by West, Shay
The Kromin Guardian made her way to her travel pod and proceeded out of the shielded hatchway, designed to keep out the poisonous gases of the atmosphere while allowing the pods to pass through easily.
As Mirka flew to the research building, she had to grudgingly admit that this planet did have its own unique beauty, toxic and noxious though it was. She marveled at the dense orange-pink clouds, swirling and churning in startling patterns that made one's eyes want to glaze over.
Mirka entered one of the hatchways at the research building and landed the travel pod. She emerged and gave a last, longing look at the only color she was likely to see all day. She made her way down the main hallway that led to the specimen room.
The floor felt cool on her bare feet, but the rest of her body was quite comfortable in the climate-controlled building. Mirka could hear little; only the sound of machines, the doors opening and closing, the very faint slapping of footsteps on the metal floor. She stopped and stood for a moment in the eerie silence. A building of this size and accommodating large numbers of beings should have been humming with the buzz of conversation and laughter, the occasional cough, or other outburst. But the halls and rooms were completely silent.
Mirka continued to the specimen room. The five students were already there awaiting the arrival of their research leader.
--What duties do you have for us today, Leader?
Mirka paused before sending the answer to them. What she wanted had never been attempted before. It was going to sound impossible, but she knew that these five were up to the task. They had to succeed; the fate of the galaxy could depend on it. Communication with an alien species was one thing; communication across the vast distances of space was something else altogether.
Mirka gave all five their instructions. They left the specimen room for their travel pods. Five pods sped off in five different directions, making the jump into hyperspace as soon as they were clear of Kromin. A short time later, five pods appeared near five different planets hundreds of thousands of parsecs away from Kromin.
* * *
Mirka sat in her domicile awaiting the sleep cue. She was tense and on edge trying to relax and keep her mind focused. Suddenly she stiffened. Her eyes widened as she detected the barest whisper of contact from light years away.
--Leader – can you hear me?
VOLGON
“Do one more sweep before heading back to the Colony,” Premier Viisyr ordered.
“Yes, Premier,” Feeror replied to the face on the communications screen. He punched a few buttons and the visage of his leader disappeared. He placed his plasma rifle against the wall of the bunker and stood. He was an impressive figure, standing past eight feet tall and well muscled. His greenish-brown flexible armor covered his massive frame from neck to boots. His head and neck were exposed, though scaled and hard, and the same shade as the armor, with large reptilian eyes and a long snout. Two sets of fangs protruded from his lower and upper jaws, giving the Volgon warrior a fierce look. A utility belt holding his three-foot serrated blade, small plasma sidearm, food rations, communicator, and personal shield encircled his thick waist.
“I don't see why we need to do another sweep. It will show the same thing the other ten sweeps showed: no Gorkon activity,” Voilor growled.
“The Premier has ordered another sweep. Who are we to argue?” Feeror grinned fiercely. “Besides, perhaps we will get lucky and get to kill some Gorkon scum before we have to return to the Colony.”
Feeror's shift partner, Voilor, nodded in agreement. Both men walked over to the camouflaged viewport. Feeror pushed a lever and punched several large buttons. A dull clank sounded high in the rock above their heads. A sweeper appeared outside, descending from above. The blue metallic sphere spun in a slow circle, its electronic eye missing nothing. It relayed everything it sensed to the bunker's main computer.
Feeror sent the sweeper in its usual recon pattern, going in concentric circles starting at the bunker and moving outward approximately half a mile before beginning the next sweep. The surveillance ended just past Colony 3, with the sweeper returning to the hidden bunker.
The sweeper picked up nothing; there did not appear to be any Gorkon activity in the vicinity. Feeror and Voilor finished checking the data to be certain that nothing was missed. The next shift arrived and the two men exited the bunker.
Night had fallen. The moonless Volgon sky was littered with stars, though none shone bright enough to cast any light on the dark, heavily shadowed landscape. The two Volgons journeyed to Colony 3, moving through the pitch darkness with stealth and precision.
