by Gene Stiles
Not one of them saw the beauty surrounding them in the groves of oak, pine and teak or heard the songs of the exotic, colorfully plumbed birds that flitted among the branches. None noticed the herds of tan and white antelopes bounding through the high grasslands, startled by unseen predators or paid any attention the lumbering, tusked mammoths that stared at them from across the rippling turquoise waters. Their minds were elsewhere. Every one of them was driven from their homes by mobs of people they once called friends and neighbors.
Rumors and stories abounded of Nephilim attacking outposts and small, isolated communities throughout the empire, taking what they wanted and leaving naught but rotting corpses in their wake. It was said they ripped bodies apart with their bare, monstrous hands and raped hapless women. There was even gossip that some of them ate the children, preferring the tenderness of young flesh. No one had actually seen these atrocities but got their information from reliable sources. Tales of such savagery were enough. After all, the Nephilim were part bestial Izon.
Not all of the people gathered in the vale were of Nephilim blood. Some had only been accused of such lineage while others were suspected of harboring and helping them escape righteous justice. They had to steal the ship that brought them here and the supplies they needed for their voyage. Most were moral, law-abiding citizens and it gnawed at their souls that they had been reduced to such thievery. They were good people who had been forced into violence in order to survive. All they had built, the lives they had lived, the happiness they had enjoyed was all torn asunder by baseless lies and vile jealousies. And their hatred grew.
“If we are to be judged and convicted of things we did not do,” Harod said bitterly, his sea-blue eyes blazing as he addressed the crowd, “then maybe we should just do them. What difference would it make?” He had lost his successful warehouse business simply because his neighbor coveted what he had.
“The difference would be that we would be proving our accusers right,” Jezzelle answered. Her ebon hair was tied in a frayed braid that fell over her softly sloped shoulders as she sat upon a fallen log. Her dark, hazel eyes glistened in the bright sunshine, damp with angry tears. Her family had worked their farm for generations, but even they believed that she was part of a group helping Nephilim slip from the city and they disowned her. Her own father led the throng that drove her into the wild woodlands. She saw the shame and pity in her silent mother’s eyes, knowing that her daughter was innocent, but also realizing that she must play along if the farm was to survive.
“I hear that there are Nephilim communities being built that welcome all to live in peace,” she continued, knowing she was speaking for many in the group. “We could join them or make our own place here, separate from all the hatred in this world.”
“And do you think they will truly leave us alone?” Harod countered harshly. He was short for a Nephilim, only eight-foot-ten, but built like one of the beasts across the lake shaking their large, gray, floppy ears. He went unnoticed among the People for a hundred years, but the fact that he sired three of his own children gave him away. “I think we should join the armies of our brethren that are banding together to fight back and help those of our kind.”
A roar of approval surged from the crowd. Fists raised high in the air and feet stomped on the hard-packed ground. Shouts of frustration and fury startled the birds from the trees and sent frightened wildlife scurrying through the forests. Even the animals on the other side of the lake warily raised their heads.
“Fighting will only risk us all and turn even more people against us,” Laurinetta said after the babble died down. She wiped her dirty hands on her long, mud-stained, dark green dress and let her gaze sweep over the masses. “We are farmers, merchants, ranchers and factory workers and we have families to think of. There are few true warriors among us. They should be used to secure our new home instead of running off to battle.”
“This world is vast,” she continued, sweeping her hand across the horizon. “We have a fresh start and a ship to acquire the things we need. Let us leave the old world behind and begin anew.”
The sometimes heated discussion lasted well into twilight and it was obvious that there was a deep division among the refugees. In the weeks that followed, the camp split in two, only coming together to build more solid structures and for community meals. Lost in their own concerns, they had no idea that their situation was far from unique. The same scene was playing out all over the planet as groups of the angry disenfranchised huddled together debating the same issues. And the warrior side was winning.
