Galactic Council Realm 1: On Station

by J. Clifton Slater

  Next, I loaded the pistol and using a two handed grip, I fired it. The nine round magazine emptied and I felt confident I could hit what I aimed at with the handgun. As I finished, an NCO came wandering out of the Armory shed.

  “Nice shooting,” he observed while placing a weapon cleaning kit in my hand, “Not Navy, you shoot like a Marine, Lieutenant.”

  We strolled over to a weathered table and I began to push out retaining pins and pull apart the rifle. As each piece of the weapon came loose, I brushed it and applied a light amount of gun oil.

  “A long time ago Chief,” I replied as I worked on cleaning the barrel by pushing a rod down its length, “She fires nice.”

  “You the pilot who pulled Celso and his team out last night?” he asked.

  “Guilty, although it was pretty routine,” I admitted while reassembling the rifle.

  “Come by the Armory before you head out,” he said before strolling back to the building.

  After cleaning the pistol and sticking it into the pocket of my flight suit, I followed the NCO into the building. I entered and inhaled the smell of hot metal, oil and dust. Typical for every Armory I’ve ever been in, even on a ship. The work was part organization, part precision with a large dose of artistry. Most troops went in, got their weapons and left. For the men and women who worked with the pistols, rifles, mortars and machine guns, it was more than a job. It was a calling.

  He turned as I entered. In his out stretched hands were two items.

  “These will make it easier for you,” he said laying the items on the counter top.

  One was a soft sided rifle case. I unzipped the bag and strapped the rifle into the holder. The case would seal out moisture and dust, keeping the weapon in pristine condition. The other item was a tangle of leather straps.

  I unknotted the mess and a shoulder rig emerged. It was designed to fit the big handgun. After slinging it over my head and shoving the pistol into the holster, the thing suspended the pistol at my left elbow. I cross drew and the weapon came out easily.

  “Thank you Chief,” I said collecting the gun case.

  “Safe flying,” he responded as he turned back to a work bench. His duty to me done, he ignored my departure. As I said, armory requires artistry and accompanying that, an artist temperament.

  I really wanted food, anything to fill my belly, so I detoured to the mess hall. Maybe I could snag a sandwich or something quick. What I found was a prepared box lunch with my name on it.

  “Chief Dunya said you’d be by for this,” the messman stated handing me the container, “She said to get you in and out quick, and back to her without delay.”

  Quality NCOs make the Military run. So I did just that and double timed it back towards the flight line. With the rifle case slung on my shoulder and my lunch tucked securely under my arm, I arrived at the radio room minutes later.

  “Eat and I’ll brief you, Sir,” the Senior Chief suggested as I dropped into a chair facing her, “You’ve got two Park Rangers to drop at the east Hacienda. Directions are entered into your on board computer. It’s basically between the protein Landing Zone and the east Ranch.”

  “That sounds a lot like the fruit Landings Zone with a Hamlet between the LZ and fruit Farm,” I said between bites of the roast beef sandwich.

  “Exactly. Most of our sector of Nafaka has an LZ at the center with a Hamlet or Hacienda between the LZ and, further out, a Farm or a Ranch,” she agreed, “They’re all east or west facing from the Landing Zones. But, you’ve got a pickup at the old man’s place.”

  “The Old man’s place?” I repeated, “That doesn’t sound like an official location.”

  “It is and it isn’t,” Senior Chief Dunya explained, “The old man runs a Druid facility. We’re not sure what they produce but the Council has deemed them essential, so we pick up from them. You’ll deposit their cargo at the protein LZ for off world loading.”

  A Druid facility on Nafaka? This could be interesting as I only know of the Druid community on planet Uno. Most other Druid areas were on space ships or Stations. I was curious and began to look forward to this flight. My exhaustion disappeared along with the information and the sandwich.

  “Thank you Dunya,” I said tossing the box and empty wrapping paper into a trash basket, “I’m briefed. Is the helicopter ready yet?”