Feeror caught sight of a melgor, a large armored lizard, and shot it with his plasma rifle. He and Voilor quickly field dressed the animal. This meant an extra ration of food for most of the colony, not to mention a welcome treat to the usual gruel that was the staple of every Volgon's diet. He fought the temptation to tear into the flesh of the lizard, to taste the salty fresh blood as he gorged on the meat. A glance at Voilor showed that he also fought the same urge.
The light of the new day revealed more details of the rocky, barren Volgon landscape. Feeror tried to visualize what Volgon had looked like centuries before, before the war with the Gorkons ravaged their planet. Huge gouges from blast weapons scarred the ground. The little vegetation that existed was stunted and twisted. A river ran toward the ocean, twisting through the land like a huge glistening snake. The ruins of a once great city lay before them.
Feeror and Voilor crossed the river and continued on to the colony, whose entrance was concealed behind a camouflaged shield, much like the one that protected the hidden bunker.
The entry into the colony was a dark, gaping hole. The ground fell sharply and continued down in a sharp spiral for a long while. The greenish-brown rock, pocked with the markings of excavation, was rough to the touch. The close quarters caused even the smallest noise to echo, sometimes sounding as if there was someone following the men as they made their way deeper underground. Soon, Feeror detected the faint sound of water. A musky, stale odor assailed his nostrils as they got closer to the entrance to level one.
Feeror absently counted the torches that lined the walls of the tunnel at irregular intervals. As he and Voilor walked deeper and deeper underground, he began to feel a weight pressing down on his shoulders, as though he could feel the many feet of dirt and rock pressing down on him. He fought the urge to turn around and walk back to the surface, forcing his heart to slow and his breathing to return to normal.
Feeror and Voilor walked into Level 1 and into a huge central chamber. Dim light filtered in via the airshafts that led to the surface. There were several passages leading to living quarters, storerooms, and a few leading to dead ends. The passageway the men chose led down further to level 2. They entered a main chamber, larger than the one on level 1. Here there were more living quarters, the General's quarters, storerooms, and the special room reserved for the designing of weapons and shields. The colony had a restricted third level where the food, air, and shield generators were located, as well as water cisterns and purifiers. All three levels had secret hidden exits to safety in the unlikely event that a Gorkon patrol or war party penetrated the protective shields and the guards at the entrances.
There were several Volgons doing chores: straightening the storerooms, excavating new tunnels and passageways, caring for the young ones, and a host of other activities. Both men engaged in conversations with Volgons who were curious about what the latest sweep had shown. The women and children seemed especially interested in the news. It had been weeks since the last encounter with a Gorkon patrol and there had been talk of a small excursion for the children so they could lay eyes on the outside world. After his wash, Feeror lay down on his pallet. During his watch in the bunker, he had gotten an idea for a new weapon that could end the war with the Gorkons once and for all. Part of him wanted to go see if Premier Vissyr was still awake so he could share his idea. But the long watch in the bunker and the long trek home won out
over excitement and he fell into a deep slumber, still thinking about his newest creation.
* * *
Feeror awoke after sleeping half a day. As he stood and stretched, he gazed at the stone walls surrounding him and felt a constricting in his chest and throat. He closed his eyes for a moment to collect himself. The claustrophobia came upon him on occasion, usually right after he had been topside for any length of time. A part of him longed for the war to end, for the Gorkons to be utterly destroyed, that the Volgons may once again live above ground. Most Volgons had never felt the warmth of the sun, the breeze blowing across their bare skin, or gazed upon the green sky.
And yet, fighting was what he did best. Every part of him longed to pit his skills against the enemy in battle, to feel his blood rush through his veins, his muscles respond to his wishes even before he knew what he wished to do.
What will you do if you cannot fight?
