by Max Jager
"Doctor Hathren Drel, the Order of the Emperor places you under arrest for treason against His Majesty's Empire," he said nonchalantly.
Hathren spat on the cluttered carpet floor, "So the bureaucratic bastards in the Capital finally figured it out." He could feel his pulse rising and an inexplicable instinct to do bodily harm to the commando, as much as his reason told him that such a feat would be fruitless at best. Still, he couldn't go down without a fight. Hathren's left hand discretely moved to the bookcase which he kept on the wall near the door and rested there.
"Enough of your small talk," the soldier chided. "If you come quietly, you'll have a good shot at life behind bars."
Hathren's left hand now firmly gripped the back of bookcase. Now or never.
"I'll take hell any day over life in your damn prison!" he roared. Mustering all his might and moving his right arm in to assist, Hathren toppled the bookcase onto the surprised soldier and fled with fiery heels.
"Stop him!"
Hathren sprinted toward the nearest elevator at the end of a series of corridors, ignoring the concerned looks of his colleagues. He jammed the "down" button several times but failed to immediately produce a "ding" that would allow him entry. He could now hear rapid footsteps heading in his direction.
"Dammit," he cursed.
The doors finally opened, and he rushed in, nearly knocking over a female doctor in the process.
"In a rush, Hathren?" she inquired concernedly.
"No... time," Hathren panted. He hammered the door close button and rapidly tapped "G". The elevator descended. Seven... six... five... four... three... two... dammit, almost there!
Hathren finally reached the ground floor and darted out of the elevator as soon as the doors had opened wide enough for him to exit. In his haste, he barely noticed a quick flash of light that whizzed in his direction and struck him on the neck, causing a paralyzing shock. He collapsed and craned his neck to observe the assaulting weapon – undoubtedly a shock rod. Hathren exhaled, letting out a trapped breath, before his world blacked out.
Hathren awoke to find himself chained by force cuffs to a vertical metallic stand in a dark, desolate chamber. Despite consisting of what Hathren considered to be an abstract substance, they seemed solid and unbreakable by brute force. The weak presence of light in the room outlined his features - the hard nose, brown pupils in slit-like sockets punctuated by heavy dark circles, and hair which stood like a ragged brown mop on his head, sticky with cooled sweat. His thin mouth and prominent chin stood out as well. His body was poorly built and featured sagged shoulders, a droopy, thin torso and arms and legs that seemed like double-jointed sticks. His fingers, however, were deft and, as far as he knew, acted as his sole physical asset.
Hathren stared blankly around the room; he felt a slight burning sensation on his neck, which was now swathed in a sticky goo that he recognized as nitrasil – a salve that surgeons used to treat burns, electric shocks and similar sorts of trauma. It took him a while to realize his predicament: that he was helpless and at the mercy of the law.
He could now see light pouring in through the cracks of a door.
"Awake now, are we?" A cruel voice sneered as more light bled into the chamber. Hathren bared his teeth as a figure in white and gold robes strode in his direction, accompanied by two stout but well built guardsmen. He made no attempt to resist as they deactivated the force cuffs and placed him in a mobile chair, where they placed similar restraints around his wrists, torso and legs. His dazed and weary eyes regained vision over the several minutes he traversed the prison-like facility, traveling long stretches of hallway and finally descending deep below the establishment by elevator. They eventually arrived in a large, crowded court, and Hathren read the time on the wall clock: one o' clock. Lined with marble pillars and flooring, the court seemed more like the interior of a palace rather than a place where law proceedings would happen. The furnishings in the room were white oak and displayed a very high gloss finish. Any carpeting in the area had either a deep red or purple color and appeared to be handcrafted.
The Emperor was seated on a high throne with two elite guards on each of his flanks. He currently wore a neutral expression that fit perfectly with his gray eyes and sleek, shoulder-length black hair. The white robe he wore appeared to blend into his pale skin, giving him the air of some kind of ghost. On a panel extending out from either side of him sat twelve sagacious-looking members of the legal counsel. Their robes were also of a dove white color, but blended in more with their wispy hair than their sallow skin.
"We meet again, Hathren," the Emperor said in a poor attempt to sound sentimental.
"I know what you have become, Se—"
"The defendant will address the Emperor as Your Maj—"
"There will be no need for that," the Emperor interrupted the stout guard on his left. "Hathren is an acquaintance of mine, and he may therefore feel comfortable to address me as he pleases."
Hathren continued, "You have lost your sense of justice, Serann. I see no need to proceed with a trial and prefer to spare my appointed lawyer the trouble."
Serann chuckled sinisterly. "As always Hathren, you really don't like taking advantage of the toil other people go through for you. I assure you that you will always have a place in my heart as the man who accomplished things through his own power."
"Cut the drama; it's starting to get pathetic," Hathren spat, showing no fear toward his old acquaintance. "I have no reason to cower before a man who owes me his life."
Serann's face began turning noticeably scarlet.
"Silence!" he ordered.
