Silver Millennium Soldier

By Mike MacDee

If Sailor Moon were my property, I would be a Japanese woman by the name of Naoko Takeuchi. As it happens, I am none of the above, so I won't bother with a disclaimer about it; this is because I'm not out to insult anyone's intelligence, nor am I delusional enough to think that a little disclaimer stating the obvious will repel Japanese lawyers. Not quite like Bat-Shark-Repellant, anyway. I will, however, post a brief disclaimer about the content of this novel: I really, truly do not care what this detail or that character was like in the Japanese version of the comics or the show, so please do not bother filling me in. I did my research and made my decisions consciously. Besides, you came to me for entertainment.

Silver Millennium Soldier is written for those of us who watched Sailor Moon when it first aired in the 'States back in the 'nineties, but it may present the rest of you with a nice change of pace. It is loosely based on the original storyline, and was conceived out of the breaks I took between writing more serious works. An older version exists on another site, but due to the unsupportive community it eventually migrated here after a serious cleanup.

I also drew a large collection of sketches based on this book while I was writing it, which can be found at my DeviantArt gallery (see profile).

1

Catalyst

Doc still wasn't used to the cold. He'd thought the transfer to the facility wouldn’t be so bad, having fought with the biting cold at his old job in Norway. Outside the tiny concrete igloo, nothing but flat Antarctic wasteland stretched out forever, with no buildings or mountains to hold back the freezing sweep of Skadi’s bitter embrace.

He’d made the mistake of jokingly commenting on the cold the first day. It was another month before his new comrades would take him seriously again.

In the lunchroom, the climatologists muttered amongst themselves about the events of the last week and a half. Ever since the bizarre whine crept over their radio frequency they’d tinkered with a secondary job of determining whether it was an equipment malfunction or something else (the latter possibility the more exciting of the two, giving everyone something to speculate about as they whiled away the hours drilling holes in the ice). Debates constantly erupted between Simons and Palmer, the two men seated with coffee at the table, about the frequency of the sound’s occurrence before it ceased altogether two days before. Price, the only woman on the team since Doc sent Lancaster home due to her frostbite incident, chimed in yet again with her extraterrestrial theory. She was a devoted fan of H. G. Wells, and was often reminded of this in the discussions of the sound.

Doc loathed debates. He could never think of the right thing to say until days later. In fact, he wasn’t much of a talker at all unless giving a diagnosis. Otherwise he would simply listen for several minutes, throw out some coarse remark, and go into the next room.

Price began to recite the reasons why her theory was plausible like a grade school class presentation.

"What's your opinion, Doc?" Palmer said.

Doc chuckled. “First contact my ass. I bet we’ve got a ghost.”

He sipped his coffee and went back to the closet he reluctantly called the infirmary.

Lying on the table with Price’s comforter draped up to her chin, her face sharp and cruel, her hair raining down the side of the table in a golden waterfall, the young woman looked as though awaiting an autopsy. She hadn't moved in forty-eight hours; lifeless as a cadaver, and yet she was still warm, not so much “dead” as “on standby”, perhaps. Doc had decided she was in a coma and planned to leave it at that until she could be airlifted off the premises in a few days, and everyone added her mysterious appearance to the list of recurring topics in their lunchtime chatter. Simons had already dreamt up countless racy stories around their less-than-lively guest. Palmer thought her German Infantry, given her Aryan features and the gray and black military fatigues she'd been found in. Price thought her an alien abductee.

She’d come into Doc’s care the very day the strange sound on the radio went silent, apparently having wandered through the snow wearing nothing more than her uniform in a blizzard that should have frozen her to death in minutes. Yet her pulse remained, as did the question of just where in hell she came from and what the hell she was doing at their facility. Right on cue, the trio in the lunchroom shifted the discussion to the origin of their guest and its relation to the sudden bout of nasty weather. Price was still going on about her alien theory.

It was the woman's eyes that made Doc uneasy. All the other elements certainly puzzled him, but of all the strange things he’d seen in his medical career not once had he encountered a pair of irises with the unearthly hue of a peridot stone. Not merely a striking shade of green. Unnatural was more accurate.

Doc felt colder than he was used to feeling, as if his thoughts on the mysterious young woman had disturbed something in the infirmary. Snapping out of the trance he was prone to slip into when thinking about anything in general, he finally registered that he was trading gazes with the frightening eyes he’d been thinking about moments ago. It seemed they brought the sudden chill in the air, but it was gone the instant her tender smile greeted him. The cruel mouth now appeared warm and inviting, the eyes bright and serene. For the first time, the maiden of the snow’s unspeakable beauty was apparent.

