Resigned Fate

by West, Shay

  “It explains...” Feeror growled. He took a deep breath, trying to force the words to come. His brain was awhirl with the implications of what they had all just witnessed.

  “Moylir speaks truth. Machines did this themselves. What can we do?” Feeror managed.

  Moylir jumped up and down. “Use portal to go to earlier.” She threw up her hands in frustration. “Go to earlier, take out chips.”

  --I think what she is suggesting is to use the portal to go further back in time and remove the processors prior to the machines being able to fuse them to their inner workings-- the clone said.

  Lamnor shook his head, gesturing wildly to the clone.

  --The one you call Lamnor is quite excited and eager to explain why we can’t do what you propose--

  Feeror turned to look at Lamnor. “Why not possible? Been here in two times. Now and in future”

  Lamnor shook his head. --That’s not what I mean. I can take us back as early as you want but it won’t change anything--

  “Why no change?”

  --I brought you here to gain knowledge of your enemy. Nothing we do in the past can stop the Mekans--

  Feeror limped over to face Lamnor. “If we keep Mekans here, they no harm other places.”

  Lamnor’s face fell. --It’s not that simple. This event has already occurred. It will occur. We’re merely visitors, watching something that has already happened--

  “We speak to them,” Feeror pointed to the telcor around them. “That’s not watching.” He pointed to Voilor lying on the ground. “If we only watch, why he dying?”

  Lamnor shook his head, large eyes filled with compassion. --I don’t claim to know how it all works. But my people have tried before to alter something in the past with no success. The event occurred anyway--

  Feeror shook his head. “I don’t understand. We destroy machines, they no hurt other places.”

  --You may destroy them now, but that won’t stop the event from occurring. The telcor will rebuild them or someone else will create them and they’ll do exactly what they are doing in the future. It may take ten years or a thousand. And what if it takes a thousand? My guess is, your species doesn’t live that long. Who will stop the machines if you are all long dead?--

  Feeror clenched his fists, eager to hit someone or something, anything to take out his rage and frustration. “So we can do nothing?”

  --I never said there wasn’t anything to be done. I simply said that you couldn’t prevent the Mekans becoming self-aware and eventually destroying and leaving this world. We can learn how the machines function and take that information back to the others like you that are supposed to stop them-- Lamnor said.

  “Let’s get star—”

  Feeror turned at a commotion from the ground where Voilor lay. Moylir had a telcor female by the throat and slammed her against a nearby tree.

  “What you mean, you do nothing? Heal. Him,” Moylir spoke through clenched teeth.

  “He is beyond our aid,” another female tugged Moylir’s arm, trying to get her to loosen her grip on the other’s throat.

  “Our world is gone. We are only three left.” Moylir’s voice cracked.

  Feeror moved closer haltingly, unsure how to react. The telcor was going limp in Moylir’s grasp and the two other females who had been tending to Voilor were desperately pulling Moylir’s arms, trying to save their comrade.

  Moylir suddenly dropped her arm and the telcor fell to the ground, gasping for breath. Feeror watched as she turned from the scene at the foot of the tree and shuffled back to Voilor. She slumped to the ground, arms limp at her sides, eyes glazed as she stared at Voilor dying on the forest floor. Feeror wanted to go to her, comfort her. These things seemed like the right thing to do and yet all he could manage was to stand rooted to the spot, staring at Voilor as he fought for every breath.

  “He doesn’t have much longer. Perhaps you would like to say your final farewells,” a female telcor suggested. Her large eyes met Feeror’s, sympathy in their inky depths.

  This can’t be happening.

  DARK PLANET

  FEEROR STARED AT VOILOR, his brain refusing to accept what his eyes were seeing. Voices buzzed in his ears. He spun in a slow circle trying to gain some control of his thoughts. Snippets of conversations, images, scents, sounds all fought for control. Nothing made sense and it made Feeror feel as though he was floating out of his body.