Feeror shook himself out of his daydream. Dreams and hopes were for the weak. He was a warrior, fierce and strong and dedicated to the protection of the Volgons living in Colony 3. He dressed in his armor, complete with utility belt and all weapons. Volgons only went without their armor and weapons when sleeping, and even then they were kept close.
Feeror made his way to the weapons room. He was anxious to tell the others of his idea for a new and, he hoped, highly destructive weapon. He passed several groups of children. All were learning the proper use of plasma firearms, including how the proper method of cleaning them and how to charge the power supply. Feeror praised them on their speed and agility.
They will make fine warriors.
In the weapons room, Kyron and Moylir were dismantling a faulty shield generator. It protected a third of the airshafts. No entrance or exit into the colony was left unprotected. Two hundred years ago, a small contingent of Gorkon soldiers had entered through an airshaft and killed many Volgons before they could be stopped. Feeror joined Voilor and Seelyr and told them of his idea for a new weapon. The two were excited about his idea and spent the next few minutes discussing the possibilities of such a weapon, if in fact it could be created.
Kyron and Moylir finished their repairs and gave the machine to some young Volgons to re-install. In the Volgon colony, there was always work to be done and all in the colony helped, from the youngest to the oldest. Kyron joined the others and lent their expertise to the discussion.
“In order to test this weapon, Feeror, we will have to capture some Gorkons to practice on.” Moylir, being the eldest, always felt it necessary to point out the hurdles and potential pitfalls. She had lost her mate, Meerlyr, in a battle that had been hastily engaged. She thought if more time had been taken to plan the attack, Meerlyr may still be alive.
The arrival of Premier Viisyr interrupted their discussion. He stood an impressive nine feet tall. His armor was discolored by many years of wear. His fangs were yellow and broken, a sign of great age. He had only recently come to live in Colony 3 but had quickly proven his worth.
Colony 3 had lost their weapons Premier to sickness and had been without for many years. Viisyr's coming had brought the colony back to its former strength.
Feeror proceeded to tell the Premier of his idea. He grinned when the Premier gave permission to begin building the new weapon. His pulse quickened and his muscles bunched under his armor, every inch of him eager to build the weapon that would destroy the Volgon enemy
* * *
Premier Viisyr left his students to the task at hand. He knew they did not need him hovering over them. Besides, there were other duties requiring his attention. He needed to scout the area to the east of the Colony for any Gorkon activity. There was a ruined city there and Gorkons could easily hide from the sweeper among the rubble. Volgons were normally forbidden from scouting alone, but Viisyr's status afforded him certain freedoms.
He exited the Colony and made his way east. He kept to the rocks and brush, alert for any sign of movement. He watched the ground as often as he watched the horizon, looking for any recent signs of Gorkons on patrol.
At dusk, Viisyr stopped for a brief rest in a spot he knew well. The high rock walls gave good cover yet afforded him an adequate view of the region. He sat propped against the rocks under a ledge. The color of his skin and armor blended in well with the greenish-brown color of the rocks. He would be well camouflaged, as long as he remained silent and still.
As Gerok sat, he let his mind wander. He returned to the day he came to this planet, as Master and Guardian of the Chosen. It had been dark when he exited the portal located in the ruined city. He dressed in the hidden armor he had stolen from an actual Volgon named Viisyr who lived in Colony 1. He had been creeping about trying to get his bearings when he was ambushed by a Gorkon patrol. Gerok could not remember much about the fight, only that it had been long, brutal, and bloody. He had barely escaped.
He was grateful for the attack; it gave him the cover he needed to begin his life as a member of the third colony. There was little communication between the three colonies, therefore little chance that anyone would discover he was an imposter. But as he had lain healing in Colony 3, he had been left to ponder whether he would have been attacked had he not arrived that particular day. Of all the Guardians, he alone had been the sole voice of opposition to the Masters' wanting to send the Guardians to the planets of the Chosen before the signs appeared. Gerok had always believed in prophecy and that it should be followed word for word, never interpreted differently.
