Desmond Sodmak was dragged into the high court at the center of the alien citadel by two Vantrol sentries. One held a ray gun to his side.

They were hulking creatures, the Vantrols. Sodmak had fought them in battle many times over the years—in the skies, on the ground, and in hand to hand combat. They were brutish and slow. Their machines did all their thinking for them. But they were powerful.

The two sentries marched him down the long red carpet, their elephant feet clapping on the floor with each step. Finally, they threw him to his knees to face the High Priestess of the Vantrol empire. He was tempted to reach for the thin membrane stuck to his calf, but he refrained.

“You thought you could just barge into the citadel and have your way?” the priestess said. Her skin was leathery. Her lips were thin, but her mouth was wide. “Who do you think you are?”

“I’m Desmond Sodmak, Commander of the Centurion Starfleet and conqueror of the third sector.”

“Spare me. I know who you are,” the priestess drawled. “I want to know what you were doing here?”

“I came here to end the war. To end this empire. And to finally find peace for mankind.”

“Empty platitudes. You came alone and killed five of my men in secret, one by one, on your way to the royal chambers. I ask again, why are you here? What was your mission?”

“I came here to end you,” Desmond reiterated.

“If you want to end this empire you’ll have to do better than killing me.”

“I already killed your son. Your precious prince died in that starship in the Aldebaran system last month. Correct?”

“It’s the Rhagvok system,” she said with a look of disgust.

“Not anymore,” Desmond corrected. Human fleets had seized that solar system. “The prince put up a good fight, though. You should be proud.”

“If you think killing me will end my lineage and throw this empire into turmoil, you’re sorely mistaken. There are protocols. Back up plans.”

“I wasn’t just coming for you. I know what your son left behind in the royal chambers.”

The High Priestess raised here eyebrows and looked harshly at Sodmak. Her concern dwindled as she thought more. She said, “Knowledge alone isn’t enough. You have to execute. And you were caught within an hour of landing. Poor execution. You humans and your hubris, always overestimating your strength. You think your little tricks are enough to beat us.”

“I’d rather work smart than work hard,” Desmond retorted.

“A little hard work always helps. There’s strength in numbers, you know. I’d say next time to be sure to bring friends, but there won’t be a next time. Take him away.”

The two sentries grabbed Sodmak by the arms with their stubby, three-fingered hands and lifted him to his feet. He tried to shake them off, but they were too strong. They pulled him toward a dark hallway, where a prison cell surely awaited him deep beneath the royal chambers.

“More will come!” he shouted to the High Priestess, kicking and struggling with the sentries, desperate to defy the power of the Vantrols.

Despite his efforts, the dark hallway drew closer. He wasn’t going to be their prisoner. He’d rather die than live a life surrounded by Vantrols. Once they passed the line of guards and reached the threshold of the dark hallway, Sodmak reached down and peeled the thin membrane from the skin of his calf. Upon squeezing it, the flimsy material hardened into a razor sharp dagger. He plunged it into the stomach of the Vantrol to his right, spilling a thick green fluid. The sentry to his left raised his raygun, but Sodmak used the maimed Vantrol as a living shield. The creature’s back took three bursts from the raygun before the sentry realized it was no use. The sentry reached around his dying partner and plucked Sodmak with his thick hands, throwing him to the ground.

Desmond gritted his teeth, bounced to his feet, and charged at the sentry, slashing at him with his dagger. A clean slice to the throat sent the second sentry to his knees. But with both sentries killed in action, the guards were free to open fire at the perpetrator. Ray guns seared him from every direction. Sodmak saw the light grow brighter until his eyes burned. Then there was nothing but light. Then there was nothing.

---

The end wasn’t the end. Nobody could have survived that. The feeling of heat, and the smell of burning flesh, and the sense of nausea, and the all-encompassing, unencumbered pain stayed with him, but it was just a memory now. Desmond knew he had died, but he didn’t disappear. Some shred of him remained—stripped down to its essence, transmuted and transmigrated—but it was him.

Desmond couldn’t see, but he could feel. A comforting warmth cradled him. Any fear he had was gone. The tension, the anger, the bloodlust, the pain—it had all melted away like a distant dream. His muscles were soft and relaxed, so much so that when he tried to wiggle his hands and feet, he was unable. Despite this weakness, he was at peace.

Is this heaven? he wondered.

Pivotal moments of Desmond’s life played over in his mind. He was a loyal friend, dutiful husband, and caring father. He was also a ruthless Commander in this galactic battle that had spanned his whole lifetime. The amount of Vantrol blood he spilled could fill oceans. It was for the good of mankind, he rationalized. Even the spiteful murders he committed in his final moments were to create a diversion so his comrades could carry out the mission. End the Vantrol royal lineage, end the empire.

It all seemed less important now.

