Galen's Way: A Starquest 4th Age Adventure

by Richard Paolinelli

  “And you’ve been waiting around for me all this time to give me a pat on my back?”

  Underwood laughed, a match to his booming voice.

  “That’s not quite how it works here, my boy,” he replied. “For you a long time has passed. For me? It just happened.”

  “So I’m dead, and this is,” Galen searched for the term Lir had used, “Haven?”

  “We called in Heaven in my day, but either term works,” Underwood answered. “But as for you being dead…”

  “I am dead,” Galen stated and this time a questioning tone crept into his voice. “That sphere was melting down around me. One second, I’m on fire, and the next, I’m here. I’m pretty sure I’m dead.”

  “Don’t be in such a hurry, boy,” Underwood chided. “This place is what you might call a transit station for those who only have one foot in the grave. Like you for example.

  “You have a choice to make, boy,” Underwood continued.

  “You can knock off with the ‘boy’,” Galen replied a little snippily. “And what choice do I have to make?”

  “Well, you’ll have to forgive an old man’s indulgence with one of his descendants, son,” Underwood grinned. “And the choice you have to make is simple, which is why you’re here. The young woman who was with you, Rhea, is her name I believe.”

  “Yes.”

  “She must have loved you very much,” Underwood nodded. “When you give your heart to someone, son, you also give them a piece of your soul. When they die, they take that part of you with them.

  “That is what you saw when she pulled you out of the pod back there, and the two of you traveled here,” he continued. “She’s waiting for you on ahead, if you choose to continue on, and the two of you will spend eternity together.”

  “But Rhea is still alive…”

  “Aye. And when her time comes, she will join you and merge with that part of her soul that awaits ahead. That is how it works, Galen. I was on my way to join my sweet, Sarah, who died many years before I, when I was rerouted here to speak with you.”

  “But you died millions of cycles ago,” Galen protested.

  “Time doesn’t work like that here, son. You won’t even realize the moment when your Rhea rejoins you, just as my Sarah will not notice when I rejoin her,” Underwood paused. “You can go ahead, son, or you can still go back and be with your Rhea in life. Spend many happy years together, and when your time comes, you will continue on ahead and have an eternity together there.”

  “What will happen to the Rhea that went ahead?”

  “She’ll be fine. For her, no time will pass before you are together again.”

  “What will happen to the living Rhea if I don’t go back?”

  “She will live her life and eventually her time will come, and you will be together once more,” Underwood stepped closer and place a strong hand on Galen’s shoulder. “You have earned the right to move on. No other man could dare challenge you if that is the choice you make, not after what you just did.

  “But if you choose to go back,” Underwood looked directly into Galen’s eyes, “not only will you have all the time and joy that comes with being at your love’s side in life, but you will have a chance to accomplish something even greater than you already have.”

  “What is that?”

  “The force that I fought in the Milky Way galaxy, while the Preservers transplanted humanity across the universe, may not be dead, son,” Underwood explained. “What remains of my old galaxy is still moving directly toward Andromeda. If any remnant of that dark force remains, if it hasn’t gone off in pursuit of Earth and what the Preservers have hidden in its core, then the people of your Galaxy will be threatened.

  “It will not happen for billions of years…what you call cycles,” he spoke urgently now. “But it will happen, and you must start preparing now for it lest Andromeda falls to this evil creature, too.”

  “I won’t live that long,” Galen protested. “What can I possibly do?”

  “Reconstitute my Rangers,” Underwood replied. “The ones you know as the Galactic Knights. Send them out on a quest to find more of the Armageddon Spheres and to train more Knights. The spheres were developed too late to save my galaxy. The Preservers moved them here against the day they might be of use. You’ve seen what they are capable of. They might be enough to kill this thing, but only if you find them.”

  “I stumbled across that one by accident,” Galen pointed out. “Where would I even begin?”

  “What was unique about that system where you found the one?” Underwood asked simply.

