His lip curled into a sneer. Andri’s arrival held three purposes: A warning that he didn’t tolerate failure. A public humiliation for not only his perceived weakness in dealing with the Gallant rebels but also with his son. A reminder of what happens to those who displease Andri—even on the smallest level.
Coleridge turned, folding his hands behind him, and waited with growing unease. Several minutes later, the doors to the command deck slid open with a hiss, and the room shifted as if the very air thickened with his brother’s malice.
Andri did not march when he entered. He did not need to. Power radiated from every measured step, a predator entering the den of a wounded beast. His long, dark cloak whispered across the floor, his sharp eyes assessing everything with disdainful precision.
Through the doorway, Coleridge could see his own crew. They were silent; their bodies rigid. They knew the price they themselves could pay for their commander’s failure.
Coleridge kept his spine straight despite the pain radiating through his ribs. He refused to show weakness, knowing that it would only fuel his brother’s silent rage. He kept his eyes glued to Andri’s face as his brother dismissed his personal guards before approaching him.
Andri stopped in front of him, his gaze flicking over Coleridge’s injured face, the blood smeared on his fingers.
“Disgraceful. Tell me, brother—did the Ancient cut you? Or was it the woman who brought you to your knees and handed you the taste of defeat?”
Coleridge could feel the muscle in his jaw tighten. He vaguely wondered if Andri knew what the woman had done—how she had literally dropped him to his knees with her powerful kick before he realized his brother was speaking figuratively. There was no way his brother could know of his humiliation at the hands of Julia Marksdale.
“It was an Ancient. One of the strangers to our world. He disguised himself as a Legion guard. He was… stronger than expected.”
Andri let the silence stretch, his eyes never leaving Coleridge’s. He did not blink. He did not move. Andri let the weight of his expectations crush the room around them.
Coleridge hated that about him.
“Tell me everything?” Andri ordered in a calm voice.
There was no fury in his brother’s tone, no shouting. Just the cold, cutting sharpness of a man who expected perfection and found only disappointment.
Coleridge forced himself to keep his voice even. “The Ancient Knight infiltrated the ship. The battle against Plateau was… more resistant than anticipated. Hutu arrived, alongside rebel forces. The freighter captain and the Ancient escaped, along with the female that Roanna had been protecting.”
The words tasted like bile as he spoke each one.
“A minor setback,” he continued stiffly. “I have the situation under control.”
Andri’s hand moved before he could register it.
Coleridge gritted his teeth in pain but did not flinch. He remained impassive, silent, as if his brother had not just sliced a deep cut across his already scarred cheek. The weapon’s heated edge cauterized most of the tissue as it passed along his flesh.
Andri’s voice was as effective as steel pressed against his throat. “That, dear brother, is a sample of what awaits you if you fail me again.”
Coleridge forced himself to meet his brother’s cold eyes. Andri was not like their father. He didn’t punish out of anger. His actions were calculated, methodical, and most terrifying of all—completely absent of emotion.
Andri withdrew the blade, flicking off the residue of seared flesh.
“Prepare the weapon,” he ordered.
Coleridge hesitated. “It hasn’t been tested.”
Andri’s eyes darkened. “Then now is a good time.”
Coleridge clenched his fists at his sides. “Deploying it prematurely could result in another failure. My ship doesn’t have the necessary equipment.”
“I don’t care,” Andri interrupted, his voice as cold as the space outside the ship. “Do whatever you need to make it work. I’ve received intel about a rebel base located on a moon orbiting Tesla Terra. Have the spacelab deployed to it. I want those who resist serving as an example. Once the moon base has been destroyed, do the same thing to the planet.”
Coleridge knew that tone. The discussion was over. He bowed his head in acknowledgement.
Andri slid his blade back into its sheath and stepped back, his gaze sweeping over Coleridge like a man assessing the value of a dying animal.
With one last look of pure disgust, Andri turned on his heel and strode from the room. The doors hissed shut behind him.
Coleridge remained standing, the scent of burning flesh still clinging to his ruined cheek. His fingers curled around the bloodied cloth before he tossed it aside, reaching instead for the hilt of his laser knife. He activated the heated blade, pressing it to his skin that was still seeping and sealed the rest of his wounds with a sickening sizzle.
Pain was something he welcomed. He thrived on it. It fueled the burning rage inside him. Once he had his son and the Ancient back under his control, he would unleash far more than the burning cut to his face that Andri had given him. He would extract every ounce of blood from their bodies—one drop at a time.
He turned toward the computer, typing out a command, he was connected with the Legion Spacelab. The technician blanched when he realized who was on the screen.
“Get me Dr. Mella,” he ordered, his voice as hard as iron.
“General Landais, this is a surprise. How may I help you?” Dr. Mella hastily inquired.
“Prepare the weapon for deployment,” he ordered.
Dr. Mella frowned and glanced over his shoulder before returning his attention to the screen. Coleridge’s eyes narrowed when the good doctor swallowed. In the background, Coleridge could see the sonic cannon prototype that would soon be retrofitted to every battle cruiser in the Legion.
“General, it is almost ready. I just need a little more time,” Dr. Mella protested.
Coleridge’s eyes grew colder. “You have until you reach Tesla Terra orbit to make it ready. If it isn’t, you will answer to me,” he stated in a harsh tone.
“Yes, sir. Yes, sir. It will be ready,” Dr. Mella mumbled.
Coleridge cut the link and walked over to the viewport. He stood staring down at the planet below. Plateau stretched beneath them—tranquil, untouched, oblivious.
It would not be for long once the weapon the Legion had designed was fully functional. First Tesla Terra and the rebel base—then Roan’s home world.