  “It should be any minute now,” she stated as she turned to the radio controls, “Base to Princess.”

  I listened for a second as she gave landing directions to another of the 49th Air Wing pilots.

  “Princess to Base. I’m on approach. Is the main pad clear?”

  “No, J-Pop is still on the deck,” Dunya announced while turning to glare at me, “He’s still down for repairs. Use the secondary pad.”

  “I read you Base,” Princess responded in a clear but frustrated tone, “using secondary landing pad.”

  Not wanting to be the subject of another accusing scowl from the Senior Chief, I left the radio room and headed for the landing pad and my bird. She was jacked up and looked as if a strong gust of wind would roll her over. Both mechanics were squatting beneath the under carriage.

  “Sorry for the damage,” I said as I approached.

  One of the two poked his head around the new strut. The part connected the skid to the fuselage and acted as a leveling mechanism when landing on uneven terrain.

  “Not really your fault,” he declared, “It was old and couldn’t take much stress anyway.”

  “Thanks for letting me off the hook,” I replied, “Put that in your report to the Senior Chief?”

  “As good as done,” the other mechanic said as she low crawled out from under the slanting helicopter, “The strut and the report, Sir.”

  Before I could reply, I heard the beating blades of an incoming helicopter. Must be Princess on her approach to the secondary pad. She came in fast and sure. One minute she was a dot in the sky and the next her bird settled on the other side of the maintenance hangar.

  By the time my copter was softly lowered to the ground, a pilot was emerging from a door in that hangar. She’d taken a short cut through from the secondary pad.

  “Lieutenant Sade, call sign Princess,” she announced as she walked up to me, “You must be J-Pop?”

  Lieutenant Sade was taller than me and carried herself like royalty. Her handshake was firm and sure and accompanied by a mischievous grin. The only disagreeable factor was the scar. Princess had a scar marring her long face. It ran from her temple down to the beginning of her neck. Not pretty, but strong, was the term I’d use to describe Lieutenant Sade.

  Before I could reply, she added, “You know if you left right now, I could fly over before Dunya found out I was here?”

  Right on schedule, the Senior Chief stuck her head out of the radio building.

  “Lieutenant Sade, you owe the GC Navy a week’s worth of reports,” Dunya’s voice carried across the distance to us loudly but respectfully, “Plus you’ve got an 0500 mission.”

  “Too late,” Princess said as one of the mechanics stepped in from of the pilot, “Chief Armel, the pressure on my third blade keeps dropping.”

  “Yes ma’am, we’ll get it replaced,” Armel replied and turning to the other mechanic said, “Let’s go Arsenia, Princess needs a blade replacement.”

  I wasn’t sure but I thought the female mechanic mumbled something like ‘that’s not all she needs replaced’ but I wasn’t sure. So, the two mechanics were Chief Armel and Spaceman 1st Class Arsenia. Together they wheeled away the jack from my helicopter and headed for the maintenance hangar.

  “See you J-Pop,” Sade said as she strutted towards the radio room and the waiting Senior Chief, “Safe flight.”

  Chapter 52

  My two passengers dumped their huge packs into the cargo deck and they climbed in.

  “Next stop east Hacienda,” I said climbing in to join them, “Out of curiosity, what do Park Rangers do?”

  “This outing, we’re investigating the disappe
arance of sheep,” one replied with enthusiasm.

  I was a little surprised he was excited about missing sheep. It was until the other one expanded on the explanation.

  “We think it might be a mother Puma based on the number of missing sheep and their nocturnal disappearances,” he said, “We’ll track her to her lair and, if the litter isn’t too young, try to drive her out of the area.”

  “Why don’t you just kill her?” I asked thinking that a predator should be eliminated.

  “She’s part of the ecosystem,” the first Ranger stated, “We need the Puma to eat other predators. If we removed the big cats from Nafaka, the wolves and rabbits would become a bigger problem. So, we herd and monitor and only kill when necessary.”

