Shattered Alliance

by Benjamin Wallace

  The guard gasped.

  Antarius jumped and panicked. He grabbed the guard by his uniform and lifted him from the ground. He then scolded the guard for scaring him and hurled him off the edge of the wall.

  It wasn’t until he let go that he realized what his reflexes had done and the guilt returned. He peeked over the edge, hoping the sentry landed safely perhaps in a pile of feathers or maybe the passing cart of a mattress vendor. There was no such luck and Antarius sheepishly whispered, “I’m sorry,” into the quiet night just before the thump of the body echoed back.

  His plan still called for stealth, but he left the area more quickly than caution probably allowed in order to put some distance between himself and the incident. If he was being honest, he would say it was less a stealthy departure and more a hushed running away.

  The entrance to the palace was easy to find as the light from inside filled the entryway and spilled out into the night. There was no door; instead, light fabric drapes billowed out in the evening air. In addition to stealth, Antarius slowed and began adding a little caution to his plan. He slowed his run as he approached the entrance and then took up a position outside. There he leaned in close and listened for any sounds that could indicate a guard. He heard nothing and cautiously and stealthily stuck his head through the doorway.

  The coast was clear, and he stepped from the worn cobblestones of the wall onto a highly polished stone floor inside the palace. His plan was working. That son of a bitch was in here somewhere. He could hear cheering coming from deep in the palace and it was exactly the kind of cheering a narcissist would demand of his people.

  Antarius stepped boldly into the palace halls and followed the sound of the crowd.

  The interior of the palace was impossibly white. Every surface was polished to a high sheen and they all played catch with the light.

  Drapes hung where doors should be, and the white linen billowed into the hallway like restless spirits beckoning him into each and every room with evocative moves that danced upon the wind.

  He ignored their seductive calls for exploration and focused on finding the source of the noise.

  Two guards stepped out into the intersection in front of him and Antarius stealthily panicked and dove through a nearby doorway before they could see him.

  He stood up from his stealth fall and inched his way back to the door. The guards were talking in hushed tones so he listened. It didn’t matter what planet you were on, these were the hushed tones of insubordinate grumbling. He knew it all too well. He also knew this could provide some much-needed insight into the state of his enemy’s forces. All he had to do was remain silent and use his vast experience to glean from inference the subtle meaning of what was really being said.

  “So, this new king is a real piece of shit, isn’t he,” the first guard prompted.

  “Silence,” the second guard snapped. “You don’t want the piece of shit to hear us, do you?”

  They both chuckled and did their best to stifle a full laugh by pinching their mouths shut. Snot shot out the back of their heads like so much kordblat. Even Shandoran laughter was disgusting.

  “He has to be better than his father, though, right?” said the first guard.

  Antarius risked a peek around the corner. The two guards were focused on their conversation.

  “Like that guy wasn’t an asshole, too,” the second guard said.

  “Right! Whenever I had carriage duty with him, he would roll up all the windows, lock the doors and pass gas. Then he would just stare at me as I pretended not to notice.”

  The second guard laughed. “I know. He called it the royal treatment. He did it to everyone.”

  “Oh,” the first guard said, and slumped his shoulders.

  The second guard stopped laughing. “What is it?”

  The first guard stood upright and shook his head. “It’s nothing.”

  “No, it’s something. Don’t tell me it’s nothing, Cron’dak. You can fool the others but don’t try and fool me. We’ve walked these halls together for too long.”

  Antarius ducked back around the corner as the first guard turned.

  “It’s nothing. It’s just. I thought it was…” Cron’dak trailed off.

  “You thought that it was a special thing the king just did with you?” The second guard’s tone wasn’t mocking. It was gentle.

  Antarius couldn’t hear Cron’dak respond, but the guard must have made some gesture in the affirmative.

  The second guard spoke again. “I’m sorry, Cron’dak. I wish that I hadn’t said anything. I feel bad that I am the destroyer of this special memory for you.”

  “You couldn’t have known,” Cron’dak replied through a sharp breath. “It’s better that I know the truth. By Konjac, that guy was an asshole.”

  The guards shared another laugh at this.

  “If it’s any reassurance,” the second guard said, “I’m sure the next king will be an asshole as well.”

  “That is very true,” Cron’dak agreed with a laugh but turned more wistful. “A small part of me wishes these new guys would just take over.”

  The second guard adopted a harsh whisper. All joviality was lost. The conversation had turned from the grumble of soldiers into the talk of treason. “You can’t say that, Cron’dak. You must not even think it.”

  “You don’t wish for this?”

  Boy, thought Antarius, that Cron’dak was ballsy.

  The second guard hesitated. “No. I would not wish for the fall of our king. And you shouldn’t either unless you wish to be judged by the Grand Somark.”

  This ended the conversation, and Thurgood breathed a sigh of relief as the guards’ footsteps disappeared down the hall. He gave the two men a minute to move on before stepping back into the hallway and picking up his plan where he’d left off.

