The Genesis Sequence Books 6-10

by Mackenzie Morris

  The reporter turned to Rav with an excited look on her powdered face then held out the microphone to him. "And here is the young artist's very own father. Mr. Tillman, how do you feel about your son's talent and success in the art world?"

  Rav blinked in the lights from the cameras, his anxiety reaching dangerous levels. He searched frantically for words, but his racing heart and quick breathing prevented him from forming coherent sentences. Instead, he nodded his head and took Nemo's hand.

  The reporter gave an overly happy gasp then tucked her brown bangs behind her ears. "A man so proud of his son that he is rendered speechless. And how you two managed to escape from Odyssia and the abusive control of Warlord Tirlmayn of Azimandia himself is amazing. Truly amazing. Now, Mr. Tillman, to the question everyone is wanting to ask. Who will have custody of Nemo once you leave for basic flight training?"

  Everyone in the building stopped what they were doing to turn and stare at him.

  He was caught off guard. "What? I'm not in the military."

  "Oh, dear. It seems that Mr. Tillman has not been told about his deployment yet." She giggled, partly from her greedy realization and partly from the look on Rav's face. "This is breaking news, then. Mr. Tillman, you have been conscripted into the Elysian Flight Force. Give all of Darkshot your raw, uncensored reaction to this news."

  Rav squeezed Nemo's hand tightly when the glass doors to the art gallery slid open and a very dark-skinned man in a silver exosuit entered. No. This could not have been happening. It wasn't real. It could not have been real.

  The pilot's piercing blue eyes stood out from his braided black hair and the white cape emblazoned with the crossed golden laser rifles and an eagle, the symbol of Elysia. The golden sash across his chest covered with medals and five large winged stars told who he was. Commander of Flight Masamba Adebayo. Even a computer engineer from Odyssia had heard that name before. Masamba was the most decorated fighter pilot in the history of the Elysian Flight Force.

  Rav met eyes with one of his childhood idols. He had wanted to fly a fighter plane like Masamba, but he never knew that the training would be forced on him. He had to get the first word in or this was going to be a mess. "Commander of Flight, please don't do this. I have looked up to you ever since I found in-flight footage of your dog fights above Elysia's atmosphere. I never knew who you were fighting or why, but I looked up to you as a hero. Please don't take me. Please."

  Masamba's cold expression did not change as he held up his left arm where an orange hologram of an official document hovered in the air. "Rav Avery Tillman, it has been quite the project of hunting you down even after your identity had been erased from all databases. As of this morning, you are conscripted into the Elysian Flight Force as a pilot. Your service is both mandatory and nonnegotiable. You are hereby ordered to accompany me to my ship where you will be transported to Western Elysia for basic flight training."

  So it wasn't a joke. "No! I'm not leaving. I have to stay with my son. You can't force me to do this. I'm not an Elysian citizen."

  "You are a citizen of Darkshot and you have been a citizen of Odyssia. All human colonies must obey the laws of Elysia. All citizens must obey the laws of the draft when the time comes."

  Rav's blood was nearly boiling from his rage. He spotted the man in the yellow tuxedo who was trying to sneak out the back door. "Viktor! You did this, didn't you? You slimy bastard. That's why you wanted us to move in with you so they could find me easier. Now you get Nemo all to yourself and the money with him. You did this!"

  "Yes, Rav. I did. I reported you to the military. They need a pilot of your talents to help win this war. You sitting here in Darkshot doing nothing is not helping our cause."

  Rav crossed his arms in defiance. "I'm not going."

  "You had better or-"

  Viktor interrupted Masamba. "Allow me. Rav, I arranged a deal where you take the place of someone very dear to your heart."

  "Who?"

  "Nemo. Nemo was slated to join the Children's Corps where he would be trained and forced to kill and die on the front lines as a distraction with thousands of other children who are being rounded up and made to take the first hits. He would die out there. I saved his life by buying his hands and sending your name instead."

  "What do you mean you bought his hands?" Rav asked, looking down at Nemo's hands that were stuffed in his pockets.