Her hand found his and squeezed it gently to thank him for his kindness and hospitality. Doc smiled back.

The pain was quick and sudden in his chest.

The warmth in the unearthly eyes went out like a candle.

He tasted blood.

It has no name and little more shape or tangibility than the blackest shadows and the peak of utter madness. There is no climate to speak of. The only sounds ever heard in the air are the faintest murmurs of forgotten souls and shattered worlds. It was never meant to be inhabited by sentient things, although anything can live there, really, and since time and matter have no place or meaning there one could, in fact, live indefinitely.

Nightmares fear the place. Supposedly, only the darkest nightmares even know it exists. Them and one other, far less fortunate party.

Forged from the treacherous geodes of dementia and strife that made up the realm’s terrain, a brooding keep housed the remains of a forgotten civilization, the only trace of life to be found in the entire horrid abyss. A force that, for eons, had little reason to stir until the last few weeks in earth’s time. In the deepest pits of the labyrinth’s crystalline tunnels, a coven of devils and demons and whores of the abyss stood in uneasy silence before a hellish window into the only realm more horrible than the one they’d languished in for so long. Waiting eagerly for something unspeakable to happen.

The Colonel sighed, clenching his teeth, glancing back and forth between his comrades—the two grand officers standing with him above the brood of devils, striking both in dress and demeanor. Anxious, like him, about the long-expected arrival of a fourth officer. Twenty minutes had passed, possibly more, since she was due to return with what they needed.

The Marshall, standing to his left, was the most distinguishable with the score of medals decorating his breast—triple the number of the Colonel's own—and the snow white cape flowing over his shoulders and glistening in what little light was present. He was certain of the fourth’s reliability on account of her love and devotion to him, which he asserted in his otherwise unforgiving gaze.

The Lieutenant-General, lacking a cape but just as adorned with medals as the Marshall and even more riddled with pride, didn’t try to hide his irritation. He was a man of great bravado, one whom the Colonel had served with utmost devotion since his days as a lowly legionnaire; exceptional service which the nobleman repaid by nominating him for assignments of great importance. He'd even insisted that the Colonel go on this last errand, but their leader nominated the lowest rank for the job.

This was, of course, the Corporal, an accomplished field agent in espionage, with feminine charm that the Marshall felt would aid in her task. The trait was precisely the reason why the Colonel distrusted her in the first place.

He sighed again, partly in agitation, but mostly to help unravel the growing knot in his stomach. He knew this day would be a historical one, for his people and most certainly for him. If this little task was to fall on the shoulders of the least capable of the four directors, and the more important job—that of the operation's point man—was out of either senior's hands, both who already had theirs full with preparing the operation's later stages, then there was only one able body left that the task could go to.

The fortress echoed with the sound of hurried footsteps traveling up the main hall from the stargate their comrade had vanished through days before. After what seemed like an eternity, a young blonde woman—in gray and black fatigues matching those of the three officers—scampered into the large room like a mischievous child. She joined her comrades before the procession and gleamed with an awful and triumphant smile.

The girl had been sent with an assistant from the coven before them. Yet she was alone.

“You’re late,” the Lieutenant-General growled.

“Only by a minute or two, Lord Neflite.”

“Ha! Your grasp of time is worse than I thought!”

“Was Ramua not with you?” the Marshall said. His was a soft and chilling voice, like a breeze passing through a cavern of ice.

“Yes, she was. But there was a slight problem during the establishment of the second stargate. I apologize for the delay. I fear her insubordination was the culprit.”

“That stupid bitch should’ve been here twiddling her thumbs by the red carpet instead of me,” Neflite snarled, stabbing an angry finger at the woman.

Her smile was gone, replaced with an embittered frown and an arrogant tilt of the head and shift of the hips.

“Yes, then perhaps you’d be dead. A pity Lord Malachite sent me, instead.”

The three seniors stared in shocked silence, particularly Neflite, as he wasn’t sure whether or not the girl had just rhetorically threatened him.

“Dead?” Malachite said. “Explain.”

“She suffered second thoughts about where her allegiances lay,” she said, her eyes wandering about as if it weren’t important. “I had to settle the dispute, myself. With grim finality, I'm afraid.”

“But the stargate is operational?” Malachite said, not missing a beat.

The woman’s smile returned tenfold and she stood at attention and bounced once on her toes. “Of course, Lord Malachite. Just as you commanded. And I managed to collect substantial life force to donate to our new thane’s cause.”

