by David Roman
“Now!” Holding his sword with one hand and his blaster with the other, Exander jumped into action, followed by his brother.
Mayhem took over the room as the Xenian brothers attacked with matchless speed. Exander leapt over the pile of the fallen guards, spun in midair—dodging the waves of phaser blasts—and landed, slicing two soldiers in half while firing across the room and killing two more as his giant of a brother followed behind. The thick blade of Damocles’ sword reflected the blasts in every direction as he swung the massive weapon, killing several guards in an instant. He then rolled on the ground and stabbed through another one.
Screams of pain and agony were intermingled with the sounds of discharges. Some of the guards accidentally shot each other in a futile attempt to hit the moving targets that crisscrossed the room like a couple of lightning bolts.
As Vincent entered, the last soldier fell to his knees, his mask mashed into his face by the big man’s mammoth fist.
The fighting ceased in mere seconds, almost as quickly as it started, and was replaced by the sound of the echoing alarm.
Crouching on one knee, Damocles blasted away the remaining cameras.
“It’s on.” Exander looked around. “The security system locks most accesses in the ship. I hope Gaia and Spaide are safe.”
“Are we any closer to Duell?” Vincent asked.
“They’re holding him beyond the next room,” Exander continued. “By the time we enter it’ll be full of Centurions and Destroyer-bots.” He then looked over at his brother and said, “One of us has to sneak in.”
“Let the human go,” the big man suggested. “The ventilation pipe.” He pointed at a thick pipe that ran below the ceiling.
“What’s there?” Vincent asked reluctantly.
Exander ignored Vincent. “Are you sure?”
Damocles shrugged. “We’ve no other choice. He’ll be more valuable this way.”
Vincent was perplexed. “What am I to do?”
“Down the tube to the room beyond the next,” Exander said as he jumped up, slashing. A portion of the pipe fell to the side, creating an opening.
“And then what?” Vincent hesitated.
“Quickly! Gaia should meet us there in minutes!” Exander said as Vincent climbed Damocles’ shoulders. “Blast the panel that has Duell chained and wait for us.”
“You make it sound so easy… I mean, what if—”
“Just go, damn it!”
“Hurry up, will you?” Vincent said and disappeared into the pipe.
The twins then ran up to the middle gate.
“I hope he’ll be able to do this,” Damocles said.
“It’s not such a hard task after all…” Exander mumbled quietly, clasping his sword.
“You seem worried… what’s the matter? You still don’t trust him? After all, you saw the fire in his eyes as he shot that guard. I cannot express it, but it was that of a fierce warrior.”
“It’s not the human I’m concerned about,” Exander said. He then looked at his brother. “Do you think Na’ar will be there?”
“I doubt it,” Damocles responded after a moment. “It’s a big ship.”
“If he is there…” Exander said, sinking his teeth into his lower lip. “We’ll have to kill him.”
Another moment of silence.
“Aye, perhaps,” the big guy said. “Do you think we’re ready?”
“I’m certain.” Exander smiled. “Well, brother, they’re waiting for us. How should we greet them?”
“Let’s give them hell!”
*
Spaide hurried down the endless corridor, pushing the cart. All the panels, the frames, and the multiple doors were similar, one after another—same, same, same again—as if he were stuck in some awful videogame. He must’ve traveled at least a mile without meeting a single soul—just the same, dull tunnel.
The creepiness of the silence devoured and agitated him. Countless thoughts started to run through his head as his anticipation for action was not satisfied: Where is Oryon or Duell? What of the twins and the Princess? Was it a good idea to let them go on their own?
“You’re losing it, Spaide,” he muttered.
Eventually, he saw a bright light ahead. As he approached it, he could visibly distinguish its source: an open bay for fighter jets. He slowed down as he heard three distinct voices arguing over a certain subject. He stopped at the entryway and peered around the corner.
The bay had an opening into outer space barred by a translucent plasma shield. Next to the opening was an oversized contraption—the magnetic beam.