  A strange keening wail pierced his brain and helped clear the cloud of confusion. Moylir was rocking back and forth over the body of Voilor. The telcor stood nearby, their heads hanging in sorrow.

  “We two are the last of our people,” Moylir said as she continued rocking.

  Feeror glared at Lamnor. The Traveler backed away a step at the fury in the Volgon warrior’s eyes.

  “This is your fault.”

  --Why would you say—

  “You bring us and say we can’t stop machines. Why you not tell us we can’t stop them before this?”

  --I didn’t know what your expectations were. And I never thought we would be coming back to the exact moment when the machines would begin digging out of control--

  Feeror clenched his jaw. Part of him knew it wasn’t fair to blame Lamnor. I must blame someone. Events were unfolding and there was nothing they could do about it. He had been so sure that coming to the home world of the Mekans would yield the answer the Chosen had been seeking.

  Instead, we have lost another.

  “We need to sing for Voilor,” Moylir said as she stood.

  Feeror nodded. Their comrade deserved no less. “I sing. But no can do the steps. You do steps.” Feeror closed his eyes. “I mean, you dance.”

  Moylir didn’t say anything, merely stood gazing down at Voilor’s body.

  Feeror turned to Thundering Pine. “I need speak to those that tell you how to make machines. Maybe they know how to destroy.”

  “They should be here in a few days. In the meantime, we will use our weapons to fight the machines, try to slow them down.”

  “We must leave soon. Must warn others,” Feeror said.

  Thundering Pine wrung his paws. “I know that somehow you blame us for things that have yet to occur. We will fight to the end to keep the machines from leaving our world.”

  “We happy for what you can do.” I fear it will not be enough.

  A few telcor helped Feeror and Moylir find wood for a fire. They watched in confusion as the two strangers arranged the wood around the body of their comrade, twittering and purring to one another in hushed tones as though afraid to interrupt. The telcor jumped when Feeror screeched at the sky.

  Feeror stopped abruptly, the high pitched sound of his voice ruining the moment. The death song was supposed to be chanted in a low roaring voice that would make its way to the sky, declaring that a warrior was about to join them. Moylir’s face was twisted in disgust.

  “These sounds not good. Not strong, like ours,” she said.

  “They sounds of this people. Must sing anyway.”

  This time, Feeror tried to ignore his voice and concentrate on the ritual. Moylir did the dance while he chanted, leaping and twisting, demonstrating with her motions the agility that Voilor had once possessed. Feeror lost himself in the words, swaying his body as best he could with one leg in a splint.

  When the song was finished, he opened his eyes. White smoke curled around the treetops as it made its way to the skies. He watched the fire consume the body until there was nothing but ashes.

  “We should leave now. The machines are coming closer and your leg still hinders your ability to travel,” Thundering Pine said.

  The group made their way slowly back to the village. Feeror wasn’t the only one who had sustained injuries in the fight. Most of the party wore make-shift bandages, splints, or were being carried on travois. The herbs the telcor had used to treat the pain from Feeror’s broken leg had long since worn off. Each step brought agonizing fire.

  “Here, drink this.” A female telcor held o
ut an animal skin pouch full of liquid.

  Feeror stopped and balanced the stick crutches under his arms. He drank from the skin and winced at the bitter taste.

  “What is this?” he asked.

  “It’s a drink made from skullcap and valerian. It will ease your pain but it may make you see strange things.”

  “Strange things? Like what?”

  “People that aren’t really there, strange colors. The effects won’t last long. If you start to see things, let one of us know and we’ll walk with you to keep you grounded. Our kind doesn’t usually suffer much but since you are not from this world, we are not sure how you will respond,” the telcor said.

  Feeror understood enough of what the telcor had said to know that the effects of the drink didn’t sound pleasant. “Why no use paste from before?”

  The telcor smiled. “Unfortunately, we are out of the material needed to make the paste. This is all we have.” The telcor left to bring the skin to others in the party.