  “Well then let’s get you to herding cats,” I teased but the Park Rangers didn’t get the joke. They both nodded seriously.

  We lifted off after I’d stored the gun case and radioed Dunya. The flight was smooth. As we progressed, the land changed as we left the barren foothills behind. Below, fields of grain spread out and soon the harvesters appeared leaving shortened stalks in their path. Almost like the boats at the fishery except these wakes was straight.

  I set down at Nuevo-Kansas, the grain Landing Zone, for a break and to refuel. My Rangers slept while I ate and stretched my legs. My flight plan took us northeast from the LZ and again the land changed. From thickly packed fields of grain, the land became vast expanses of short grassland broken occupationally by clusters of trees. Herds of cattle roamed like slow rolling clouds as they fed on the vegetation. As we approached east Hacienda, the land became separated by fenced in areas. This would be for flocks and smaller animals.

  East Hacienda was really a cluster of buildings built in the center of converging roads. From all directions, sheds radiated out along the network of roads. Chicken coops, pig pens and horse corrals were interspersed between living quarters.

  The dust kicked up by my rotor wash was so thick I could barely make out the ground crewmen who came to refuel the helicopter. Following my departing Rangers, I hopped out.

  “Please don’t leave the landing pad area,” a woman warned.

  “I hadn’t planned too,” I replied, “but why not? Is there danger?”

  “It’s our way, Lieutenant,” she replied as she directed two other women who had stepped out of a fuel truck.

  “No problem ma’am,” I assured her as I strolled around my bird doing a visual inspection, “I’m on a tight schedule as it is.”

  So this was part of the protein Station’s mystery. Female run and ruled without contact from outside men. Well, I didn’t have any reason to linger and I was soon in the air. The land below me began to rise and the few clusters of trees grew closer together. Soon the edge of a forest crawled up the hills until it grew thick. Far off to the east, I spied a large river that eventually spread out into feeder creeks and streams. These tiny waterways soon disappeared among the branches and high hills.

  A small river broke off the big water and I followed it through a gap in the low mountains. After another thirty minutes of flying, I hovered over a mountain meadow. There was a structure higher up but my view was blocked by tall trees. Gently rising smoke guided my eyes, and an unnaturally straight edge, just at tree top level exposed it as manmade.

  Everything else in and around the meadow was natural. I sat down and, as instructed, shut down my engine. The whirling blades slowed and I listened to birds sing and an owl hoot. Bugs were buzzing in a senseless rhythm and grasshoppers jumped from one low stalk of grass to another. It felt like my Clan homeland on Uno.

  Chapter 53

  It felt so much like the mountains of Uno, I stripped out of my flight suit, and pulled on a pair of baggy trousers. Now shirtless with the unfiltered mountain sun on my skin, I inhaled again and extended the custom Druid fighting sticks.

  Nine angles of attack at first slowly then picking up the cadence as I warmed to the movements. My patterns cut the air until the bug’s noise was drowned out by the swoosh, swoosh of the sticks rotating through the forms. Now I shifted to a series of high then low attacks. With sticks flashing, I added footwork. Bending at the knees and launching up into a summersault, with the sticks carving out the area below my arc. I landed and in five quick slashing pivots, I covered the ground back to my starting point.

  Sweat poured out of my body and I was once again a young candidate for the Ritual. I recalled my time there.

  My weekly schedule which I found on my bed each Monday further isolated me from my fellow students. While they spent more and more time with specific Heart Plants, I was shuffling between temples. One Monday, I found different instructions.

  The schedule led me away from the Heart Plant domes and down into the valley. There I spent a week with Clan farmers. We plowed, and seeded and did maintenance on the equipment. All the while, my eyes were on the tall domes on the high ground. At the end of the week, the head farmer simply pointed me back towards the domes.