I have to plant an explosive in this room, Spaide thought.
To his left were three soldiers examining a hover jet. Although no more guards were in sight, there was no way for him to cross the room without catching their attention. So he decided to lean back and listen to their squabble.
“I don’t know what the hell’s wrong with this piece of junk!” complained one of the guards, striking the jet’s open engine.
“Why didn’t you get it checked?” shouted the other soldier, whom Spaide supposed to be the commander due to his reddish armor. “We’re about to take off! Now we’ll have to walk again, you incompetent idiot!”
“I was held up!” the former replied in defense. “I thought I’d catch one of the mechanics in the spaceport.”
“Well, why didn’t you, then?”
“I told you… I was held up.”
“That’s bunk, and you know it,” continued the latter. “We’re here for nearly an hour, and for the past thirty minutes you’ve been dragging behind me, pestering me with your stupid anecdotes, all the while neglecting your top priority!”
“Which was to fix the jet?”
“Yes, to fix the damned jet!”
“What seems to be the problem, fellas?” Spaide took the men by surprise as he approached with his cart.
“Halt!” The stunned guards pointed their weapons at the Dirsalian.
“Whoa, guys!” Spaide raised his arms, upholding his flippant smile. “I’m with the Nabulian maintenance crew.”
“Na… Na—what?” they repeated the odd calling, trading glances.
“Nabulian. I was just passin’ by when I noticed you’re havin’ a problem with the injectoturbolator.”
“The injecto—who?” asked the confused commander.
“Here, I’ll show you.” Spaide shoved the guns aside and approached the engine as the curious soldiers piled up behind him. “The injectoturbolator is attached to interratory power cells, which don’t seem to be transferrin’ power to the plasma modulator, which, in turn…” Spaide was making stuff up as fast as he was running his finger up and down the engine, pointing at various tubes and distracting the guards. With his other hand, he discreetly reached into the cart, pulled out a round device, and attached it under the jet’s hull. Continuing to blabber out fabricated technical jargon, he pulled out some wires, twisted a few, connected them, and shut the engine cover before managing to stick another device inside.
“That’s it!” he said, going around the jet, caressing it with his hand. “Doriorrian model? Nice.” He then went back to his cart and said, “Well, crank her up, gentlemen.”
“There’s no way you fixed it,” the commander said, pushing the button on his remote. The engine revved, and the jet lifted itself a few feet over the floor.
“AUTOPILOT ON,” announced the jet’s computer.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” the commander said, shutting off the vehicle. “Where—” He couldn’t finish his sentence as he turned around to see the two soldiers staring at him without the Dirsalian in sight. “Where is he, you idiots?”
“We thought you were watching him, boss!” the guards cried out.
“Well, he was in a hurry.” The commander relaxed, seemingly satisfied. “The ship’s taking off at any minute anyhow.”
“That’s right, boss,” they agreed with him before he sent them on patrol.
Spaide was hundr
eds of feet down the other tunnel by the time the guards realized he’d left. He was completely unaware of the time or how much of it had passed and just continued pushing the cart, beginning to run. The silence was getting to him once again. A part of him wished for the soldiers to pursue him—he was ready for some action. Yet nothing happened.
As he was about to start his soliloquy once again, the ship began to takeoff. He dashed to the wall and gripped one of the protruding pipes while holding onto the cart. When the tumult stopped, he continued, planting explosives all along the tunnel. Then, within minutes, the alarm began blaring.
“All right.” He sighed in relief, stopped, and took off the uncomfortable jumpsuit. “Let’s get it over with.”
There were still too many bombs in the cart to leave it behind, so he kicked it down the path in front of him—his hands fidgeting over his blasters, his eyes scouting for a target. Two guards materialized around the corner, running in his direction. Not drawing out the revolver from its holster, Spaide pointed it at his assailants and shot twice from his hip. The guards fell to the cold floor with a hole in their helmets emitting vapor. Spaide then withdrew both of his guns and rushed past them, continuing to kick the cart. Several droids and more soldiers appeared in the distance, but they were mere target practice for the Dirsalian; he took them out in fractions of a second.
