by Cara Violet
Archibel used her forehead; in an upward motion she connected with Wederin’s nose. He fell back cursing. Blood poured from his nose down his lips and Archibel couldn’t help but giggle.
Her amusement didn’t last long; Wederin raised the back of his hand and with an angry swing through the air, Archibel was smacked out cold.
Darayan was running, Materid and Bodel trailing closely behind him. Pilots zigzagged across the flight deck where the forty scapecrafts were waiting. Snowy white streamlined fighter jets, big enough for a crew but small enough for agile movement, their six metallic silver wings keeping their elongated bodies balanced even through meteor showers. A few of them were already taking off and advancing into space for combat.
“We’ve got to get out of here, now.” Darayan said “over there.” He pointed at an unoccupied scapecraft.
To his right, Captain Fallow and Lieutenant Nolar emerged from a hallway.
“Move,” Darayan advised the other two, while he wondered what the Captain and Nolar were searching for. They headed for no ship, instead pointing to a bald Sarinese man running across the deck—the Conductor.
“Sali!” Darayan cursed. The gatekeeper ducked between several scapecrafts and vanished.
Materid had already dropped the back latch, climbed inside and ignited the scapecraft; the churning sound of the two engines purred.
“Come on, Darayan!” Bodel shouted, gesturing Darayan on.
He knew there was no time to save Sali, but if he could slow down the Captain, perhaps the Conductor could save himself and get back to the planet.
“Aim for the captain’s ship,” Darayan said strapping himself in next to Materid, the white cockpit alight in take-off. “I’ll pilot for now.”
“Are you insane?” Bodel exclaimed. “We’ll all be expelled from the infantry!”
“Just do it!” Darayan said to Materid, then, over his shoulder at Bodel, “Sit the Holom down!”
“Fire jets engaged,” Materid said without flinching, flicking the right switchboard, clicking the two turrets into place, all while Darayan guided the scapecraft toward the exit.
“Fire,” Darayan said switching a few more levers up and readying the ship for space.
Materid took a long sideward glance to Darayan, “Who cares about the rules anyway if we’re breaking them with the right people?”
The gunfire echoed as the turrets targeted Captain Fallow’s hull. Slug holes lathered sideways through the white metal.
“They are going to burn us at the stake with Burakar feeding the flames for this.”
“Let’s move,” Darayan said ignoring Bodel. “Your ship.”
“My ship.” Materid took control of the gear stick and navigated them out. “Several fighters to the right,” Materid informed them, as the ship emerged into space. Tiny, midnight blue D-wing ships with glowing buttery lights streamed toward them.
“Easy does it,” Darayan sniffed, “wait,” he scanned the stars in his peripheral, “where the Holom are we?”
The ship tugged violently sideways.
“What was that?” Bodel jolted in her chair.
“We’re under fire!” Darayan yanked his neck round to their rear monitor, unable to see what had hit them; then Captain Fallow flew past them, dodging another firing fighter. “There’s too many of them,” he breathed out after another swarm of aggressive and gun-blazing D-wing fighters emerged, “What the Holom is going on … Materid?”
“Well,” Materid said his attention on the controls, spinning the scapecraft over and slowly lining their vision up with the dark, smoky planet riddled with zigzagging ships, and explosions, and warfare, “this is the planet Janjuc.” The screen below him gave a response. “We are right in the middle of a civil war. Darayan,” he said apprehensively, “I’ve charged the Vector generator.”
“Good,” Darayan replied, punching another button to change the gears for transportation. “Let’s get the Holom out of here.”
Materid nodded and recalibrated their destination. He slammed the Vector generator button. Silence followed.
“It won’t work,” Materid paled, trying again to launch a Euclidean Vector. “I can’t Vector us out.”
It was too late, Darayan knew, eyes on the growing volatile planet. “We’re being absorbed into the planet’s atmosphere,” he whispered, then looked back to his pilot, “what are shields at?”
“After Captain Fallow’s hit, twenty percent.” Materid gulped.