Soft voices murmured from beyond, and the feeling of connection was soothing. Desmond felt secure, like he was in the presence of God. The murmuring continued and vibrations hummed out—rhythmic, precise, mechanical. The gentle warmth grew warmer, and he was able to move more freely. His vision went from black to grey to green, and shadowy figures moved about. Fine details were blurry, but colors and shapes took form. The shadowy figures had large heads and thick limbs.

Desmond could sense he was floating. A thick, gelatinous substance surrounded him, growing more fluid by the second. Stretching his hands and feet, he counted his fingers by touch. One, two, three. A metal object cupped his rear, and when the substance was entirely liquid, it was flushed away.

He breathed in for the first time since—What happened? I…confronted the High Priestess…of the Vantrols. His memories were fading.

The air was cold. The metal object that now supported him was cold. A shadowy figure grew closer, and the floor clapped with its footsteps. It reached out and picked up Desmond. It’s so big, he thought. Unless, I’m small. Fear grew. This was not heaven, nor was it a dream. He had been born into a horrid place, destined to live out a nightmare beyond his wildest imagination.

He kicked and screamed in defiance, fearing for his life, but he was simply too weak and his desperate efforts were easily overpowered as the blurry being pulled him closer. For a brief moment, he was face to face with the figure. He cried out at what he saw. A squat and hairless forehead hung over dark black eyes and a wide mouth adorned by thin lips. The skin was grey and leathery. Desmond threw his arms and legs about—three fingers and three toes on stubby flat feet—but it was no use. The Vantrols had him.

---

Desmond Sodmak was no more.

After the doctor released them from their incubators, the Vantrol youth had been swaddled and put into a nursery to slip. All eight siblings were lined up in their cribs, green light beaming down at them from above.

The child that was Sodmak put up a blustery fight as the mechanical nurse tried to wrap him in blankets. He could no longer remember, and he could hardly think beyond feelings and vague generalities, but one thing was built into his core: These beings were bad. His fight was short lived, and he drifted to sleep with the others.

Sleep was interrupted when the door to the nursery burst open. All eight children wailed at the loud noise and the strange presence. A man and two women entered, but they were different. They were others. They were humans.

Thunderous footsteps clapped the floors of the hallway with haste, but the three humans closed the doors behind them. A woman stretched a thin membrane across the doorframe from side to side and squeezed it. The membrane hardened, providing a barricade.

“That will only keep them out for so long,” she said.

“We’ll have to do what we came here to do, and fast, and then find another way out,” the man said.

The rejuvenated Desmond was quieted by a soft curiosity as he heard the man’s voice.

“Right,” the other woman said. “I guess we’ll do this one by—”

The mechanical nurse clamored into the nursery from an adjoining room.

The three humans stared at the robot, surprised by its entrance. The nurse was equally surprised, but responded with haste. It lurched forward, its metallic limbs whirring with precision as it swung a clawed arm toward the intruders. The man ducked, shoving one of the women out of the way as the claw grazed his shoulder, tearing fabric and drawing a thin line of blood. The other woman reacted swiftly, pulling a compact pulse grenade from her belt and hurling it at the nurse. The device struck the machine’s chest, erupting in a flash of blue energy that sent sparks flying and the nurse crashing into the wall with a screech of grinding metal.

“Move!” the man barked, gripping his ray gun tighter as he scanned the room. The first woman, still by the door, checked the hardened membrane—it held firm against the pounding of Vantrol sentries from the other side. “We’ve got maybe two minutes before they break through.”

The second woman darted to the cribs, her eyes scanning the squirming Vantrol infants. “Which one?” she asked, voice tense but steady.

“We’re in the royal chambers. It could be any of them,” the other woman said. “It could be all of them.”

The man hesitated, his gaze locking onto the child that was once Desmond Sodmak. The baby’s tiny, leathery limbs thrashed weakly, its dark eyes wide with interest, with hope, with a plea for help that he could not articulate and hardly understood. Something flickered in the man’s expression—recognition, perhaps, or guilt. He stepped closer, ignoring the distant thuds against the door and the sparking remains of the mechanical nurse twitching on the floor.

The woman at the cribs grabbed his arm. “We don’t have time for this! End the lineage, end the empire. That was the plan!”

“I know,” he muttered, shaking her off. He raised his ray gun, aiming it at the child’s head. The infant stilled, as if sensing the weight of the moment. The man’s jaw tightened, his finger hovering over the trigger.

The door groaned under the sentries’ assault, the membrane beginning to crack. “Now!” the woman by the door shouted, drawing her own weapon to prepare for the inevitable breach.

The man’s face stirred a fleeting memory in Desmond.

He raised the ray gun to the infant’s head, his eyes locking with Desmond’s, searching, haunted. Desmond felt known—yet doomed. The man’s gaze faltered, heavy with sorrow as he steeled himself for the act.

For mankind, Desmond thought.

---

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