Soul of the Swordsman

by J A Stone

  Snowflake’s lowest deck of three was all business. Here was the engine room, tools, parts, munitions and…

  “Miss Fovea insists on keeping the firearms and swords,” Tawnee opened a panel and Warfell raised her brows, darting her blues over an array of fine steel weaponry. “You may have any item except the…”

  “Scimitar, Machete, hand axe, buck skinner and, what does she shoot?”

  “She favors the Wakizashi you stuffed in your butt,” they laughed together and then Tawnee grew serious, concerned. “Your familiarity of her is astounding. In your world, do you…do you love her?” Tawnee asked shyly, almost a whisper.

  “Not romantically sweetie—nothing to worry about there, but yes! I do love her. She is my best friend on any world,” Danica placed a hand on Tawnee’s shoulder and smiled.

  She chose a Longsword with short crossbars, a boot dagger and of course, a sleek, long barreled pistol with the word Chesterborne emblazoned on the grip in a language Danica could not decipher.

  “Good choice,” Tawnee added, handing Danica straps, belts, and clips as they moved to a small steel table to outfit the gear. Strange how the classic design of the web belt seemed to transcend all worlds. Danica thought about the three realities she had experienced so far and how the people were the same—she began to group together the parallels in her mind as she worked.

  The girls felt Snowflake touch pads on deck. They met eyes and ran for the portal.

  Up top, Warfell walked onto the bridge—nothing but white, snow. Between flurries, she could see they were in the mountains.

  “Our lab is just three clicks north of this position,” Brey rose from the helm. “Good choice,” she pointed to the Chesterborne on Warfell’s hip. “I need to suit up. We meet at the bullpen in ten.” The bullpen was the name given Snowflake’s air-lock door.

  “Okay Missus Danica, I’ll go,” Bigfoot Bob remarked from the chair he barely fit upon.

  “You will? Thanks Robert,” she was glad for it.

  “I just realized I would be here alone,” the big man said and Warfell saw the glint of fear in his eyes.

  “Stay next to me buddy, she has weapons below deck,” Danica patted a massive shoulder.

  “Only my hands pretty lady,” he answered making fists like iron cauldrons, “only my hands.”

  Minutes later, Brey reappeared wearing a skin-tight, white rubberized cat suit. She had no weapons at all—nowhere to hide one anyway.

  The hatchway hissed open and Warfell breathed deep of the oxygen rich air, letting the cold wind smack her cheeks—felt good.

  Not ten paces from the ship, three people waited in the crisp mountain snow. Danica recognized Iris—the two men, she did not. The young grey haired woman came forward with a smile for Brey as they clasped hands and exchanged cordials, waiving the others to follow.

  The Laboratory was warm and clean. Just inside the door, Warfell tossed her eyes about to see an expansive warehouse-style room with a blazing hearth far across the chamber. There were people; she counted eight visible including Iris and the two silent men. Danica wondered if these were the local humans.

  “Welcome to meh home in the mountain,” Iris spoke in her strange accent and Warfell smiled wide.

  “It is so good to see you,” the tall warrior said, blushing, remembering when she first met the Arenthian, and how the girl was crushing on her—before the Knights of Salvos brutally captured her.

  “Do I know ya?” Iris asked.

  “Danica Warfell, this is Doctor Iris Grey,” Brey held upward palms to each and they faced off, shaking hands for too long. Danica finally let go with a grin.

  “Warfell here is visiting from another dimension and time,” Brey added, watching Iris’ grey eyes to see if there was surprise—nothing. Brey could not read this woman and she did not like it at all.

  “I don’t understand,” said Iris.

  “Don’t need to,” Brey shook her ponytail.

  “She is from a different DI-MEN-SION,” Bigfoot emphasized, stepping in to the young woman’s involuntary flinch.

  Scared of him on any world, Warfell thought.

  “It is what it is,” Brey finalized. “Doc, will you brief us on everything here from day one?”

  “Come,” Iris replied, motioning her escort away as she dialogued:

  “This facility was built thirty-two years ago for the last stages of the Tiborean population and geological surveys…through here,” she pushed a set of double doors. “Your Father’s old office is still as heh left it Miss Brey.” They passed a wooden door with words etched on a brass plaque:

  Doctor Caelum Fovea

  Director of Engineering

  White Mountain Laboratories

  Warfell stopped cold when she read the words.

