by S M Briscoe
Ethan considered that maybe that was the upside to their current situation as well. As terrible as this place was, he had also found a friend here in Mac, which made the situation a little easier to bare. Maybe Mac felt the same way. By the older man’s mischievous grin, Ethan knew that there was more to his story than that, but he didn’t bother to ask and added it to the annoyingly long list of things he assumed he would come to understand when he got older.
A loud bang ended the conversation and Ethan turned to see a segment of ceiling mounted exhaust pipe swinging free of its support housing. He watched in shock as it collided with the catwalk, only a few meters away from where he was standing, sending everyone sprawling to the grated floor. Screams of terror sounded out and he looked up in time to see the pipe section fall free from its housing completely and drop down into the large waste basin below. The section of walkway that had been hit by the swinging pipe swayed back and forth as the damaged support rods holding it in place fell away, leaving only the cabling to keep it from crashing into the basins as well, along with the handful of people who clung to it.
Under the encouragement of numerous voices around him, Ethan watched as the people trapped on the damaged segment, or on its opposite side, attempted to crawl across to the stable end of the walkway. Mac grabbed hold of his arm and gave him a reassuring look that said stay put, before he began to move back towards the damaged section, helping those trying to cross the dangerous gap. Many others were quickly moving in the opposite direction and heading for the exit hatchway.
With three people still struggling to cross the unsteady floor, one of the cables, followed by another two snapped under the pressure and the damaged section fell away from the catwalk at one end, hanging from the remaining cables and where it was still partially attached to the rest of the walkway.
More cries sounded out and many of those that were helping to get people to safety turned to flee for their lives, running past Ethan towards the exit. To his surprise, Mac remained where he was, lying on the floor of the walkway and reaching down for the three people still clinging to the hanging section of catwalk. Ethan watched in amazement as he helped two of the people up, letting them climb up his body to make it onto the walkway. The last remaining person wasn’t attempting to move at all, seeming apparently frozen with fear as he held onto the swaying section. Mac shouted at the man to reach for him, finally getting his attention and he climbed high enough for Mac to get a hold of his arm.
Suddenly, Mac began to shout for him to stop. Ethan watched as the still terrified man climbed up Mac’s body, at the same time, pulling him further over the walkway’s edge. By the time he had climbed over Mac and onto the ledge, Mac had slipped more than half way over the drop off, and as the man moved away in a panicked shuffle towards the exit, he disappeared over the edge completely.
Ethan ran to the edge of the walkway and looked down, expecting to find Mac floating in the waste basin far below. Instead, he found him hanging precariously from the back of his coveralls where its material had been snagged by the sharp end of what was left of a broken support rod.
“Mac!” he called out. “Are you alright?”
“Do I look alright?” Mac asked back.
“Could be worse.”
“Yeah,” he said, after a moment. “That’s what I get for trying to do the right thing. Let that be a lesson to you.”
Ethan shook his head. “Can you climb up?”
Mac reached behind himself and got a grip on the grated floor of the catwalk segment. “I don’t know. I’m kind of stuck here.”
“Can you try to unhook yourself?” Ethan asked.
Mac squirmed a bit and then twisted his head to look up at Ethan. “I don’t know if there’s time.”
Ethan furrowed his brow in confusion until he remembered his bracelet’s alarm sequence. It’s repetitious warning tones had been drowned out by all of the commotion. Now, registering the sounds again, and the rapid rate in which they were beeping, he realized they didn’t have much time.
“Get out of here, kid,” Mac called up to him. “Save yourself.”
“I’m not going to leave you, Mac,” Ethan answered.
“You can’t help me,” he shouted back. “There’s no sense in us both dying, kid. Now go on.”
Ethan’s heart was racing in sync with his bracelet’s rapid tone sequence and he took a breath to calm himself. Panicking wasn’t going to save Mac. Looking around, he spotted a length of support cable that been torn free of both the catwalk and the ceiling and was lying across the floor of the walkway. He ran the few steps back to it and tied one end to the railing. Moving back to the edge of the walkway he dangled the other end over and lowered it down to Mac.
“Hey, kid,” Mac called up to him, blindly. “You still there?”
“Yeah,” Ethan answered. “I’m still here.”
“Oh, good. For a second there I thought you had actually taken what I said seriously.”
Ethan smirked as he lowered the cable down to where Mac was hanging. “Just grab on and start pulling yourself up. We’re running out of time.”
Mac gripped the cable as it fell in front of him and used it to pull himself off of the piece of broken support rod. Turning himself around he climbed the cable while walking up the the floor of the catwalk segment. Once he reached the ledge of the walkway, Ethan grabbed hold of his arms and helped him up onto it.
“Thanks for not leaving,” Mac said, between heavy breaths.
“Thank me later,” Ethan replied, pulling the man to his feet. Their bracelets were beeping so rapidly that it was beginning to sound like a single high pitched tone, and he knew all too well what that meant for them if they didn’t move quickly.
“Let’s go!” he shouted.