  He hadn’t been completely forthcoming with his compatriots in the tower. As much as he wanted to strangle that gray-faced bastard and make him pay for the death of Johnson and… and the others, step one was to actually get back up to the tower and release the other prisoners. He felt no shame in misleading them. It was a strategic lie. Which made it okay. He had to do it to keep the plan safe in case the others were forced to talk. They looked like talkers. Not Stendak, but the others were definitely possibly talkers. Especially Konditti. That guy had snitch written all over his face.

  Antarius’s feet slapped gently against the stonework as he wound his way back toward what he assumed was the prison tower. He got the drop on another guard and dragged the alien’s unconscious body into what appeared to be the Shandoran equivalent of a mop closet. He set a bucket on the guard’s head because he found it funny and stepped back into the hall.

  There was another cheer from a crowd deep in the palace. Whatever was happening had to be big. The walls rattled with the sounds of cheers, boos and the occasional gunshot. It had to be the reason for the lack of soldiers in the halls. Despite how much he enjoyed knocking out guards, he was thankful for the distraction.

  Several voices from up ahead blew holes in his ‘the guards are distracted’ theory, and he approached the corner with hesitation—in addition to the stealth—and peered around the edge. A group of several guards, possibly enough to be considered a contingent, were heading toward him.

  Antarius doubled back down the hall. He was fairly confident he could handle a gaggle, but with a contingent, there was too great a risk that one could call for help while he was pummeling the others. He couldn’t attack or stealth his way past them. He would have to hide instead. With this plan of inaction decided upon, he looked for a place to shelter. Another Shandoran mop closet would be ideal—it was the only room with an actual door that he had seen—but there were none to be found. The contingent was getting closer and Thurgood was losing too much ground. Finally, he spotted a doorway draped with purple curtains. He dove through the entryway as the guards rounded the corner.

  Antarius stood and backed away from the edge of the doorframe as he ste
althily held his breath until the guards, and the threat of discovery, had passed. His use of strategic cowardice had paid off yet again. He leaned against the wall and let out his stealth breath.

  It was only when the danger had passed that he realized he was being watched. More than a dozen sets of eyes were on him and, judging by the looks on their owners’ faces, they had been ever since he dove through their doorway.

  Seventeen female Shandorans gaped at his half-naked body, and he once more felt justified in leaving his boots behind. The women made no effort to raise the alarm. They just stared at him until he smiled.

  They all smiled back.

  12

  At roughly the same time man began reaching out to the stars, some of Earth’s other greatest minds started looking inward to the human body. Science began to quickly unlock the secrets held deep in our collective DNA. Migraines were dealt with first. Cancer was taken care of not long after that. Diseases were eradicated in rapid succession until the only thing left that could kill us were our own bodies and questionable judgment.

  Medicine quickly turned to tinkering. It began with cosmetic treatments and alterations. For a generation, the best science could do was make someone look 39. But as time went on, they were able to do it all. They made people stronger, faster and better smelling. The last domino to fall was the elusive balding gene. Solving this head scratcher was the key to the grail itself. Practical immortality had been achieved, and the Longevity Wars followed soon after.

  It was easy to make an emotional argument that no one should die. There was no denying that everyone had a right to life. And the argument was soon made that they were entitled to as much of it as they could get.

  Lost in the passion of the argument (and obscene amounts of money) for extended life, were the repercussions of an undying population. The economic impact was catastrophic. Tennis ball sales dropped significantly as the elderly strode on unaided in young bodies while the sales of butterscotch hard candy skyrocketed.

  The strain on the planet’s resources was immense, and humanity was forced to look to other planets. The desperation drove an unparalleled expansion to colonize new worlds. Military forces went in first to convince any local populace of resource-rich planets that the pros of joining the Alliance far outweighed the cons.

  Even with concessions made, the undying were insufferable, arrogant jerks to everyone younger than themselves. Imagine the attitude of a twin born a minute before their sibling, but on a generational scale. Despite having the body of their younger selves, prime strength and endurance, they had all the grump of a two-hundred-year-old man with kids all over his yard.

  It was clear that something would have to be done. But ethically, it was hard to justify their removal. Many had difficulty with the idea, especially when there weren’t any outward signs of aging. There were no liver spots. No old people smell. Shawls, cardigans and tea cozies had disappeared from the marketplace.

  Despite the hesitation to act, things finally came to a head when the divide became too great.

  The war was fought reluctantly. For years both sides tried diplomatic measures, but ultimately the war went hot because those old bastards weren’t going to die off on their own.

  Soldiers were called back from the stars, and humanity’s last great war was fought on Earth. It cost the Alliance a terrible toll but the unaltered, natural born eventually triumphed.

  Immortality was outlawed. Those that survived went into hiding and had to go to extreme lengths to keep the world from discovering their secret. They laid low and kept themselves apart from the rest of the world. But still they were hunted.

  It was brutal and terrible, but in its wake the war left an unprecedented period of peace.

  If the reports from Shandor were true, the Alliance was about to see its first full-scale conflict in several generations. And they were going to need soldiers to fight it. Soldiers with experience.

  The Ratel approached a dark sector of space with a crew that was growing more annoyed by the moment.

  “Are you going to tell us what we’re doing out here in the middle of nowhere?” G’Har grumbled like a hairy, seven-foot tall baby.