If I had arrived on Volgon at the proper time, there may not have even been a Gorkon patrol near the portal and I may not have been attacked.
He had often wondered what would have happened were he to have been killed that day. Would another be sent? Would the Masters back on Gentra even know what had happened to him? Would the galaxy be doomed to destruction because his Chosen would never learn of their fate to save the galaxy from the Mekans?
All of these question and more plagued his waking thoughts and haunted his dreams. All he could hope for was that he could keep his Chosen safe until the signs appeared so that they m ay meet their destiny.
After his rest, Gerok continued on to the ruined city, being careful to stay near the rock formations. As he passed by the first buildings, he saw a fresh track in the dirt. He bent down and examined it more closely,
Only a day old. He stood slowly and began following the tracks, being careful to only step on the rocks so as not to leave sign of his passing. He noticed some of the tracks had been brushed away, though not enough to evade his sharp eyes and skills as a tracker. He stood and sniffed the air. He caught a faint, musky odor on the breeze and quickly walked back the way he had come.
He ran to the colony and relayed the news of the Gorkon patrol to General Kroylir. The General wasted no time in gathering a small force to deal with the threat.
“General Kroylir, I have a request.”
“Yes, Premier?” Kroylir stood on the balls of his feet, arms crossed behind his back. The General had the air of one who is ready to spring into action at a moment's notice.
“I have need of live Gorkons for the testing of a new weapon. Can you see to it that some of the Gorkons in this patrol are kept alive?”
“As you wish, Premier.” Kroylir gave a small bow, turned on his heel, and exited the main chamber, making his way to the surface.
Gerok rejoined his trainees in the weapons room. They had dismantled an old Gorkon weapon that had been confiscated many years past. It utilized sound waves. Anyone in the near vicinity when the weapon was discharged was killed as their hearts stopped and their brains were turned to mush. The major setback to such a weapon was that it would kill anything in its path, foe and friend alike. Feeror's idea, if it proved successful, would eliminate that problem.
“We have managed to isolate the sound generator, Premier Viisyr. We were about to connect it to the computer for further analysis,” Feeror said.
“Proceed.”
“The sound generator is still function
al.” Feeror turned his head from the computer to address the others. “We need to fashion some sort of sound-proof chamber before we test the weapon.”
“Agreed.” Viisyr looked around at the others for their input as well.
“We should build the chamber here in the weapons room and restrict access. When testing of the weapon commences, level 2 should be evacuated.” Seelyr began sketching on a piece of parchment, designing the layout for the sound-proof chamber, placing it as far from the entrance as possible. She was an excellent artist and the others depended on her detailed blueprints and schematics to aid them in the creation of the shields and weapons. She had the ability to draw anything described to her.
“Now all we need is some Gorkon scum to examine and use for practice.” Kyron grinned as he cleaned under his talons with a small knife.
“That may happen sooner than expected.” Viisyr told of the Gorkon patrol he had seen in the ruined city and General Kroylir's assurance that some of the Gorkons would be captured for the use of the trainees.
“First thing tomorrow we need to begin building the sound chamber.” Feeror turned to face the others, fangs bared in hate and rage. “The sooner we can perfect the sound weapon the sooner we can kill them all.”
EARTH
“Let us bow our heads.”
Reverend Robert Marshall gripped the pulpit with both hands as he looked over the congregation. He bowed his head as he began the Lord's Prayer.
“Our Father who art in Heaven,
Hallowed be thy name.
Thy Kingdom come, thy will be done,
On Earth as it is in Heaven…”
The voices of the congregation mingled with the deep baritone of Reverend Marshall as they finished the prayer that completed the Sunday service. The reverend walked off the dais and down the center aisle, murmuring greetings to the folk as they stood and began to make their way out of the church. Reverend Marshall walked out of the front door and positioned himself to the left. The parishioners exited the church and paid their respects to the reverend, praising him for his wonderful sermon. He politely declined several invitations to join families for lunch, claiming he had other duties to attend to.