“And what about the landing gears?”
Materid clicked a few screens, double checked the monitor for its answer and exhaled. “There’s nothing left of them.”
“Let’s do what we can.”
“And die?” Bodel cut in.
“We have no choice but to be dragged into whatever this place is—” Darayan flinched as the Sarinese transport behind him took heavy fire. A showering of debris and smoke decorated the huge ship.
“Look at the rust bucket. How can we help?” Materid demanded, eyeing the vulnerable transport.
“We don’t.” Darayan sat back in his chair, deliberating.
“Our people—”
“Whatever war is happening here,” Darayan said over the top of him, “it’s something we all need to brace for, someone sent us to it to perish.”
From their small scapecraft windscreen they watched as the transport took another round of fire from the smaller Janjuc fighters. Then, all of a sudden, the smaller fighters fled.
“What are they doing?”
“Retreating: they know the planet has us.” All the scapecrafts were non-responsive now, sucked in by the planet, but the transport withheld, remaining stationary in the atmosphere, Darayan sighed relief at that, hopeful the Conductor could find a way to return them all home. His attention went back to the fast approaching planet.
“This pull of the Siliou is not something I’ve ever felt before.”
“I can’t switch on my aura,” Bodel confessed.
“No,” Darayan confirmed, “neither can I.”
“So, we’re doomed,” Bodel snuffled.
The scapecraft waned as the atmosphere spun them around several times before the nose finally straightened out.
Buttons clicked under Materid’s fingers. “I can’t slow us down.”
Darayan felt his chest tighten. “Thrusters back?”
“Everything is in reverse.”
Within another minute, the smoking planet sucked them rapidly through black and grey clouds, and then out into a plain of navy and magenta trees and black lifeless terrain.
“Can we land in the forest?” Darayan asked.
“We can try,” Materid went to work, shifting the controls, gauging the easiest route for the scapecraft to make it to the dense bushes of trees.
“We’re coming in too hot,” Darayan felt the heat on his face, “what are shields at?”
“Two percent!” Materid heaved the gear stick against him trying to elevate the ship.
The trees were metres away.
“Pull up! Pull up!” Darayan screamed; the seconds became non-existent as they closed their eyes and braced themselves for impact.
But nothing happened.
Darayan peeked one eye open.
Everything was stationary. The scapecraft was levitating in the air. It was like something had overtaken the ship and scheduled the landing for them.
“What’s going on?” Bodel said; Materid’s frozen expression fixed on his hands gripping the gear stick.
“It’s not me,” he said “I haven’t moved this an inch.”
Then, with one more turn of the ship, they landed graciously.
“What was that about?” Darayan heard Bodel ask. He said nothing. His heart started beating regularly again and he didn’t want to question what just happened. He had no idea how they had just survived.
Chapter Three: The Dowaric System
Owen, Kinsmen Ranger of Valendean, hated seeing the Dowaric System like this. Why had Janjuc, the planet of
so-called peaceful Sprites turned on itself? The Sprites were once a unified, utilitarian people, filled with love and beauty. How had they allowed their differences in belief become a reason to fight against one another?
Valendean was the next planet out of the orbit of Janjuc before the sunstar. Escaping behind Valendean was Vengard. As a World Minister, Owen tried to unite the planets of Dowaric so he could best represent them at the Universal Order. Although not all species agreed with his appointment, he took due diligence to ensure they were all equally represented. It didn’t help that Janjuc was volatile and that the Mandalayns of Vengard didn’t care about the system at all.
“Sir, your Felrin cruiser is ready,” a Valendean guard said. “You requested your four personal Kinsmen Rangers to journey with you. They are on flight deck, sir. I’ll call them up?”
Owen nodded, hollowly staring out at his beautiful city of Valendean. A city entrenched in nature; one of progressive buildings built against the high-rising walls of chasms and where trees and vines snaked through the glass exterior buildings in perfect scenery.
