by S. W. Ahmed
As they exited the hall, Marc was able to catch one last glimpse of Wazilban back on the altar. Even from that distance, there was no mistaking the sly look of content in the glowing alien’s reptilian eyes.
The execution center that the prisoners were led to was an open air stadium-like structure, several miles away from the hall where they had been sentenced. They were transported there on board a floating platform, heavily guarded on all sides by Aftaran soldiers. Their mouths now gagged with small electronic devices, none of them were able to say anything at all. Once the device had been planted inside Marc’s mouth, numbness had quickly spread through his jaws, tongue and even down his throat. He could no longer open his mouth or even make a humming sound.
The majority of Aftarans that had been in the hall followed them on floating platforms of their own. Marc could see Wazilban on board one of the floating platforms in the distance, accompanied by Thorab, Rulshanim and his bodyguards. They still looked like the same alien creatures.
During the short trip, he paid little attention to the scenery around him. The brilliant sunshine through the cloudless blue sky was pleasant, providing just enough warmth to make the dry, somewhat cool air feel comfortable. The buildings everywhere were majestic in size and appearance, and the streets they crossed had many curious Aftarans staring at them. Most of the Aftarans on the streets looked concerned and fearful upon seeing the prisoners, quite unlike the cheering Aftarans back in the hall.
But none of that concerned him. He felt worried and powerless, worried about imminent death for him and his friends, and powerless to stop these mysterious aliens from carrying out their grand conspiracy to destroy all life in the galaxy. The worries slowly gave way to a sense of quiet resignation, a feeling he hadn’t had since the final days of his mother’s battle with kidney cancer.
The platform arrived at the execution center, a cylindrically shaped building that reminded Marc of the historical Colosseum in Rome. Certainly what was going to happen inside wasn’t too different from what the ancient Romans had used the Colosseum for.
The platform floated past the main gates, into a tunnel through the inside of the building, and out into the open air arena in the center. The rows of spectator seats surrounding the arena had just started filling up with Aftarans arriving on their own floating platforms.
Up ahead, Marc could see a stage, right in the middle of the arena. On it were a number of poles, spread evenly apart in a straight line. He didn’t need a second glance to figure out what the poles would be used for.
“We’re going to be burned at the stake,” he thought, “in front of these bloodthirsty Aftarans. Or perhaps eaten alive by monstrous animals.”
The prisoners were dragged up onto the stage, and each one of them securely tied to a pole. Marc felt pangs of pain as the new restraints cut into the flesh of his neck and belly, but the total numbness of his mouth and throat didn’t even allow him to cry out. He felt horrible and exhausted, helpless and utterly defeated. It was all over now. All those spectators would soon get the spectacle they were eagerly waiting for.
“Bring forth the executioners!” Wazilban ordered, his words echoing through loudspeakers mounted around the perimeter of the arena.
Marc strained his eyes and saw Wazilban in the distance, high up in the spectator rows on a special podium, surrounded on all sides by his bodyguards. He was still a glowing reptilian alien, one of several spread out among the Aftaran spectators. Marc also noticed that most of the spectator rows were actually empty. The stadium could easily house several thousand, but the total number of spectators couldn’t possibly be more than a few hundred, probably the same few hundred that had earlier attended the sentencing back in the hall. Perhaps most Aftarans actually didn’t support this kind of barbarism.
The spectators cheered as three Aftarans entered the arena on a floating platform and approached the stage. They were dressed in brown robes, and their heads and faces were veiled. When Marc saw what they were holding in their hands, his eyes bulged out in horror.
“They’re not going to burn us!” he thought. “They’re going to behead us!”
There was no mistaking it. Each of the three Aftarans was brandishing a long, curved blade made of a shiny silver colored metal. They jumped off the platform and onto the stage, quickly positioning themselves in front of the prisoners. Turning towards Wazilban in the distance, they bowed their heads before him.
“In the Creator’s name, proceed with the execution of these heretics!” Wazilban commanded. “And let this be a warning to all others who dare to conspire against the righteous and against the Creator!” His words thundered across the open air stadium.
All the other soldiers still on the stage abruptly jumped off and hurried away. The only ones left on the stage now were the three prisoners and the three executioners, one executioner standing in front of each prisoner.
Marc stole one last glance at Zorina to his right. She was quivering in fear and horror, tears rolling down from her large eyes onto her short trunk and cheekbones. He would never forgive himself for bringing her into this mess, and he just hoped she would have the heart to forgive him. Then he turned to look at Sibular, who stood motionless and expressionless as always. He envied Sibular, wishing he also had that kind of strength to extinguish his emotions.