The Sea Witch was your average rundown harbor tavern on a dingy side street near the port of Harimus. The music was loud and buoyant, the women pretty and loose and the ale was strong and dark. Sailors filled the scared wooden tables and packed the polished dancefloor blowing off the pent-up steam of months at sea. Normally, the smoky air would be filled with bawdy laughter and incredulous, exaggerated stories of dangers and bravery met with guffaws and good-humored snickers. But not these days.
These days, the mood was more subdued and just a little frantic. Yes, the people still danced to the pounding rhythms of the band, but their gyrations seemed forced and angry. Whores still led their clients upstairs to the paint-chipped hallways lined with private rooms that could be rented by the hour or for the entire night. But the lovemaking had a terse, irritable edge to it. These days, instead of the just the pleasures of the flesh and free-flowing ale, tensions and loud, heated debates turned into bloody brawls that broke tables and spilled out into the darkened sidewalks.
“I hear that Zeus is behind all this fighting,” Darius said to his crewmates as the waitress poured the heady drink into their empty tankards. He tossed a few small silver bars on her tray, muttering thanks as she walked away. “He is inciting the People to riot in the streets. He wants to destabilize the Twelve so he can step in and take over.”
“Sinarius of Biblis told me his caravan was attacked by Zeus and his siblings while they were taking farm goods to market,” Markian added grimly, taking a deep swig of his ale. “Twenty people died in the skirmish. He is trying to starve out the coastal outposts so he can fill them with his own warriors.”
“I doubt that highly,” Cironus responded, shaking his bald, bronze-skinned head. “From what I hear, Zeus made a pact with the Twelve to stay out of the empire and he has honored it. He is a good man and would never harm innocents. These are only vicious, unfounded rumors.”
“Are you calling my friend a liar?” Markian snarled, his bearded cheeks flushing with drink and anger.
“No,” Cironus replied, seeing the heat rise in his mate’s flashing blue eyes. “I am saying he was probably mistaken.” He scanned the faces of his compatriots and could tell he might be the only sober man here. He did not know if he could get through to them, but he had to try.
“We are sailors,” he said firmly, meeting the eyes of each man. “We know how quickly gossip can spread and the truth of it lost in the telling. Just listen to the fish stories being told around here. I might have told one or two, myself.” His attempt to lighten the mood was only met with small, wry grins. “How many of us have actually even seen Zeus? Would you even know him if he sat at the next table? I know we all want someone to blame for the unrest sweeping our cities, but why not lay it at the feet of Cronus where it belongs?”
“There is a measure of truth in that,” Farzanthean nodded, backing up his friend’s comments. “I sailed with Neptune for a time. Most of you know him by reputation and deed. Does he seem to be the kind that would wantonly attack people for no reason? He was always a fair and just man and a great captain. I never saw a mean bone in his body.”
“That was before he was corrupted by his brother,” Darius countered testily. “I hear he not only consorted with Nephilim but even changed his name to Poseidon. Who knows what he is like now?”
“Nephilim,” Cironus snorted in disgust. “Now you are just looking for someone to blame again. They are people just
like the rest of us. We even crewed with many of them before they were pushed out. Creator! Some of us even sailed with the Izon before they were driven from the ports. Were any of them as bad as Cronus said they were?”
“Are you talking against the Lord Father?” Markian shouted, rising from the table. “He who saved all of the People and built the empire? How dare you speak so treasonously?”
“And was it not Cronus who created the Nephilim in the first place?” Cironus shoved his chair back with a screech and leaned his knuckled fists upon the chipped wooden table. His eyes darkened dangerously as his lips stretched across his boulder-like face. “Have you forgotten the horrors of Pettit? Have you forgotten the destruction of two mines and countless lives lost? Cronus seeks to rule the world no matter what the cost to the People!”
“It is his world to rule!” Darius snarled, jumping to his feet, refusing to hear such seditious accusations leveled against the savior of Atlan. “He created it!”