  Aw kiss my perfect apple ass! her mind screamed—she needed a distraction.

  “Okay, I need to take a dump,” Tawnee, will you accompany me?” Warfell asked boldly.

  “Not for that, hey!” she shot back as Danica snatched her arm, looking to Iris with questioning eyes and a finger pointing in all directions.

  “Down this hallway on the right,” the reply. “Sheh is a strange one,” to Brey.

  “Strange but awesome,” Brey added.

  “The Northern Tribesmen are a hearty lot. If there are any pureblood Therians left, weh believe they would beh among them—hence the location of this facility,” Iris was giving Brey the rundown when Warfell and Shadoweye returned.

  “Will you take me into the nearest village to poke about a little?” Brey asked, motioning her friends to join them at the wide conference table. Warfell took a seat next to Brey, gently tapping her boot twice with her own.

  “Aye Mum. I find the locals fascinating. Weh can go in the morning.”

  Fovea shook her head slowly with a smile.

  “Weh go tonight?” Iris asked, but Brey continued to grin at her. “I don’t under…”

  “You have amazing solid grey eyes—so rare to see,” Danica interrupted, staring hard. “Tell me about the disease, how it twists the victims into creatures of the night, vermin scratching at the feet of the innocent. It must be horrible to know a race of assholes like that brought a disease so disgusting to a beautiful world such as this…”

  “IT IS NOT A DISEASE!” Iris barked back in response.

  And there it was. Warfell, Fovea, Tawnee and Bigfoot sat across from Iris in total silence—the tension rifling through the air.

  “It is not a disease,” she calmly stood, as did the others. She continued, backing away—distancing herself from the four humans clearly there to end her. “The LVM is not even a virus. It is a DNA molecule that simply self-replicates inside the cells of an inferior,” she paused to meet eyes with each, “…underdeveloped batch of animals still sleeping in urine and wiping their arses with fingers.”

  The door to the chamber suddenly snapped with a ‘click’ and Brey snorted a laugh, sharp browns never leaving Iris’ greys.

  “Do you really think the four of us can’t take you down in a locked room?”

  “I know ya can’t take meh,” whispered back with an evil grin as the grey eyes and hair flushed black.

  “Oh—my—biscuits,” Bigfoot said in his deep bass voice. “How’d you do that?”

  “You can fly spaceships Robert,” Danica reminded the giant.

  “Yeah, but she can change hair color at will—wait!”

  “Heh’s a sharp hammer, pick him up local?” Iris smirked and Bigfoot’s eyes shot wide.

  “SHE’S ONE OF THEM!”

  “Keep your calm Bigfoot,” Danica warned, stepping between the two. “Where I come from she is a good guy. How many more purebloods are there Iris?”

  “Just meh, more than fifty solar years now. Doc Fovea knows about meh.”

  “And the people gathering on the other side of this door?” Brey asked.

  “Humans—infected Humans.”

  “They are infected!” Bigfoot repeated the words, clenching his fis
ts over and again for emphasis.

  “Yes, and they are going to try ta kill ya, I cannot stop it, they be too hungry,” Iris bowed her head as the hair slowly returned to the dull grey. “Forgive meh, I said I’d lock you in here—weh lost the planet to them years ago, I am alive only because they see meh as a Mater, but they no longer obey meh.”

  “I’m gonna rip your head off,” Robert spoke calmly enough.

  “No you are not—she’s gonna get help us get out of here in exchange for political asylum on Aleutha,” Warfell said.

  “WHAT?” Bigfoot, Tawnee and little Brey said together.

  “HOLD! All of you!” Warfell raised a palm. “Iris, you can only infect a human willingly, right?”

  “Aye,” the meek response.

  “I swear, if you mess with any of us, I will end you. Now get us back to our ship.”

  Danica no sooner said the words, when the door burst open, splintering the hinges with incredible force. At the threshold stood the two men, now slathering at the mouth, extending long sharp incisors. Behind them was a horde of ravenous monsters—dozens of them.

