by Dan O'Brien
“I didn’t mean to fluster you, councilman,” laughed Sertion, placing his hand on Erinana’s shoulder. “I only meant that you should return to the council as soon as possible.”
“I was just saying that she would be well-protected aboard my vessel, Wings of the State. The joint council has started dispatching security units in response to Xzin’s raids on cargo routes.” Damon shirked his embarrassment and motioned for Erinana to follow him out the chamber doors.
* * * * *
Wings of the State was perched in the field like a crouched falcon, a wingspan of forty-five meters on an inverted base positioned at two forty-five degree angles that touched at their apexes. The piloting port looked like a deep-blue helmet visor. Behind the reinforced glass were two swivel chairs, inhabited by the ship’s pilots.
“Hey, Kelsre, how much power in the reserve tanks?” asked the woman with short, scarlet hair. She wore a state-issued flight jacket with a pair of faded, forest green shorts. Her tool belt hung loosely across her frame, and attached to her left side was a short-range blaster, smacking against her thigh as she stepped.
She was reaching up, keying at terminals, which blinked quickly from red to green: indicating the amount of reserves aboard the ship. She was the copilot and chief engineer. Men of the fighting circle knew her as the Red Rage from Rydelli. For the past two years she had participated in the Tech Fights on Fasen Major. To everyone else, she was First Lieutenant Jerry Tissler, the first mate of Wings of the State.
“We are at eighty percent efficiency,” she reported. “There must be a leak somewhere in the heating coolant chamber.”
Kelsre Arudi was the captain assigned to the diplomatic vessel that, for the most part, transported members of the joint council around the universe. Arudi had been a navy squadron leader for many years.
When he turned fifty, to his dismay, they grounded him to a political post. He had shoulder-length hair pulled into a ponytail, and his glasses seemed small in comparison to his broad features. A dark scar, awarded when he stepped between two wingmen fighting over a woman on Fasen Major, ran from his right eye to the base of his chin.
“This is just great,” called Tissler, shaking her head in disgust as she jumped from the railing and down into the center of the magnetic engine’s core. She ran her hand along the black machinery and came to a stop in front of a metal sphere sticking out of the cooling chamber.
She examined underneath as she crouched in front of it.
A long smudge of clear green coolant covered her glove. “Definitely a crack in the coolant system,” she muttered. “I think we’ll need to dock the ship when we get back to Verdule.”
“Sounds like a plan,” replied Arudi, keying in the preflight sequence on the pilot terminal. The comm light blinked green and he opened a frequency to receive the transmission. Static hissed, but the voice of the Supreme Council came through clearly enough.
“Captain Arudi, the meeting has been adjourned and we would like to make haste back to Verdule. Have the preflight procedures been completed?” Arudi knew that the Supreme Council’s presence was not well represented by the comm link. “We, sir?”
“Ah, my apologies, Captain. I am bringing a representative of Nemodtia back with me. I trust that will not pose a problem.”
“Not at all.” Arudi switched off the comm link and turned in his chair away from his view port. Damn, those Nemodtians look funny and smell worse, he thought with a shudder. I just hope this one isn’t too repulsive.
* * * * *
Erinana’s every step was calculated and graceful. Damon wondered if she had been preened for royalty but did not dare pry. Arudi and Tissler waited at the top of the ramp to meet their new passenger; and Arudi was visibly surprised when the beautiful woman came up the ramp instead of the short, hunched, yellow form of a Nemodtian.
“Sir, I was under the impression we’d be transporting a Nemodtian ambassador,” Arudi shook his head in disbelief, breaking the silence.
“Captain Arudi, allow me to introduce Lady Erinana, ambassador of Nemodtia,” Damon’s eyes twinkled, laughing at the surprise on Arudi’s face. To Erinana he said, “This is Captain Arudi and First Lieutenant Tissler. They are the fine pilots who will speed us on our way back to Verdule.”
“Nice to meet you.” Tissler extended her large knuckled hand, bruised and notched, and gripped Erinana’s smooth and elegant one.
