Neeka Featherstone
Page 1
Neeka Featherstone
Book One - Return to Eden
R.J. & T.M. Lucas
Copyright © 2021 R.J. Lucas
www.rjlucas.com
No part of this book may be reproduced in any written, electronic, recording, or photocopying without written permission of the publisher or author. The exception would be in the case of brief quotations embodied in the critical articles or reviews and pages where permission is specifically granted by the publisher or author.
This is a work of fiction. Any names or characters, businesses or places, events or incidents, are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Harmony Publishers
www.harmonypublishers.com
Printed in the United States of America
Books in the
Neeka Featherstone Trilogy
Book 1 – Return to Eden
Book 2 – Queen of the Xulguns
Book 3 – The Red Tower
Contents
World Map
1 - Transgressor’s Punishment
2 - The Merciful One
3 - A Single Bullet
4 - Battle for Survival
5 - The Dread Wastes
6 - Not Me! Not Today!
7 - Blood-Stained Earth
8 - Meat Jerky
9 - The Fat Man
10 - The Half-Masked Girl
11 - Endless Wait
12 - Half-Eaten Prickly Pear
13 - Before Eden
14 - Slave Healer
15 - The Pits of Gehenna
16 - Forbidden Fruit
17 - Morning Star
18 - The North Cell
19 - Smoke-Filled Corridor
20 - Voodoo Magic
21 - Graven Pointe
22 - The Queen Has Spoken
23 - The Well
24 - Atomic Toads
25 - Eli
26 - The Praying Mantis
27 - Constellations
28 - Springrazors
29 - Steelwatch
30 – Mortimer Glass
31 - The Xulgun
32 - Our Tribe
33 - Taken
34 - The Unseen
35 - Firefight
36 - Surrounded
37 - Thou Art Merciful
38 - Royal Treatment
39 - The Hero of Eden
Lexicon of Eden
World Map
1 - Transgressor’s Punishment
“Remove your leg!” Commander Protector Atwood yells at the old man.
I don’t know why they call them “protectors.” I’ve never seen them protect anyone. They are more like grunts if you ask me. Dumb, but highly trained grunts. And Protector Atwood? He’s one of the worst. He could care less about your age, physical condition or the pitiful story you offer in defense. If you are on the list to be punished, you can bet on the Holy Charter he will follow through. Maybe that is why he’s in charge. He gets things done, no matter how brutal they are.
“But sir, please,” Old Man Ambrose begs. “I’m going to die out here anyway. Without my leg, I can’t—”
The airship sways left causing Ambrose to stumble forward into the commander.
Atwood grabs him by the throat and pulls him closer. Ambrose almost gags at the smell emanating from the Commander’s stinking blowhole.
“You know the law old man!”
I know his breath stinks because I can smell it from ten paces away. Smells kinda like he ate skitterer dung for breakfast. Maybe even washed it down with a cup of mud juice from the sediment pools in Gehenna. The thought of Atwood eating dung brings joy to my mind, if only for a split second.
Atwood towers over the old man. His head hovers above Ambrose’s face, like a huge rock protruding from a cliff, about to fall and crush anything beneath it. Poor Ambrose’s head is bent over backwards as if his neck is about to snap. The only thing that appears to hold it in place is Atwood’s hand, locked in a death grip around it. After a five-second stare down, the Commander releases Ambrose and shoves him into the crowd of transgressors behind him. There is nothing any of us can do. We are all prisoners on this damned and forsaken ship.
The muscle in the side of Atwood’s jaw twitches.
“Now remove your leg or I’ll remove it for you and take the other one as well!”
Ambrose almost falls as he attempts to unhook the leather straps connecting his proth to his knee joint. I rush over and kneel to help him. He smiles at me. A hopeless one, but a smile, nonetheless. After removing the straps, I disconnect the muscle sensors and give the mechanical limb a quarter turn to the right. A pulse of air releases as the proth breaks free.
“You all know the law!” Atwood yells. “If you have committed a level 2D crime, remove your proths and toss them over now. I will not repeat the command a second time!”
I turn and toss the old man’s proth in the heap of mechanized limbs lying at Atwood’s feet. Piled together on the floor, they look like a cluster of rusty metal plates and gears. Brown liquid leaks from the rubber tubes and seeps through the cracks of the wooden planks beneath. A mass grave of mechanical human parts.
We’re all here for committing level two crimes, all thirteen of us. The punishment? Exile. Banishment to the Dread Wastes. Thankfully, my crime was only level 2B which means I get to keep my proths. A seventeen-year-old girl with two fleshless limbs is not common. Most kids my age have no proths, and those that do, only have one. I’ve had mine since I was nine. A constant reminder of my childhood transgressions.
At least I get to paint and decorate em however I like. Currently, the thigh plates are sporting a light blue color blended with puffs of white, kind of like how the sky looks today. I drew small outlines of ancient antelope just above the knee on both legs. It looks like they’re bounding through the sky from one leg to the other.
