by A. L Butcher
Darren smiled. “Future changed,” he said.
Calculating...confirmed. California is safe.
He felt a vibration in his pocket and removed the Returner. A green light circled the button.
Darren walked through the kitchen and stepped out the door. He stopped, staring at another image of him. Another Darren. This other Darren smiled. “You are being recalled. Press the button.”
Darren found his hand gripping the Desert Eagle rise.
The other him shook his head and drove the butt of an M-16 into his face. He hit the ground hard, stars exploded between his eyes.
Run! SARAH said. Run.
Fifteen other Darrens arrived. They stepped out of thin air and onto the sand.
The first other Darren took aim at the child.
“No,” Darren shouted. He managed to get to his feet and ran shoulder first into the midsection. Doubling him over. The sword flew from his bandaged hand and he forced it through the first other Darren.
From the flak jacket, he picked up a grenade and placed it in his cargo pants pocket. He heard several machine guns blast and refused to turn around. The battle cry of hundreds rose up around him. Taliban, farmers, enraged citizens all carried weapons and most rode horses.
Darren pulled out the pin of a grenade and pressed the Returner button. In an instant, he was standing in a glass room. Computers flashed statics on the screen, several people in white coats worked on computer stations.
The glass door hissed open.
Dr. Phil entered. He smiled. “Follow me, unit three two seven.”
Darren caught up to him quickly.
Goodbye, SARAH said.
“Goodbye,” he replied.
Dr Phil turned to him. “What was—”
* * *
Darren awoke on a stretcher. He checked his body and saw his legs were gone. A side door opened and a dark-haired man entered. He carried a satchel in one hand and a smile on his face.
He sat down on a seat next to the stretcher. “Hello, Darren. I’m Doctor Stevens. We need to have a chat that you won’t remember.”
But I will, Darren thought. I always do.
* * *
About the Author: Lee Pletzers is a displaced New Zealand Speculative Fiction writer living in Japan with five novels, two novellas and over seventy short stories sold. Since 2001 he has made an impact on the genre world and thrives within its limitless boundaries. He still sends his books out to independent publishers, looking for that elusive million dollar cheque.
Connect with the Author:
http://kobefiction.we.bs/
https://www.facebook.com/lpletzers
As though the gods themselves wept over the death of Stratos’ king, the rain started when six knights carried His Majesty’s wooden casket into the royal garden. Clad in ceremonial attire embellished with the kingdom’s sage green colors and emblem, the knights set the coffin among its owner’s ancestors.
A select group attended the service. Amid them were Queen Medea Strata, Princess Iola Strata, a handful of council members, and a few maids, including me. Prince Ryan Strata never left the North, nor did he send his condolences. The rest of Stratos stood outside the palace, and either covered the grand entrance with gifts, or cried for an end to the war.
After the casket was set down, a man of faith addressed the mourning royal family and prayed that the soul soon to be buried would find its way into the heavens. And to those left behind, he wished life eternal from the gods who were watching over them.
Her Majesty clucked her tongue. She stood at the front wearing a dress that brushed the marble tiles around her feet. The thick fabric protected her body from the winter’s chill. And it was black, a color she never wore. She preferred light hues to compliment the pair of lilac eyes sitting above her freckled nose.
The priest raised his voice, followed by his arms. His eyes rolled backwards as if he was possessed by the gods he swore used him as a messenger. Then he paused. Her Majesty had stepped out from the group. The umbrella maid pursued, but was quickly waved off.
Several steps through the rain, the queen stopped under the canopy keeping the coffin dry. She clasped the edge of the casket with her long, slender fingers and leaned forward to stare inside. The raindrops glistened on her pale neck and ran down her thick, violet braids, which hung over her right shoulder. And from her forehead, the droplets ran down her cheeks in place of tears. The queen took several deep breaths, made visible by the cold air upon release. Then she closed her eyes and mouthed something inaudible before blowing a kiss into the coffin.