  “No,” Cason said. He reached in between the Gardwah and Oncilla and entered a location in the navicomputer.

  Oncilla shrugged and turned the craft toward the coordinates.

  G’Har muscled Cason out of the way and stared through the viewscreen into the black of space. “There’s nothing here,”

  “I have it on good authority that there is something here.”

  The Gardwah dismissed the notion and turned away from the window.

  Cason settled in and watched the darkness. He smiled when he saw the outline of a dark cylinder turning slowly outside the Ratel.

  It was barely visible against the ink of space, and Priscilla leaned forward to examine the shape. “I think I see something.”

  G’Har grunted but stared out the window as well.

  As the Ratel drew closer, those inside began to realize the object’s massive size.

  “Why does it spin?” G’Har asked.

  “Gravity,” Priscilla answered. “This place has to be several generations older than anything I’ve ever seen.”

  “Well, it is making me sick,” the Gardwah said.

  “Amazing,” Priscilla said, studying the instruments on her console. “It’s not giving off any kind of signal at all.”

  “That’s because they wanted to keep it a secret,” Maze said as he slapped the Gardwah on the shoulder. “Mostly from people like you.”

  “What is this place?” Priscilla asked.

  Cason smiled. “This is where they keep the cavalry.”

  G’Har scoffed at the idea. “I need no cavalry.”

  “It never hurts to have someone watching your back,” Cason said. “No matter how big and annoying you are.”

  “I’ve yet to meet an enemy that I could not crush,” G’Har said, and folded his hairy arms across his broad, plaid-clad chest.

  “I guess we’re not counting gingivitis in that list?” Cason asked.

  The Gardwah roared, and for a moment the alien’s sentience was swallowed by the beast within. Priscilla stepped between the two men and put a calming hand on G’Har’s chest.

  “G’Har’s only concern is my safety, Mr. Maze.” Her hand on the alien had an almost immediate soothing effect. “I’m sure he understands that any additional help would be much appreciated.”

  Cason wondered if the calming touch was simply due to their relationship or if it was something more. There was no end to her surprising list of skills. Animal control could easily be one more trick in her incredibly attractive package.

  The Gardwah was calmer but still rumbled when Cason approached the navigator’s console. Maze thought he might try to bite him if he reached for the panel, so he held up a slip of paper. “I need to transmit this access code or that satellite is going to get awfully angry at us for being here.”

  “Let it,” G’Har said. “It appears old and busted.”

  “Looks can be deceiving,” Cason said. “For example, I’m sure you’re great with small animals. Aren’t you, Lenny?”

  “My name is G’Har,” the Gardwah snapped as he deferred to Priscilla’s nod and moved aside. “Why is he calling me Lenny?”

  The smuggler turned away to hide her smirk.

  “It’s a reading thing, G’Har. Don’t give it a second thought,” Cason said as he entered the ridiculously long string of letters, numbers and other symbols. He muttered to himself, “I hate when there’s a percentage sign.”

  With the access code submitted and received, the dark satellite began to awaken. Exterior lights activated, beacons sounded and the object finally made its presence known to the Ratel’s navigation systems.

  Priscilla turned the ship toward it. Viewports lit up and exterior lights activated. Windows in the satellite allowed light to escape.

  Cason pointed to frost that lined the interior of the st
ation’s windows. “We may want to give it a few minutes to warm up,”

  “What could possibly be that old but still have cloaking tech that sophisticated?” she asked.

  “A secret,” Cason said, and handed the navigation station back to G’Har. “A really good secret.”

  The Ratel docked with the mystery satellite and ran through a host of safety checks before granting access to the antique station. The access door finally released and the warm air from the ship turned into mist as the environments of the two crafts swirled together.

  “It is cold in here,” G’Har said.

  “Have you considered shoes?” Cason asked.

  “I don’t like your tone,” the Gardwah said, and then looked at his bare feet.

  “Have you ever noticed that all you do is complain? I mean, for a big guy you really do grumble a lot. I’m sure you’re formidable and I don’t question your loyalty, but it would be so much more endearing if you were a mute or at the very least barked your words like a bear or large dog instead of a whiny child.” Cason stepped into the satellite first and was greeted with 98 guns.

  These automatic turrets dropped from the ceiling, rose from the floor or popped out of the walls. Two additional guns, 42 and 73, clanked as they struggled to come to bear on the intruder but were no longer up to the task.

  Cason froze while a green laser danced across his body from head to toe as the old tech logged his presence into the system. Once the scan was complete, the guns retracted back into the wall with as much drama as they had emerged.

  G’Har stepped in next and the process was repeated with the exception that the Gardwah complained about the laser beam violating his personal space.

  “Relax, big guy,” Priscilla said as the turrets revealed themselves once more. “It happens to you a hundred times a day. You’re just not used to seeing the beam.”

  The guns retracted one final time and the trio heard a new system come online. This one had a voice. A gruff voice. Certainly not the calm and friendly voice that most computer systems had evolved into over the years. There was even an accent to it. A twang that used to be representative of the American West in historical films but had long since disappeared. It was a cowboy’s voice.