A few of the flying drones were headed for him. As Spaide blasted them away, several blasts zapped beside him, coming from behind. Out of his peripheral vision, he saw four soldiers on his tail. He jumped up, turned, and sat on the cart’s handles, strolling down the tunnel while facing his enemies. He aimed and pulled the triggers, twice on each pistol. The blasts found their targets, and the troops collapsed face-first. Then a hail of bullets passed over his head, forcing him to lean back and fall into the moving cart. He instantly stood up, guns blazing. Two robots were ahead, armed with primitive, lead-firing weapons. Their heads exploded in an instant, leaving husks of metal blocking most of the path. Spaide crouched down, and the cart easily passed between them.
More blasts came from behind. This time, the soldiers were atop hover bikes, enclosing the distance between them and the Dirsalian. Spaide turned around and shot them all, causing a great explosion as the unrestrained bikes shattered into the robots.
The tunnel flowed into a dock where an entire battalion of soldiers ran up to greet Spaide with an array of blasts. Firing at the welcoming party, he jumped out of the cart, rolled on the floor, and hid behind a large crate.
“He’s behind the crate!” one of the guards shouted.
“Damn it,” Spaide fussed and came out of hiding, running towards the docked vessels as hundreds of blasts and bullets whizzed around him. He only managed to shoot at the crowd a few times before hiding behind a hefty jet but still managed to take out seven of his assailants.
“He’s behind that jet!” the same guard, apparently the leader, continued shouting orders. “Surround him! We will—”
“Got ya!” Spaide peeked out and shot once, penetrating the commander between the eyes. Before the rest of the guards could understand what was happening, he took them all out, waving his guns like a conductor.
Shouts of another approaching party were heard.
Spaide stowed away one of his pistols, grabbed a crate, and dragged it to one of the ships. He set it down, hid behind it, pulled out his small computer, and began tampering with the vessel’s engine.
“Okay, boys,” he said. “If you aren’t here within the next few minutes, uncle Spaide’s gonna die, cuz I’ll be damned if they take me alive.”
*
Seconds within the alarm, the room was filled with several dozen soldiers wielding the best Imperial weaponry. Two of the Destroyer-bots also made their way into the room, as well as the smaller fighter droids. Now, minutes later, the soldiers were exasperated, pointing their weapons at the gate with no attempt to proceed. The cameras in the locked room were out, thus there was no way to tell what was happening in there, but they knew the essentials: Oryon Krynne and his posse were beyond it. That name alone made their bodies quiver and caused sweat to cover their foreheads, fogging their visors.
The Destroyer-bots stood over twelve feet tall, their base a platform consisting of wheels and chains that maneuvered the colossus and gave it the ability to fully rotate around. Instead of limbs, the robots had two chainguns which released blasts big enough to vaporize someone’s head off.
Behind the automatons, on a stage ten feet above the floor, was the door leading to the room where the prisoner was held—the same prisoner the intruders attempted to rescue. Five soldiers stood astride atop the platform, blocking the entryway. They donned frightening auburn armor: breastplates, greaves, and pads engraved with ancient symbols; wrist guards with sharp black blades; and helmets crafted in the shape of skulls. Their armament also contained an entire arrange of weapons: blasters, explosives, daggers—but in their hands they held electrically-charged quarterstaffs. The officer in the middle wore a long purple cloak attached to his shoulder plates, signifying him as the commander of the Imperial Centurions—the elite commandos of the Republic. They were there before the twins made their presence, Commander Hellion and four of his best. It took him twenty years of laborious work to achieve his prestigious position. Now, in front of him, was an opportunity to reach the upper echelons of the military. He saw the assailants for a mere second on the monitors, but that didn’t frighten him. The training he endured for decades would certainly pay off, and the team composed of his best students was more than ready; they would kill the enemy, thereby raising their master’s rank.