“Very kind of you to allow me to come with you.” Erinana’s voice, like her hands and everything else about her, was very clean and pronounced.
“It’s very nice to meet me … I mean, you.” Arudi blushed and tried to speak again. “I’m sorry, I was just configuring space vectors and I ….” Arudi, mesmerized by her beauty, struggled desperately to regain his veneer of confidence.
“We have a long ride ahead of us.” Tissler rescued him. Arudi turned away, and Tissler followed his step, grinning the entire way. She simply gave him a look: I can see right through you, babbling idiot.
“Only a pure heart can pull the Herald of Exodus, and once the Seven Trials are complete, you will be able to battle the forces of evil and save the people you love. Fail, and so shall life.”
-Conversation between the Bearer and the Guide
The residence of the warlord rose above the plains and deserts of Baldor. In its simplicity, it attained an awe-inspiring visage. The base of the palace extended twenty-seven kilometers, and the building stretched far into the atmosphere, so high that the upper floors were shrouded in dark cloud cover.
The grounds outside the palace were purple and gold, marble walkways entwined and merged at twin doors leading to the inner sanctum of Xzin’s world. The doors dwarfed any monster of the Dark Realm; they were wide enough to land a cavalier-class heavy fighter. Upon a previous attempt by a rival nation to infiltrate his palace, Xzin had further reinforced his planetary defenses. The doors were now thick enough to deflect any type of bombardment.
On either side stood women of medium height, Xzin’s personal bodyguards, each identical in a slender, long-legged body structure. Each carried a notched staff, metallic and as tall as the guards themselves, a blade curving from the top.
A maze of crystal rooms, each identical to another, imprisoned an unsuspecting visitor. The walls were covered in tapestries depicting ancient battles of long-forgotten cultures. They were strewn on walls carving a path to the throne room in no discernible pattern. The purple and gold marble floor tiles were each engraved with the insignia of Xzin. Members of the Baldorian Navy and Xzin’s personal minions wore the insignia, a sphere cast in flames gripped by a solitary palm. Guards were stationed throughout the palace, some seen and others hidden, each identical in stature and appearance.
The man walked briskly, his hands moving evenly at his sides, the pedigree of military training. His jacket and pants were purple with Xzin’s symbol sewn on the left side. His rank indicated that he was a man of consequence: a general.
His face was expressionless, hard featured as if carved in stone. His hair was shaved short and he allowed no facial growth. He stared forward, red pupils unrelenting in their focus. His never-changing demeanor hid his thoughts.
He approached a huge door with the crest of Xeon embroidered across it; a hidden civilization, a race of beings possessing ungodly amounts of power. It resembled the insignia of the Baldorian people: the outstretched palm gripping the flaming sphere, a symbol of power.
The general pushed the mighty doors open, and the room’s interior blended with the night. It revealed little; everything was shrouded in shadow. Only the haunting eyes of a night creature could permeate this shroud. The room flickered as thousands of candles erupted in purple flame, and a lone table in the center was highlighted against the glow of candlelight. A large figure sat in front of a crafted window – a stained rendition of the Battle of Garefe, where the last enemies of the State were vanquished.
The origins of the Dalcons predated memory, and the race had disappeared less than a centur
y before without a trace. No mortal had ever actually entered their realm. Their art and architecture was traded as one of the most treasured items in the twelve galaxies of the universe. Modern scientists, continuing to build upon decades of amassed knowledge and study of Dalcon technology, were no closer to mastering the puzzle of this most advanced race.
The man behind the desk leaned against an enormous throne. His eyes seemed engraved in his purplish skull, and the white mane that fell around his head gave him a regal quality. His eyes ate right through the general’s resolve, watching as his subordinate’s shoulders sagged and his face became masked in fear.
Upon his throne of darkness, he said nothing, only stared at his visitor with soulless eyes. The general fidgeted uncomfortably and adjusted the collar of his jacket. The dark man never uttered a word, just peered through his soul like death incarnate.