  Feeror limped along the trail back the village, alert for any signs that he was seeing things that weren’t really there. There were trees, vines, low bushes, flowers, and the crunch of leaf litter underfoot. Every now and again he caught the sound of something moving through the underbrush. His heart raced as he peered into the dark shadows lurking under the trees. A warrior isn’t afraid of a little skittering in the underbrush.

  “Everything okay?”

  Feeror jumped as Moylir spoke. “Fine. Hear strange sounds. Must see what makes them.” Even as he said it, he knew it sounded strange and unlike him.

  “Is something following us?” She peered into the forest.

  “I don’t know what it was. Forget it. The rest of the group is moving off.” Feeror limped down the path, thankful that the bitter drink had taken much of the pain. He was able to move a little more quickly.

  Moylir outdistanced him and he found himself at the back of the group. Suddenly, the path shimmered and disappeared. In its place was a building floating in a whirlwind of pink clouds. Strange things moved about in the maelstrom. Suddenly, a Mekan descended from above, attaching itself to the building. Arms emerged from its underbelly and began drilling into the side of the floating building.

  The scene changed and he saw a strange wall that looked like it snaked for miles and miles across a green expanse. The closer he got, the more impressive the structure became. Men crawled over it, putting distance between themselves and the Mekan rolling across the ground toward them.

  The wall shimmered. Feeror saw one of his friends back on Astra, the one called Jon. The boy’s face was covered in black soot and red blood. He was shouting to someone, waving his arms, trying in vain to do...something. He turned and Feeror saw the Mekan smashing a palace with one leg. The boy’s mouth opened in a silent scream. Suddenly, his face fell limp, his eyes devoid of life. He looked to the side before facing the Mekan again. Feeror caught the glint of a tear running down his cheek before the image shifted again.

  The path was green, a strange green, not like grass or bushes. Flat and metallic. Feeror frowned as things began growing out of the ground, like strange plants, all bulbous and pointy. Some invisible hand arranged them, seemingly at random and yet with perfect precision.

  It looks like a processor.

  The longer Feeror looked at the strange thing forming in the middle of the path through the forest, the more convinced he became that he was looking at a computer processor, not unlike the one used on his world. This one was more complex, with connections made faster than he could keep track, and newer, smaller components being added each second, faster and faster until his head swam trying to keep up.

  Suddenly, the images were gone and the path was before him. The others had stopped and were staring back at him. He pointed to the path in front of him and waved his hands, unsure how to explain what he had seen. The images were dream-like and fading.

  “Did you see something strange?” a telcor asked.

  “Yes. Several somethings. Hard to explain.”

  “It’s the effects of the drugs. No need to worry.”

  “No, what I see was given to me to see. Like someone trying to say something just to me. I saw our enemy.”

  “You see Gorkons?” Moylir asked.

  Feeror smiled. “Not that enemy. The other. Them.” He pointed behind him at the approaching noise.

  “What you see?” she asked.

  “Not sure. Things I can’t put a name to, even if we were home.”

  --Perhaps I can help--

  The clone came to stand next to Feeror.

  --I can pull the images straight from your mind and help you interpret them if you’d like--

  Feeror nodded, unsure if this would be any different than regular communication. “What do I do?”

  --Just begin by telling them of your visions. I will add in elements as I pick them up from your mind--

  Feeror cleared his throat and began describing what he had seen when the path disappeared. It was slow going. He would speak of the first vision, then switch to the final, which was more clear in his mind. It was starting to jumble together and he was having a hard time separating them into the four distinct visions.

  --The first vision is of Kromin--

  --Maybe machines are there now?-- Feeror suggested.

  --Can you contact someone from your world?-- Moylir asked.

  --I’m afraid that would not be possible--

  --Why not?--

  --You forget that we are not in their time--

  Moylir rolled her eyes. She knew weapons and shields, not things about time travel and space. Every time we think we gain some ground, we hit another wall.

