Shattered Lineage: Trystero, #3

By Dave Walsh

He may be dead but the power of a god lives on.

Drake's life will never be the same again, not after an all-powerful being took root inside his mind. Drake saw Him die with his own eyes, destroyed along with an entire planet. Then why does Drake still hear that voice in the back of his head?

Valencia has her own demons to face, her bond with Emma—the Sentinel—left her to mull her own existence and crave the family she never had more than ever. Drake ran off to take care of Bruce and that new guy aboard the Trystero? What a joke.

Slowing down isn't an option, though, not when the enraged son of a fallen Gra'al warlord—the one they killed—has his sights set on the power stirring inside of Drake and exacting his revenge on the galaxy. 

He'll stop at nothing to repair his shattered lineage, even if it means the destruction of both the Terran and Gra'als altogether. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: DW
• Release date: Mar 31, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393374145

Dave Walsh

Dave Walsh was once the world's foremost kickboxing journalist, if that makes any sense. He's still trying to figure that one out.The thing is, he always loved writing and fiction was always his first love. He wrote 'Godslayer' in hopes of leaving the world of combat sports behind, which, as you can guess, did not exactly work. That's when a lifelong love of science fiction led him down a different path.Now he writes science fiction novels about far-off worlds, weird technology and the same damned problems that humanity has always had, just with a different setting.He does all of this while living in the high desert of Albuquerque and raising twin boys with his wife. He's still not sure which is harder: watching friends get knocked out or raising boys.Trystero Series-Broken Ascension-Fractured Sentinel-Shattered LineageThe Andlios Series-Cydonia Rising-Ganymede's Gate-Monolith's End

Book preview

One

The Shattered Prince

The hulking wreck of the Integer lay buried in the sand, flames still crackling along the hull and smoke billowing up into the sky. Datar’s boots sunk into the sand, each step dripping with anticipation, driving him mad with power. No Gra’al had ever heard the voice of the sunken god; somehow only puny Terrans served as conduits for His power. The presence was undeniable, though. He was here, on Endigo, in that ship—at least whatever remained of him after the usurpers destroyed yet another part of his culture.

Datar grimaced at the heat of the hull, fighting through the pain to tear away the panels and gain entry. He had to work fast, before anyone from Liuenta found their way to the wreckage and the first blood of his revolution would spill out onto their soil. Endigo was the home to ghosts, but the blood would be Gra’al blood, and on Gra’al land. His revolution would not be bloodless, that much Datar knew, but he did not intend to discern between Terran or Gra’al enemies. They would all be dispatched just the same once Datar harnessed His power. The long thin mane of hair atop his head was collected into a narrow braided ponytail decorated with small ornaments from his conquests. Some were just bone fragments, others teeth or bullet casings. There were 24. Those were just his prized kills.

The inside of the Integer was a mess: waterlogged and banged up from the explosion on Thuul and the subsequent crash into the vast desert of Endigo. The ship stank of seawater and Terran filth, Datar grunting while he walked along the wall over the overturned ship toward the cockpit. It forced him to crawl up into the cockpit due to the angle the ship had settled in and the damage it had taken through its flight, the smoke thickest inside the cockpit. There was a man barely breathing lying on the ground, impaled by a panel that had broken free and pinned him against the wall. Feeling Datar’s presence, the man’s eyes darted open, red and wild.

You have come for Him, the man said.

I have come for my destiny. His words resonated within his very essence, the words he’d wanted to speak aloud for ages.

No Gra’al has ever wielded His power.

Until now. Datar unsheathed his blade from his back, gripping the long triangular blade with a long double-handed hilt tightly.

You’ll never know His power. The man laughed through his own dying breaths.

With a flick of his wrist, the blade cut clean through the man’s neck in one swift motion, blood spraying from the artery out onto Datar, coating him in a fine red mist. He smashed the cockpit window out with the hilt of his blade, hopping down onto the sands, leaving behind him a trail of red while he clutched at the man’s head by the crown of gray hair that wrapped around his scalp. His eyes were wide open, serene and all-knowing somehow.

Smug Terran.

Datar clomped back to his ship, sheathing his blade and wiping the man’s blood away from his eyes and smashing his palm against the scanner by the door. A ramp extended down to his feet, inviting him into the Ligent, the head clasped in his hand and the first part of his plan complete. Now he just needed to find the boy.