This was the Kinsmen’s legacy. Like Own’s father, and his father before him, the Kinsman had represented a culture of love for the land. But his decision to stay faithful to the Felrin Congress party had him, at important times, neglecting his own planet and the other planets in his system. Is this what his father had wanted when he signed up to the Universal Order as one of the five alliance Systems of the Felrin Congress party? In the corner of his mind, Owen knew something wasn’t right.
And even though he signed a document binding his people to reinforce Felrin orders at a recent emergency meeting in Felrin, he was vigilant enough to follow what mattered to those he loved and those who put faith in him.
“Has my wife been secured?” he asked a guard, as soon as he was aboard the Felrin cruiser.
“Sir, yes.”
“Thank you,” Owen mumbled, thinking about the kiss goodbye he had given her this morning. He was doing this for them. For the family he wanted to have, to live in a peaceful Dowaric Galaxy and in a heritage-full, culture-rich Valendean city. He couldn’t do that with a civil war brewing on Janjuc. He needed to prevent whatever conflict was brewing on Janjuc, even without the help of Vengard.
“The word has been given,” another guard entered the flight deck and spoke, “there is definite disruption, sir.”
Again, Owen nodded. The question was: why was there such disruption on one of his planets? Why was Janjuc apparently in panic and conflict?
“I will go and will return after I have met with Chastity and found a conclusion to the protestors’ argument.”
Without needing to turn, Owen felt the Kinsmen Rangers enter the helm.
“Welcome, brothers,” he said.
“Good to see you, Owen,” one of the Rangers said stepping forward. Owen stared out into space as the view of his home faded.
“Take a seat,” he advised them, gesturing to the unoccupied seats by him, “let’s get us through a Vector, and get us back home as soon as possible.” he ordered.
“Yes, sir,” they said in unison.
Another second later, a large door slit open the space in front of them, and then, with a cold rush, the cruiser penetrated the opening.
The Felrin cruiser entered Janjuc’s atmosphere without a glitch. But Owen frowned when spotting a huge transport—half damaged and broken. It was a rusty, square, copper vessel and larger than he was used to seeing. Perhaps salvaged from scrap metals? But where would they attain such materials? The black market had been shut down by the Felrin, hadn’t it? Owen sighed thoughtfully. Although the large size of the transport perplexed him, it was definitely illegal in all senses of the word. What was an illegal ship doing in the middle of Janjuc?
“Taelen,” he said to his Kinsmen Ranger Second, “contact the Felrin Principals. Prudence would want to know a rogue ship is swirling in her space.”
Taelen nodded. One of the four Kinsmen Rangers that had greeted him on deck, he pressed a few digits on the controls in the copilot’s seat. Taelen was young but experienced, and passionate about the protection of the Kinsmen. So were the other three Kinsmen Rangers standing behind him: Lafael, Nash, and Everett. They all essentially looked the same, too. Dark-haired, stubble-growing, wide-chested, tall; the basic, purebred Valendean offspring—yet all appropriately dressed in their Valendean hunter-green slacks and thick sturdy tunics that set them apart from the rest of the population. The most prominent signifier of the differences between the four of them were their weapons.
Taelen was a single blade man, whereas Nash held double blades sheathed on his back; Lafael stored his bow and automatic arrows behind him and Everett cradled his chainsticks under his belt.
“What?” Nash asked, unstrapping himself out of his seat. Owen realised he was staring at him.
“Sorry, nothing.”
The Felrin cruiser moved on towards the smoking planet, still clearly suffering from its civil battle.
Owen breathed out. “Are we all ready?”
He received no objection from anyone, so gathered his blades and sheathed them in their scabbards. “I’ll do all the talking,” he confirmed, “when we find out what Chastity needs to win this war, we will help her.” They all nodded. “Let’s go.”
Chapter Four: Shipwrecked
The scapecraft landed safely, but within seconds of landing it began to sink.
“What’s going on?”