Truth is, I like my mechanical legs. They’re my canvas. An ever-changing palette of art framed at the top by my brown canvas and leather shorts. At the bottom, my lace-up trek boots hide the mechanical workings of my foot, ankle and lower calf. They’re an extension of my proths, designed to look like boots. Concealed inside the sole is a small knife with a five inch, spey-point blade. I made it myself. Papa taught me how.
The knife isn’t the only tool I managed to smuggle aboard. My top is nothing more than a dingy white shirt with small, metal buttons going down the center, but the long sleeves have special ruffles on the ends that can untwine, providing me with thread for sewing fabric tears or skin lacerations if needed. Two needles are hidden inside the buckles of my leather suspenders. They’re more for looks than for holding up shorts, though. My hips do just fine with that task.
I like wearing darker colors. They go well with my dark brown hair and tan skin, at least I think so. And they make the colorful artwork on my legs really stand out. Hey…if you’re gonna have proths for legs, you may as well make the best of them.
I tried as best I could to prepare for banishment with these hidden tools. Some of which can also be used as weapons. I even have a two-foot-long death wire twisted into my ponytail, disguised between small leather cords that contain my hair in a long thick braid. I figure I can use it for cutting small trees or branches…or maybe a thick neck if needed. I’m not sure if there are any trees in the Dread Wastes, but I know there’ll be a few necks. I like to be prepared.
“Transgressors! Listen up!” Atwood pulls the directive from the inside of his black, leather trench coat and unrolls it. His eyes scan back and forth as he reads it. “You have been convicted of level two crimes. The penalty for level two crimes is banishment to the Dread Wastes. In addition, level 2D crimes require the surrender o
f proths. Punishment for level two crimes will be rendered in groups of thirteen on the first day following the waxing crescent moon. The group will be provided with four weapons and four tankards of water. If any person survives the Dread Wastes and returns to Eden, it will be taken as a sign of forgiveness by the Great Creator. Therefore, your Lord, Solomon the Merciful, will pardon your crimes and welcome you home.”
No one has ever returned to Eden. Half of us will die within minutes of reaching the ground. The other half will probably die from thirst or being mutilated by one of the hundreds of baldagaars that roam the Wastes. If any of us survive, it will be because we made it to one of the few civilized outposts that dot the landscape. I fully intend to survive. Mainly because I want to continue living, but also because I have revenge that needs tending to.
This system of punishment was carefully designed. Thirteen is a cursed number which is why we are punished in groups of thirteen. Banishment following the waxing crescent moon means the next seven nights will be the darkest. Four weapons and four tankards of water isn’t enough for everyone for even a day which creates a fight for survival mentality amongst the already cursed thirteen. I’m sure that will be entertaining.
Atwood rolls up the directive and places it back inside his coat. Clasping his hands behind his back, he paces back and forth in front of us. The sound of his boots clomping on the wooden floor of the airship is the only thing that breaks the silence. Thankfully, it’s an open airship which allows a cool breeze to pass by, breaking the thick atmosphere of anxiety surrounding us. It’s much like a wooden, water bound ship. Only this one is a standard three-balloon transport for hovering above the land at an altitude high enough to avoid trees, buildings, and in the Dread Wastes…baldagaars.
We all stand at the aft end of the ship. A large brown canvas stretches from port to starboard, hoisted up as a makeshift wall designed to separate transgressors from Royals. At the other end of the ship, the sound of conversation and laughter is picked up and carried by the wind. By the time it reaches us, it sounds like soiree garble. The same garble I’ve heard on many occasions when I entered the Forbidden Zones of Eden undetected.
Entering the Forbidden Zones was always fun for me. A game of cat and mouse. One mouse…me, against several cats…the protectors. It was always the same routine. I would distract a protector with a flying mud ball to the chest or head. He and several more would give chase.
They could never catch me, though. I was faster than all of them and disguised so they would not recognize me. The lobcocks never even realized I was pulling them from their post so I could slip by undetected.
I played this game for years. I had been doing it since I was twelve, not just for the fun of it, though. I was plotting and planning. Gathering knowledge. And I gained a lot of it.
It wasn’t until I stumbled over a root in a hidden path that I was caught. As I fell, I crashed through a hedge and knocked a Royal matron to the ground. In my defense, she was already half drunk on kiju, a favorite spirit among the Royals.
Luckily, they didn’t connect that I was the same person that had been antagonizing the protectors for the past five years. I told them I had simply gotten distracted chasing a rat. My excuse is that no protector was standing guard, so I didn’t realize I had crossed into a Forbidden Zone.
Nevertheless, I was still found guilty of a B-level crime. Since it was my second documented offense, it moved me to level 2B, which put me on this damned death ship. If they had known the truth of my transgressions, they would have put me at level 2D or even level three. It is extremely rare for someone to be found guilty at level three, which would be direct insurrection against Lord Solomon. I’ve only heard of two such instances.
Atwood scans the lot of us with a smug and sinister grin.
“When the ship lands, you will exit in single file via the starboard ramp. Once you reach the ground, you are not to move until you hear the powder shot.” Atwood removes the blunderbuss from his side holster and holds it in the air for everyone to see. “Weapons and water will be dropped fifty paces away. If anyone moves before the shot, I will personally put a bullet in your head. Once again, you are here on your own accord. No one forced you to commit the crimes…”
Atwood’s voice trails off as Papa wraps his arm around me and whispers in my ear. “Neeka, honey. Listen to me. Do not go for the weapons or water. Do you understand?”
