The Line of the Sol Empress

Chapter 1

[Celeste]

The genetic Line of the Sol Empress, unbroken and steadfast for over a millennium, hung by a single frayed thread, and with it, the future of the Sol Commonwealth. 

Once an active Sol Priestess, committed to the greatest ideals of humanity, Celeste was now reduced to a fugitive on the run. Sliding down the gray plas-steel composite wall, she tucked her knees to her chest. Head bowed and trembling, a dark shadow crossed her heart. Her hand-held com viewer, bearing tragic news on its transparent screen, slipped from her hand and clattered to the floor.

I am now on my own.

Vivid memories flooded Celeste's mind, when a singular solemn quest bound five sisters of the Sol Way, each one a Priestess. With hands on the assassinated Empress Iona as she took her last breath, they formed the Order of the Phoenix and pledged their lives to resurrect the genetic line from the ashes. In a last desperate act, Emma Jannsen, the Empress' personal physician, extracted ova from the Empress and distributed them among the Order, who then scattered, hiding among the Commonwealth worlds. 

But someone powerful hunted them down, one-by-one.

I am the last. And they come for me.

It was dawn, or what went for dawn on the Meridian Space Port when the lights came on for another work cycle. Celeste had to leave soon before the shops opened, lest she be discovered. Eventually, a shopkeeper would come out into the narrow service alley, perhaps to dump trash in one of the metal waste dumpsters. She spent last night hidden inside the one that appeared to be the cleanest, catching a few hours of needed sleep.

Celeste chastised herself for what may have been a fatal mistake. She arrived here on a public transport, but the required genetic scan to board the starship revealed her location. They may already be here looking for me.

Rummaging through the black duffle bag looped over her shoulder, she retrieved a half-eaten meal bar, the last of her food. Searching the waste bins for edibles had been fruitless. The local program to recycle food scraps and other compostable materials was too well enforced.

Within view in her open bag, laid a metallic cylinder. She spun it around to reveal two small blinking green lights on a small control panel. A long cleansing breath blew past her lips.

This is the last hope. My purpose.

She withdrew a blue scarf from the bag, made of the softest of natural fabrics and representing the Earth sky, a gift from the Empress herself. After pulling her long dark hair into a bun, she wrapped the scarf around her head into a shemagh so that only her honey-cinnamon eyes were visible. Those pursuing her might tap into the port security facial recognition system, but it was not unusual for visitors from other worlds to cover their faces for reasons of cultural practice or to avoid contagions, despite the required immunizations. Most importantly, the scarf concealed the neck tattoo that marked her as a Sol Priestess.

She twirled a gun in her hand, an antique weapon purchased two days ago from a shady dealer. A revolving cylinder held six bullets, and a trigger pull initiated a controlled chemical explosion that propelled a projectile at high velocity, or so she understood. She sighed. This device went against everything she believed in as a Priestess, but these were desperate times.

Celeste walked out of the alley into the Market Strip and gasped as her face looked back at her in vivid detail. The public announcement screen mounted high on the curved ceiling labeled her as a wanted terrorist in bold Commonwealth standard script. 

An icy tremor born of desperation crawled down her spine. Years of noble commitment was negated by a single false accusation. Before today, those pursuing her had done so by more clandestine means. Now they leveraged the public.