You see me now, a veteran

Of a thousand psychic wars

My energy’s spent at last

And my armor is destroyed

I have used up all my weapons

And I’m helpless and bereaved

Wounds are all I’m made of...

Did I hear you say that this is victory?

Blue Öyster Cult - “Veteran of the Psychic Wars”

Six Months Later

The tavern was a rustic establishment, near one of the ruined cities of Gzuj, frequented by the ranks of those working to rebuild what they had lost. Despite the steady and growing flow of materials and personnel from the Tetrarchy, there would always be a need for Khonhim workers, skilled with their hands. Even with the alien technology being shared the project would take a lifetime, and perhaps more. But as the workers shared a meal and rounds of drinks after a day’s labor, there was a growing sense of pride. A sense that they were helping to reclaim what they had lost.

Like many such locales in history, people came and went daily. A laborer might spend months on a project only to walk away without a word, drawn to something else...or he might spend less than a week on-site before doing the same thing. The transient nature of the populace meant few ever grew close to those around them, and fewer still asked questions about their past.

Making it the perfect place to hide for someone like Chugaz Uydan.

It hadn’t been easy, escaping the Resolute during the heat of battle, but then he had always been a firm believer in planning for contingencies. He’d kept prepped escape pods scattered around the ship, and once away it was a simple matter to mingle in amongst the other survivors of the battle. He’d taken the identification card of a dead crewman, though his features were more problematic. It wasn’t as if he could blend in, not as well known...or as notorious...as he was, depending on one’s point of view, but he had prepared for that. A hypo filled with a powerful analgesic, a scalpel...and he was merely another wounded warrior, who’s facial scars rendered him unrecognizable.

He’d been picked up by Dauntless, of all ships, spotting Jiyazh several times during the journey back to Khonhim space, who never suspected a thing. It had been difficult to hide the rage he felt as others called him Dhyaksh...the title that by all rights was his.

But that was all right. Let him have his moment...for he had plans to deal with the usurper when the time was right.

Working on the reconstruction crews allowed him to blend in, and the simple duties gave him time to think. Time to plan his triumphant return to the halls of power, though the title of Dhyaksh would never be his again. He was known by too many, and wanted by both the Tetrarchy and his own people, for War Crimes.

Fools.

What he had done had been for the greater glory of his race, though such small minds could never grasp his vision. Perhaps things had not gone according to plan at the end...but that merely whetted his appetite for his next attempt. This time he would be the power behind the throne, a trusted advisor whispering into the Dhyaksh’s ear. He would find some suitable puppet in due course and begin the climb back to his proper place.

After all, he had done it before.

And once he was in place, once they had taken all they could from the alien fools, once his puppet was seated upon the throne...once again, the Tetrarchy would tremble at the sound of the Khonhim horde.

And it would be glorious.

Chugaz finished his simple meal, downed the last of his ale, and rose to his feet. The physical labors of his assumed role took their toll, and he needed rest. He made his way through the throng of bodies and into the street, walking back to the simple tenement he now called home. It too fitted his new persona, but when the time came for him to resume his duties as the true leader of the Khonhim, despite whatever figurehead the nation called Dhyaksh, he would leave it behind and never look back.

Perhaps he would have it razed, for his own enjoyment.

He turned down a side street, lost in his thoughts...when something yanked him off his feet. They covered his mouth before he could make a sound, and as he struggled, he felt a brief sting prick his neck.

And then nothing, as the darkness claimed him.

Chugaz regained consciousness, his mind struggle to recall what had happened. Where was he? He attempted to sit up but discovered he could not move. As he thrashed in panic, he realized he was restrained, his arms and legs bound...even his neck and chest were fettered.

What was happening?

“So...you’re awake,” a voice cooed in the darkness.

“Who is that?” Chugaz demanded. “Who are you?”

“No one special,” the voice chuckled. “I’ve been hunting you for a long time...Chugaz Uydan.”

He went still, as a cold feeling of dread filled his veins. “You are mistaken,” he got out. “I am not the Dhyaksh. My name is…”

“...don’t bother lying to me,” the voice snapped, harsher this time. “I know who you are...who you really are.”

A figure stepped out of the gloom, and into the light. A human figure...with eyes that squirmed.

“Hunting things is something I’m very good at,” Whisper giggled, as he raised a blade, letting it dance and weave above his face. Chugaz stared at the dagger with sick fascination, before looking at the human in desperation.

“I can pay you,” he babbled, “I’ll give you anything you want!”

“Hmm...now what do I want?” Whisper pondered, tapping his chin with the knife, as a smile lit up his face.

“Oh, I know,” he giggled, as he leaned in close, his lips almost brushing Chugaz’s ear. “...I want you to scream,” he breathed, as the blade came down.

Chugaz screamed.

And screamed.

And screamed.

Nassat sat on the small bench behind his home, with Taichist and Chechla at his side. He had promised Raichret they would someday build the home they had dreamed of, but there had never seemed to be enough time. Duties always seemed to drag them away.

And now, he had nothing but time.

A babbling brook meandered through the sculpted garden. It was a quiet place, a place of contemplation, just as he and Raichret had always imagined.

With one addition.

A carved block of stone stood before the bench, as he and his children gazed at its simple words:

RAICHRET

Beloved Wife and Mother

May the Creator Watch Over You

The children stared at the marker in solemn silence, as a quiet tone pulled him from his reveries. He withdrew his tablet, not wanting to disturb them and read the brief message.

It’s Done

With a single command, he deleted the text, ensuring no one else would ever read it, before slipping the tablet back into his robes.

“Father?”

Nassat smiled as gazed down at his son. “Yes, Taichist?”

His big eyes pleaded with him. “Tell us the story,” he begged.

“Yes, please do,” Chechla chimed in.

“As you wish,” he whispered, as they snuggled in close.

“…A long time ago, a young Acolyte and a Healer met during a war…”

THE END