Page 1 of A Darkside Interlude

Chapter One

Humans wanted to erase the night.

That was the conclusion Iskar reached as he stared down at Teluria, one of the vast cities humans had built in the middle of the desert. A dazzling network of lights stretched out before him, obliterating the darkness.

For a moment, he was blinded. Iskar blinked as his light-sensitive eyes adjusted to the glittering spectacle.

“Astounding, isn’t it?” To his left, Torin Mardak leaned against his hover-bike, crossing his arms.

Like Iskar, the First Division warrior wore a black jacket with a hood. A pair of strangely comfortable trousers—jeans, the humans called them—completed his outfit. According to the human women in the General’s new Cultural Advisory Department, this attire would help them blend in amongst the crowds.

As Kordolians, there were times when they wanted the world to know exactly what they were, but there were also times when they wished to go unnoticed. Having just been appointed High Commander of the Kordolian soldiers—correction, mercenaries—stationed on Earth (with the exception of the notorious First Division, who answered only to the General himself), Iskar definitely didn’t want to be recognized in Darkside.

That was a difficult feat, considering he’d already appeared at several diplomatic events. His face had been broadcast all across Earth’s infernal Networks.

A soft snort escaped him as he glanced at Torin. “Astounding? I don’t know whether that’s a look of admiration or bemusement on your ugly face, Mardak.”

Torin gave an enigmatic shrug. “I don’t know either. Humans are one of the strangest species I’ve encountered in all of the Nine Galaxies. They’re so fucking contrary.”

“And yet one of them has snared the Indomitable One.” Of course, Iskar was referring to his superior, General Tarak al Akkadian—former leader of the Kordolian military fleet, instigator of rebellion, and the man Iskar had pledged his complete allegiance to.

They all owed Akkadian their freedom. The General was untouchable.

“The General’s found his mate,” Torin agreed, “as have several of my brothers. From what I’ve observed, human stubbornness seems to be a good counterpoint to our innate… tendencies.”

“Counterpoint, or complement? Seems to me that Akkadian’s claiming of a mate was the catalyst for the downfall of the Empire.”

“The plan was in place long before that, but maybe you’re right. Who knows? You’re never going to figure out what’s going on inside his head.”

“I know. Believe me, I’ve tried.” Iskar wryly shook his head as he activated the reflective visor of his helmet, concealing his features behind impenetrable nano-glass. “He won, though,” he muttered, getting onto his hover-bike. “The bastard always wins.”

“Much better to be on the winning side, isn’t it, Commander?” Torin bared his fangs. Unlike Iskar, he didn’t wear any sort of protective helmet, because a near-invincible First Division warrior had no need for such things. Still, Iskar didn’t envy Torin his freakish healing ability. It had come at a terrible price.

He hit his hoverbike’s start-pad. The machine hummed to life, rising slowly into the air. Primitive thing. He would have much preferred his own glider to this slow, clunky, oversized human machine, but the sleek Kordolian craft would have drawn too much attention.

There was a time and a place for everything, and Darkside wasn’t the place to advertise their identity to the world.

Not when this was supposed to be a quiet observational visit.

Not when the spooked humans were still getting used to the idea that the Kordolian armed forces weren’t going anywhere.

And certainly not on the night humans called New Year’s Eve—supposedly one of the busiest times in Darkside. Humans had this odd cultural tradition where they celebrated the passage of time.

A gust of warm air rose from beneath the rocky outcrop. It intensified into a strong headwind as Iskar and Torin sped down the cliff, heading for the aerial traffic lanes. Although night had fallen, it was still disgustingly hot, and Iskar was grateful for the temperature-regulating skinshirt he wore under his jacket.

Thankfully, the General was in the process of negotiating a partial move of their operations to Earth’s frigid—and mostly unpopulated—southern pole. For Iskar, the move couldn’t come fast enough. Like all Kordolians, he hated the heat.

They joined the slipstream, weaving between delivery drones and hover-cars and aerial signal-surveillance bots. Their presence would be logged, but not flagged. The General’s human tech team had developed an anonymizer chip that made their profiles appear as ordinary as white Vaal ice.

“We’ll head for the so-called Glory Strip.” In spite of the traffic noise, Torin’s voice was crystal clear over the comm. “Then you’ll see what I was talking about. They can become spectacularly disinhibited. They willfully abandon self-control.”

“Why?” For the life of him, Iskar couldn’t understand why anyone would want to give up self-control, but then again, he was a military man, and his entire existence was ruled by self-discipline.

“I don’t know. Maybe this is what freedom really tastes like.”

“You and I both know that freedom is an illusion,” Iskar said quietly as he throttled the hover-bike’s speed, slowing to a crawl. As they neared Darkside, the air-traffic became a disorganized mess of bots and drones and hover-vehicles, all jostling for space in the narrow flight-lanes. “The Universe needs order.”

“Just as order needs chaos to define it.”

---