  The next Monday morning, my schedule took me high into the hills beyond the domes. From a place where I looked down on the top of the tallest temple, I found a wooden shed. The shed was built so the protruding end was on stilts but the rear extended deep into the mountain. Here I found a few men and women doing wood work. They cut and carved patterns but didn’t seem to be actually making anything. After two days, I joined a team and we went deeper into the woods. There we cut down an old oak tree. The trip out took only a half a day. It took a day and a half to haul the heavy oak trunk back to the shed. I spent time cutting the trunk and turning a lathe to create shapes on a few poles. But every chance I got, I was at the front looking down at the domes. On Sunday, the head woodworker pointed me back towards the domes.

  Monday morning my schedule, still not explained, had me rotating between classes in different domes. Just like the weeks before, my side trips to the farming and woodworking areas.

  My breath was short and I was gasping for air as my movements began to slow. The mountain meadow came back into focus and my patterns deteriorated until I laughed at my own feeble swipes through the air. It was best to know when your body has had enough then to practice bad form. One of my Druid instructors had repeated it over and over when one of the candidates became exhausted but wouldn’t stop.

  “It is best to know when your body has had enough,” a voice said.

  I spun around and almost missed the brown robe. He was sitting on the edge of where my rotor wash had flattened the wild grass. I had to look away than back to be sure I actually saw the man; an old man sitting and smiling at me.

  “Your forms are graceful, yet have power,” he observed.

  “Asthore’ Druid, the power is from the grace,” I replied bowing my head to acknowledge an elder.

  “Well-spoken pilot,” he said sitting as still as when I first saw him, “You are not a Druid yet know the proper form of response and address. You are not a Druid yet know the fighting style and have the honored sticks of a Druid. I would have your name, pilot.”

  “Phelan Oscar Piran,” I replied.

  “Ah, I knew your parents, your grand-parents,” he said stating his qualifications as an Elder,” and your great grand-parents. You have their eyes and the swift movements of your ancestors.”

  It was a high compliment. To be acknowledged as having the heretical traits of the best of your forefathers. In a Clan that stretched back thousands of years, to be associated with the unbroken chain, was to be connected to the wholeness of the Clan. Druid or not, it was the highest of praise from a Druid Elder.

  I stood and a tear fell mixing with the sweat. More tears fell and I inhaled. No one, not my parents or any of my Druid instructors had given me such accolades. Here, on a high mountain meadow, on the food planet Nafaka, I’d just been recognized as an important member of my Clan.

  “Why here, why now?” I asked.

  “Asthore’ Piran,” he said bowing his head out of respect, “The Heart Plants are in danger and the Realm is
in danger as we all are in danger. Something is stirring beneath the surface. You are a warrior, not recognized as a Druid, not even as a member of the Clan. Yet, you are part of the great struggle and so must be recognized.”

  My mind froze, so I just stared at him. I was a Lieutenant in the Galactic Council Navy. A helicopter pilot assigned to the 49th Air Wing not some legendary Clan warrior.

  “Artair, I am called. We will speak of things on your next visit,” he said rising easily to his feet, “Now I have a shipment for you.”

  Out of the trees a line of men and woman came. They carried broad flat packages, four people on each corner. There were four of the groups making a total of sixteen Druids. I looked at the old man.

  “What’s in the packages?” I asked.

  “It’s a secret for everyone else,” Elder Artair said with a wink, “But for you, they are a Ceremonial gateway and a heart wheel.”

  “Asthore’ Druid, you make them on Nafaka?” I asked in disbelief, “I thought they were made on Uno?”

  “There’s better oak here,” the old man said pointing back up the mountain, “We’ve been making them here for years now. Big secret, if the word gets out, they’ll be a scandal in Druid-Dom.”

  “Druid-Dom,” I repeated in horror.

  Wrong thinking, we do not joke about Druid life or the Heart Plants, I could hear the instructors hammer that into us. Whenever a young person thought to make a humorous remark about the ridge training or the subject of the training, a Druid would come down on them hard.

  Now I was hearing and repeating a thing, Druid-Dom. Was it a pun, a realistic thing or a course jest?