  “It was an uninhabited system, no planets anywhere near capable of supporting life and a dying star.”

  “I imagine there aren’t that many of those systems floating around out there in the dark,” Underwood replied. “You might start with that.”

  “I’m a smuggler,” Galen protested. “A mercenary. A gun for hire. I’m no hero, no Knight.”

  “Recent events would seem to indicate otherwise, my ever-so-many-times, great-grandson,” Underwood replied with a knowing smile. “I was a simple farmer. Then a man seeking revenge for a murdered wife turned Ranger, then a ‘Galactic Knight’ dying a heroic death to save as many lives as I could. You just willingly sacrificed yourself for the woman you loved and to stop a war that would have killed many others. That sounds a lot like a hero and a Knight to me.”

  Galen looked around but could not get a sense of direction through the murk. Somewhere ‘ahead,’ Rhea was waiting. They could be together in love and peace, free of strife. And she was also ‘behind’, alive and alone. They could be together again, in love while peace might be elusive at times.

  “When I make my decision,” he asked finally, “how will I know which way to go?”

  “You will know,” Underwood smiled broadly. “The same way you knew my name without ever having seen me before and without my introducing myself first. The same way I know so much about you despite the great gulf of time that has kept us apart until now. It is the way things work here. You never want for knowledge of anything. If you have need of the knowing, it is yours to know in this place.

  “Goodbye, great grandson mine,” Underwood embraced Galen. “It is time for me to rejoin my Sarah.”

  “Could you go back with me?” Galen asked. “Since you are here? You would be better at bringing back the Knights than I would.”

  “That is not an option for me, son,” Underwood stepped back. “I, unlike you, am as dead as a doornail, ripped to my atoms by my enemy. My only path lays ahead with Sarah. I was only delayed to give you your choices and to wish you well no matter which one you make.”

  Underwood started to fade back into the murk.

  “Wait,” Galen called out. “Will I see you again?”

  “You and I are connected by blood, boy,” Underwood waved as he disappeared. “When your time comes, you will see me standing with all of our bloodline waiting to welcome you. Farewell.”

  The old man faded into the murk, leaving Galen alone.

  Rhea ahead, alive after a fashion, in a place where there would never be danger, only peace. Even his ancestor had said he’d earned that.

  Rhea behind, alive and well, but alone. Would she remain safe? Who would be there if danger came for her once more? Wasn’t one agonizing death, one sacrifice enough? And what condition would he be in if he returned? If he were crippled, what use would he be to her then?

  He waited for that answer to magically appear, but it remained frustratingly elusive as the questions kept coming.

  What should he do? Which path should he take? Which was the correct way?

  He nodded suddenly, for with that final question came the answer, the only possible one which of course he’d known all along.

  What was the way? he asked himself and immediately answered the question.

  Galen’s way.

  COMING EARLY 2022

  RANGER

  A STARQUEST PRE-MIGRATION STORY

  T
urn the page for a sneak preview…

  RANGER

  Then came the day when Hans was hauling two bags of trash out to the incinerator out back. He heard the cargo ship lifting off from the heavy pad he had leveled off to attract the bigger ships but he'd thought little of it. A ship coming or going was certainly not that noteworthy.

  But this one, he found out when he went back inside, had carried its captain/pilot along with Arisha and that was certainly noteworthy to Hans. She hadn't even left a note. Instead she had asked one of their few regulars to convey a simple message.

  "Tell Hans it's been fun," was all she had told the old boozer parked at the end of the bar. And he had seemed somewhat apologetic when he relayed the message. A couple of the regulars offered a sympathetic word or two but most of the customers enjoyed a laugh at their host's expense.

  For the first few months, whenever he heard a ship landing outside, a small spark of hope kindled inside. Maybe this would be the ship that brought her back to him. Each time the door opened her expected to see her standing there, smiling at him and he would readily forgive her and welcome her back home.

