by K A Carter
Chapter 14: S’tiri
The data was lost. At this point it didn’t matter. The smell of burnt flesh was an array of deathly aromas battling within S’tiri’s nose.. M’ala had been electrocuted to a pulp with the data gadget still on her. It probably didn’t have anything useful on it anyway. The idiotic attempt at infiltration, wasn’t actually an infiltration at all. It was an invitation. The Draul were underestimated. Only by the Irinans who had wallowed in a self-designation as a superpower. There were hardly any such things anymore. With the exclusion of the Moranthian Empire. Ancient and advanced, spanning its longevity over multiple millennia. It was the oldest civilization known.
He wondered what Z’oni, J’elan, Donas, or anyone were doing. Was a rescue mission being planned? He entertained the idea; but it was fading along with the nerves in his nose. He hadn’t been in quite a situation like this.
The containment room was dark and clean to spite the crisp dead body that took up the torture seat next to S’tiri. The heinous act of leaving the body there trapped S’tiri in a struggle of his mind, for the first moment a hint of fear. After that, a desire to escape. The dark walls seemed to implode; slowly implode.
Pressure doors opened, and in walked more Draul staff wielders. The two of them accompanied the robed one. The robed one took his garment off and handed it to his left side. He pressed a flat button on the wall behind him and a hovering seat moved out of a compartment and in front of S’tiri. After taking a seat, he just stared. His eyes were clear stars incased in incongruent coarse sockets, each carried a deepened stare. S’tiri had seen it before, the look someone gives when they have killed many and wouldn’t mind killing again. S’tiri remembered it from soldiers that had crossed his path in so many battles. Countless battles. It was a deadpanned look, a disregard for life.
“I trust you are satisfied with your accommodations,” said the deadpanned Draul. He sat unnervingly close.
S’tiri opened his mouth to remark but it was batted down by his better judgement. “Who are you?” asked S’tiri, trying to hide his fear.
“Who I am is of no concern right now. I am the vessel of an idea in its purest of forms.”
“What?”
“This galaxy is stricken with a disease; I intend to rid it of,” He seemed proud of his words. “As so many live their lives in gluttony, your Empires remain weak and fleeting. It’s what brought you to me. Which begs the question of who you are.” The deep voice contained a hidden curiosity that lightened it.
“S’tiri of Mulaya, but I assume it doesn’t matter. I imagine you won’t keep me around for much longer.”
“I am aware of your species, a proud group no doubt.” He stood and pressed the button that retracted the seat. “I have no intention of killing you. There are other ways to rid you of your ignorance.”
Sleep was a humorous thought, only not the one you laughed at. Although his eyes were closed it was only to shield himself from the now rotting corpse that laid slopped in the seat next to him. What could it be? S’tiri thought. What is it that he intends to do? S’tiri had intended on probing the Draul for information but only realized now that it wouldn’t work. The simmer of his mind was discombobulated. It didn’t help that the persistent stench continued to creep into his nostrils. It was something that never happened before and he grew more worrisome about it. His eyes finally opened. Monitors across from him hovered only inches away from the wall. The green tint displaying random data that was indecipherable. It was in the form of unknown characters. It wasn’t Draul, otherwise his translator tool would have picked it up.
S’tiri hadn’t bothered to innately keep track how much time was passing. It would only make the wait more unbearable. The robed Draul entered the room once again. His steps similar in ritual. The seat in place in front of S’tiri. He sat and placed his robe on the ground. “I am Thalus leader of the Draul Armada, Server of the banished ones,” he said.
“Am I supposed to be knowledgeable of you?” asked S’tiri.
“You asked who I was. That is my title. No matter how insignificant the title is, it is a name that will be written in not only Draul history but that of every species. The banished ones say it so. Thalus stood, beginning to pace around the two torture seats. “The disease in this galaxy is treachery. Your societies coexist with each other pedaling meaningless trade and policy that only seek to weaken those within it,” bass deepened in his voice. “As I said before I am a vessel for a greater message. A greater triumph. Greater beings.”