She gleefully presented a black crystal, reverberating with the screaming life essence of three climatologists and one doctor. The Colonel watched as the chief officer took the gem in his hand and stroked it with his thumb to feel the energy surging within, and appeared to lose himself in its sheen, perhaps reflecting on the service he’d seen in his more glorious days; the many lives he’d harvested in a similar fashion to preserve his youth, and the youth of his noble masters and mistresses who’d met a far worse fate than any of them. The nobility, scores of generations of kings and queens, princes and princesses, all churning and writhing beyond the abyssal window which the crowd of demons had gathered ‘round. Malachite kneeled before the black gate and offered up the gem of souls, which was immediately snatched and devoured by the blackness beyond in a frenzy of flickering shadows, whipping and lashing out from their prison like starving animals, each part of the greater blackness fighting for their share of nourishment. Each silhouette biting and clawing and wrestling the others in a vicious dance embodying the very primal essence of all living creatures.

The imprisoned shadow was one terrible creature of many lesser terrible creatures that were once proud thanes of a grand kingdom, who lived in colossal towers of the blackest ebony and were worshipped by every living thing below them. Noble people viewed as nothing short of gods, who were now ravenous shapes with little more consciousness than the cruelest of insects.

But in another minute, this would change. One of the silhouettes, faster and more vigorous than all the others, had obtained the lion’s share of the offering. Before long, the black portal would regurgitate it into the next plain of existence, where it would take its place on a throne of nightmares to lead the last remnants of its people to their liberation.

“A research outpost full of lambs,” the Corporal said. “I almost felt sorry for them.”

“You’ve done well, Zoycite,” Malachite said, honoring his subordinate with one of the few smiles ever seen to cross his lips. “I’ll make a general of you yet.”

“Oh, I’m unworthy to receive such praise, M’Lord!” Zoycite squealed with another childish bounce.

“I agree,” Neflite hissed. “Especially after taking it upon yourself to liquidate one of my agents, you self-serving charlatan!”

Zoycite, in a lapse of proper etiquette, attempted a stinging blow to the side of Neflite’s face.

“Arrogant swine! Don’t you dare take that tone with me!”

The maneuver proved clumsy and stupid: Zoycite was instantly face-first on the cold floor, with Neflite’s saber drawing blood at her neck.

“You raise that hand at me again, Slave,” Neflite snarled, “and you shall quickly find it missing.”

“Malachite, My Lord, please help me!” she cried as she struggled piteously to get back on her feet.

The senior officer shook his head. The Colonel could feel his anger more than hear or see it, his voice never having raised or dropped in volume or much anything else in all the years the other three had known him.

“You lack discipline, Zoycite. Neflite is right. You will treat your superiors with reverence, and never act against a fellow agent without the consent of that agent's master.”

“Yes, Sir! I understand! It won’t happen again!”

“Good,” said Malachite, and his intimidating gaze next fell on the Lieutenant-General. “Let it go, Neflite. You heard her.”

Neflite’s sword did not withdraw. Rather, it appeared to thirst even more for the girl’s blood, wrestling with its hatred of the scheming harlot at its owner's feet and the unconditional respect it held for the great war hero to its right. Neflite’s blade having failed to withdraw as immediately as the Marshall wished, the senior officer’s fury was apparent enough in the ethereal scimitar manifesting itself at Neflite's throat. Malachite held it at his jugular as calmly as a statue, as if following some protocol rather than aggressively defending his student and lover.

However, the Colonel lost interest in the scuffle moments ago, his attention now directed back to the abyssal portal. Its glassy shell melted away like the parting of a royal curtain, birthing forth the battle’s victor in a glossy black flood of netherworld placenta. The fearless officers stepped back several paces to clear the way, and with the procession watched in awe as the liquid shadow rapidly took a humanoid shape, solidifying, writhing in pain at the forming tissues of its new organic vessel, gasping and screaming to greet its new lungs, staring blindly into the nonexistent sky with its new fiery yellow, tear-filled eyes.

The Colonel glanced at his comrades and found their expressions much like his: lips stiff, eyes wide and trembling in anticipation. Zoycite stood gaping with girlish terror between the two senior officers. Neflite hadn't killed her after all. Pity.

When finally formed, the shuddering, sobbing wreck of a being was gingerly cradled by the four commanders, its bronze locks of hair pulled back and groomed, its face dried and cleaned. It was soon capable of standing on its feet, and thus its petite and distinctly feminine body was draped with extravagant royal robes of blood-red satin, and its fair brow adorned with a tiara made of the blackest sapphires and the greenest emeralds. The eyes opened again and now finally seemed capable of taking in their surroundings, surely recognizing the faces of the soldiers that greeted the creature with such gentle kisses and humble bows. The Colonel kissed her hand as her flesh softened into a fair purple-peach hue and the face at last became familiar to him. The procession of hellish beings kneeled in her presence.

