Dark Omega

CHAPTER 35 - HONOR IN DEATH

"Kaminsky!" The shout reverberated down the barren metal corridor running from the communal areas to the supplicants' barracks.

Kaminsky didn't bother turning, just kept walking—he already knew who they were, what they wanted. They never learn.

"Don't you turn your back on me, you arrogant piece of shit!"

As if moved by these words, he stopped and slowly turned to face his would-be assailants. They were wearing the same supplicants' unitard he was, pure white as befitted aspirants that had yet to be offered their colors. Three narrow bands—as opposed to Kaminsky's two—tattooed on their right forearms, where they would be clearly visible when making the clawed-fist-over-heart salute of the Order. It marked them as veterans within the training barracks, soon to be assigned to the legions. My brothers, come to hurt me.

Five boys, trained from a young age, molded into lethal, cold-blooded killers. Five boys, augmented almost beyond recognition by the cybernetic and biological wonders of the Technocracy. They were all taller, heavier, and stronger than Kaminsky. Yet he felt no fear, no trepidation—only weariness brought on by the futility of it all. I try to teach them, but they never learn.

"I didn't," he replied while they were still outside striking distance.

"What did you say?" replied their leader, a heavy-set bloke who went by the name Arthur, so named after the legendary King of Albion who had wielded the mighty sword Excalibur during the First Shadow War.

Five seventeen-year-olds against one fifteen-year-old. They had trained for ten years, Kaminsky only six. Long odds indeed. So they do learn, however slowly. But they forget: I am of the blood of dead Ares, God of War.

"I didn't turn my back to you. It was already turned. But I guess the semantics are lost on you, so why don't we just get down to business?" Kaminsky spread his hands wide, indicating a willingness to avoid violence. Why do I even bother?

"You'll regret those words, noble-boy," Arthur spat out, stepping closer, but keeping his arms wide and unthreatening. The other boys started to flank Kaminsky. That felt rather more threatening.

The birthright thing again. Supplicants to the Dragon formally gave up their old lives when they joined the Order. For most kids, that was the end of it, their backgrounds no longer mattered. A few of them might be of noble birth, but not many, and none very highly born. There were definitely no sons of Archdukes. Except me.

It didn't help that the Order had made him keep his family name—Kaminsky—as his nom de guerre. A joke of sorts, I'm sure. But they would have found out anyway, for the lineage of Kaminsky was too strong, too well known, to remain hidden for long. Names are but labels.

There was another difference, as well. The Dragon Order did not usually take in candidates as old as Kaminsky. Most children were no more than six or seven. Eight or nine was not entirely unheard of, but it was rare enough to set him apart. It shouldn't matter. Not my birth. Not my age. We are all supposedly equal in the eyes of the Dragon.

Supplicants to the Dragon were born again—literally. Their personalities were left intact, but their childhood memories were adjusted. Not deleted—for such crude techniques invariably led to instability and insanity—but severed from their emotional centers. What little the boys remembered of their past lives became irrelevant. As the years of training and indoctrination continued, the memories faded to nothingness. Only love for the Dragon remained—and hate. Hate for the enemies of the Order. If you knew how different I really am, you would have reason to hate me. Unlike you, I remember. I remember everything.