It is known of Kadmos that he was the High General of Zeus’ armies, second only to Ares. With the Allfather’s favor, he ordered the creation of the War Quarter, The Stratonas. It was he who created the Rite of Passage. The clones upon whom the Empyrean Plate had been bestowed felt worthy in the eyes of their lords. The armor was a distinction, a sign of social status.

The Stratonas’ four areas paid homage to man’s enemies: anguish, lucidity, might, and mortality. Each sector represented a step in a hoplite’s training: novice, intermediate, advanced, and primed-for-war.

You must congeal these words in remembrance… Deîmos kaì Phóbos. Horror and Fear. Witnesses recall facing the Phalanxes and hearing them utter these words. They were menacing, daring. The sound of their voices rumbled as thunder splitting the heavens. What followed seldom changed. The Armada’s enemies were battered under the Phalanxes’ relentless strength and strategic wit.

Slivers of data remain which recollect one other military force that could rival his Lord’s armies. His power and will were surpassed only by one of the Far Reach.

“You will claim the spear that is rightfully yours,” he said to himself.

Kadmos returned to his estate after his council with Zeus. Girded in High General’s attire, he rushed to his estate’s balcony, overlooking the entirety of the War Quarters. A strange excitement gripped him in the prospect of the new moon’s Rite of Passage as he leaned against the balcony railings.

Every lunar cycle saw the deployment of the Armada’s regiments, the phalanxes, to the wars in the Far Reach. And Kadmos was intent on fulfilling his duties to his master.

His concubine, Dimitra, was in the estate’s living room as she opened the wide bay windows. She observed him with an air of concern, leaning against the pane and thought, “War, war… Why war? Why only focus on war?”

Silver-colored plasma walls separated each quadrant as golden-hued lights illuminated the fields. Kadmos’ elite, the Spartoi, directed the symphony of clattering mettle. The army’s formation horns resounded throughout the training grounds. He witnessed uncountable soldiers all in unison, spears clashing and gleaming. All answered the horn’s call in ranks eight men deep.

He focused his attention on the novices’ quadrant, wary of the new batch’s progress. Long, gray spears stuck outwards as the front line held them with two hands. The soldiers’ movements casted shadows down on the ground, mimicking their every move, following every spear lunge. Several grunts ran into the spears and retreated in pain as they received the full force of sturdy defensive formation.

“Don’t mindlessly run into them, you half-wits. These clones are becoming deficient,” he thought to himself. “We will tend to them later. Now, let the processions begin. The new moon nears.”

A loud battle cry emanated. Kadmos recognized Balakros, his bodyguard and second in command, shouting through a voice amplifier, “Hoplites of the Armada, the time has come for the Rite of Passage!”

Gripped by anticipation, Kadmos looked to his right where a holographic beacon lay on a low table. Seizing it, he activated it and watched the procession unfurling down below. The training grounds were silent. Only the faint drone of the nearby ships’ helio-engines were audible.

The plasma walls of each sector were deactivated such that all observed the final initiation. The Holy Ones, fanatic priests of Zeus’ temple, passed through and around the ranks swinging incense urns, singing the Allfather’s praise.

Balakros stood in front of the primed-for-war and said, “The time has come to complete your initiation, men. Utter the final words before taking up the mantle of Hoplite. You know these. Now, speak them!”

The surrounding clones could hear the primed-for-war inhale synchronously before shouting,

Deîmos kaì Phóbos!

An eerie calm ensued. They stood silent, motionless like statues in a soulless graveyard. Solemnly, Balakros paced back and forth in front of the ranks when he continued, “Hoplites, stand firm! The hour draws near when you will have to defend hearth and tilth. The heathens of the Far Reach spread their plight on the fringes of our home! Whom! whom shall you conjure to defend it?”

Deîmos kaì Phóbos!

“When anguish extends its cold darkness, veiling your mind in its frigid wastes, recall you were forged in the bellowing furnaces of righteousness! You wield the flame of freedom granted by the Gods themselves. With it, thaw the Far Reach’s frozen dark. With it, lunge forward without pity nor remorse; lunge with the spirit of the millions who have struggled before you lest you forfeit your own freedom! On the battlefield or in steel-fashioned steed, you need only follow the clamor of your brethren whose might has been tried by the Far Reach’s ceaseless onslaughts.”

Deîmos kaì Phóbos!

He paused, albeit briefly, peering at the faces of the soldiers whom he trained, whom he befriended, impelled, “Honor those who perished; honor those who dwell in realm of cloud-hewn seam. Carry them in your hearts and revel in their glory. With a solemn vow, there is no respite for the wicked! Gallop across the ether of evening stars! Ride, men! Ride to glory until death do you part!”

All the men erupted in a grandiose concourse of triumphal voices, celebrating the ascension of their brethren. Spears knocked against shield. Closed fists battered bare chests. The sound was grave and dignified and it seemed as though it reached deep into Kadmos’ mind. He felt his body start to convulse with adrenaline.