S’tiri glared intently. It was zealot rhetoric. S’tiri had heard it before. On the streets of his providence. Never in such a candid way. “What beings?” S;tiri asked.
“The F’aquissi,” the zealot paused. “are the supreme beings that must rule in order for this galaxy to escape its own self destruction.”
“I think we would all be fine if a race of crazy psychopaths didn’t excite wars in multiple quadrants. A conquest for a fictitious cause.”
“Quite the contrary. Your species have been at war with the Elassi for far more many years than the enlightenment of my own. We have merely taken the role in facilitating a balance of power. To aid the Elassi…so that we may be expand.”
Thalus’ mind was twisted with the perception that it all would make sense just by explaining it. S’tiri pushed it away attempting to block it out. It would be an impossible feat to convince him that something like the war with the Elassi was one that was a byproduct of a galactic hypocrisy. Thalus was twisted and S’tiri could see that. He would do anything to bring his beliefs to tangible lengths. If even by means of a performative utterance.
“I am moving you to better quarters,” said Thalus. He threw the robe back over his broad shoulders covered by raven black armor. It glistened with a green tint from the lights above. He tapped against a hovering wall panel that released the clamps. S’tiri attempted to get up, his legs barely sustaining his weight under a quiver. He felt guilty to feel a string of relief. It had crossed his mind about whether the corpse being left there was a message, or a result of the psychopath’s lack of empathy for any life. It was at least situational. Despite the displays of power, Thalus was calm and that made him a great deal scarier than S’tiri would’ve liked.
Who was he to the Draul? S’tiri’s tactical thinking kicked in and he wondered where he was with respect to his home. If he were to try and escape, what were the steps he would have to take. In that same moment he realized it wasn’t the ship they had infiltrated. Walking through the corridors were not as he remembered them. This ship was bigger and these corridors looked different. Much of the beings S’tiri walked by were robed as well, just like the ones that were guarding him.
The quarters were small as S’tiri suspected it would be. Only after he had entered the room did one of the guards tap at the broad side of the clamps, releasing them from his wrists. Thalus closed the doors behind them, the pressure doors slammed into place, leaving S’tiri to his thoughts once again. This time he was able to think clearer. There weren’t any rotting bodies in this room.
He scoured the edges of the quarters checking each nook. The small room gave away nothing but the window on the pressure door. It consisted of a small bed and space only big enough for him to sit on the floor. A mat covered the bare floor; he assumed it was a meditation mat. The Draul seemed to be the religious type but evidently worshipped something known as the F’aquissi. He had never heard of the name before. It sounded ancient whatever it was. A terminal hovered next to the bed gleaming at S’tiri. He darted to it, not familiar with how to operate it but took his chances. He only managed to bring up a small schematic. S’tiri payed it no mind. Leaning to the right to let the bed catch him.
S’tiri lied back on the bed, a mixture of feelings enveloping his thoughts. He couldn’t think of one particular one. Despite the speech Thalus had given, he was sure death awaited him. It was either that or forcing S’tiri to give up important locations by means of torture. Which wouldn’t explain why h
e was moved to new quarters. Sleep was interrupted by the panel next to the bed, it chimed and the pressure doors in front of him sprung up. He was met by an abnormally burnt Draul. He didn’t wear a robe.
“I am Hortogon, Captain has requested you to be brought on the bridge,” said the burnt one. S’tiri approached him but was quickly snatched by the arm.
The bridge wasn’t a far distance, it was at least five minutes’ walk from the quarters he was in and on the same deck. The bridge was relatively small, with a minimal crew monitoring more hovering panels and a captain’s seat that sat like a throne in the middle of them. There was no one in it. S’tiri looked further ahead at the bridge window. The brutish robed Captain stood looking out the window. Hortogon nudged him toward the window with the back of an oddly shape hand cannon.