Two

The Captain

Quiet had become the enemy since Thuul’s destruction. Somehow, after almost a year of nonstop chaos, the quiet wasn’t welcome or a warm embrace; it was deafening and all-consuming. Everything around her was still, quiet and disarming. Drake had left the ship three months prior, living with Bruce and working as a sort of artist-in-residence for Vetru, and the communications had slowed to a drip now that he had found his rhythm there.

Valencia had been deluding herself to think the crew was like a family. Maybe it was what she was missing in her life and what she was looking for. Or maybe this was what a proper family was like: cold, distant, and placating each other with the occasional awkward call. She didn’t know. The Trystero and its crew were the closest thing she had ever known to a stable family life, and she had to deal with Drake’s absence, because at least Bec and Gentar were still there. They were not just a fine crew; they were good friends and the actual family she needed.

Gentar was down in the hold doing pull-ups on Atticus’s old pull-up bar he had installed long before she had ever set foot on the Trystero. She had gone down there to read an old paperback she haggled for back on Biztsoft tucked underneath her arm. She sat down anyway, her back against the cold metal hull, and just watched while Gentar hefted his giant frame up and gracefully let it down repeatedly until he hopped down and wiped his brow.

Oh, I didn’t see you there, Captain, he said.

That’s okay, I was being quiet. There was that word again, although it was true.

I was just using Sergeant Rose’s equipment and thinking about him. A complicated man, he’s made me think about your people differently.

I never thought of Atticus as complicated. He was just a man of principle.

He hated my people with a burning passion, Captain.

That’s an understatement.

Yet he put his life on the line for me, as I did for him, and then did for Drake Rose.

Because you’re a good person, Gentar, that’s why. He was too, just in his own way. He needed to figure out what mattered to him and what didn’t.

It’s unfortunate that some of those lessons came in his final moments.

That’s life for you, isn’t it? If she tried hard enough, she could still picture Atticus, a man who didn’t own a single shirt without the sleeves torn off it, tending to his guns like they were his children, with a smile on his battered face.

That’s a rather morose lesson, he said. Although I’m glad I could help Drake Rose when I did.

I miss him, Gen. Ever since Drake left things just weren’t the same. While he was a nuisance, it was a welcome one, and she missed him more than she’d ever be willing to admit to him. Perhaps that was the problem.

As do I. He’s where he belongs right now, though. We have to remember that and respect his decision.

I know. I just wish that I could let him do his thing but have him closer, you know? Like he had the art classes on Biztsoft…

He didn’t particularly care for those, did he?

I don’t know. He never talked to me about them. He was pretty open about what he was working on, at least.

True enough. I believe he felt uncomfortable with the commercial implications of the training.

Yeah, I guess. I don’t know. I wanted him to spend more time with Bruce, I just didn’t know how that would impact me.

He’s still alive, Captain. That was a group effort. Perhaps he was meant for the life of a truth-teller instead of that of a daring space rogue.

Is that what we are? ‘Daring space rogues’ out on the frontier?

He gave a terse grunt and shrugged.

Whatever it is we are, I don’t know, but I don’t think it was the life for Drake Rose or the warlord.

You’re probably right, she said. Still doesn’t make me feel any better.

I wasn’t trying to.

What’s this? a voice boomed from the stairwell. We planning our next mission out here?

No, Jimmy. Her eyes rolled at the bombastic new guy, itching for action. Jimmy, the guy they had hired back on Biztsoft on a very temporary basis, strutted down into the cargo hold, his blaster pistol affixed to the hip of his tight black pants. He had stuffed his frame into a tight black sweater and his dirty blonde hair had enough product in it to keep it looking windswept even in the depths of space. "What have I told you about wearing your sidearm aboard the Trys?"

Yeah, I know, he said. I thought it was just a suggestion. Gotta be ready for action, ya know?

No, I don’t know.

Yeah, well, that’s just who I am. He drew his blaster, spinning it on his finger and slamming it back down into its holster. Ready for action.

Give me a break, she said. Hey Gen, go wash up, I’ll go check with Bec to see how much time we’ve got until the rendezvous.

Agreed, Gentar said, stomping off toward the shower.

Valencia stood at the foot of the stairs, Jimmy leaning back against them and taking up the entire stairwell. She cleared her throat, him not noticing or just choosing not to. She let out a sigh and kicked his boot; he smirked at her.

Sooo, Valencia. His tongue rolled for dramatic effect.

Jimmy, so help me. I will kill you right here and now, she said. Get out of my way.

I was just thinking that we really should get to know each other better, you being the captain and all, and me, well, being the suave rogue you picked to come along. The best man for the job.

You were the only one I could afford, she said.

Don’t act like that, he said. Really, you and I both know that we have this powerful connection.

