The Fiercest Craving Page 7

  "Who are you and what are you talking about?"

  "I... am what made you human Jaren."

  Jaren's pulse rose dramatically and blood drained from his face, "You're saying that I'm n-not h-human?"

  "It's the truth, Jaren. The skin that covered your body was not real. It was synthetically created in a laboratory."

  "What? You removed my skin?"

  "Yes, I stripped you of your previous identity. You are no longer human."

  "If I'm not human, then what am I?"

  "I believe you can answer that yourself Jaren. Have you ever felt some sort of passive connection to the orcs enslaved on the I.F.S. Scorpio?"

  "So... I'm one of them." Jaren spat.

  "No, not quite. You're a half-orc. I believe it's time you learned your true identity. I apologize for not giving you any say in this manner."

  The lights in the cruiser sprung on, at first dazing Jaren, but allowing his blurry new image to come into focus over the next minute. The normal smoothness of his skin was replaced by roughness and countless wrinkles. His nose, much larger than before, now sported wide and deep nostrils. His mouth was also larger and wider especially around the jaw area and his eyes now seemed to fit into much larger sockets. The rest of his body had also become coarser and had grown slightly in size to match his head. Finally, his skin tone had changed from tanned peach to a dull metallic gray, somewhere in between the fair tone of most humans and the dark, purplish gray of most orcs.

  Jaren had always surmised that there was some kind of explanation for his primal instinct but never thought it would actually be in his blood. Seeing his identity changed once had come as a shock to him, but this blew all possible boundaries of reason. He didn't know what to believe anymore and instead turned his head to see the man who addressed him. He was bald and seemed very much aged, although Jaren couldn't quite tell exactly how old he was.

  "Jaren," he began again. "Please listen, as I have quite a lot to tell you. You probably don't remember me, but my name is Hathren Drel."

  Book 2: Prologue

  Prologue - Nano Era, Year 5 - Serann Dynasty1:05 p.m.

  Hathren felt the cool atmosphere viciously attack his face as he suddenly rose well over a hundred feet in the air, breaking through the center of the courthouse's domed roof. He noticed a tight, belt-like grip around his waistline and could see waves of heat emanating from an area right in front of him and a few feet below him. He opened his mouth to speak but was interrupted before he could do so.

  "Sorry, Hathren. You're just too valuable an asset to lose."

  The voice was masculine and altered to an artificially gruff quality.

  Unable to find a suitable response, Hathren managed, "I beg your pardon?"

  The ascent began to slow, and Hathren noticed the light of the nearest sun refracting off an oddly-shaped invisible object suspended in midair.

  "Simply put, Hathren, you're better off working for the C.A.O. than dead," the voice eventually replied.

  "The C.A.O. huh?" Hathren said amusedly as upward propulsion stopped. "Mind telling me what your little anagram stands for?"

  "Don't tell me with all the work you've done that you haven't even remotely heard of the Council for the Advancement of Orcs," the voice retorted grimly.

  "You're saying there's an organization I don't know of that's been doing my line of work this whole time?"

  "That's more or less the gist of it. Hathren, let me introduce you to the board members."

  An invisible panel slid open, revealing the well kept interior of a space cruiser. Hathren's feet touched solid ground again and the burden around his waist was lifted. The source of the voice uncloaked itself, revealing a man in mithril armor accentuated with gold trimmings. Hathren looked to his left and saw eight men seated around a polished wooden roundtable, which currently had two empty seats total: one on the upper left area of the perimeter and one on the lower right.

  The man furthest away from Hathren stood up. "Welcome," he greeted with a warm smile, "our new Director of Cosmetic Surgery."

  The others around the table stood up and all began applauding. Hathren turned and saw that the armored figure had suddenly morphed into a man with a plain shirt and plaid pants, and he too was clapping.

  To any normal human, these men would have seemed peculiar looking. Their skin was rough and beige in color, and while taut around their wide nose and jaw, was wrinkly on other parts of their face, especially around their large ears. They had unusually large builds and dark colored eyes. They, like the man who had morphed behind Hathren, all wore similar plain white bunion shirts and plaid black pants. They all had vigorous chest and arm hair and half of them sported shaggy sideburns and beards. To Hathren, these men were perfectly normal. Yet for several moments, Hathren could only stand and gape in awe.

  The man on the far side of the ship spoke again, "Astonishing, isn't it? Arguably, the greatest congregation of half-breeds in the universe at the moment, I'm willing to bet."

  This was met with cheerful laughter from the other men, who had taken their seats once again, including the one behind Hathren.

  "Now," the man began, beckoning Hathren to the last empty seat, "introductions from everyone if you please. I'll start. Lem Griffendar, Chairman of the council."

  The others spoke in an order going clockwise from Lem.

  "Drin Ferron, Treasury and Commerce."

  "Azer Blain, Head Engineer and Director of Equipment."