As S’tiri approached Thalus, the window filled up with the view of a planet, it was cracked and stricken with craters. Thin brine clouds glossed over an arid, damaged land. “This is my homeworld,” said Thalus, calmly gazing.
“It is destroyed,” responded S’tiri.
“Indeed, it is. It is no longer hospitable to my kind.” Finally, Thalus’ eyes made their way toward S’tiri standing next to him. “Now we drift amongst the stars in great numbers,”
The helmsman brought up a side view of the space next to them. It blocked the view of the planet below. “This is the Armada that will bring about the salvation of this galaxy.”
The view of a countless number of ships stretched passed the boundaries of the image.
“Why are you doing this?” S’tiri asked. He attempted to hide his expression but failed. The sight of an armada overpowered in comparison to the entire fleets of the Irinan Navy; yet still only a fraction Moranthian empire.
“We serve the banished one, Xefacus. And his will shall be done.”
Chapter 15: Jericho
The Vennokians conditioned areas of their palace to make it suitable for Jericho and his crew. The air was a calm mixture that made it unnecessary for the crew’s suits. Though it was breathable enough before, according to Mellor’s tech, Jericho didn’t want to take the chance until he was sure of it. Much of the crew were wary of taking shelter among them. Although human, or at least appearing to be, seeing them brought questions - that if answered - would likely scare them. Jericho couldn’t help his curiosity. For days on end he would sit with Petra to learn about them. There was only so much she remembered. In her great wisdom and experiences, Petra shared what she could. Once before Vennokians thrived throughout galaxy. Planets inhabited by billions that all interconnected in commerce and trade. Vennok had gotten its name as the representation of the successor to the capital city of the Venn empire. Vennok meaning Venn ‘once again’.
The language was a precursor. A difficult and deeply rooted phonetical dialect easy to catch onto referred to as Hennet. Petra had mentioned much of this language to Jericho. Teaching a slight bit in modesty. He wasn’t sure why, but he didn’t see any harm in learning.
Jericho sat in his room. It rested on an upper level just a few steps away from the staircase that that lead to the palace’s ground floor. A hard, clear material the color of dark wood with the consistency of porcelain paved down the corridor. The door to the room by appearance looked antiquated, but by pushing a button it would open slowly. It was a chamber that could fit the whole crew if he would have it that way. Large open spaces riddled everywhere. It was all too royal for him. Soft mixtures of purple and gold linen covered the bed and crevices. The Vennokians had a hint of old fashioned that mirrored the history of kingdoms on earth. It was no doubt in his mind; The Vennokians were as human as he was; as his crew was. No matter how far removed in years they may have been.
Minute differences revealed themselves wherever possible. The inhabitants all bared the same praline, soft, unblemished skin that Petra had. Not alike Jericho’s crew. He himself had sienna skin covered in globs of hair. Scud were a thick beard hanging from a pale face. Not one person on the crew looked alike. Mellor had stringy hair that hugged his skelp, thinning slowly. It boggled Jericho’s mind that so many people could have the same round faces and build.
He sat analyzing his hand terminal. The nav-system of the Icarus displayed. He aimlessly flicked his finger cycling through the countless entries. His imagination got the better of him. What could be there? he thought. Jericho pressed at one of them. The information on it was a computational data stream of what Jericho could only assume were coordinates.
Jericho’s room possessed only one window that viewed outward to a city beyond. One of many that Petra mentioned were connected by underground hyper-rails.
A noise took his attention away from the screen. The whisper of momentum fluttered behind him. He had ordered his crew not to disturb him for the night. Even Anda had respected his desire to be alone this time; she always hadn’t in the past. She didn’t like the idea of leaving him to his thoughts. It didn’t explain where the noise was coming from. Jericho always felt as though he had a heightened sense of things. It was something he couldn’t explain.