  "Nemo's hands have been insured for three hundred trillion Dayta Notes. They belong to me. So, if you want Nemo to go with you, you have the option of cutting his hands off then tossing him out onto a battlefield to be a bullet shield."

  Rav turned his ire towards the man who had previously been his hero. "Masamba, how dare you? How dare the military use children as fodder? You're using children to fight your war?"

  "Negative, Mr. Tillman. Soldiers and pilots fight our war. Children die for it. Their deaths make the armed forces fight harder. We are running out of able-bodied citizens who possess certain skills. Seeing thousands of children being gunned down and eaten by Azimandians makes the government continue our funding and causes the populace to vote to extend the war effort. After all, if the war is eventually won, then their children may be spared. With his hands being worth so much, your son has been officially declared to be a vital cultural figure, so he is immune from the draft, barring extreme circumstances. You must come in his place."

  "That doesn't make any sense!"

  "It does not have to make sense, Mr. Tillman. We are the military."

  Rav clutched Nemo tightly against his body while he looked around at all the faces, their eyes glaring at him and waiting for him to either submit and go with the man in the exosuit . . . or fight.

  As if he knew the thoughts racing through Rav's head, Masamba spoke matter-of-factly. "Do not fight this, Rav. I am warning you that I have been authorized by President Brightman to use deadly force if I must. Either come willingly or face immediate execution."

  "Please." Rav knelt down to desperately hold onto his son. "Please don't do this. I just got Nemo back after searching across the universe for him. He needs me. He's only six. I'm begging you to let me stay, not for me, but for him. Don't make me leave him. I swore that I would never leave him. Please."

  Masamba drew a laser pistol from the belt around the middle of his exosuit and aimed it at Rav's tear-streaked face. The whine of the heating cartridge made the spectators step back in caution. "You have ten seconds to stand and come with me. If you refuse, your son will be forced to watch you die."

  Rav knew the begging had run its course and he was facing a definitive dead end. No amount of arguing or hatred toward Viktor could change the outcome. He kissed his son and took a deep breath of his scent before standing and stepping up to Masamba, ultimately resigned to his fate. "Lead on."

  "No! Daddy!" Nemo ran towards Rav, squealing and reaching out for him. "Don't take my daddy. I need my daddy!"

  Masamba grabbed Nemo by his tuxedo jacket and held him still. "Go to Viktor, boy. I will not hesitate to use force."

  "Daddy, help me!"

  Rav covered his mouth in shock when the large pilot picked Nemo up and carried him to Viktor before handing him a bag of sour gummy worms from the pouch on his belt. Force? That was force? He sighed in slight relief that at least someone remembered that Nemo was still only a child.

  Masamba patted Nemo's head then joined Rav in the doorway. "Acceptable use of force with your child?"

  Rav ignored him, opting instead to follow obediently out onto the rain-slicked street to avoid endangering Nemo or any of the onlookers. His composure failed every time Nemo cried out for him, but he had to focus on his own fate at that point. Anger and rage transitioned into fear and apprehension as he walked beside the commander of flight towards the sleek Elysian transport ship. His heart was breaking, his thoughts were racing, and his soul was screaming for him to run. But that would leave Nemo without a father. At least Rav would be able to see him one day, either while on leave upon completion of his tr
aining . . . or after the war had ended.

  Rav was not a religious person, but he prayed during that long wet walk away from his crying son and the future he had striven so hard to create for him. He prayed for a quick end to the war. He prayed for strength to get through the next few weeks of training. Most of all, he prayed to hold that tiny boy's hand in his one more time.

  Chapter 8

  Five days of slowly adjusting to eating solid food again and being locked in his bedroom in the palace on Star-World Zero Alpha, Vance was both overjoyed and leery when a teenage Azimandian guard ordered him to dress in his royal uniform and follow him to the dining room. There was only so much salty mystery broth and bland soda crackers he could stand. The thought of actual food made his mouth preemptively water and gave him enough energy to don his princely clothes.