“What do you wish of me, my lord?” inquired the man.
The warlord didn’t answer.
The general stood his ground, attempting to remain unwavering under the unrelenting eye of his master.
“General Zar,” began the warlord, “I have called you here because there seems to be unrest within the joint council.”
The general stood motionless, eyes unblinking. “We should not fear any decision the council makes. They have no jurisdiction over you, my master.” The general took a step back and returned to attention, his hands cupped behind his back, eyes facing forward. He could not meet Xzin’s cold gaze.
Xzin sat, his arms crossed in front of his chest, breathing calm and shallow. His eyes closed and fluttered beneath his purple eyelids.
General Zar stood his ground, waiting for Lord Xzin’s orders. Xzin leaned forward and said, “General Zar, assemble your army. I have seen an assault masked as a mock space attack.” He sat back, his grand arms resting upon the smooth surface of his throne.
“Understood, my lord. What of the Nemodtians?”
“I heard they sent an ambassador to Verdule with the Supreme Council. I have already dispatched a fleet.” Xzin reached to the controls on his throne and maneuvered toward the stained glass window that looked out upon his rule.
“What about Admiral Reckson? Do we alert the navy?” General Zar allowed himself to sag for a moment behind Xzin’s back. He breathed out slowly before restoring his rigid posture.
“Don’t concern yourself with her, I shall contact her myself. You are dismissed, general.” Xzin waved his arm and two women appeared at the door. They escorted General Zar out of Xzin’s personal chambers and back into the fray.
* * * * *
Wings of the State drifted through space, the golden hull reflecting the glare of stars and the boiling and churning of the emerald suns. An explosion slammed into the ship breaking the tranquil silence. Tissler steadied herself against the control room railing, bracing herself for another hit. She turned toward the view screen.
“Look at the size of that ship.” Tissler turned to Arudi, her face drained of color. “It’s Baldorian, isn’t it?”
The underbelly of the enormous cruiser glowed a deep orange as it prepared to reenergize its weapons. The comm link hissed with static; another ship was trying to hail a frequency. Arudi moved slowly to the monitor and pressed the blinking green panel.
“You are attacking a State ship, and are in direct violation of Intergalactic State regulations. Whomever you are affiliated with will have their UFPS charter revoked,” called out Arudi, not knowing who was listening. The ship’s control room was now engulfed in smoke and debris.
An alien voice came over the comm. “We will do no such thing, Captain Arudi. You will cease resistance immediately and surrender, or we will annihilate your ship and all its passengers. My demands are simple, and the longer you wait to make a decision, the more damage your ship and crew face. Do not make me repeat myself, human.”
Arudi turned to the Supreme Council and Erinana.
The haggard look on his face mirrored their dire situation.
“I will accept your silence as an affirmation of your unconditional surrender. Have your crew shut down the defense systems, and prepare for my boarding crew.”
* * * * *
The countryside of Garefe was a painting of pure natural beauty and peace; it was the location of joint council meetings. The mountains carved a jagged horizon, the green fields meeting the crimson depths. The meetings summoned all of the leaders of the affiliated worlds to decide the fate of their people. Each planet sent a representative to reside on Verdule to voice their opinions on a universal scale.
An ancient temple served as the audience chamber, meetings held in confidence since the emergence Xzin’s regime. The brilliant emerald and ebony temple rose high above the vast snow-covered mountains that broke the grassy plains.
The chamber, like an ancient Roman amphitheater, held rows of benches. Each seat rested upon a carved platform and could float effortlessly, if desired, toward the center of the room. In the middle of the chamber a pedestal rose above the other benches and served as the seat for the Supreme Council, Fael Damon.
The volume in the chambers rose as the members chatted with each other, their apprehension growing every second that the Supreme Council was not present.
An oafish man approached the pedestal, his robes clinging to his gluttonous body and his face twisted into an evil sneer. He clutched a flat, leather-bound portfolio to his chest, his hands slipping against the glossy surface due to sweat beading from his porous frame.