  But each time the door opened he was struck by bitter disappointment. She was never there. Until finally it sank in that she was never coming back.

  That bitch.

  So Hans parked behind his bar, sometimes bothering to clean the glasses and trying to give his customers good service but most times not. As the months turned into years, the type of clients Hemingway's attracted turned seedier and all sorts of gambling and sex shops sprouted up around him while he sat and hated life.

  And then came the day when Hans discovered that life hated him right back.

  He was making a mediocre effort and cleaning the shot glasses when he heard the whine of a ship landing nearby. There was something different about the sound of this engine that caught Hans' attention. As crazy as the thought seemed even to him, it sounded better than most of the ships that frequented his place. So he turned and watched the entry, curious to see who his visitor was and immediately wished he hadn't.

  The man's face, as he turned his head from side to side in a slow scan of the room, reminded Hans of a hawk on the hunt. Sharp edges and a hardness that spoke of a man not to be messed with. But even without that face, no one in this room wanted to cross paths with this man. And all they needed to see to know that was his clothes.

  A black bolero, adorned with a silver hatband sat on top of his head and matched the black shirt, jeans, boots and duster that the newcomer wore beneath it. Even though the duster covered most of the shirt below, Hans knew what he would see if the duster were taken off. A round badge, a blue star field covered by one large five-pointed black and silver star.

  Ranger.

  The word was on every lip in the room but no one made a sound or any sudden move. It was as if they'd all been caged parakeets who'd just had a hungry cobra dropped into the cage with them. Each hoping that by staying perfectly still they would not draw any unwanted attention.

  The Rangers were the law out on the frontier and were often judge, jury and executioner. No one wanted a Ranger on his trail and God help anyone who killed a Ranger. Do that and they'd hunt you across as many systems in the galaxy that it took. Hans had never seen one before in person, but he knew they all dressed in the same uniform look and carried themselves in the same manner as this one now standing in his place.

  They all went by that one name in public, Ranger. Hans had no way of knowing that this one’s name at birth had been Galen Underwood and that it had been many years since he’d heard anyone call him by that name.

  After taking in the entire room, the Ranger slowly made his way to the bar. Each table he passed by heaved a small sigh of relief as he did. The Ranger walked right up to where Hans was standing.

  "Whiskey," he growled and Hans jumped slightly, beads of sweat immediately popping out seemingly from every pore in his body. He turned a grabbed a bottle, slightly ashamed at the way his hand was shaking.

  "Not this swill," the Ranger said, taking the bottle from the trembling hand and setting on top of the bar. He pointed to a bottle on a bottom shelf. "That one, with the black and gold label."

  Hans shakily reached down and retrieved the indicated bottle. It was the best he had in the house and he only pulled it out for customers willing to pay a little extra for the quality stuff. The usual pitch he'd make for that "little extra" died behind a nervous swallow. Instead, he picked up a glass from the "clean" stack and tried to get the shaking hand holding the bottle to hit the target of the glass in the other shaking hand.

  Before he could spill a drop, the Ranger reached out and relived Hans of glass and bottle. Setting the bottle down, he picked up the cheaper bottle and splashed a little into the glass, swirled it around a few times then poured it back into the bottle without spilling a drop. He then withdrew a clean black handkerchief and scrubbed the glass clean. After a few moments inspection in the light, the Ranger deemed the glass worthy and poured two fingers from the quality bottle.

  "Your good health," the Ranger said to Hans as he lifted the glass and quickly downed the drink. He set the glass down on the bar and placed a silver credit down next to it. The amount was almost exactly what Hans would have charged for the drink after he'd given the man a discount in the name of friendship to the Rangers.

  As Hans was wondering how the Ranger had known just how much to pay without being told, his new customer turned and faced the table directly behind where he'd been standing. The three men seated at the table were your ordinary run of the mill criminals and looked every bit the part. They were on a three-day bender but as long as their money kept flowing into his pocket, Hans hadn’t minded if they sat there until doomsday.