“But, Papa,” I whisper as quietly as possible. “I’m faster than anyone here. I can—”
“No, Neeka! The protectors can’t know your proths have been enhanced. They will shoot you.”
Papa was right about them shooting me if they notice my speed, but airships are slow. Maximum speed for an airship is about twenty-four on a windless day like today, and that’s once they get going. I can easily do forty in an instant. If I can avoid being hit by the first few bullets, I’ll be able to get out of their range quickly. We need that water if we are going to survive. I could easily grab it, continue running and meet up with Papa later.
“Take heed!” Atwood shouts.
The protectors snap to attention as the separator canvas is pulled to the side. Transgressors quickly drop to their knees and lower their heads. I take my time. I visually use the excuse of helping Old Man Ambrose since he only has one leg, but I would have been the last to drop anyway. I have no respect for the Royals, especially for—him.
2 - The Merciful One
Lord Solomon the Merciful stands before us. A group of twenty Royals flank him on both sides. They are here for the entertainment.
Other than Papa, this is the closest any of us have ever been to Lord Solomon and most likely, ever will be. His tall, wiry frame is wrapped in a velvety red tailcoat, embellished with brass buttons and buckles, and framed with a leather liner. The heavy tails sway in the breeze like the canvas flap hanging loose from the bow balloon above.
The smell of Jasmine and Sandalwood fills my nostrils as he steps closer. The scent smells heavenly but knowing he is the source of the fragrance makes me hate it. He raises his hands to his chin and clasp them together as if gathering his thoughts for some great and inspiring speech. I know better, though. I’ve heard hundreds of his speeches. We all have. The difference between me and most everyone else though, is I know what bobblegash is.
With his index fingers extended upward and half covering his nose, he speaks in an authoritative tone. The only thing missing is his podium.
“Yea, though I trek through this barren wasteland of death, I will have no fear. For thou art with me and thou shalt see me through.”
I think I just barfed chunks in my mouth. The sudden nauseated feeling isn’t from the floating ship. It’s the sound of his voice. It does that to me.
He drops his hands and clasps them behind his back. Tilting his head, his lower jaw pops to the left as if he’s trying to remove food particles from his teeth with his tongue. He continues to speak, forcing us to listen to more of his verbal excrement.
“Those were the words I lifted up before the Great Creator exactly thirty-six years ago when I was wandering this same wasteland. And the Great Creator not only saw fit to rescue me, but also to honor my faithfulness by appointing me as his representative here in this world. In thirty-six years, I have never made a mistake. Never been wrong. The divine discernment that courses through my veins is the reason I was able to construct our marvelous home we call Eden. It is the reason Eden still stands today. A kingdom more glorious than any that has ever preceded it.”
I must admit, Eden is a beautiful place to call home, but only if you dwell in the innermost region known as Fairebourne. It is a Forbidden Zone for all citizens except for the Royals residing there. From the outside looking in, Fairebourne appears to rise out of the earth, claiming its transcendent status above the rest of the population. Inside the stone walls and steel gates lies a paradise unlike anything I’ve ever seen. Of course, I’ve never really seen anything outside of Eden, so I have nothing to compare it to except
for the lower regions of the city: Vanvale, inhabited by the Middlers and Coghaven, the outermost region which is home to Plebs such as myself.
Lord Solomon paces in front of us as he continues his unctuous lecture.
“When I drafted the three-level penalty structure, I was met with resistance from the Great Creator. He demanded a harsh death for the slightest infraction of the law. I pleaded with him to allow my children more than one opportunity to redress for their evil doings. And because of the mercy in my heart, he granted my plea. Now, I realize I am the closest any human has ever been too perfect, but I’m not quite there yet. There still remains a minuscule chance I could make a mistake.”
“No, my Lord!” one of the Royals gasps from the crowd behind him.
“Never, my Lord!” another shouts.
Lord Solomon holds out his hand to quiet them before proceeding with his address. “So as not to make a mistake with your punishment, I leave you in the hands of the Great Creator. If you survive the Dread Wastes and return to Eden, then I will accept the Great Creator has pardoned you and so, I too, will pardon you. I will restore you to your house and lift you up as a hero to the citizens of Eden.”
Hands of the Great Creator? More like the crushing hands of baldagaars. He has full knowledge of our fast-approaching demise. He designed it this way because he knows the chances of anyone surviving the Dread Wastes are practically non-existent. Placing our fate in the hands of the Great Creator completely releases him of all responsibility and adds credibility to his false reputation of being merciful. It allows him to publicly wash his hands of our death.
Of course, he’s not the only one with a demented mind. Many citizens enjoy watching the pain and suffering of others. The twenty Royals standing behind Lord Solomon quietly whisper amongst one another while sipping their goblets of kiju. You can see the anticipation in their eyes, like a starving dog salivating as he waits for a slab of meat to be tossed in front of him. They know what comes next. A brutal battle for survival.