by S. L. Dunn
Vengelis jolted upright with a rattling gasp for air. His eyes burst open in panic and darted across his surrounds. He was in a bed in the middle of a small room. Pure white walls stared back at him on all sides. Beside him a number of monitors and meters beeped and blinked mechanically. Vengelis’s lips quivered wordlessly as he looked down at his body. Hospital garments were draped across his shoulders. He shook the heavy snow of his dreamy recollection from his mind and strained to recall his memory, but he found himself unable to hold a thought. Everything was blurry, and a horrible fatigue weighed down his mind.
Throwing his legs over the bed, he attempted to stand but was forced to lean heavily against the wall. His knees wobbled, his arms felt depleted. Dizziness and nausea struck as a rush of blood hit his head from standing so quickly. He hastily pulled off the many life support wires that clung to his body and made his way with slow unsteady steps toward the door. He rubbed cold sweat from his fevered forehead with clammy palms. Where was he? What happened?
A mirror was mounted against the door. As Vengelis approached the narrow reflection and looked upon himself, his chest deflated in shock. His face was barely recognizable. His nose was grotesquely inflamed. A black bruise rounded with deep purple edges extended from the bridge of his nose outward across both cheekbones. Each eye socket was bloated and distended, deep blue black and swollen nearly shut. He painstakingly moved his chin from side to side and attempted to open his mouth. A spasm of pain shot through his jaw past his ears, traveling to the back of his head. One prominent laceration extended deeply across his cheek. It was held together with heavy sutures.
Vengelis averted his eyes from his beaten face. The knuckles and fingers on his right hand were black and scraped. His left hand—
Every nerve in his body went ice cold.
The Blood Ring, his father’s ring, was still on his hand. The gleaming crimson diamond shined brilliantly, and at once a tidal wave of agonizing recollections flooded his mind. His battered face contorted, and his fists clenched with blind rage. Vengelis raised his head and let out an agonized scream as he thrashed at his reflection in the mirror. It shattered loudly. The door behind it splintered in two, sundering backward and revealing a white hallway beyond.
He was alive.
Vengelis squeezed his eyelids shut and prayed desperately to be dead. He could not take living—even for a moment—with the torturous memories that now stormed his mind.
The sentiments taking hold of him felt equally foreign to him as the pain in his body. Vengelis had not lost a fight since he was a child, not since Master Tolland bested him on that snowy eve. His first true loss had been to the ruin of all. He reached up to his bruised and tender neck, now remembering all too clearly what had happened to him.
Vengelis’s entire body shuddered as he recalled his last moment of consciousness.
The Royal Transport carrying Eve and his mother distinct against the smoke scattered skies beyond. The man-machine that followed in the ship’s wake. The schism that tore the craft in two and the plume of bright flames as the ship crashed into the palace. His family was dead and Sejeroreich had been razed to the ground under his watch. Everything massacred by the machines that looked so much like Primus. Vengelis thought for a moment, unable to remember their name. For a long time he stood with his eyes closed, trying to remember.
“Felix,” he spoke aloud at last, his voice shaky. Vengelis opened his eyes and pushed through the pieces of the broken door, stepping into the narrow hallway. He recognized the surrounds. A feint and steady vibration beneath his feet registered in his senses.
He was on a ship.
A few indistinguishable doors trailed off in each direction. The hallway was silent except for the barely audible thrusting of the muffled engines. Affixed to the wall a few paces from the room he had just exited was a plaque displaying a blue-and-white diagram of a small spacecraft, surely the one he was now aboard. His perplexity grew. Vengelis did not recognize the simplistic floor plan. It was miniscule compared to the Epsilon Royal Transports. There was a command bridge, two medical rooms, and enough space in the living quarters to provide for a few people at most. Below the diagram a plaque read: Harbinger I, sister ship to the Traverser I. Both ships created under the specifications of Pral Nerol.