Yeah? Let’s test that connection on this next job, which you should get ready for. With the toe of her boot, she pushed him aside, stepping past him up the stairs and doing her best to ignore him.

Alright, we’ll talk later.

Don’t press your luck, she muttered.

Valencia paused at the door to Drake’s room, right next to the empty room Atticus had lived in. She hadn’t been overly sentimental. At least she didn’t think so, letting Gentar live in the old captain’s quarters because they were larger. She had thought of Deuce as an uncle and owed a lot of what she had now to him and Atticus. Even so, the ship was the ship and space was limited, even if they never had the full complement of six crew members.

The sergeant wouldn’t be coming back, but Drake? Who knew? She left his room the way it was, especially with how crazy the last year and a half had been for them. It was impossible to know what the future may bring. At least she held onto hope that he’d be back. The ship without the grumpy sergeant, the moody artist, the crying baby, or even the Sentinel whispering in her mind felt hollowed out. Bec was in her usual position, curled up in the pilot’s seat with a string of liquorice hanging from her lips and her headphones on, pushing her hair back in a frizzy swoop.

Cap, Bec said, resting the headphones around her neck. What’s up?

Honestly, just trying to get away from Jimmy.

Ugh, the pilot said. Talk about skeeving me out.

Why’d we hire him again? she asked.

Because we need someone else, unless you want me to install a remote pilot program on this old girl.

We talked about that already.

"Yeah, I know. I don’t think the Trys would take kindly to that, but you never know."

I appreciate you humoring me, Bec, although we both know you would rather die than let an AI control this ship.

Yea. I know, I know, she said. Just worried about you is all.

It’s noted and appreciated.

We’ve had one helluva run, Val. Maybe it’s time to look into doing something else?

I’m not sure what else there would be for me out there. What about you?

I dunno, I’d just have to find another ship…not that I want to or anything.

You are an excellent pilot, she conceded.

Thanks, Cap.

Anyway, how long until the pickup?

Any time now. These are the coordinates they gave us. I’d say we give them twenty minutes and—oh wait, she said, flicking a switch on the board. Looks like they’re here.

Get us docked and ready. I’ll make sure Gentar is ready to go. Easy job, right?

Easy job, Cap.

Valencia and Gentar stood at the ready by the airlock, watching through the small window while two figures approached with a case in-hand. Jimmy was mulling around in the back, doing his best to look moody and intimidating, Valencia doing her best to ignore him. If they were lucky, he’d just stay back there and not stick his nose into the job like he seemed to have a knack for. She remembered back to her first mission where the captain had scolded her and told her to stick behind and tried to remain calm with him, but she at least had common sense. Jimmy? Not really.

Captain Vasquez? the stout man in the front carrying a shock rifle asked.

In the flesh, you must be Delgado.

Uh huh, he said. This here’s Zeren and Jora, the twins we call ‘em.

Are they actually twins? Her eyes scanned the pair. They were wearing encounter suits, and it was difficult to tell exactly how similar they looked. The woman was tall and lean with a shaved head while the guy was pudgier with messy short hair.

These two? he asked. Nah, we just call ‘em that because they’re inseparable. You know how it is with crews.

Yeah.

So, anyway, this crate here is the goods.

Gen, you mind checking it out? she asked.

Sure, Captain, he said. With your permission, Mr. Delgado?

Of course. He motioned toward the crate, the twins cracking it open to show a case full of various gems. Careful with that stuff, it’s stable enough as it is, but any sparks or you jostle it too much and, well, I don’t have to tell you.

No, you don’t, she said. Zed-4’s a bitch to handle.

You’re telling me, I’ve been working for the mines for fifteen years now, but until you’ve seen this stuff ignite it’s hard to know how dangerous it really is.

Gentar held up a crystal, rolling it around in his palm before lightly placing it back in the case. The twins closed the lid, snapping it shut only for Jimmy to clear his throat and swagger over. Valencia sighed and shook her head. What is it, Jimmy?

You’re just gonna trust them like this? he asked.

Yes, Jimmy, we are, she said. This isn’t a complicated job here.

And if this isn’t the real deal?

What is he talking about? Delgado asked. Who is this?

Wouldn’t you like to know? He slithered toward the case.

Captain? Delgado asked.

Jimmy, I don’t care at this point. We’ve got the goods, I’m sending a message to the buyer and everything is cool, okay?

I dunno, Valencia, he said, rolling his tongue again.

I’ve been working for Zircon Mines for fifteen years, Delgado said. This is Zed-4, there’s nothing suspicious here.