She stared at everyone around her and blinked. Soon her memories would return like a hurricane: The dashing noblemen and their daily courtships, the armed escorts, the giant palace halls she used to roam, the endless cities of devoted followers. The civil wars and streets red with blood. Thousands dying in her family’s name, dying in the name of a young girl, no older than eleven years. A child with the power of a nation at her beck.

Her kingdom had shrunk considerably since then. It surely hurt her as much as it hurt the Colonel, himself.

“Welcome back, Queen Beryl of Metallia House,” said Malachite kissing her hand yet again as he finally arose. “It has been a long time.”

Queen. It was the closest title a mortal creature could have to God. And the Colonel could not deny that it suited her very well. He kissed her hand once more and bowed in greeting. Like with his seniors, Queen Beryl kissed her colonel on both cheeks, a third time on the lips, and beamed playfully at him with the loving eyes of a little girl. Diverting his eyes, he bowed again.

“It has been too long,” she said.

“You’ve grown so, My Lady!” Neflite said with a laugh. “Last I saw you, you were but a delicate little princess! Come take your rightful place at the throne.”

Each taking her by the hand, the two senior officers led Queen Beryl of Metallia to her twisted throne where she sat before a cheering crowd of restless sub-creatures and wraiths, each chanting her name and praising her new title. The Colonel took his place before the throne and stood at attention next to Corporal Zoycite as Neflite and Malachite joined him.

“I hope the palace suits your tastes, My Queen,” Malachite said with a bow. “Our servants slaved to build it with what little resources the upper layers of this hell provided.”

“It will do for now, Marshall.”

Beryl breathed in deeply, scanning the procession before her. The Colonel could see the revelation on her face, the same revelation he'd had when he'd first scanned over their ranks so many centuries ago. Not a single man stood among them.

The past assaulted him again; he vividly remembered watching the Dark Kingdom’s legion crumpling on the battlefield, reduced to ash in an instant at the hands of the Black Moon Kingdom’s ally. The deafening sound of the black towers collapsing around him, and the blinding flash that ended the Queen's family's existence in a maelstrom of agony. The faces she saw now, earnestly awaiting her first words, were not those of warriors. Many of them served in the civil war days; agents of espionage, spies and saboteurs, torturers and inquisitors, some of the most cunning and remorseless operatives under the King’s employ.

The Colonel's nose wrinkled. Not one of them was a true warrior. Not one even sufficient in combat, save the handful of assassins who had escaped the Sylvan Queen’s wrath. His army, once a formidable war machine, was now reduced to a platoon of schemers and thieves, oblivious to noble concepts such as honor or pride, trained in the arts of deception and self-preservation rather than battle and conquest.

This would have to be a silent war.

Queen Beryl cleared her throat, and her subjects froze and listened. The Colonel's back went stiff and straight, his arms grafted to his side like wooden boards.

“Is my gate ready?” she asked, her golden eyes addressing the Marshall.

He bowed and spoke. “It is fully operational. We can send our people to any destination on the planet that we desire.”

“Splendid. Our first order of business shall be resources. With every ounce of life force we feed the essence of my ancestors, the more strength I regain, and thus the nearer we draw to achieving our ultimate goal. The people of Gaea are rife with it, and so shall serve well as cattle."

The young queen immediately addressed the Colonel, whose heart jumped the moment she made eye contact.

“Colonel Jedite," she said, "I elect you as the Imperium Project's field officer and director of the harvest. I feel this may be an opportunity to prove yourself a worthy general. You never failed my father in the past.”

The Colonel's eyes glimmered with delight, and the knot in his gut sprang open with a parade of cheers. He humbly bowed to hide his glee.

“And I shan’t fail you in the present, Milady," he said. "I am honored to undertake such a responsibility.”

“Focus on large groups of people for the sake of time. I understand the Silver Crystal’s guardians may pose a threat to us in the near future. Be on high alert at all times."

“Of course. I have already prepared an elite security force to deal with any threats to our cause, and your Grace's top operatives await their orders as we speak.”

"Splendid," she said.

Crossing over and regaining her physical form had exhausted her, and it would take time for her frail body to regain its full vitality. Queen Beryl dismissed her procession and her lieutenants with a gesture of her hand. With one final bow, Colonel Jedite vanished.