He walked on a slow stride checking corners and then the door. Nothing. Then to the windows and balcony. Nothing there either. He stopped in the middle of the room, pulling out his blaster and holding it up like a prop. His finger tapped the trigger. A long silence stood in place of thoughts that allowed him to his hearing. He fired one shot into the long wide ceiling. A body motioned out of the shadows. A hooded figure. Jericho’s shoulders sat relaxed and the blaster slid back into its holster on his thigh. The figure stood only to the height of his neck. She unearthed her face from the hood, her eyes glistening from the lights with gold streaks in it.
“And you might be?” said Jericho.
“You are a perceptive man, unlike any other,” said the girl, the voice lighter than the air and as softly fluid as it. It contrasted the hard features she carried. A face stricken with burns. Jericho could see the use she had for the hood. Though he was by no means unsettled.
“Pardon my intrusion. I wanted to meet you,” the girl said. “I am Araime, Petra’s daughter.”
Things seemed to click into place somehow. Little mental puzzle pieces aligning themselves in Jericho’s head. It was an intricate thought to process. Petra had a story of her own no doubt. Araime, her daughter had a story of her own as well. A story that explained her scars and why her mother did not bring her along anywhere. A story that tied it all together, and that would hopefully have it all make sense.
“Petra did not say - “Jericho was interrupted by the girl.
“She need not. I am unknown to even my own people. My mother spared me from exile, and so I hide,” She took cautious steps toward him, her eyes slowly turning a violet color. The door to the chamber opened and Anda and Morris came through aiming down the barrels of their assault rifles. The shot had been heard, and Jericho had expected it to be. He did little ticks like that to signal, in case of danger. Typically, with more discrete manners.
“Shit Cap, who the fuck is that?” Morris asked.
“Easy, Easy. She’s harmless,” responded Jericho, his hands raised in a calm manner. “This is Petra’s daughter,” Almost in unison the two crewmates slowly lowered their weapons.
Howls of wind could be heard close to window. Petra walked in, light on her feet as a queen should. Jericho could see it in her expressions, an embarrassment in a way. He wanted to probe anyway. He could tell there was a secret behind her daughter. One that not even the closest servants in the palace knew. Something about finding out that information made him attentive to Petra.
“This is not something I have ever told to anyone,” she said, guiding Jericho into a part of the palace that turned into an internal garden. It was on the same floor and opened up into a wide room of thick glass.
“Then why are you telling me?” Jericho responded. It was a reasonable question.
“I tell you so that you’ll do me a valuable favor,”
Jericho had already thought of what
it could be. Something she would want him to do wherever he would go next. He had already decided he would do it. Whatever it was. The Vennokians were so kind. Petra was very kind. During the stay she had not only sheltered the crew but offered food and rest. Something that although could be attained on the Icarus, was a more welcomed change of pace. She had already pledged to give them supplies for the ship and rations so that they were fully stocked for what the journey would bring them.
Jericho nodded, “Of course.”
“Long ago, before we had ever come to this planet,” Petra started. “we were a prosperous people. Our empire stretched the lengths of the galaxy, and then in an instant it was gone.”
“I can’t imagine,”
“There are things in this galaxy that want nothing more than its destruction. Once before the Venn Empire spanned it; connecting thousands of worlds together. I ruled with the king, my love, Kharis. And for a great deal of time our problems were none. We had our first child, a son. Cisses, who grew to be a smart and favorable prince, but there were always shadows casted over him by his father. Kharis grew corrupted. I discovered that he had been plagued with the visions of a dangerous kind. A being had reached out to him. One that transcends any physical constraints. A name I will never forget. Xefacus. I had my palace historians research what it was, and how it may be beaten. I was only given a name. The F’aquissi. In an ancient language of a species that inhabited our space, it meant banished. I had discovered that it had happened before. And how to keep them at bay. The beings must be shut out by a spiritual dissention. However, Kharis embraced it and grew evil. Deathly evil. Cisses found out that his father planned to enslave the remainder of the independent civilizations, including our own people. He confronted his father in a battle and was… slain by him. I was birthing Araime at the time.”
“That sounds horrific,” Jericho said.