  Warfell yanked the Longsword free. Tawnee pulled a long thin Scimitar and Robert John Stone roared like a bear, all three spreading out to find their fighting space as the crowd of demented creatures filtered inside the wide conference room. Iris’ hair and eyes flushed a sharp black as she leaped for the closest, engaging with her hands. Aside her, Brey flicked her right hand out to the side, and the short Wakizashi clacked open three folds—where was she hiding that?

  Within seconds, Brey was plowing through the small crowd, administering critical jabs, slices and stabs before the victims could react. Danica thrust the Longsword side to side, watching the incredible moves of her friend. “RAAA!” she screamed, taking a head as Bigfoot grabbed the torso, flinging the bloody bag of bones into the arms of the growing crowd.

  “Move!” Brey yelled suddenly from the other side of the melee line, waiving her arm violently. Danica knew they had to plow through. She drew the Chesterborne and pulled the trigger eight times felling a short path. Bigfoot roared again and charged through with everything he had, swatting the humans sideways with the girls right behind him.

  Tawnee sheathed her Scimitar and pulled two pistols, cracking rounds one after another into the skulls of the demented creatures rapidly filling in the gaps as they ran for the lone exterior door. Brey sliced arms, torsos and necks at the front of the group, while Danica took calculated shots with her left and gouging swings with her right. Iris effortlessly boxed the afflicted away, clearing the escape path next to Brey until…

  The door hydraulics hissed open. Immediately, Iris leaped for the locking panel, entering the code and grinning as they slammed tight—bodies thrusting against the steel on the other side. Behind her, Brey, Warfell, Shadoweye and Bigfoot were already halfway to Snowflake.

  “Not without meh,” the woman with grey hair and fangs whispered, bouncing once in place and taking off at a run faster than any human could possibly muster, swinging wide to cut them off.

  Outside Snowflake, Brey slid to a stop.

  “Wait!” she exclaimed with her eyes glued to the cockpit—there was a shadow—someone was on board her ship. “Okay that’s not possible,” she said, opening the bullpen hatch. “Nobody can open this door but me and Tawnee.”

  She flicked open the Wakizashi and took the steps.

  “How’d you get in here?” Brey asked calmly—big brown eyes bursting with rage, betraying her smooth actions.

  “Heh let meh in,” Iris pointed behind the pixie.

  “Yeah right,” Fovea knew better than to turn her back on this stowaway.

  “Brey? Oh honey I’m so sorry,” Warfell moved in to cover the fugitive so her partner could turn around.

  It was the Spirit of Caelum Fovea. Brey fell to her knees, realizing her Father was dead.

  Please forgive me, my sweet Brey.

  Tawnee gently knelt aside her love and held her tight. Brey closed her eyes for a second, sending a wash of tears down her cheeks as she raised a hand to cover Tawnee’s.

  You can trust Iris. She has saved me many times on countless worlds.

  Brey thrust the deep browns open. “Dad, I just, I just don’t know what to say.”

  Say you believe me. Say you have faith in me.

  “I do Father, I do,” Brey found her feet, looking back to the grey haired girl standing in her cockpit. “How old are you?” she asked.

  “Almost a hundred,” Iris replied. She did not look a half-day over twenty.

  “Dad, you know her?” the diminutive pixie kept her eyes glued to the fugitive.

  Yes, she is the last of her race, and she is a good friend.

  “How did you? How did this?” Tears were returning.

  Insurgents from Tibor murdered me before I could return to Fovea Mansion.

  When the Ghost of her Father said it, Brey snapped back to business—anger flushing once again in her eyes. “Bigfoot, will you reset the Navcom for Aleutha? We’re going home.”

  We have much to talk about.

  The Spirit hovered before the seated travelers in the living area and told them of what he had experienced. On every world, his Daughter dies suddenly at twenty-seven. His own body passes as well, but never at the same time or manner. Also, his Spirit or Ghost could only manifest independently to the living in one reality so far—Warfell and Fey’s Aleutha.

  “So you are not actually my Father?” Brey asked.