What was earlier a twisted smirk on his face shifted to something of a grimmer demeanor. "Very well, Hathren, this entails you plead guilty to twenty-three counts of treason and one count of capital deception?"
Hathren paused, assessing the situation. No escape this time. I cannot, however, tell them under any circumstances what they want to know.
"I do."
"I see no reason to delay the execution. Any objections from the learned counsel of this court?" No one uttered a sound, and Serann continued, "Hathren, before you die, would you like to reveal your true identity?"
As if on cue, the restraints around Hathren's wrists vanished.
"I know not what you speak of," Hathren uttered without losing his composure.
"Then I see no other solution than to reveal it by force!" Serann shouted. "Guar—"
Before Serann could finish, he collapsed and fell face-forward onto his podium. Blood began to flow from his gaping mouth, and it stained the podium's white oak finish. Moments later, Hathren Drel was nowhere to be seen, his wheelchair left empty in the very center of the court.
B1 Chapter 1
I – Nano Era, Arden Dynasty – Year 25
7:43 p.m.
The factory smelled of musk and vermin dung as Jaren Sikel toiled to find the cause of failure in a coal-processing machine. His eyes brushed a rusty gear without a moment's consideration, as he deemed it pointless to inspect the same part for the eighth time after finding no fault with it earlier. He threw his wrench down in frustration, expecting it to collide with one of the gears or gear shafts that sat near his feet. The action failed to produce an audible sound. Perplexed, Jaren shined his flashlight near the base of his feet and grinned. He saw the mangled body of a crow lodged between two gears. He also noticed that his wrench had penetrated the bird's carcass, standing up almost vertically. When he ceased laughing at his dumb luck, he finally uttered, "There's the bugger!" loud enough for a few others who worked near the machine to hear.
"Finally found it eh? What's the trouble?" a burly man inquired.
Jaren sighed, "A crow. I bet it came in during morning under the cover of fog. S
omehow it plunked to the bottom where it knew it would be a bitch to find."
"Mind if I take a look?"
"Not at all, Drek."
Drek brushed past Jaren in order to take a closer look, but as he did, he noticed an envelope bearing the Imperial seal lying inconspicuously on the ground. The seal, with its intricate design and powerful message, could make any drab piece of stationery radiate an air of unquestionable importance. It featured a long sword and a pole arm intersecting at the center of a broad shield. To the left of the shield lay a long stem of grain that bent parallel to the shield's curvature, while on the right stood a fairly large hammer. At the top it was adorned with the phrase "Un Imperio," signifying that the seal represented the Imperial government. At the top of the shield, the word "Potenza" was engraved, just above the intersection of the blade of the sword and the shaft of the pole arm. The words "Prosperia" and "Commercio" occupied the bottom left and right parts of the seal near the stem of grain and the hammer respectively. The envelope was of a light, luscious lavender color, and the seal engraved on it was gold.
"Oh shit," Jaren breathed as he reached for the fallen envelope, but it was too late—Drek already had his hands on it. He pulled out the letter and began to read in a crude, drunken attempt to mimic the sound of some sort of high-and-mighty voice: "Dear Jaren Sikel, Congratulations on the hard work exhibited at your post. By recommendation of your overseer, you are to report to Brisbane Skydock on the eighteenth day of winter at six o' clock in the morning to serve as a mechanic on His Majesty's flagship. Feel free to bring any possessions of special value to you, but note that all your basic needs will be taken care of. In order to validate your identity, please bring the ID card that was included with this letter."
Drek stopped and glanced at Jaren, who had managed to recover the envelope and the ID card. His normally placid face, accentuated by his blue eyes and blonde hair, became twisted with fury and jealousy, "You just gonna leave me in this piece of shit and... live the high-life... you... two-faced son-of-a..."
Jaren had no time for Drek's temper tantrum, or even worse, a possible rampage. He quickly backed away and made his exit, kicking the factory door shut and muttering, "Good-bye, and good-riddance," under his breath. He had only just shuffled past the alleyway that led out of the factory when he heard rapid footsteps behind him. He looked back and saw Drek a mere thirty feet from him, his arm thrown back and flexed for a devastating punch. Jaren had seen Drek run after someone with the intent to kill before, and he knew fleeing was pointless. Anger boiled within him, overwhelming any prior sense of fright.
He anticipated Drek's first assault and ducked in good time. The bare fist brushed over his hair, but his forehead connected with Drek's forearm. Dazed, Jaren took a half second to blink and refocus, but he had given Drek enough time to launch another assault almost as powerful. Jaren cringed as raw knuckle collided with the lower section of his stomach and gasped as he spat out gastric juices that had traveled up his throat a mere second later. He fell to the ground, clutching his stomach.
"Don't worry Jaren," hissed Drek's cold voice, "it will all end quickly—I promise."
Jaren watched impassively as the sole of a large boot ascended above his head. As the blunt guillotine descended upon him, he was suddenly overcome by an inexplicable instinct. Time seemed to slow to a crawl as Jaren's system pumped with adrenaline, his mindset shifting from helplessness to uncontrollable anger. With amazing deftness and ease, he grabbed Drek's ankle with his left hand, despite being right-handed, and wrenched it sideways, causing Drek's muscular two-hundred seventy-five pound torso to topple over.