“No. We did!” Farzanthean said, his deep voice rising as he pushed his chair away. “The People, the Izon and the Nephilim together. Cronus has become so corrupt even the Twelve are against…”
The crashing blow that smashed into his square, bearded jaw sent him sprawling into the table of seamen behind him. In moments, the tavern erupted into fist fights and broken tables, tankards shattered upon the floor and against bloodied skulls. Painful screams and angry curses drowned out the joyful music and happy laughter as a table of off-duty Aam struggled to put down the brawl.
If this group of tight-knit crewmembers could be so torn apart, what hope was there for the rest of Atlantis?
“Hades sends word that we are not to slow production nor given a reason for Atlantis to seek reprisals,” Stenapolus told the Council of Mines gathered on the third tier of Tartarus. He ran a thick-fingered hand through his short, curly, black hair and consulted the data crystal attached to his monitor. “He says the rumors of his family leading attacks against the empire are false and not to believe them. Zeus is not leading a revolt against Cronus and most people know this. He orders us to maintain the status quo and keep our people safe.”
“How can he think he can give orders now that he has abandoned us?” Malaki asked, his voice saturated with disdain. His thin lips were tense and down-turned beneath his sparkling blue eyes as he swept his gaze over the other eleven men and women sitting around the polished table.
“He did not abandon us,” Balerius countered, sipping upon the strong green tea sitting before him. “He left to build a safe haven for any of us who wish to leave the mines. Hades insured we have a voice in the operations of every mine in the empire before he left. He says he will return when things simmer down above.”
“I believe him,” Stenapolus agreed. “Like the rest of us, these warrens and tunnels are his home. Remember, it was Hades who brought us together in a collective that shares knowledge among mines and profits with the corporations above.” He leaned back in his high-backed, black leather chair, his ebon skin almost blending with the dark material. “Where we once little more than slaves, we now rule the underground thanks to him. Never forget that. He protected many of us when we would have been only fodder for the strong.”
“True enough,” Maliki said, taking a deep breath. He was not really mad at his friend and mentor, he just missed him greatly. He looked at his slender, but wiry arms, knowing if it had not been for Hades defending him from the baser elements, he would have probably died in some side tunnel below long ago.
A cold wind blew down the stone chimney from the wintery gusts above, flaring the crackling fire filling the hearth in the largest chamber of the meeting hall. Off to one side, a long, cloth-covered table was spread with simmered meats, steamed vegetables and fresh-baked breads. The mouth-watering aromas seemed to ease the concerns of the council by reminding them of how much better their lives had become because of the policies Hades had instituted.
“Unfortunately, Zeus is being blamed for much of the dissention racking the cities above and Hades by association.” Stenapolus thanked the servers who laid plates of hot, delicious food in front of them before he continued. “He does not want us to become embroiled in that chaos.”
“Well, we are all misfits down here, but we are better than those surface dwellers, to be sure,” Balerius said with a grin, stuffing his face with roast venison. “We count the People, the Izon and the Nephilim among us and none are seen as better than the other.”
“Speak for yourself,” Maliki said with a big smile. He took a sip of green tea to wash down a piece of honey-buttered bread and looked at his friend. “I am far better than you will ever be.”
After the succulent and filling meal was consumed and the ale was passed around the table, the laughter and good-humored banter died down. Stenapolus returned the discussion to the matter at hand. “I agree with Hades,” he said. “We must stay out of the turmoil above. We are vulnerable down here. Cronus could easily drop a bomb down the shaft and level all we have built. He has done it elsewhere.”
The mood of the room became somber as those around him remembered friends lost and families destroyed. He swept his eyes over the council, noting the sorrow and anger written on their faces. “But should there come a time when Hades calls on us to join the fray, we should be ready.” He saw the firm agreement in the darkened eyes of his companions and the set of their jaws. “It is time to build an arsenal.”
On the fourth level of the copper mine located thirty miles outside of Daedalia, the Dire Wolf was jammed with loud, boisterous patrons. A popular local band hammered out a set of somewhat bawdy music that filled the worn oak dancefloor with laughing, cheering bodies. Bright, multicolored lights flashed over the crowd, changing continuously with the beat of the music. Over in a softly lit corner, a group of highborn city dwellers sat near a mahogany-paneled wall adorned with sensuous, erotic artwork that suggested impossible positions and salacious desires.
