Page 2 of A Darkside Interlude

Iskar rolled his eyes at his friend’s answer. It was typical Torin; enigmatic, careful, and too clever for its own good. “So what does that make us? Are we the order, or the chaos?”

“We can be either, depending on the situation. It is our choice, no?”

“Hm.” Behind his visor, Iskar frowned. He was still coming to grips with his new appointment on Earth. The thought of a long-term posting on this messy, confounding, primitive backwater of a planet filled him with a strange mixture of dread and anticipation.

He would have much preferred a job closer to home, perhaps within the First or Second sectors, but the General had specifically requested that Iskar take command of the Kordolian forces on Earth.

Why me? He’d mulled over the question a thousand times in his head, but he still couldn’t understand why Akkadian had chosen him. Out of the five commanders, surely the brash, straight-shooting Jerik or the proud, gregarious Tarkun would have been better suited to dealing with these humans.

Diplomatic relations had never been Iskar’s strong point.

“Take some time to understand them, Iskar. You may be surprised.” Tarak’s advice had been delivered with a dangerous half-smile, and Iskar had no choice but to accept.

After all, Tarak al Akkadian was asking—correction, ordering—and only a fool would refuse the General.

That was why he was entering Darkside disguised as an ordinary human on a hover-bike on fucking New Year’s Eve. The ever-curious Torin had convinced him that this would be a good time to study the nature of these contrary beings, because knowing one’s enemy—correction, ally—was of the utmost importance if they wanted to keep them in check.

“We’re here for the long haul, might as well get to know the natives.”

Despite his irritable mood, Iskar agreed wholeheartedly. It was important for him to develop a good understanding of these humans and their culture.

All the better to intimidate them with.

For some reason, these humans seemed to think Kordolians were their allies. Ha. That misperception suited Iskar just fine. By the time he was done with this forsaken planet, he would understand Earth better than humans themselves.

He was meticulous like that.

Iskar cursed as Torin abruptly found an opening in the traffic jam and sped off, leaving him behind.

Bastard! He gunned the throttle and shot after the warrior. A cluster of hover-drones scattered before him like vakkandik flies, emitting useless beeps in his wake.

Torin became a dark speck in the distance, disappearing into a dazzling man-made forest of tall buildings and fluorescent lights.

“You First Division bastards are all the same,” Iskar muttered under his breath as he sped after Torin, pushing his hover-bike to breakneck speed. “That’s the problem with being un-killable. You forget that we ordinary folk aren’t like you.”

“I never forget, Commander. You were being slow, that’s all.”

Typical Mardak. Iskar let out an irritated grunt as he sped over vehicles and rooftops and narrow alleys, unfazed by the dizzying altitude.

A high-pitched whine escaped the machine as he pushed it beyond its limits, until Torin’s broad back came into view. Any other mortal might have balked at such terrifying speed, but Iskar threaded his bike through the narrow opening with surgical precision, ripping past a line of hover-cars. A loudspeaker blasted a threatening warning in some unknown Earth language, but Iskar left the sound in his wake.

The hover-bike might be an ungainly thing, but he was in complete control, demanding maximum performance from it. He wouldn’t fall. He wouldn’t crash. Iskar was as uncompromising with the machine as he was with his troops, and it rewarded him with speed.

As he came alongside Torin, his fellow Kordolian smiled, appearing as calm as a Vaal ice-sheet in deep underwinter. The bastard wasn’t even wearing an eyeshield. Iskar glared through his visor and summoned even more speed, shooting past the warrior.

The quiet sound of Mardak’s ironic laughter echoed through his comm, but Iskar was too preoccupied to respond to his friend’s needling.

A fascinating sound had captured his attention. It reached his ears over the hum of his bike, and he had no choice but to head in its direction.

Voices. Not hundreds, but thousands of them. Shouting, whispering, laughing, cursing, chattering.

Melding together to form a rich tapestry of human-speak.

Then there was the music. Primal, pulsating, hypnotic, punctuated by the sound of thousands of footsteps and the hum of millions of machines.

Chaos.

Like most Kordolians, Iskar had exceptionally good hearing, and he used it to try and form a mental image of the world he was about to enter.

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