  "Andravard Feldon, Director of Outreach."

  Hathren took his seat on the lower right of the table and nodded for the man on his left to proceed.

  "Estin Vankok, Director of Identity Creation."

  "Brent Knox, Director of Legal Affairs."

  "Avar Sulten, Director of Diplomacy and Negotiation."

  "Zal Kriften, Director of Military and Armament."

  "Sil Griffendar, you can call me the hit man I guess," the youngest of the men and the one who had rescued Hathren said smugly. He bore a fair resemblance to Lem in facial features and Hathren assumed they were father and son.

  "Now enough of the small talk," Lem continued, "it's time to get down to business. Let's begin with today's rescue operation. We hear you acted in the nick of time, Sil."

  "I did," Sil said, assuming a more serious disposition.

  "More importantly, the board would like to hear of the circumstances by which you chose to assassinate Serann."

  "He hinted toward the true identity of Mr. Drel here. If the entire Serann Sovereignty were to know, it would be bad news for us indeed."

  Lem rubbed his fingers together, forming a tent-like shape with his hands, and rested his elbows on the table, "I see. But you do realize the gravity of what you have caused. With their government being an imperial one, entire galaxies once under Serann's control shall fall into chaos."

  "But isn't that what we want?" Estin suggested. "With their integral structure in a state of disarray, our job would be made much easier."

  "Our rescue operations would certainly be easier with their military in such a state," Zal added.

  "I believe the board then agrees that Sil made the right decision?" Brent inquired.

  "Aye" said several voices in scattered unison. Hathren wasn't among them.

  Lem raised an eyebrow, "I believe you have a say in this Hathren."

  Hathren, feeling out of place in his surgeon's robes, seemed taken by surprise but began speaking after clearing his throat, "Yes, in the best interest of the council, it would indeed be detrimental for the entire sovereignty to be aware of the existence of half-orcs like ourselves."

  Sil suddenly spoke up, "Hathren, if you don't mind explaining, how would you and the Emperor happen to be acquainted? I heard him reveal this much during your trial."

  "Ah... yes," Hathren started as the rest of the table fell into stolid silence.

  B2 Chapter 1

  I - Reform Era, Year 1031

  12:11 p.m.

  Seated near the back of a vast
lecture hall, Hathren could barely read the projection streaming onto a silkscreen located on the front wall.

  GED 10 - General Ethics

  Prof. Shane Cox

  His mind was in a state of slumber-he had only gotten five hours of sleep the previous night-and he resented having to take a class that would supposedly preach the obvious to everyone. Don't steal. Don't lie. Hadn't he heard that thousands of times in his childhood? Hadn't he accepted Ventare University's offer of admission to learn something new for a change? Ventare, being a member of the Imperial League of Private Universities, promised a world class education and a level of enrichment that very few other colleges - namely, the others of the League - could match. For admission into the class of 1035, Ventare reported over a hundred thousand applicants, out of which only about forty-seven hundred were admitted. Yet, Hathren thought, his mind ever full of resentment, all freshmen had to take some stupid general ethics class to graduate?

  Hathren awoke from his half-slumber with the sound of a clearing throat.

  "Good afternoon, class."

  Professor Cox's voice was met with scattered, muffled sounding greetings.

  "As most of you should know," he continued, "passing this class is mandatory in order for you to graduate from here."

  He paused, and then, "Before I explain the syllabus, I would like to pose a question to you all. What is the meaning of true justice and how is its attainment possible?"

  That's easy, Hathren thought, the moment the perpetrator receives the punishment he or she deserves; that's when it's attained.

  Hathren raised his hand and dictated his answer to the class through a microphone in the armrest of his seat. Professor Cox scratched his chin and replied, "Well, that's the obvious answer isn't it? Anyone have something deeper to offer?"

  Another person in the middle of the hall raised his hand. "That answer is at the very least partially true; we need only apply that definition recursively."

  "I'm not exactly sure I follow that."

  "Would I be wrong in saying that the said perpetrator would himself be considered an injured party of a bad influence, perhaps another perpetrator?"

  "In some cases that may be true. But how would you account for politicians and businessmen who may have been well brought up but have fallen prey to their own greed?"

  "My point is that if you recursively go up in this chain of sorts, you find that the root cause of all injustice is original sin. True justice can only be obtained with the purging of original sin, and hence it is impossible to attain."

  Hathren raised an eyebrow at this. So this is some kind of philosophy class huh?

  Professor Cox paused again then finally said, "You seem to have an interesting take on this subject, Mister..."

  "Serann."

  "Pre-law by any chance?"

  "That would be correct."

  "I have no doubts you'll do well in the field."

  Serann didn't seem emotionally phased by the compliment as far as Hathren could tell. "Thank you, Professor."

  "Now, continuing on..."