  The three golden armbands from his elbow up to his shoulder on his right arm, the burgundy cape, baggy white silk pants adorned with bright blue sapphires, the sleeveless belted shirt that clung tightly to his chest, the heeled black boots that reached his thighs, and the decorative thin golden chains on his right arm. It was the traditional Azimandian prince uniform, with one addition. A gold arm guard for his metal left arm where he kept his boomerang attached by a black leather strap around his bicep. Looking at his reflection in the mirror above the dresser, Vance hated what he saw. It did not feel right to be there at that moment, wearing the colors of the enemy, of the very force the Red Sand Rebels had been fighting to eliminate.

  He spotted the twisted crown of obsidian on a lace cushion below the mirror. There was no getting out of it now, so he placed it on top of his neatly combed blond hair that hung around his shoulders. Vance would give his father one thing. He felt powerful in all the garb. It was too elaborate, yet somehow calming. The first time he wore it, he was deathly afraid of this half of who he was and what the life of an alien prince entailed. This time, Vance was ready for anything. After all, with most of his friends and family long gone, he had nothing to lose. At least on this Star-World, Vance had a place where he belonged . . . even if that place was as the son of a genocidal warlord.

  Vance opened the door to leave, but he was pushed forcefully back into the bedroom by the guard who pointed to the ceramic pots of makeup on the silver filigree and ivory vanity.

  "Prince Aveni, you forgot your makeup."

  Not that again. He cringed inside. "I'm not wearing it, mate."

  "Come with me." The young guard sighed and tossed his sweaty brown bangs back over his red smooth horns that swept back from his forehead and encircled his ears. He went to the vanity and motioned for Vance to come closer. "Come here, My Prince. Don't be afraid. I will do if for you."

  In one last act of defiance, Vance sank his front teeth into his lower lip so hard that he drew blood. It beaded up then slid down his chin as he glared at the guard, daring him to make a move.

  The guard was not amused. "Really mature, Prince Aveni. Good thing I have this tissue." He pulled open a blue box filled with various vials of oily serums, sticks of charcoal and eyeliner, pallets of blush and eye shadow, and chrome tools that resembles torture devices. The warbringer pulled a soft tissue from the box and dabbed it against Vance's quivering blood-stained lip. "All you're doing is hurting yourself for no reason. Don't you want to go eat a nice meal befitting a prince? If you don't wear your makeup, you don't eat. It's your choice."

  The hollow, incessant gnawing in Vance's stomach would be his downfall. Uncrossing his arms and closing his eyes, he submitted to his newest humiliation. "Make me pretty, mate."

  He chuckled in his high-pitched voice that was unusual for a warbringer. "I knew you'd come around. You will get used to wearing all this in time. Only royalty wears makeup."

  Vance winced when his eyebrows were being plucked mercilessly. "Tirlmayn doesn't wear it."

  "That's because no one has the horns to hold him down and make him. You'll be that way one day, My Prince. Once you are our warlord, you will be able to change and make the laws as you see fit."

  "This is humiliating."

  "Why?" The guard rubbed pink blush into Vance's cheekbones with his fingertips, slightly scratching him with his claw-like nails as he went.

  "My father knows I'm not female, right?"

  "If you were a female, you wouldn't be speaking to me. Instead, you would be on your back in some other warbringer's bed for the night. Now, I know what you're going to say to that. Something about how humans treat their women better and that they should be cherished or some idiotic crap like that. I don't care. Yes, we are misogynistic, but we are that way because everyone has their predetermined place to fill in our society. Gender means something completely different in Azimandian culture, so it's best if you avoid trying to compare the two. As for you wearing makeup? It highlights your delicate nature as our prince. You are to be treated with reverence, gentleness, and tenderness. The princes of Azimandia have worn this same makeup since the very beginning. The only difference with yours is the gravity flower."

  Oh, yeah. Vance had forgotten about that degrading addition that Tirlmayn had instituted especially for him. A flower that managed to reproduce in the harshest possible conditions, despite having only male parts. Tirlmayn used it to mock him because of his sexuality, but Vance had come to embrace its uniqueness. Now the thought of the flower filled him with melancholy for a different reason. They were the central flowers at his wedding. He subconsciously balled his hands into fists as the guard painted the pointed purple flower onto his forehead.