The priest grunted as Her Majesty left the casket. He held the scriptures outward, hinting that he wanted to proceed with the prayer. She walked by him without a glance or a word. Stopping in front of Iola, she leaned over to gently caress the yellow strands the palace maids had neatly tied as a bun. When Iola’s large brown eyes looked up to her, the queen smiled; the first I’d seen from her in a week. The expression was contagious. The princess, surrounding maids, and I smiled in return.
In that moment, I had forgotten myself and trailed behind the entourage. My place was at Her Majesty’s side. That was the king’s orders, a slap on the wrist in lieu of execution for what Stratos’ law called treason. So, I collected myself and hastened my pace before the path cleared for Her Majesty diminished.
The slender curves of Her Majesty’s shoulders leading up to the back of her long neck made me feel short. She was a few inches taller than I. But even with her head above the clouds, Her Majesty never looked down on anyone. She strolled through the marketplace and spoke with the merchants. She visited the schools and read to the children. And lately, she entered the pitched tents of injured soldiers to help care for their wounds. But that day, she cast a dark shadow behind her.
I followed her into the throne room where parties were hosted, politics argued, and judgment passed. There, the king and queen managed fifteen or more villages that had come together less than two centuries ago to create Stratos.
The room was a rectangular chamber with massive columns to each side of a blue carpet running down the center. Four of the columns were carved in the image of previous kings and queens. Over the center of the room, a light filtered in through a mosaic designed like the sun and shone down onto Stratos’ emblem in the middle of the carpet’s length.
The queen discarded her sandals at the entrance and strode onto the blue carpet barefoot. I held my breath as she reenacted a familiar scene, a ceremonial entrance for the welcoming of allies, and the knighting of men. She took two steps forward, bowed halfway, and then one step to the right. At that moment, the king would have been introduced, and together they would have made their way to the throne.
“Margaret,” the queen called. She waved her hand without turning to address me. “Come. Be my king for a moment.”
“Your Majesty, I couldn’t possibly—” I objected.
She reached back and grabbed my hand. Closing her eyes, she said, “Right foot first.”
Her eyelids fluttered open, and her unfocused gaze suggested that the scene was unraveling in front of her eyes. The light shining down from above caused her freckles to glow, and she emitted an angelic aura. I became lost in her make-believe. And what felt like an eternally peaceful walk was only a couple seconds.
The queen released my hand after we left the area bathed by the light. Her bare feet sank into the thick blue carpet as if the weight of Stratos accompanied each step. When she reached the throne, she collapsed in front of it with her upper body over the seat. There, at last, she cried.
Several minutes later, the throne room doors screeched as the council member, Gerad Norrington, shoved them open. Two palace guards followed, insisting that he follow Her Majesty’s orders, which were very clear. No one was to enter unannounced.
“Your Majesty!” Norrington said. Then, as if he hadn’t noticed me sooner, he shifted his eyes toward me. “Get out of the way, Margaret. The queen will be my audience.” He hurriedly walked toward me. Norr
ington often swayed his body to avoid contact with anyone that might try to slow him. He was a slippery old man who wore multiple long coats to thwart any daggers that might one day be thrust into his back. I spread my arms outward to deter him.
Gerad sighed as he was forced to acknowledge me further. He raised his nose and whispered in a condescending tone, “Margaret, do not forget your place. You are a palace maid. You pick up behind Her Majesty and attend to her daily functions.” He moved closer, and I recoiled from the stench of his breath.
He continued, undeterred by my revulsion. “I oversee hundreds of men on the battlefield, hundreds of guards on the streets and atop the wall, and—and I decide who enters and leaves this palace. You think you’re so special because the king commanded you here. Well, you’re not. I can have you elsewhere if you continue to stand in my way. Do we understand each other?” Norrington looked toward Her Majesty before returning a glare back to me.
“Yes, my lord,” I nodded, and then reluctantly stepped aside.