Vengelis stared at the plaque. The Harbinger I. It was by far the smallest ship he had ever boarded. The Epsilons normally traveled in the extravagance of vastly larger ships that held hundreds of passengers and servants. He turned from the diagram and walked toward the command deck. Someone had some explaining to do, and they would be punished for robbing him of a death in battle. The metal door hissed open as he reached the command bridge.
A lone man was sitting in the deck examining several monitors as Vengelis stepped in. The man jumped to attention, startled by Vengelis’s abrupt entry. “Hail, Emperor Vengelis Epsilon!”
Vengelis was familiar with the generously proportioned mass of his sparring partner, the Royal Guard Krell Darien.
“It’s good to see you on your feet again, my lord,” Darien stammered, his deep intonation breaking the strained silence. “For a while we weren’t sure if you would make it.”
Vengelis simply stared at his Royal Guard at a loss for words. His infuriation was transforming into dangerous volatility, ready to ignite with the slightest spark.
“With much luck and through great adversary, my lord, we’ve escaped Anthem. Lord General Hoff is on board with us as well. It’s the middle of the night—though there’s really no difference between night and day on this ship. He is sleeping in his quarters. We’ve been taking shifts and awaiting your arousal for several days. The Lord General and I were able to find you and flee Sejeroreich. All has been lost to the power of the Felix, but—”
“Escaped,” Vengelis said, his voice weak. “Escaped. What does that mean, we escaped?”
“My lord, the palace was completely destroyed when Hoff and I arrived at the capital. Sejeroreich was . . . unrecognizable. You and Master Tolland were much faster than us; we didn’t make it to the city until long after you. We tried to establish what was happening, but . . .” Darien trailed off, his expression bleak.
“Yes?”
“But there were no soldiers left still standing, my lord. We encircled the city and searched for you and Master Tolland.” Darien paused, unable to look Vengelis in the eye and instead staring at his boots, affecting a childlike demeanor. “We eventually found Master Tolland in the midst of the massacre. He . . . he had fallen, and lost a lot of blood by the time we found—”
“What happened to him?”
“He was . . .” Darien shook his head. “He was killed by a Felix, my lord.”
“A Felix . . .” Vengelis murmured, his mind unable to function.
“Master Tolland was at his last breath when Lord General Hoff and I came upon him. But, my lord, he was conscious. Master Tolland told us you were buried in the rubble of the building beside him. He ordered us to find you and take you to his ship, this ship, the Harbinger I. It was docked outside Sejeroreich. He ordered us to leave Anthem with you on board and head to some unchartered planet called . . .” Darien glanced down at the monitor in front of him. “Filgaia.”
Vengelis stared at Darien icily.
“Master Tolland gave us the coordinates to the planet and then, then he . . . he passed on.”
“Are you lying to me?” Vengelis said.
“What?” Darien immediately bowed and lowered his gaze to the floor. “I would never lie to you, my lord. I swear upon my family’s honor that I tell the truth. Lord General Hoff can confirm my story if you wish to wake him.”
Vengelis frowned. It was clear Darien was not lying. What had Master Tolland been talking about? He had surely been delirious and these fools followed his order without question. “Turn the ship around immediately.”
Darien tensed, as though he had been saving the worst news for last.
“Direct the ship back to Anthem. We return to Sejer
oreich right now,” Vengelis repeated, emotion rising in his voice. “The last Epsilon is not going to flee from the destruction of Anthem.”
“My lord, that is something we can not do.”
“Excuse me?”
“Th-the ship was ordered to be placed under irreversible autopilot until we reach Filgaia.”
A silence fell between them, the whir of the engines and the soft beeps of the control station making Vengelis dizzy. “Who issued that order?” Vengelis asked, his expression turning more deadly by the moment.
“Master Tolland,” Darien said quietly. “It was his dying breath. Hoff and I obeyed.”
Vengelis placed his hands on his face, moving his fingers across the sutured gash that ran across his cheek. The laceration penetrated through to the inside of his mouth, and he tongued the sutures. He recalled the fingernail of the woman that had so easily inflicted the wound, the fingernail of the Felix. His logic began to flounder, unable to find a foothold. Vengelis stared down at the Blood Ring. All the generations of the immensely powerful Epsilon forebearers that came before him had worn this ring. For two thousand years the Epsilon family dynasty had survived, only to collapse due to his first failing act as emperor.