Mac didn’t argue and they turned to sprint down the walkway. The opening looked as if it was a kilometer away, the blaring tone in his ear telling him he only had seconds left, if that. As they neared the doorway and he heard the subtle but distinct transition of the rapid beeps into a solid ear piercing shriek, he closed his eyes against the shock of vaporizing energy he expected would come, and reached out desperately into the darkness.
SOLTA
Rho’uk stood before the room wide viewport of the office formerly occupied by the late Governor of Trycon, gazing out at the stillness of the city. Far below in its darkened bowels, beyond his scope of vision, he knew it was not so. The initial heavy flow of incoming drop ships had only recently begun to ebb, having deposited legions of Durak’s troops into the expansive metropolis. Those soldiers scoured the streets and avenues, rounding up loose elements of the populace, while working to contain the rest.
Their great city had now become their prison. It was not a fate he would have wished even upon his enemies. All beings deserved to die with honor. With dignity. But by the will of the Gods, this was to be done. He was not prepared to question Their will, or Their wisdom. The Gods gave life to all beings, and They also chose how and when those lives would end.
“The orbital blockade is in place,” Durak was saying. “And Trycon city itself is contained.”
Rho’uk glanced at the reflections of both the High Commander and Shu’ma in the glass of the viewport as they continued their conversation . . . or argument. He hadn’t quite decided which yet. It had been a constant battle of wills between the two, each of them offering their own subtle, and sometimes not so subtle, challenges to one another’s authority. Rho’uk was growing tired of the game.
“And how will you ensure it remains so?” Shu’ma asked, from where he sat behind the former Governor’s long wooden desk, which he had taken as his own along with the office.
The High Commander stood off to one side of the desk, his gaze transfixed on something outside the viewport, not wanting to appear subordinate to Shu’ma by standing directly across the desk from, and therefore, before him, Rho’uk assumed. His expression betrayed his obvious displeasure with being questioned.
“The necessary st
eps are being taken to ensure Solta’s isolation,” he answered flatly, making it clear he did not intend on elaborating any further. “Our operations here will proceed with the desired level of discretion, though for the time being, I would recommend that you relocate to my command ship. It is rumored that the terrorist faction may be planning an attack on the governing district.”
Unable to see his face in the viewport’s reflection, he suspected Shu’ma’s glare would be venomous. After a long hostile moment had passed in silence, Shu’ma finally spoke again, changing the subject.
“Very well. What progress has there been in tracking the heretic?”
The question was intended to draw a reaction from the High Commander, as they all knew the answer, but to his credit, Durak’s expression remained rigid and cold.
“Little, I am afraid,” he responded, between clenched teeth. “If she remains on Solta, it is only a matter of time before we locate her.”
“And if she does not?” Shu’ma pressed.
When Durak did not reply, Shu’ma continued. “You’re repeated failures in her apprehension leave much to be desired, High Commander. I am beginning to wonder if the situation is beyond your ability to manage.”
Durak’s voice was a low rumble. “I assure you, it is not. If she has gone off world, my intelligence networks will eventually find her. She cannot hide forever. Wherever her cohorts attempt to flee, when they attempt to make dock, we will know of it and then we will have her.”
“Your assurances hold little weight with me,” Shu’ma dismissed. “You’re forces have proven themselves ill-equipped to handle this task, which is clearly the reason I have been sent. You needn’t worry yourself with these matters any further, High Commander. You and your forces may continue with Trycon’s preparations as planned. Leave the heretic and her cohorts to me.”
From the fury that burned in Durak’s eyes, Rho’uk thought for a moment that his superior had pushed him beyond his own restraints, but when the expected, and possibly warranted, attack did not come, Shu’ma simply continued, speaking with deliberate condescension.
“You may return to your fleet now, High Commander. We will return to our own transport. I will summon you in the unlikely event that your services should be required.”
Durak turned to face Shu’ma, more composed than Rho’uk would have thought possible under the circumstances, though his eyes hid none of his contempt.
“I would advise you,” he began, his voice carrying with it an edge of barely restrained rage, “not to mistake my tolerance for obedience. It is by the will of the Gods that you have my cooperation. It may not always be so.”
With that the High Commander strode from the office, its doors sealing shut behind him. Rho’uk let the silence hang for a few moments before turning from the viewport to look directly at Shu’ma, still facing the office doors in his seat.
“Do you think it wise to continue to patronize the High Commander so?” he asked.
“Wisdom has little to do with it,” Shu’ma responded, not turning around. “It entertains me.”
“His patience seems to be wearing thin.”
“Does that concern you?” Shu’ma was trying to goad him now. He was in a confrontational mood and obviously wished to continue in his game. Rho’uk didn’t play along.
“Durak commands the military,” he said, instead. “We require his army to meet our ends.”
“Durak is loyal to the Gods,” Shu’ma returned, “of which his army and everything else belongs. He knows his place. If he forgets it, I will remind him. Your concern should not lie with the High Commander’s feelings, but with our mandate. Or have you forgotten it?”
Rho’uk eyed Shu’ma, who’s arrogance was beginning to become insulting. “I have not.”