He looked up at the deep blue sky and the brilliantly shining sun. His whole life began flashing before him, his lonely childhood days, his mother’s bouts of depression, his many daydreams of being a superhero, then onto his happier college days and the love of his life.
If only he could see Iman just once more, if he could only tell her how much he still loved her and how he would do everything he possibly could to win her back. But it was all too late now, too late to correct all the failures in his life, too late to warn everyone of the impending doom that awaited all who made this galaxy their home.
As the executioners turned to face the prisoners, Marc lowered his gaze from the sky and stared at the one in front of him. The executioner was just over 7 feet tall, with the round, brown eyes that were intently staring at him the only part of the Aftaran’s body he could see.
The executioners lifted their blades together, ready to slice the prisoners’ necks with one swift blow. “In the name of the Creator!” they cried in unison.
Marc closed his eyes and waited for death. He had miraculously escaped death more than once before, but this time he knew there was no escape. He heard the swooshing sound of the blade approaching his neck, and sensed a shadow engulfing him. And then, all was dark.
The spectators in the stadium looked shell-shocked. This certainly wasn’t the show they had been expecting. The three prisoners and their three executioners had simply vanished into thin air, just as the executioners had swung their blades at the prisoners’ necks. The stage in the center of the arena was totally deserted now, with the prisoners’ restraints lying scattered on the stage around the poles.
The initial shock soon turned to chaos, as Aftarans began getting up and asking each other what had happened. Many began hurrying towards the exits, prophesying that this was an intervention by the Creator, and the Creator’s wrath would be upon them for trying to execute those who were innocent. Others figured the executioners had simply performed a magical enchantment, since enchantments once used to be so commonly practiced among Aftarans. Others still countered that the practice of such enchantments was banned under Lord Wazilban’s rule, and no Aftaran on Meenjaza would dare to perform such an act in his or her right mind, especially not in front of the mighty Wazilban himself.
Located up high in the spectator rows, Lord Wazilban was worried about what had happened, but kept his calm. To the public, he still looked like the same tall Aftaran, with his flashy robe, high collar, green feathers and green eyes. His associates, planted in key locations here in the stadium, still appeared as the same Aftarans as well. He glanced at a couple of them near him among the spectators. Like him, they were keeping their calm,
mingling and blending in perfectly with the crowd. Yes, he had definitely trained them well. Good training was, after all, key to their success, training that had already allowed many more of his associates to take over key positions of influence across the entire Aftaran Dominion.
Nevertheless, something troublesome had just happened, something he hadn’t expected or accounted for in his master plan. This was the third unexpected event within a span of 30 days, and that wasn’t good at all. The first event had been the disappearance of a Boura-class ship and its occupants on its return from the planet Droila. On board had been two of his associates, Ozwin and Ruminat, as well as two highly precious prisoners - both of Autamrin’s sons. He would have been only too happy to get his hands on them, and to torture them until they revealed the location of their father’s hideout. Then he would have had them publicly executed for treason and heresy. But now they were gone, free again to cause whatever mischief they desired in the Dominion.
The second unexpected event, the Mendoken consar attack on Volo-Gaviera, had taken him completely by surprise. The Mendoken were not supposed to have consar technology, not just because it was forbidden in the galaxy, but also because his spies in the Republic had always destroyed any consar research labs the Mendoken had attempted to build in order to gain an upper hand in their war against the Volona.
Upon hearing the news of the attack, Wazilban had surmised that some other powerful force had suddenly stepped in to help the Mendoken construct consar capable ships, a force that had thus far eluded his spies in the Republic. He had, therefore, decided to take action, using one of the many principles engrained in his mind:
Unexpected or unplanned events will always occur. It is a part of life. Success lies in taking advantage of those events to turn things in your favor.
So Wazilban had immediately alerted his associate Thorab, already assigned to patrol the Volonan border, to keep his eyes open for any fugitives from the failed attack attempting to escape the Volonan Empire.
Once again, Wazilban’s principle had prevailed. Thorab had indeed been able to capture three such fugitives, and, just as Wazilban had figured, an alien from a hitherto unknown species known as Humans had been among them. The Human definitely didn’t look particularly advanced, sophisticated or powerful, but as Wazilban well knew, looks could often be deceiving. A quick search of the Aftaran chronicles had also revealed no useful information about these Humans. The Mendoken had evidently kept the existence of this species well hidden, possibly by concealing them under a silupsal filter.