  --When we get back, we will warn them. What about the third vision? It was of the one they call Jon Stone. Why would I have a vision of just that one person?-- Feeror asked.

  --I can’t tell you anything you don’t already know. The vision was of Jon Stone. But we already know the Mekans are on Astra--

  --Maybe we see their world dead like ours-- Moylir said.

  Feeror grimaced. They had grown closer to the Astrans than any of the other Chosen, had spent more time with them, fought with them.

  Loved them.

  Gwen’s face filled his mind. He absently reached for the nonexistent piece of cloth on his upper arm, rubbing the fur instead.

  “The last vision you describe sounds like what the processors that power the Mekans look like,” Thundering Pines said.

  “What about the stone wall?”

  --Unknown. Although Earth has a structure that looks very similar to what you saw--

  “I never go to Earth or Kromin and never see a processor of a Mekan. How can I see things I have never actually seen? Makes no sense,” Feeror answered aloud.

  “Nothing makes sense. Many die, prophets no see the future, we no understand the prophecy, this world no help. We should return to Astra and help friends there,” Moylir said, throwing up her hands in disgust.

  “Perhaps we should continue on to the village,” Thundering Pines suggested. “You can rest there and regain your strength while you await the Makers.”

  As they walked, Feeror wondered what the visions could possibly mean. The telcor had warned that he may see things that weren’t there, but this was more than mere coincidence. He had been shown things he had never laid eyes on, places he had never been, people he had never met, and yet the visions were all related by the prophecy and the enemy the Chosen faced.

  The answer could lie with these strange visions. What does it all mean?

  EARTH

  FORKA WAS THE FIRST TO EMERGE FROM THE PORTAL. This physical form was familiar and easy to slip into; he knew every wrinkle, sagging muscle, and ache. He stretched and stood off to the side, waiting for Robert and the clone to come through.

  He noticed a pile of clothes off to one side of the portal. After picking through several sets of trousers and shirts, he found what he thought were his own garments. It was hard to tell. They we
re so old and worn, they could have belonged to anyone.

  How long have we been gone?

  Robert finally emerged, followed closely by the clone. Robert was on his knees retching and shaking from the agony pulsing through his body. The clone merely shook its head and walked sedately to stand next to Forka.

  “Does your kind not feel pain?” Forka asked the question aloud out of habit.

  --We do--

  Forka pinched the bridge of his nose. “It doesn’t appear as though you feel pain. You emerge from the portal as though taking a stroll through a sunny meadow.”

  --I do not understand. What is a ‘stroll’?--

  He clenched his teeth is frustration. “Haven’t you noticed how the rest of us exit the portal as though we’re dying?” He pointed at Robert who was getting unsteadily to his feet.

  --Why should pain keep you from being able to walk?--

  Forka threw up his hands. He waited impatiently for Robert and the clone to find clothing. There was no telling how long they’d been gone. The last time they had been here the Jhinn had been captured by the joint forces of the Horde and Cowboys.

  What will we find at the encampment?

  Forka took the lead as the three made their way out of the portal cave. A pang of sadness wrenched his guts. The first time he had passed through the portal it had cost a family their lives. That decision had set off a chain of events that had ultimately led to the death of one of the Chosen.

  And that death may have doomed everyone in the galaxy.

  Forka shook his head. It would be too easy to sink into a well of regret that would drown him. He had spent too many sleepless nights replaying everything that had happened, from the moment he had first learned he was a Guardian to the splitting of the group on Astra to go their own separate ways. Every moment had many different possible outcomes, depending on the decisions people made. What if he had refused the Guardian training? Would destiny have picked someone else? What if the Masters had followed prophecy to the letter instead of sending the Guardians to their planets early? What if he had let the family live and taken the risk that they would tell everyone about the man that walked through rocks? What if, what if, what if...