Shu’ma stood and walked towards the viewport, looking out at the cityscape. “I have my doubts about this plan of yours. As does our Overseer. He has expressed his concern over your failure with the human. It has . . . shaken his confidence in your ability to lead this campaign at my side. I assured him his doubts were unfounded. That you would redeem yourself. Will you?”
“That is my intent.”
“The best of intentions are little more than that without the will to see them done. For your sake, I hope you are right. A second failure cannot be allowed . . . or forgiven.”
It was less a threat than a simple fact. Rai Chi did not fail in service to the Gods. To do so would be to bring shame to one’s clan. Payment for failure came in blood. A sacrifice to the Gods for displeasing Them. He knew all too well the consequences if he was mistaken. But to redeem himself in the eyes of his Overseer and the Gods, he needed to take action. Standing aside to avoid another mistake was no better than failing.
The outcome of his plan would either save or end his life. That fact did not bring him any discomfort. Every choice, every decision a Rai Chi warrior made could mean life or death for him. That was their way. However, he did not intend to pass on to the next place before his time. He was confident in his plan.
Chapter 25
The journey out of the mountain had been no less perilous than on the way in, and feeling more physically drained than he had in a very long time, Jarred was relieved to finally find himself stepping foot back into the Toguai village again.
Night was falling, the last of the evening’s setting sunlight sinking into the mountainous horizon. Even so, the village was alive with activity, word of their approach apparently having been announced, the Toguai appearing to flood as a whole from their cliffside dwellings to greet them. They approached him and his guide with an excited interest, encircling them both, but leaving more than a body length distance between them on all sides. He was curious as to the reason for all of the attention, cautioned as it was, but his focus remained solidly on finding some place to fall over and pass out. Spotting Kern and Sierra as they emerged from their own dwelling, Elora following close behind them, he knew that wouldn’t be happening as soon as he would have liked.
“Where have you been?” Sierra almost demanded, once she had fought her way through the crowd of Toguai to stand before him.
“It’s a long story,” he answered, watching as his guide disappeared into the mass of Toguai around them.
“Try me,” she returned, her hands going to her hips in a gesture he was quickly learning meant no nonsense.
Jarred breathed a tired sigh, knowing he couldn’t avoid her barrage of waiting questions forever. “Can we find some place to sit down first?”
They made their way to the hollowed out area in front of the cliff wall, the swarm of Toguai withdrawing enough to let them pass. Approaching the centralized fire pit, Jarred dropped down heavily onto the ground, leaning back against one of the large stones that encircled the pit area. Sierra and Kern stood in front of him, waiting expectantly, while Elora found a stone to sit on next to his.
A Toguai approached from the mass around him and offered forward a leather water pouch. Surprised by the gesture, he took it gratefully and drank back a few mouthfuls from the bag’s spout.
“You look terrible,” Kern commented, eyeing him.
“Thanks,” Jarred said, managing to crack a smile. “It’s been a very long day.”
Sierra took a step forward. “Where did you go?”
Jarred tilted his head back to look up at her. “Would you believe me if I told you I wasn’t sure?”
“Not really,” she answered, flatly.
“I didn’t think so. Unfortunately, that doesn’t change the fact.” Jarred did a quick scan of the faces in the crowd bordering the fire pit area. “Where is Orna?”
“We haven’t seen her,” Sierra answered. “She’s been with the elders all day.” Her expression became suspicious. “What did you two talk about yesterday? What did she say to you?”
Jarred considered whether or not he should even try to explain what had occurred over the passed day, from his strange conversation with Orna to his trek into the mountain and the discovery o
f the alien sphere. To do so, with the hope of anyone’s comprehension, he supposed he would have to understand it all for himself first. For that, he would require his own answers from the only person in a position to give them.
“You have returned.”
Orna’s voice was a fluttery breeze in the cool night air, her words sending a chill up Jarred’s spine. He turned to look at her as the Toguai parted to allow her and the elders to pass.
“Barely,” he replied, watching her as she approached. “That was an interesting journey you sent me on.”
“All journeys worth taking are,” she answered.
“I have a few follow up questions.”
“I suspected you would.”
Sierra cut in. “I have a few of my own.”
Orna glanced back at her. “They will have to wait.” Receiving silence in return, she turned back to Jarred and nodded once, a gesture he took to mean ‘ask away’.
Taking a breath, he composed his thoughts. “You knew what I would find down there?”
Orna nodded. “I did.”
“What was it?”
“What do you believe it was?”
As usual she was directing his questions back at him. “A vessel.”
Orna nodded again. “Yes, in part. But it had a much greater purpose than just that.”
She said had. Had she known that the sphere would destroy itself when he removed the sword, nearly taking him with it in the process? He put the thought aside for the moment.
“A vault,” he concluded.
Orna nodded, approvingly. “And did you find the secret that it protected?”
Her eyes moved to the long satchel that was slung over his shoulder and he removed it, laying it on the ground next to him before pulling the cover free to display the sword nestled within. A symphony of surprised grunts erupted from the surrounding Toguai as they stared, wide eyed, at the weapon, the entire group appearing to take a collective step back. Jarred returned his gaze to Orna. “What is it?”