  The Ranger calmly looked over the trio before locking his gaze on the bigger, scruffier looking man in the middle.

  "Frank Moche?" the Ranger asked. "Of Arcturas Delta?"

  "Yeah, that's me," the tough replied insolently. "What about it?"

  "I have a warrant for your arrest."

  "That so Ranger? Maybe I don't want to be arrested today. What do you say to that?"

  Moche had been guilty of many crimes in the Arcturas system - theft, arson and rape among the many charges against him - but it was only when he started adding murder to his criminal resume that the Rangers had been called in. When the Rangers were called in that meant only one thing.

  "Your call, Frank."

  "Yeah, I suppose it is," Moche replied, feeling his liquor. He had always thought the Rangers' reputation was overblown and deep down had always wanted to go up against one. The cheap bourbon he'd been pouring down his throat was telling him he could take this law dog. So Moche made his play, his gun was all of six inches from his hand the way he was sitting and he couldn't see a weapon anywhere on the Ranger, whose hands were well away from his body.

  Even as his hand grasped the butt, he was shocked to see a slight smile appear on the Ranger's face. What the hell is he smiling about, Moche wondered, when he hasn't even gone for his gun yet?

  As he slipped the gun out of its holster he realized in less than a second he would have beaten a Ranger and would be famous across the galaxy. But before the gun could clear there was a sudden explosion of sound and noise and then Frank Moche felt nothing anymore.

  To everyone else in the room they had clearly seen Moche make his move while the Ranger stood and seemed to be waiting. Then, so suddenly that none of them could swear they had seen him move at all, the Ranger's weapon was in his hand and spitting death.

  Moche's gun slipped from his dead fingers and clattered loudly to floor in the shocked silence of the room. His eyes were open in surprise, almost as wide as the smoldering hole in his chest.

  The Ranger calmly looked around the room, his weapon still out, as if asking if anyone else wanted to deal themselves into this game. But he found no takers and deftly slipped the gun back into his shoulder holster. He flipped another credit at Hans as he walked away from
the table toward the exit.

  "For the inconvenience," the Ranger said as he walked away. Hans snared the credit, a twin to the one still sitting next to the empty glass on the bar, and watched the Ranger walked outside.

  As Hans listened to the engine spool up and the Ranger's ship lift off the ground outside, he looked over at the still smoking corpse and realized he'd never planned for a cemetery. Much less how to bury someone who'd died in Hemingways.

  Hans really, really hated life.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Richard Paolinelli began his writing journey as a freelance writer in 1984 and gained his first fiction credit serving as the lead writer for the first two issues of the Elite Comics sci-fi/fantasy series, Seadragon.

  After nearly a quarter of a century in the newspaper field, in 2010, Richard retired as a sportswriter and returned to his fiction writing roots. Since then he has written several award-winning novels, two non-fiction sports books, and has appeared in several anthologies including eight of the 11-book Tuscany Bay Books’ Planetary Anthology Series and five Sherlock Holmes collections. He also writes a Star Trek fan fiction series, The Calling, on his website, www.scifiscribe.com.

  He runs weekly features on his website, including an occasional podcast, and also occasionally fills in as a guest co-host on LA Talk Radio’s, The Writer’s Block, whenever Jim Christina’s horse runs off and leaves him stranded in the middle of the desert.

  He currently resides in Western Colorado.

  WORKS BY RICHARD PAOLINELLI

  NOVELS

  Maelstrom

  Escaping Infinity

  When The Gods Fell

  Galen’s Way (Starquest 4th Age #1)

  Reservations (Del Rio #1)

  Betrayals (Del Rio #2)

  Endgames (Del Rio #3)

  The Last Lonely Trail (co-written with Jim Christina)

  NOVELLAS

  The Timeless (Timeless #1)

  Secret Of The Sphinx (Timeless #2)