“The Council has already submitted your findings for peer review—” he began.
“There isn’t time for review,” Jor-El said. “Harvesting the core was suicide!”
Council Member Lor-Em, seated to the right of Ro-Zar, waved away Jor-El’s impassioned declarations.
“Our energy reserves were exhausted,” he replied. “What would you have us do?”
“Reach out to the stars… like our ancestors did.” Jor-El tried to get through to the Council members, all of whom had inherited their positions by virtue of genetic heritage. Like too many Kryptonians, they seemed more concerned with preserving the status quo—and their comfortable lifestyles—than worrying about the future. “There are other habitable worlds within reach. We can use the old outposts—”
“Are you seriously suggesting we evacuate the entire planet?” Ro-Zar scoffed at the notion.
“No,” Jor-El conceded sadly. The best they could hope for, he knew, was a plan that would save a sustainable fraction of Krypton’s endangered population. “It’s too late for that. But with your help I could—”
Before he could continue, noises from outside the chamber interrupted the debate. Frantic shouts, screams, and the sizzling report of plasma weapons heralded the sudden arrival of a band of armed intruders who burst through the doors into the chamber. Jor-El spun around, staring in shock at the newcomers, whom he knew only too well.
Zod and his dissidents, he thought. The so-called “Sword of Rao.”
The intruders were led by a stern-faced soldier whose rigid expression and bearing betrayed his military roots and training as surely as his severe black uniform and cape. His dark brown hair was cropped short, as befitting a soldier. Roughly the same age as Jor-El, General Zod carried a handcrafted plasma carbine that had been passed down through the warrior caste for generations. A fusion of steel and petrified bone, the weapon was still capable of dealing death and destruction despite its age. Glyphs carved into the carbine’s bony stock told its bloody history, to which Zod was clearly ready to add.
The terrorist leader, whom he had once considered a friend, was accompanied by his top lieutenants. Jor-El knew them, as well—if only by reputation.
Lithe and pitiless, Faora-Ul was known and feared throughout Krypton as the “Tigress of Zod.” She stalked beside her general, wearing a predatory smile on her face. Cropped black hair matched her dark uniform and cape. Although attractive in her own fierce way, she struck Jor-El as being as vicious and violent as Lara was warm and gentle. She was in her element here, waging war and spilling blood.
Flanking them was Tor-An, a muscular, dark-haired insurgent who was known to be a cold-blooded killer without a drop of mercy or compassion in his veins. He was Zod’s favorite hatchet man, quick to get his hands dirty when the cause required it. His eyes were as cold and hard as polished obsidian. A sadistic smirk lifted the corner of his lips.
Nam-Ek, taking up the rear, was more than nine feet tall. The hulking brute was believed to be mute. His origins were unknown, but Jor-El had heard rumors of illegal transgenic experiments, possibly involving Rondor DNA. It was hard to believe that such a behemoth could be the result of random mutation, especially since births on Krypton were so strictly regulated. In any event, the giant stomped after Zod, watching his back.
More rebels poured in after him.
Caught by surprise, the Council’s guards were no match for Zod and his forces, and their ceremonial lances were little defense against the rebels’ firearms. Bursts of white-hot plasma sprayed from the carbines, incinerating the protectors and reducing their weapons to slag. The “Sword of Rao” cut them down within moments, before turning their attention to the Council members, seated upon their thrones.
Taken aback by the assault, Jor-El could hardly blame the overwhelmed guards for failing to mount an effective defense. Who could have imagined that even Zod would be so bold as to attempt to overthrow the government of Krypton? His issues with the Council were well known— but to attempt a coup?
I should have seen this coming, Jor-El thought. I knew him better than most. He backed away warily
If Zod even noticed his presence, he chose to ignore it for the moment. As his troops secured the chamber, their general marched toward the Council of Five and leveled his rifle at Ro-Zar.
“This Council has been disbanded,” he announced.
The High Eminence reacted with indignation. “On whose authority?”
“Mine,” came the answer.
His rifle fired and fiery plasma splashed against Ro-Zar, killing him instantly. His charred body tumbled from the throne, while the other Council members looked on, terror etched into their features.
Zod swept his icy gaze over them.
“The rest of you will be tried and punished accordingly,” he declared.
Shaken by the High Eminence’s abrupt execution, the remaining Council members put up little resistance as Zod’s troops dragged them down from their thrones. Trembling in fear, they cowered together as they were rounded up and placed under Faora’s supervision. Satisfied that the Council was under control, Zod turned at last toward Jor-El.
He seemed pleased.
Jor-El stepped forward to challenge his one-time ally. “What are you doing, Zod?” he demanded. “This is madness.”
“What I should have done years ago.” Zod sneered at the dethroned Council members. “These lawmakers, with their endless debates, have led Krypton to ruin.”
Silently Jor-El sympathized with Zod’s attitude. In truth, the Council’s intractable conservatism had often frustrated him as well, but he could not condone Zod’s brutal actions—or his short-sighted strategy. Time was running out for all of them, and this misguided insurrection wasn’t going to save anyone.
“Zod, think!” he said. “Even if your forces win, you’ll be the ruler of nothing!”
“Then join me.” Zod lowered his weapon and held out his hand. “Unlike the Council of Fools, I believe in your science. Help me save our race.” His voice rang with the fervor of a true patriot—or perhaps a fanatic. “We can start anew. We can sever the degenerative bloodlines that led us to this state.”
There it is, Jor-El thought. The line of division that ultimately drove us apart. In their youth, they had shared a common goal of revitalizing Krypton, of turning their complacent, aging society from its self-destructive path, and igniting a new era of innovation and exploration. But in time, they had arrived at radically different visions of the future. Jor-El put his faith in science and reason, while Zod had embraced force—as well as dubious theories of eugenics.
“And who gets to choose which bloodlines survive?” Jor-El asked. “You?” He scowled pointedly at the other rebels, who were still roughing up the terrified Council members. The insurgents laughed cruelly as they stripped the prisoners of their formal vestments, leaving them standing only in their skinsuits, and knocked their elaborate headdresses from their skulls. Politics aside, the rebels clearly took perverse pleasure in terrorizing their former rulers, even as the scorched bodies of the guards still smoldered throughout the chamber.
Jor-El made no effort to conceal his distaste for the ugly scene.
“I’m not sure that’s a future worth saving,” he said.
Zod’s face flushed with emotion. He took his friend’s scorn personally.
“Don’t do this, El,” he said. “The last thing I want is for us to be enemies.”
Jor-El left Zod’s outstretched hand hanging. His voice held more sorrow than anger.
“If you really believed that, you wouldn’t have abandoned the principles that bound us together in the first place, and taken up the sword against your own people.” He looked Zod squarely in the eye, remembering the youthful idealism that had once burned brightly there. “I honor the man you used to be, Zod. Not the monster you’ve become.”