  "There. Perfection."

  Vance grimaced when he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. "I look like a female stripper on Darkshot."

  "You look regal. If only you had your horns. But no, Tirlmayn insisted on mating with that human woman. From the look of the rest of your body that I saw while caring for your scrapes from being in the pit, I'm sure you would have had the biggest horns."

  "Creepy. Let's avoid talking about my body, all right?"

  He snickered. "It is perfectly normal for fellow warbringers to bathe and oil their muscles together then-"

  "Nope. I'm not interested in having another man touch me. Or anyone else, for that matter. Are we done here or what?" Vance asked, growing more and more uncomfortable as time dragged on.

  "I suppose. You will learn about our culture one day, My Prince. I'm sure you will come to love the camaraderie, the intimacy, and the power dynamics." The young guard busied himself with packing all the tools and supplies away in the drawer of the vanity. "Aren't you the least bit curious as to why I, a warbringer, am the one tending to your domestic needs?"

  "I hadn't noticed."

  "Well, my name is Visht."

  "Pleased to meet you, Visht."

  Visht hissed through his pointed teeth and glared at him as he made clicking noises with his tongue. "This is my punishment for accidentally crashing one of our battle sphere vehicles into the royal fountain. Now I have to play little rejected slave to you for three weeks. You think wearing a bit of makeup is humiliating? Try being reduced to a slave."

  "Hold on. You're a soldier?"

  "All warbringers are soldiers. How do you not know that?"

  "You just look so young. How old are you?" Vance asked.

  "Fifteen."

  "So you're in the same training battalion as all the other young warbringers under the age of twenty-five?"

  "Seems you do know a bit about our military, huh?" Visht grinned. "Yes, I am. Why?"

  "Have you seen one with orange horns and matching spots? He has messy dark hair and grey skin?"

  "Are you talking about Traitor Kalimis?"

  "Is that what they called him now?" Vance asked, his heart skipping a beat.

  "I've seen him. We all see him every day at noon in the square up in the city. That's where he receives his daily punishment in front of all the warbringers."

  "His punishment? So he's still alive?"

  Visht's brow furrowed and he leaned against the wall. He
played with the leather straps across his breast. "Oh, he's alive all right. I bet he wishes he wasn't, though. The tortures his commanders put him through on that stage are barbaric at best. I can't stomach watching it. And his screaming is endless. I've never seen a warbringer be broken like that."

  "What do they do to him?"

  "Trust me, you don't want to know. Let's just say that we wouldn't even treat an unruly rejected slave the way they treat Kalimis. After a year of daily punishment, he will rejoin the battalion in combat on the front lines."

  "A year?" Vance asked. "They'll torture him for a year? That's horrible."

  "I know, right? He betrays Azimandia and all he gets is one year of punishment? He should have been executed or permanently enslaved and had his horns cut off like that rejected boy he had wrongfully claimed. The one he stole from Tirlmayn."

  Could he have been talking about Slayven? "Slayven? You know about Slayven? Do you know where he is?"

  "He's alive and in the service of a high ranking warbringer general. Slayven is more than likely much worse off than Kalimis, actually. I would hate to be a general's domestic slave."

  Vance had many questions he wanted answered, but he decided that he didn't want to know the exact details. At least Slayven and Kalimis were both still alive, even if their current lives were actually living hells. Then the young warbringer spoke to him, sounding much more like the boy he was and less like a seasoned warrior.

  "Prince Aveni, can I ask you something that I shouldn't be asking?"

  What was this about? Vance studied the suddenly quiet boy in front of him. "Go ahead and ask. Don't be afraid of me."

  Visht shifted nervously from foot to foot, his tight leather armor quietly creaking over his muscles. "You're good with computers, right?"

  "I'm better with the coding and hacking than with hardware repairs and things like that, but yes. Rav was the one who could take a bunch of scrap metal and create machines from garbage. Why are you asking? Need help with a terminal or something? Get locked out and forget your password?"