“What is Filgaia?” he asked at last, still looking at the illustrious ring and his scabbed knuckles.
Darien looked up in astonishment. “It’s a planet that’s really far away, from what we gathered from Master Tolland’s coordinates. It doesn’t seem to be in the Imperial database.” There was concern in his Royal Guard’s voice. “Hoff and I assumed you would know what it was. We thought you would understand why Master Tolland directed us there.”
“I have absolutely no idea. I’ve never heard of it.” Vengelis shook his head. “And what are we supposed to do about Anthem and the remainder of my people while we are out in the middle of nowhere?”
Darien gave a great sorrowful sigh. “All is lost.”
“It is not lost.” Vengelis looked at Darien threateningly. “It cannot be lost. And if it is lost, then it will be remade. We—I—can’t leave while the Primus race falls.” Vengelis realized he was screaming hoarsely, his temper overtaking him. “I am the most powerful Primus alive, the strongest Sejero warrior to ever live, the last living Epsilon. I can’t be absent while Anthem falls to ashes. The purest Sejero blood flows through my veins. I am a living god, and gods do not bow to machines!” Vengelis stopped short in an attempt to check his fury. “This is the last time I will tell you to turn the ship around.”
“I really am sorry, my lord, but there is no possible way I can disengage the autopilot until we reach Filgaia. That’s the way the computer systems are wired—we are merely passengers now. The ship won’t arrive at Filgaia for a number of days. Once we get there and the lock on the autopilot disengages, I will be able to take us back to Anthem as quickly as possible.” Darien sat down in the pilot seat and attempted to show him the autopilot lock.
Vengelis stood behind the Royal Guard. “Stand up."
“Sir, we were only following Master Tolland’s direct command to us,” Darien said.
“Master Tolland is dead! For all of his humility and caution in the face of our power, an even more malicious force has now devoured us. Did the Felixes give a damn about morals? Master Tolland’s pacifism, his unwillingness to see the truth for what it really is, forced him to an early grave. Every hour spent listening to his endlessly reproving lectures should have been spent brutally training, training harder than we could have imagined. Now it is lost.” Vengelis looked down at Darien. “I said get up.”
“Yes, my lord.” Darien stood, towering eight feet tall.
“I was robbed of an honorable death in defense of Anthem. My legacy has now been forever tarnished. You will take me back to my planet so I can die alongside my forefathers.”
Darien shook his head sadly. “My lord, if I could, of course I would. You are the emperor and I would not fail you were it within my power.”
“Your power?” Vengelis repeated. “You have no power. You are weak. You live off the scraps of those who are strong. The Sejero blood is so dwindled in your veins that you should be ashamed to even call yourself a Primus.”
Vengelis almost reached out to strangle Darien by his substantial throat, but instead he turned away from the giant Royal Guard. “How far is this Filgaia planet?”
“Far, sir. Filgaia is well beyond the range of most Imperial ships. The autopilot won’t disengage for many days.”
“And there is absolutely no way to turn it off?”
“No, sir. Pral Nerol himself constructed this ship for Master Tolland. There’s no way we’ll be able to get around his programming.”
Vengelis closed his eyes in a futile attempt to calm himself. The Emperor of the Epsilon would be traveling through space on the spontaneous whim of a dying man while Anthem fell to devastation and his people were slaughtered. What would future stories say of his actions if indeed a future were certain?
“I’ll be in the captain’s quarters,” Vengelis said, and without another word turned and exited the command deck, pacing the narrow hallway. He stopped briefly to check each of the other living quarters. Alegant Hoff was sleeping in one of the rooms. Vengelis paused for a moment and watched his Lord General’s enormous chest move up and down with breath. Hoff should have known better than to listen to Master Tolland. Vengelis gingerly flexed the muscles in his right forearm. Shooting pain, surely a broken wrist. He would need more time in one of the medical rooms, but not right now. Vengelis entered the captain’s quarters and locked the door behind him.