Aware of my continued stare and firm posture, Norrington took an extra step around me. He was a coward. Despite my being taller and having broader shoulders, he could show some backbone after threatening me.
Norrington stopped at the steps leading up to the throne. “Your Majesty,” he said.
The queen ignored him.
He interlocked his hands behind his back and straightened his stance. Leaning forward, as if to hear Her Majesty’s response more clearly, he called out to her again.
On the third time, an exaggerated sigh accompanied Her Majesty’s reply. “What do you want, Norrington?” The queen raised her head, and while her eyes were still red-rimmed, her cheeks were scrubbed dry. She rose regally and sat upon her throne, a displeased look upon her face. She drove her elbow into the armrest and planted her right cheek against her knuckles.
Norrington said, “Your Majesty, we need a path forward. The men are discouraged after the fall of our king to that immortal, Phantom Knight Naira. The years have been difficult if we further remember the death of your sorceress, Sialla Danurian, and the deserter the men called Solstice. Point being, my queen, South Stratos needs a new champion on the battlefield.”
The queen didn’t reply. She sat and stared at him in silence. She crossed her right leg over her left and smoothed the wrinkles of her dress over her knee.
“Milady, if you address the people and express this need, I’m certain someone will rise,” Norrington added. “There are many men who would more than love to serve Her Majesty on the battlefield, and perhaps even in here at your side.”
“Bring the men home,” Her Majesty said.
Norrington and I raised our eyes in unison. We waited for an explanation, but Her Majesty didn’t say anything more. She leaned back in the chair with her fingers draped over the ends of the armrests and closed her eyes.
Norrington cleared his throat and asked, “I’m sorry, Your Majesty. I may have misheard you. Did you say to bring the men home?”
“I did,” she replied. “Stratos will stand down in memory of its king and for those who have fallen in battle.”
“That’s absurd!” Norrington raised his voice. “Bring the men home and relinquish our presence on the battlefield? We fought hard for almost a decade just to have the other kingdoms acknowledge Stratos’ strength. To withdraw now is weakness! No, it’s madness!”
I was surprised at how bold Norrington had become with Her Majesty. His tone of voice almost matched the king’s, but only the king’s had been profound enough to set my heart racing. That was the day he lectured me about treason. I was scared. His voice, presence, and demeanor rattled my bones. Norrington’s aggression, supplemented by his reddened face, didn’t faze me, or Her Majesty.
“I will consult the rest of the council,” Norrington said. “We won’t let you drag Stratos down alongside His Majesty’s casket.” He laughed in disbelief and continued griping to himself as he stomped out of the room.
I turned to the queen whose thoughts and feelings remained a mystery to me. Norrington spoke down to her and even questioned her command. But Her Majesty remained expressionless for the longest time, until she caught me staring and simply smiled in return.
As the days passed, the queen became more distant. She rarely left her room and forbade the maids to enter unannounced. I was no exception. When she did come out, very few words graced her lips. She didn’t spend time with Iola, or attend the meetings held by the council.
The latter was a problem for me since those meetings were my main source of information on the war. Much of my family’s blood was spilt for Stratos and I wanted to know why.
One day, I decided to eavesdrop on the council’s meetings by substituting for one of the maids assigned to serve those in the War Chamber. She was more than happy to switch. I stood in one of the darker corners to avoid being seen by any council member who might recognize me, especially Norrington. Fortunately, maids were often invisible to the casual council member eye.
The council members were like sheep leading sheep. Each one had their own goals and desires for the future of South Stratos. Norrington suggested usurping the throne, claiming that a queen was not a king. The priest agreed, adding that someone with close ties to the clergy would be best. The other council members were wary of the idea. They pointed to the Treaty of Cloud, which dictated that the realm would recognize the Queen of South Stratos as a king until a male heir was born, or Princess Iola married, whichever came first. The men scratched their heads for a while longer before they adjourned.