He cleared his throat and placed his flaccid hands upon the pedestal. His hands lacked the thin, textured look that characterized most politicians and others who have never endured manual labor, but they did not resemble those of a working champion either.
“My fellow members, as we can all plainly see, the Supreme Council Damon is absent,” began Councilman Welvon. With a short exhalation of breath, he continued, “I fear something has happened. Nonetheless, we have been brought here for a purpose: to decide the fate of the Baldor mission ….”
Before the corpulent man could finish his speech, objections were voiced. The first was a balding man, Viktor Slation, with shimmering silver robes draped across his square frame. The man’s face was contorted with shame and revulsion of the councilman who stood upon the pedestal. His hands were clenched in fists of rage.
“I must interject, Welvon. We cannot conduct a vote without the Supreme Council present, and I plan to wait until he arrives,” Councilman Slation called out. He was the representative from Gerhunana, the sole planet responsible for the production of carbonized air. The Gerhunanan people had long refused an allegiance with the UFPS, but after State-supplied aid during a hunger crisis and military protection during a raid by Xzin’s forces, their opinions were swayed.
“Ah, the eternally just Councilman Slation. If that is the case, then we shall exempt you from voting. I need not mention that in our charter it specifically states that, in the event that the Supreme Council is unable to be present for a vote, the next ranking councilman must conduct it,” Welvon rattled with a piercing edge to his voice. His chin, amassed in putrid fat, wobbled when his head shook. It gave him the quality of having another entity attached to his lower face that reacted to his every emotion.
“You are perhaps the wrong member to conduct a vote of this importance,” retorted a reptilian councilman from the assemblage. Komdosan was the closet planet to the sun in the Asudian galaxy, a world entirely inhabited by an evolved, reptilian race. Strangely enough, it was one of the first worlds to join the State. “A vote should be taken to decide whether we wait for the Supreme Council. All in favor, stand and be counted,” the lizard-like being said with authority. Many members of the assemblage stood quickly, while others remained seated.
Welvon shook his hands in outrage. “It cannot be done like this. It is not the will of the Supreme Council. If he were here now, he would not stand for this,” stammered Welvon, adjusting the horn-rimmed glasses that framed his pudgy face.
&n
bsp; “The fact remains that he is not here, and I refuse to see the fate of the State decided by a weasel like you,” called another councilman who stood up, yet even then could not be seen by the other members of the council. The small man pushed aside the councilman in front of him and pointed a finger at Welvon. “This council will not see a tyrant destroy what little balance we have remaining. I will ….”
“You have no authority here, and the allegations against Xzin are unsubstantiated. His rights must be preserved, as well. It is not democracy for the few, councilman. It is democracy for all.” Welvon grabbed the loose ends of his robes and evened them out.
“You, of all people, should be the last to talk of freedom and democracy,” began Councilman Slation, his voice pushing its limits. “You have long been an oppressor of people for your own personal gain. You, alone, have subjugated nations for your personal wealth. I will not allow you to stand there and feign compassion for a fellow being. You are a fool and a would-be tyrant.”
The other members of the council were silenced by the councilman’s verbal assault upon Welvon. They shifted nervously at the thought of an in-house rivalry like the one that stood in their paths now.
“You … can’t talk to me like that, you … damned fool,” stammered Welvon, his face beginning to flush a scarlet pink and his hands gripping tighter to the podium. “I am the acting Supreme Council until Damon arrives, and I plan on keeping order.”
Slation moved forward and raised his hand to the assembly. His mouth moved as if he was going to saying something when the doors of the mighty chamber creaked open.
A small figure clad in a dark green jacket pushed through the doors, a slip of paper in his right hand. His eyes darted from one councilman to another as if he did not know whom to acknowledge.
“Young man, over here,” called Welvon.
The man approached and passed the sealed envelope to Welvon. The paper was greasy and crumpled. “I have brought word from the Supreme Council, sir,” replied the man, his head bowed, never meeting Welvon’s sheepish gaze.