Jaren rose, kicked the twitching body into a face-up position and executed a death sentence that Drek failed to evade. Jaren became aware of his actions too late; blood was already dripping from the sole of his work boot down onto Drek's head, which lay split open from the bridge of the nose to the center of the forehead. He began to lose himself in a whirlpool of scattered emotions: remorse, regret, anger, sorrow, panic, confusion. He stared rigidly down at the split face, his anger blocking tears from welling in his eyes, and remorse turning his muscular legs to lead. Time, again, slowed to a crawl.
Jaren heard a noise coming from the direction of the factory door several minutes later. He ignored it and continued to look down at the corpse of his hunter-turned-victim. Kraen Vendhal, the overseer of the factory, approached Jaren's position and looked stolidly down at the corpse. He wore a dark, hooded cloak, which enshrouded most of his face in shadow and made his body blend in with the darkness.
"Jaren, I hope you realize the implications of this," he said, making no effort to keep his baritone voice neutral. Unable to find words, Jaren kept silent; his eyes opened wider with terror. Kraen extended a wrinkled, bony hand to Jaren's chin, "You will answer me when I address you, boy."
"I... didn't know what I was doing," Jaren managed.
"Of course you didn't. Very well then, you must come with me. I must say this is very disappointing given the high hopes I had in you."
Jaren followed Kraen back into the factory and into an elevator, which ascended five floors, although Jaren and the other workers didn't know the factory past the first four. The fifth floor felt like a completely different building altogether—the walls were clean and even, the area was devoid of cobwebs and other nuisances, and the metal alloy coat of each and every door shined with dazzling brilliance. Upon placing his thumb on a fingerprint scanner, Kraen entered a spacious office at the end of a corridor and beckoned Jaren to follow. He removed his hood, revealing a wrinkled, worn face—tired and aged. His grey eyes in their square sockets complemented his balding white hair and his dread-inducing presence.
"Let's see now, how should I phrase this?" Kraen pondered.
"Hmm…" the overseer held a microphone to his mouth and pressed a button on its handle.
"Sir Heldus, it is with great difficulty that I must inform you that I must withdraw Jaren's invitation to serve on the Emperor's flagship pending criminal charges. I have no doubt he would have served well among the members of your crew, but he has been placed in the hands of the law. At this time, I do not have someone whom I feel would be fit to take the job instead, as Jaren's brutal crime is the murder of the man I had deemed my sec—"
Jaren suddenly found his voice.
"Second Choice?" he spat. "With that criminal record!"
"Drek served time and erased any prior criminal history. You, on the other hand, have landed yourself in a much more diff—"
"Yeah, he served time for nearly beating Simon to death. Too bad Simon survived. If Drek was such a tough guy, I shouldn't have been able to kill him."
"—icult situation," Kraen finished as though he didn't realize that Jaren had interrupted him. "Now, where was I? Ah, yes," Kraen pressed the microphone button again, "Second choice. I have no other choices available at this moment, and it is already too late considering the flagship picks up all new inductees tomorrow. Once again, I express my deepest regrets, Kraen Vendhal."
Jaren noticed that Kraen was reading something from a computer screen and realized that reading into the microphone did not transmit an audio message, but instead transmitted the words to the computer, which in turn changed them to plain text. If this was a message that Kraen was composing before sending, Jaren considered that he might be able to kill him and escape the law, but with the consequences resulting in a much heavier burden on his shoulders.
He wasn't given a choice. Panic, mixed with fury, welled up within him, and he slowly crept toward the unsuspecting overseer.
"Jaren, hand me your authorization card."
Jaren knew that Kraen was referring to his ticket to serve on the Emperor's flagship. He ignored him and continued to proceed, inches at a time, as if savoring the moment.
"What are you doing? Hand me the card!"
Kraen's raised voice failed to penetrate Jaren's trance.
Jaren halted once he was almost exactly an arm's length from Kraen's throa
t. Slowly he extended his arms toward the target, his body pumping more adrenaline to feed his trancelike state. Suddenly realizing Jaren's harmful intent, Kraen backed away and fled after briefly sliding his hand under the tabletop of his desk. A din of sirens flooded the office and the immediate hallway, causing Jaren to reenter consciousness. Puzzled and confused, he clasped his large hands around both ears and tried to think of his next course of action. He noticed faint footsteps coming from behind him, but before he could turn around, he fell to the ground out cold from sudden, blunt-force trauma to the back of his head.
Jaren awoke and found himself chained to the back wall of a dark and dingy jail cell at the end of a corridor. Light poured in from its open entrance, causing his pale features to glow. His face was sullen and the light played off his high cheekbones as well as a dimple on the left corner of his mouth and on his chin. The pupils in his black eyes flashed in large, elliptical sockets. His hair was jet black and stood in a uniform buzz cut above his scalp. His body was well-built but, at the moment, dirty, as a result of his toils as a mechanic.