I ran back to Her Majesty’s chambers and entered without warning. “Milady, the council is…” My voice faded as the queen stood up in a basin filled with holy water that was inset into the ground. She was scarcely clothed in dripping, pure white linen. I’d thought her royal clothing complimented her beauty, but without those human creations, she glowed like an angel beyond this realm.
“Good morning, Margaret,” she said, reaching for a nearby robe and slipping her arms through the sleeves. Her feet left small footprints as she walked across the room to the tall vanity mirror sitting atop a wide dresser. “Since you’re here, will you comb my hair? There are knots.” She sat on a high stool, her violet locks draping the chair’s back. “You were saying something about the council?”
“Yes, my queen,” I stuttered. “The council is plotting against you. They’re trying to take the throne from you.” After a long silence, I impatiently asked, “Don’t you care?”
The queen looked at me in the mirror. “The councilmen can’t be kings. They don’t know what it means to lead. General of the army? People hate war. Politics? Over-dressed men full of self-importance.” She picked up a jade-colored ring off the dresser and slipped it onto her right hand’s ring finger. “Right now, they’re trying to reassert their position in the realm. After all, it was a council that drafted the treaty that angered the people and incited this war,” she added in a serious tone.
“The treaty drafted by the Inter-Realm Council?” I asked with uncertainty.
I felt her shoulders loosen. “Yes, the Treaty of Cloud, which split Stratos into separate Northern and Southern lands. The other kingdoms, Heaven’s Shrine and Orion, claimed that we were becoming too large, that we were expanding unnecessarily. But all we did was accept those villages abandoned by the other kingdoms. Honestly, though, Heaven’s Shrine was merely trying to regain its supremacy and Orion’s king was trying to isolate me from my husband for personal endeavors.”
“But, I thought it was the council’s assassination that started the war?” I asked, trying to get my facts straight. Very little was spoken about the origins of the war, and the royal library was stripped of all related documents.
“Yes, you’re right. The people of Stratos that lived in the divide disliked the terms of the treaty that demanded they abandon their homes. So they hired the Phantom Knights to eliminate the council. Needless to say, that group of mercenaries fulfilled their contract completely.” T
he queen smiled.
“We’re still looking for the benefactors. Although their intentions were noble, their actions reflected poorly upon Stratos as a kingdom and the rest of the realm further disapproved. It became the fuel that Heaven’s Shrine and Orion needed to start this fire.”
“What did the other kingdoms think? That His Majesty hired the knights?” I asked.
The queen nodded.
“And Avalon’s just sitting back, watching while its sentinel, Arbelaez, investigates. The war will be long over before they decide to act,” I added.
The queen laughed. “Margaret, you’re well informed.”
I bit my tongue after realizing that I was drawing conclusions aloud in front of Her Majesty.
“I almost didn’t believe my husband when he told me who you were and what you did. Although, he never did tell me why…” She lowered her voice and curiosity hummed off her lips.
I blushed from embarrassment, which quickly turned into pain and anger. I didn’t know His Majesty had told the queen about me. I’d been at her side since the beginning of summer and she’d never spoken of it. Discomfort settled over me and my surroundings seemed to collapse onto me. I stopped combing her hair, and allowed my own brown locks to hide my face in its shadows.
“Margaret, your queen asked you a question,” she said.
I gritted my teeth to suppress the anger that swelled inside of me. “I wanted to know what my brothers died for…” I looked at Her Majesty in the mirror. “I was tired of standing on the doorstep as my father and each of my brothers walked away. And when they never came home, nobody would tell me why.” The faces of my family clouded my head before they each faded one by one. “I was told that I’m ‘a woman and that war didn’t concern me’,” I mocked all the people I had consulted. I slouched and almost buried my face against the queen’s shoulders. I wouldn’t let her see me cry.
“Margaret.” The queen called my name several times until I mumbled a reply. “Why are you crying?”