There was work to do.
Chapter Ten
Gravitas
A brisk wind rose from the high country in the cloud darkened north and roughly blew his brown hair across his face. His solemn expression was cold and hard like the landscape far below. Gravitas Nerol opened his eyes, bringing into focus the shimmering frozen vastness of nearby mountains and the lonely hills scattered about their slopes.
His looks were winsome and Royal like his father’s once had been, though Gravitas’s young face was etched in maturity beyond his years. Gravitas broke from his meditation with a long deep breath. The frigid air felt sharply rejuvenating, its icy touch reaching the depths of his lungs. His nose was runny from the cold, and he sniffed as he pulled the hood of his tarnished crimson cloak over his head. The worn fabric of the cloak was thick and ragged. Old burn marks had left holes in the faded red stitching and along the blackened lower hem.
Gravitas turned in the mountain air and flew northward against the wind, traveling through towering craggy peaks that rose in daring enmity between earth and sky. The heavy crimson cloak billowed wildly in the wind beyond his feet. Though he was as accustomed to the cold as the sparse scattering of high-elevation wildlife below, he tucked the cloak’s scorched fabric across his chin and nose to insulate his face from the biting wind. Only his eyes were then visible through the masklike visage, providing him with the dangerous appearance of a bandana-clad rogue.
Snow-capped peaks and dirt-encrusted glaciers passed by far below, and a wispy trail of moisture shifted between the precipitous mountainsides. Aside from the vigorous wind, the entire landscape sat in absolute stillness. The silence was his sanctum. Gravitas flew with little haste across the sky, appearing as a tiny speck from the towering mountains far below, before he disappeared into a gathering of gloomy snow clouds.
Gravitas enjoyed his time spent here in the blustery high altitudes. He was somewhere in the northern reaches of the Canadian Rockies, though precisely where he could not venture a guess. It was here, far away from the sounds and worries of the world, that Gravitas felt most at peace. The touch of wind against his face and the frigid air in his nostrils brought him back to a childhood on Mount Karlsbad. Grueling days spent training with Master Tolland, and nights spent shivering by the drafty fireplace immersed in passionate discussions on the great responsibilities inherent in bearing Sejero blood. Did his old teacher still live
on Mount Karlsbad? Did his parents still think about him? Gravitas wondered if anyone still thought about him: the last heir of the Nerol line who one day vanished and never returned.
But this ultimately was his fate—his immense punishment—to never know.
It may as well have been a death sentence, his banishment. The exile had been the death of Gravitas Nerol. Yet he had come to terms with his forlorn desolation many years ago. Over time the intensity of his piping hot emotions had dulled into bitter acceptance. One had to accept his lot in life or succumb to the great weight of doubt and self-pity.
A realization snuck up on him and shook him from his silent meditation. It was the fourth anniversary of his exile—the banishment from his home.
His home.
“Anthem,” Gravitas Nerol whispered to the stoic mountaintops, perhaps to remind his heart that his memories were real. Yet Anthem was a perilous world, a perilous word, and he dared not speak it too loud—not even to the vastness of the mountains. Gravitas did not want so awful a phrase to ever be uttered upon this place. His expression betrayed a hint of sadness after his whisper faded in the wind. The people of his past felt more distant and obscure to his own recollection than ever before. Familiar faces, comforting idiosyncrasies, and soothingly recognizable voices of those whom he had loved were veiled by the cruel curtain of time. The good memories, the ones worth keeping, always seemed to fade.
It was the pitiless memories that lingered on with persistent and vivid clarity even after these long four years had passed.
Gravitas remembered so clearly the mask of disdain that had branded itself into Emperor Faris Epsilon’s dignified features as the leader brought the side of his fist down hard against his throne three times; three portentous booms initiated the trial and echoed across Gravitas Nerol’s life. The Imperial War Council had been thrown into a state of upheaval, and it was because of Gravitas. An unscheduled and unrecorded trial had been called behind securely locked doors. Oaths of secrecy under threat of death had been demanded of all councillors in attendance.