Lilyanna sat on the lap of Captain Terius of the Aam, her fingertips twirling the thick curls of dark hair that matted his broad, heavily muscled chest. The laces of his black leather vest were loosened to grant her easy access to his copperish flesh and she used the opportunity to lightly caress his nipples, enjoying how they swelled at her attentions. Her voluptuously curved body was draped with thin, purple gossamer cloth that highlighted more than hid the full rise of her ample chest, narrow waist and wide, welcoming hips. She laughed at his jokes and purred as his fingers explored her body. And she listened carefully to every word he said.
“Zeus is the one spreading seeds of revolt throughout the city,” he said with a snarl, his voice dripping with both disdain and ill-concealed lust. “I wish I had his neck beneath my hands. I would crush the life from him and laugh while his eyes popped out of his skull!”
Lilyanna cooed as if his words excited her and kissed the side of his neckless head, nibbling upon his earlobe.
“He is such a coward that he has others do his fighting for him,” Lieutenant Eridian said, spitting on the wine-stained floor. He carelessly fondled the breasts of the giggling girl beneath his brawny arm as he spoke. “I hear he never leaves his compound and commands from afar, never entering a battlefield himself. You will probably never get the chance.”
“Not necessarily true,” Terius said, leaning his head into Lilyanna’s warm, sexy kisses. “The Lord Father tires of Zeus’ constant subversion. It was the minions of Zeus that spread the vicious lies about the Nephilim and caused the People to turn against them. He fears they will join the forces of Atlantis and crush his rebellion. Many have. Thanks to Cronus that he has managed to quell most of the violence directed against the Children of Pettit. We need them if we are to survive. I am proud to count them among our ranks.”
“My cousin is a commander at the training camp in the new Pettit,” Nalarian said as he took a deep swallow of his heady ale. “He tells me new recruits are pouring in since the riots were put down. They are furious at these unprovoked attack
s on our way of life and eager to destroy this upstart.”
“Rumor has it Cronus is preparing to crush Zeus where he lives very soon and end these uprisings for good,” Terius said, his concentration cracking under the influence of good drink and the ministrations of the beautiful woman in his arms. “I intend to be there when he does. Until then,” he said, his voice as thick and husky as the swelling between his legs, “I have other, more immediate problems to deal with.”
Lilyanna laughed loudly and slid from his lap. “Please let me help you with that,” she smiled, taking his hand and leading him to the well-appointed rooms upstairs. Over the next hour, the captain forgot about all other affairs except for the one he was having with this incredible lover. Once he departed her chambers, exhausted and well sated, Lilyanna opened a hidden panel in her room, revealing a secure comlink. Unafraid that her voice could be heard over the incessant, loud music and noise from downstairs, she relayed the new information to the Lady Hera across the sea.
In the man-made caverns of the Retreat, hidden deep within the Merilic Mountains of Delecrete, Jaraad combed through the reports pouring in from all over the empire. The more he read, the more his unease solidified into a deep, genuine worry. His gray-blue eyes scanned the data and images scrolling across his monitor as Merribeth spoke to the twenty or so other people gathered in the large, well-lit meeting room, her tone anxious and a bit frightened.
“Most of what we are hearing is nothing but unfounded rumors and baseless gossip,” she said, her hazel eyes darkened within her smooth, oval face. She pushed her raven hair away from her slightly blushed cheeks, her ample, pin lips terse upon her suntanned skin. “However, they spread like sparks in a wildfire. We have tried to counter them with cold, hard facts, but no one seems to want to listen.”
“People only hear what they want to hear,” Pok replied, his deep-brown eyes nearly invisible beneath his heavy brow ridge. His short, blocky, Izon body rippled with agitation as he shook his head. “They do not want the truth if it does not conform to their personal opinions. Sad. Truly sad.”