Well then. Jimmy slapped the lid back open. I’m sure you won’t mind if I do some inspections myself, then.

The twins drew their guns and pointed them at Jimmy. Jimmy shook his head and laughed under his breath, brushing the hair out of his eyes with the barrel of his pistol. Gentar was reaching for his rifle, Valencia holding her hand out to him and motioning for him to stop. Jimmy straightened himself out, his blaster in one hand and a Zed-4 crystal in another.

Getting tense in here, like I’m gonna find out this isn’t Zed-4, huh? Jimmy pointed his blaster at the crystal. If this was real, would you be pointing those guns at me? I think not.

Jimmy, put the damned crystal down and apologize, right now, the captain ordered.

I got this, Cap, he said. I can smell a rat from a mile away.

He’s insane, Delgado said. He’s batshit insane.

Gentar looked at Valencia, motioning with his head toward Jimmy, her returning the nod. They’d have to be careful to make sure the Zed crystal didn’t get damaged and blow them all into dust and also needed to avoid Delgado’s crew getting an itchy trigger finger and making things a lot more complicated. She looked at Delgado, then at the twins and gave a slight nod, Jimmy still in awe of himself and his own cleverness. With another nod to Gentar they sprang into action: Valencia snatching the crystal from his outstretched hand and while she distracted him, Gentar wrapped his arm around the man’s neck, tugging him backward onto the ground.

Jimmy’s blaster clattered against the ground, Valencia kicking it aside before returning the crystal to Delgado’s hand. Jimmy was groaning on the ground, Gentar hovering over him. Stay down, Gentar said.

I’m so sorry, she said. Clearly things aren’t working out here. You have my deepest apologies and I’ll be sure to make it up to you.

It’s fine, Delgado said, slapping the lid shut. We’ll be leaving now.

Valencia wanted to bury her head into a book and hide the shame that had taken hold of her, but instead she stood there with a dumb, fake smile on her face while the three of them exited the ship and clomped back across the tube to their own ship. Jimmy was leaning against a crate and rubbing his neck, groaning and mumbling to himself like a child, and Valencia wanted nothing better than to just shoot him out of the airlock and be done with it. Instead, she helped Gentar secure the crate against the bulkhead.

You didn’t even run a test on it, Jimmy muttered.

A test? How long have you been in this business, you asshole?

It’s common sense, it’s always the ones that seem—

I will only say this once before I give in to my burning desire to see how long you last outside of that airlock: shut up.

Hey, you know what? I know where my expertise isn’t wanted, but Val—

Valencia brought her forearm down across his jaw, Jimmy whimpering and rubbing at his sore face.

Don’t you dare roll that tongue again, you hear that? I asked you a question: do you hear me?

Yes, ma’am.

You’re damned right.

You could’ve gotten us all killed, Gentar said.

I was just—

You were being a smartass, she said. You thought you were being clever, but you weren’t and you aren’t. You’re just an asshole, Jimmy. If you’re lucky, we’ll dump you at Biztsoft. Another damned word out of you and the next rock we find floating out there, we’ll leave you with a suit and a beacon.

Understood, he mumbled under his breath.

I said not another damned word.

His eyes grew large, and he nodded his head in fear, Valencia stomping off toward her quarters. Asshole, she said.

Three

The Artist

The small taste of Triinal that Drake had gotten during their first trip there was only scratching the surface. Instead of being treated like an outsider, his status with Vetru meant they introduced him as a member of House Lazaar with close personal ties to not just the head of the house, but the warlord regent himself. There were very few questions asked of him—at least directly—and thanks to his relation to Bruce, Drake maintained a sense of mystique over the rumored involvement in the downfall of the usurper Giga, which meant being treated like a hero.

His brush danced along the canvas inside his cavernous studio. His favorite deathdrone band, Gaean Tears, drove the rhythm to his manic painting through his earpiece. The Gra’al paints differed greatly from the oil-based paints he was used to; Drake had sheepishly requested expensive sets of his usual paints at first before forcing himself to learn how to work with the chalkier Gra’al paint. When fresh, Gra’al paint was a joy to work with, colors flowing freely and vividly filling his canvases, forcing him to expand where his compositions went. The only downside was that they dried quickly and when they dried became a chalk-like rock that was more trouble than they were worth to make workable again, meaning that he also had to adjust how much paint he prepared and how quickly he moved.

Working with oil-based paints previously, he’d pause and think more, every stroke deliberate and calculated. His strokes conjured from somewhere deep within, the kind that came from a place of discomfort and subconscious wills that