As delusions of grandeur passed through Hellion’s head, the door slid open.
The frightened guards immediately opened fire. The blasts burned holes in the walls and the floor of the empty room.
“Hold your fire!” commander Hellion cried out.
The discharge continued.
“Hold your fire, damn it!”
The soldiers stopped shooting.
Smoke from the gunfire was airborne. There was no one in sight.
“You two”—the Commander pointed at the guards closest to the gate—“go and observe the situation.”
The guards looked at him and then at each other.
“Go, cowards!” Hellion raised his voice. This was making him uneasy; he wanted to get down to action.
The soldiers began to carefully approach the gate, guns shivering in their hands. As they neared it, nothing was visible except for the stagnant smoke. They stopped at the entryway and scanned the entire room. Through what they could observe, it was empty. One of them looked over at the Commander and shrugged.
Hellion intensely waved his hand, gesturing them to go further.
They each took one more step and saw a shiny metal object—the last thing they’d ever see.
The decapitated guards fell as the blonde Xenian entered the room like a speeding bullet, swinging the deadly sword and shooting. The Destroyer-bots opened fire at once. The blue blasts of their chainguns sprayed all over the room as they were trying to catch the evasive target, instead hitting Imperial troops.
He was inside, outside, and in between them. Overrunning the currents of blasts, Exander ran alongside the wall, slashed through one of the big automatons, and headed straight at three startled soldiers. As he neared them, he jumped up, slicing through the trio while shooting a droid across the room. Whirling in the air and evading the continuous blasts, he came down thrusting his sword through the second Destroyer-bot and then tore apart another soldier. There was no time to stop and think—there was only instinct. Only when they’d all fall down would he be able to stop his rollercoaster.
Two of the Centurions jumped down to meet Damocles, who—upon entering the room—headed straight for their commander. Holding his sword with both hands, the Xenian juggernaut lacerated through the attackers without slowing his pace. Two more Centurions appeared on his path, swinging their staffs. Damocles smashed his fist
into the first Centurion’s helmet, caving it into his face, stabbed the other one, and then threw a dagger across the room at the commander.
The dagger wedged between the eyes of the skeletal helmet.
Commander Hellion shuddered for a second, lost his balance, and toppled over the railing, falling dead before his men. As the leader fell, the remaining troops were thrown into a hectic frenzy. Some continued to resist, some called for backup, and others realized that remaining in that room certainly called for death and began to retreat.
Dragging the tip of the sword on the ground behind him, Exander continued to meander through the enemy forces. He stabbed one of the guards, leapt up, and came hacking down on a droid. Just as his feet touched the ground, he spun around—escaping a new wave of blasts—and threw his blade into the corner, nailing another soldier who was trying to sneak up on his brother.
Finally, the big man picked up the torso of the fallen Destroyer-bot and heaved it across the room, toppling the last three soldiers beneath the machine.
“Go!” Exander shouted, pulling his sword out of the soldier’s body. “They’re coming!” He then began shooting into the other room where more troops followed their steps.
“All this kicking and jumping…” Damocles fussed, going up the platform while landing his fist atop the head of the Centurion who was regaining consciousness.
“Hurry, Damocles!” Exander cried out as new blasts passed over his head.
“Okay!” Damocles picked up Hellion’s keycard and ran up to the platform.
*
Cold air propelled throughout the dark pipeline. The duct was spacious enough for a toddler to run through, but it forced Vincent to crawl on all fours, carrying along his rifle. The aggravating blare of the alarm continued to growl, at times forcing the duct to shudder.
He finally reached the first grid, at which point his irrepressible curiosity took over and he decided to take a peek. The room below was filling with soldiers, droids, and big robotic machines. The guards pointed their weapons at the closed door from which the twins were supposed to enter.