  I am. We are one, what you see before you is an amalgamation of many conscious minds. Your Father in this reality was too weak to appear on the physical plane, so he and I have joined—yes it is me!

  “And you are with other Caelum Feys?” Danica asked.

  The Swordsman is correct, seventeen now, and every time I bring in another I become stronger.

  He did seem very clear, tactile, much easier to see. And he was appearing far away from their home planet. Danica wondered if the Spiritual entities behind the mortal bodies were already connected across the dimensions—another profound commonality amongst the infinite…

  We are indeed connected. As always, the Swordsman’s logic is sound.

  Warfell nodded with a half grin, eyes on the floor.

  “You can see inside my mind,” she stated.

  Yes, if I concentrate.

  Despite the protestations of the Spirit, Brey maintained course for home. The men who killed him were a known band of rebel mercenaries; hired guns led by a mastermind criminal—Viggo Forenz.

  “I can’t sit still over that Dad. If I’m gonna die anyway, let my death be for justice,” was her finality on the subject.

  She needed help from some friends; Forenz would not be an easy catch and she knew just where to find them.

  Silvercrest Reformation Complex, (Ana’s desolate twenty-third moon)

  Tom Snow was starving to death, seems the poor sod who was occupying that cell didn’t keep much food stashed, and the rescue workers passed barely enough rations through the door’s small air-lock drawer. Six days had passed. Rescue teams were still in suits outside—the facility’s atmosphere as of yet unrestored. Snowman knew he was running out of time. He watched the men and women working to free the inmates from the small units one by one, moving his eyes up to the crews toiling to rebuild the ceiling bays—nowhere near completion.

  In fifty years of smooth operation, the threat worked perfectly, no inmate wanting to test the truth of the atmospheric purge. Tom chuckled. It worked all right. As well, following decades of peace, Administration for the facility foolishly made the financial cuts in security, labor, and supplies. An orbital perimeter was not patrolled and maintained, therefore security was unaware of the lone Moorcraft ambulance waiting patiently at the center of a nearby crater for six solar days, and no one was prepared for the aftermath of a purge.

  Snowman could see the celestial sky from the small window on his door. What a shame, he thought, realizing he would not survive this on
e. Was it worth it for Brey? Yeah, it was.

  “Ello?” he said aloud, noticing a Star getting bigger, glowing brighter…

  Snowflake

  “Okay port and star, I’m picking up twelve maintenance vessels—lulls and crew-craft, hold on,” Brey canvased her screens. “There you are, aaaaaaah, ladies and gentlemen, we have three Federal Moorcraft on deck at thirteen degrees port, see them Danica?”

  “Got it!”

  “Give ‘em a kiss,” Brey’s nonchalant reply as Warfell centered the port plasma turrets on the landed craft, less than fifty feet from the facility’s topside entrance.

  Danica pulled the twin triggers, the transparent gunner pod whipping around as her barrels followed and held the targets—Snowflake screaming by fast.

  “Good shooting!” Robert exclaimed from the Navcom as the small warships ruptured with holes, silently breaking apart, fuel cells sparking—igniting with three rapid flashes of light and a shockwave Danica felt in her seat.

  “Okay, I’m gonna bring him around. Port and star to the bridge. We won’t need the guns for this,” Brey smiled at her screen.

  “Aye, they’re all stranded until more ships arrive,” Robert added through the com, turning to see Tawnee and Danica running the steps from mid-deck.

  “What’s the plan boss?” Tawnee asked.

  “Well, I’ve isolated Tom Snow’s bio-chip—James too,” she started.

  “Not James,” Tawnee was shaking her head, no.

  “Baby, you know I don’t care,” Brey responded with a chuckle, but Tawnee exhaled sharply with an angry eye turning to leave the bridge. “Warfell!” she shouted at the steps. “C’mon, we need to suit up for two Evacs.”

  “Sure,” Danica rose, shooting her blues between Brey and Tawnee, wondering what that was all about.

  On bottom deck, Tawnee was showing Danica how to get into the air suits. They were the same rubberized, skintight outfits as Brey wore on the surface of Earth. Once snapped in, she could not help notice the scar on Tawnee’s leg—the lone blemish on the honed body of an athlete. The girl noticed and touched it.