Onlooking, Dimitra discerned a man driven by his fellow brothers; a man who riveted in the prospect of war. As repulsive as she found Zeus’ agenda, she felt oddly aroused by Kadmos’ displays of masculinity. She called out to him, “Kadmos, come inside. Zeus will have his phalanxes ready by the new moon. Come.”

He let out a sigh of relief, knowing the Allfather would see his ranks replenished for the invasions. Turning off the holographic beacon, he held tightly onto it as he entered the house.

As he passed by Dimitra, she smelled the odor of manly musk; sweat and skin, a fleeting scent of sandalwood. She inhaled as much of the odor as she could. You wear the scent I gifted you. She closed the bay windows and activated its outdoor shading mechanism.

The loud cries were deafened by the sealed bay windows. It was quiet. Kadmos’ relief was suddenly seized by an uncanny anguish, a certain defeatism. And Dimitra noticed the abrupt change in character; the expression on his face tensed. His glossy eyes vaguely looked at the marble floors beneath him.

“What became of your meeting with Zeus?” She inquired.

He recalled his Lord’s words, “Our plan depends on it, Kadmos. Be cunning and ruthless. Find it at all costs.”

“Yes, Lord. I’ve sent hunters to scout a planet known as Meh’Ter, in the Pisces quadrant. Hippolos of the Smugglers Guild gave us information about an individual, an old man, who’s said to dwell in the mountains.”

“Wring information out of the inhabitants. Find him!”

“Yes, my Liege.”

“Find him lest I reconsider your marriage to my grand-daughter and strip you of your title.”

Dimitra saw his body crisp, “Do not yield to anguish, Kadmos.”

“He wishes for the spear. This has been a singular quest of his since we left Earth.”

“It holds the key to immaculate cloning, doesn’t it?”

“That must be it. And Manathraxos has noted increasing amounts of clone deformities and genetic abnormalities. Our time is running short.”

“If he acquires it, do you know what he will do with it?”

“He seldom mentioned his true intentions."

Dimitra pondered his words, So Zeus seeks the rest of the spear for what it holds within. He’ll have the sequence for immaculate cloning if he acquires it. I must report back to the Covenant promptly.

Kadmos stood in front of the fountain that had been erected in the middle of the living room. A circular podium served as a base for the statue that had been carved out of a single slab of granite. He was depicted wearing celebratory attire the day Zeus appointed him High General. In his right hand, he held his golden spear. In his left, he held a vase tipped forward from which fell a liquid he didn’t recognize.

”What is this?” He asked, “Last I remembered, only water fell from this vase.”

She stood beside him and said, “GenoFluid. It works wonders. I commissioned my family’s chemist to make an entire batch for you. And I brought a phial of mine. He isolated your genomic sequence and synthesized it into a serum. It only takes a few minutes for it to trigger your body’s muscle mass to relax and loosen,” she explained and added, “It has several other attributes, too.”

Kadmos was bewildered, “Am I to drink this?”

Dimitra responded, “I already have.” And she beckoned him to drink from the fountain. He glimpsed a fleeting, predatorial gleam in her eyes and chuckled.

Dipping his hand into the fountain, the substance was lukewarm, slightly viscous. Kadmos immersed his second hand in, cupped them together, and quickly sipped from them. A few moments went by when he felt an alleviating warmth permeate his body.

“Like ambrosia…” He said in a soft, raspy whisper.

Dimitra approached him as he caught the oozing liquid dripping down his chin and continued, “There are few inventions in this world that are equal in measure to this, Kadmos. In a world driven by the subtleties and nuances of power, nothing would be in existence without what is in this room, at this very moment.”

The living room was dim, hazy. Conical lamps were pegged to the walls. The light that emanated from them was of a light amber, yellow tone; and the silver embroidery upon them shone and glittered.

After several moments, the lights appeared brighter, more saturated. They seemed to glow. New life was being breathed into the room as though Apollo himself had sowed seeds of burgeoning light.

And they took on a motion of their own. They no longer appeared as luminous projections; rather, the rays of light were suspended in the air. They seemed to have a physicality to them and Kadmos extended his hand out. He gently plucked one of them and it rebounded, assuming its former string-like appearance.

In awe, he looked around and observed the other light fixtures emitting the same filaments. The luminous threads undulated, swelled, and rippled, bouncing off his body. He was brimming with a compassion he was unfamiliar with.

Under the fluid’s intoxicating effects, he keenly felt the weight of his position’s attire. Kadmos removed his General’s helmet. It hit the ground with a loud clunk. The stiffened, upright horse hair upon its crest bent and folded as it rolled on the ground before lying unmoving.

Facing him, Dimitra combed her fingers through his thick tufts of hair. She gazed into the eyes of a man whose life had been marred by the ghosts of fallen companions; pale visions seeping through the fissures of remorse.

The trauma of war was engraved on Kadmos’ visage as her fingers glided over it, like silk to his skin. The fibers of his muscles were nimble. And here he found relief, shedding a warrior’s skin.

Special thanks to Akarin, Wagmiboo, Sull, and Mpathy for aiding in proofreading and editing this excerpt.