  Professor Cox went on to explain that the course would be graded pass-fail and that grading would be based on the submission of a twice-weekly journal prompt. Students would have the option of missing one prompt and still passing the course. He ended class by assigning the first journal: "Describe a situation in which you would have seemingly no choice but to lie and prove that telling the truth is still the more ethical option."

  Hathren yawned and rose from his seat, surprised that his brilliant mind - the same mind that won him first prize in the regional Biological Science Fair - had still been unable to produce a suitable answer to the prompt within the minute after Professor Cox posed it. He imagined a friend being held at gunpoint and the shooter asking him to tell a lie in order to save his friend's life. But if telling the truth would kill his friend, then why would that be the more ethical thing to do? Discarding the prompt from his mind for the moment, Hathren, a pre-med student, rubbed his aching forehead and headed across the campus toward his Cellular Biology class. One thing he could not discard from his mind, however, was Serann's intriguing response to Professor Cox's question.

  Ten years later

  2:05 p.m.

  "We now go to the Dalton Courthouse, where just moments ago Prosecutor Serann was shot in the middle of conducting a cross-examination."

  The plasma TV situated in the break room of Brisbane General depicted a scene of utter chaos. People trampled one another as many tried to leave the courthouse at once. Police had already arrived at the scene but had trouble making a clear path for medical personnel to proceed into the building. A brunette reporter wearing a light brown suit was relaying this information as well as the circumstances of the attack.

  "We believe that the defendant in Serann's case, twenty-seven year old Rod Burgman, had a hand in today's shooting. He is currently standing trial for embezzlement and fraud amounting to the theft of approximately 10 million GCs, a fourth level charge that could result in his execution if convicted. Eyewitnesses tell us that the culprit in the shooting was a well-dressed, dark-skinned man in the middle of the audience who fired only one shot from his silencer equipped gun before fleeing the scene. The bullet is claimed to have entered somewhere in Prosecutor Serann's upper body area through the back, though we doubt the wound is fatal. We will continue to give updates as we learn more about this incid-"

  Hathren silenced the television and drew a deep sigh. As Brisbane General's head of surgery, the burden would be on his shoulders to save one of the city's most reputable public servants and a man who had earned much of Hathren's respect during his college years. He took one final sip of coffee before casting the half-full cup into the trash. Heading over to the surgeon's dressing room, he heard the blaring sirens of an ambulance pulling into the emergency ward entrance. Having donned all the necessary gear, he made it just in time to see Serann's stretcher to emergency room 108.

  "How is he?"

  "Bad. Lost about 250 ccs of blood already. Blood pressure currently at eighty-eight over fifty-five and dropping quickly."

  "Fucking hell; what about his pulse?"

  "Forty-three."

  "Entry point?"

  "In the upper back at a slightly downward angle; missed the pumper by freaking millimeters, and we think it's lodged about half an inch below."

  "Right, and his IV?"

  "A solution with fifty ccs tranquilimine and twenty-five of detoxifier being fed directly into the entry point."

  "Alright, I estimate we have ten minutes before he's knocking on the gates, move it!"

  The team escorting the stretcher picked up their pace and shortly reached the emergency room. The blood pressure reading had already dropped to eighty over fifty and the heart rate monitor indicated thirty-eight beats per second.

  "Give me a 25 cc syringe of C3!" Hathren yelled.

  Upon receiving the syringe, Hathren thrust it about one centimeter below the entry point of the bullet. He thrust out his hand again and received a scalpel before needing to vocalize. Blood pressure now read seventy over forty-four, while the pulse was thirty-five, and both were dropping steadily.

  Stretching the skin around the bullet hole taut with his left hand, Hathren quickly and deftly opened a wide cut around the wound area, causing a sudden burst of blood to spray his face and reducing the readings to sixty over thirty-five and thirty respectively.

  "Dammit we don't have much time!"

  "Shut the fuck up Siegfried."

  In his urgency, Hathren tossed the scalpel to the floor and hastily grabbed a pair of pliers.

  "Connect me to the ray tracer!"

  Hathren pushed a button on the side of his blood-spattered goggles, and his vision changed to show everything through a dark blue filter. Anything metallic, however, appeared pearl white. Hathren immediately noticed a crumpled cylindrical object within Serann's body. In a matter of seconds, his pliers held the nearly fatal bullet.

  "What are the
readings?"

  "Fifty over twenty-nine and twenty-five."

  Another surgeon added, "Looks like we got a ruptured artery."

  "Dammit! We'll need to fix that to stabilize him. Is the laser stitching device ready?"

  "Yes sir, we already have it mapped."

  A laser-guided needle and thread descended from the low ceiling, and precious seconds passed as it punctured the artery, raised, and then moved a precise, measured amount to Hathren's right. The process took thirty seconds, and by that time, the readings had dropped to a perilous thirty over sixteen and ten beats per minute.