“Bodel,” Darayan said to her shocked expression, “stop asking stupid questions, the ship is obviously moving and we need to get the Holom out.”
“It’s a lake,” Materid explained, “a muddy lake covered by mossy marsh and algae.”
“MOVE! Quickly!” Darayan said hoisting Bodel down the corridor and toward the back latch as Materid tried to force it open.
“The water will flow in on us,” he said.
“Well then what?” Darayan said too sarcastically.
Materid shrugged. “Hold your breath?”
“Just open it.”
As soon as the back latch dropped, the water pummelled into them, forcing them apart.
Darayan swam hard. As hard as he could, out the latch as the scapecraft carried itself down to the bottom of the lake; Bodel and Materid frantically swimming their way to the surface.
Darayan took a huge breath of air as he surfaced. He realised the water was dirty; muddy and slimy and it stank.
“Get out on the bank,” he said.
The three of them hauled their bellies up on the shoreline, wiping their faces and eyes of the liquid that stained their skin.
“What the Holom is this stuff?” Bodel coughed violently, thick grass under her hands and knees. “What is this planet?”
“Janjuc,” Materid answered.
“Give me information about the civil war,” Darayan said.
“It happened over six months ago,” Materid clarified, still fishing gunk out of his Sarinese armour. “The Sprite King died, leaving his young, juvenile, motherless daughter in charge. Apparently, there had been unrest between the Sprites about what Felrin was doing; Janjuc have been advocating for more lenient laws around space travel, sick of having to hide the vessels they make—”
“We don’t worry about that,” Bodel snorted.
“No,” Darayan rubbed his chin, “we don’t, that’s because we have a big army and barter secretly on the black market to build our rust buckets; the Felrin Congress probably don’t want to come up against us, but we have just been targeted by fish creatures—”
“Besides all that,” Materid kept going, “unity was severed for the Sprites when the young Queen took office and stated Moel would be the recommended belief against the planet’s heritage. The people could be free to choose, but only Moel would be recognised.”
“What the Holom is Moel?” Bodel asked the question on Darayan’s mind.
Materid rolled his eyes. “Another belief, an ancient one really, supports claims of a single woman
goddess who walked among the people. Unlike Suradika and Burakar, Moel was Homo captiosus and the non-physical side of her spread unity through the rest of their people.”
“Well, why is this a bad thing?”
“Because, Bodel, the Sprites didn’t all believe in it, only thirty percent of the people believe in Moel, I think about fifteen percent follow our Sarinese beliefs and the rest do not follow a belief but support the ways of the Silkri made infamous by Silas Silkri.”
“I’ve heard some young kids say that Silas Silkri was a god.”
“Let’s not get this mixed up, controlling the Siliou is not a religion.”
“Anyway,” Darayan cut in, “we’ve got to find a place to hide,” he scanned the temporary quiet sky, “if this thing has been going on for a few months, we will get no respite standing right in the middle of it.”
Bodel frowned. “What about the ship?”
“We’ve got to reserve our resources for a while,” Darayan said positively, “then,” he exhaled, “we’ll come back for it.”
Chapter Five: The Patient Warrior, an Impatient Queen
It had been a quick melee. Despite neither side advancing through defences or making swift victory, Queen Chastity had ordered her troops to stand down when she heard of the Kinsmen Rangers’ arrival. It was her first diplomatic visitor since her ascension. Levon snorted, knowing the Kinsmen wouldn’t be here willingly. If ever there was a clueless Queen, Chastity of Janjuc was it. The battle lines were so bleak at this point, a war that they should have been able to squash easily had been drawn out due to her careless leadership. It didn’t help she had so many officials in her ears directing her which way and that, and her constant outbursts of verbiage never made any sense. The seventeen-year-old’s confusion was obvious to everyone in her proximity. Thank the heavens of Suradika that reeling her in to follow the ancient laws of the Sprites wasn’t Levon’s job. He couldn’t stand the girl, and he was sure the rest of the people—and the galaxy for that matter—had the same opinion of her.