Nevertheless, that Human had undoubtedly been responsible for helping the Mendoken build consar enabled ships. That Human, with all its powers, would become a major danger to the master plan if allowed to freely roam in the Dominion. If Autamrin and his insurgent scum got wind of the Human’s presence, they might take him to be that absurd “Sign” mentioned in the Hidden Scripture, and would then seize the opportunity to launch a full scale rebellion against Wazilban. Considering how sour the general mood among the Aftaran public already was these days, it wouldn’t take much for such a rebellion to lead to dour consequences for his master plan.
If, on the other hand, Wazilban were quickly able to sentence this Human and its companions to death for crimes these highly religious Aftarans considered unpardonable, then he could prevent the rebellion from launching anytime soon. The execution would also send another clear warning message to any would-be rebels to continue to lie low and never dare to rise up in arms against his rule.
So Wazilban had decided to frame the three fugitives with fabricated evidence and a well-crafted story. As soon as he had learned that Zorina, the Volonan Empress’s sister herself, was one of the three, he had come up with the idea to label them as enemy conspirators working for the Empire. The majority of Aftarans didn’t know or care about the intricacies of Volonan dynasty politics or the recent anomalies of the Virtual Translation Grid. Few of them knew, therefore, that Zorina actually was an outcast in her own land, and unlikely to currently be operating in the interests of the Empire.
The framing had worked flawlessly, and in hindsight, none too soon. For this Human had exhibited powers well beyond what Wazilban could initially have imagined. During the trial, the Human had somehow seen through the Aftaran disguises Wazilban and his associates had successfully adorned in front of everyone for all these years. Luckily one of his associates in the audience had jumped on the Human in the nick of time, just as the Human had begun exposing the truth to the public. Otherwise, a major disaster would have erupted right there and then.
But now the third unexpected event had just occurred. The three prisoners had vanished along with their executioners, and that could only mean one thing. Those executioners were insurgents, and they had used forbidden enchantments to take the prisoners to safety, enchantments Wazilban had forbidden specifically for reasons such as this. How the insurgents had managed to penetrate his tight security apparatus and pose as the executioners, he didn’t know. But he certainly was going to punish those responsible, and severely. Some heads would have to roll, literally. This kind of breach would not be allowed again, that was for sure. Just as alarming was the fact that the insurgents had been freely wandering through the public buildings, right here on Meenjaza. They must have attended the trial in secret, heard the accusations against the prisoners, and then decided to act.
Furthermore, the insurgents now had the three prisoners. They would undoubtedly take the Human to be the “Sign”, especially if Autamrin’s sons had joined them, and would also learn the startling truth that Wazilban and his associates were actually not Aftarans. They would soon launch their rebellion against Wazilban and his forces, possibly with consar technology that the Human would show them how to use. And that was something Wazilban definitely couldn’t afford, not at this critical moment when everything else was going so well and according to plan. No, this Human and its companions would have to be found as soon as possible and killed. He would have to act now, and quickly.
Wazilban stood up, and addressed everyone in the stadium with a confident smile on his face. “My dear fellow Aftarans, there is no need whatsoever to panic! This was all planned! The infidels are dead, with their heads cut off. I decided to let the executioners put on a little enchantment, just to entertain you and to show you something different from the usual gory scenes. But you can all rest assured that justice has been done.” He paused. “May the Creator reward you for coming to witness this important execution. And may the Creator continue to protect us from such heretics and conspirators.”
The level of noise among the spectators instantly dropped. Most of them seemed satisfied with Wazilban’s explanation, although some questioned loudly whether he was lying in order to save face.
Wazilban looked around him, and wondered for a moment whether to be concerned about the isolated ranks of dissent in the crowd. These few hundred handpicked Aftarans were, after all, his most fervent supporters, and he had always been able to count on their unanimous backing. If even they were beginning to show opposition, then times really were turning bad.
“No, no matter,” he thought. “The insurgents and their latest acquisition are far more important at the moment.” As always, he would stick to another principle of his:
Success lies in the prioritization of all things, combined with the focus only on those that are of the highest priority.
Accompanied by his bodyguards, he began moving away from the spectator rows and out of the stadium, leaving the spectators to disperse of their own accord.
Chapter 29
The fragments of what had once been planets and stars looked like specks of dust scattered across the sky. Marc could hear cries for help all around him from uncountable numbers of Mendoken, Aftarans, Phyraxes and Volonans. The cries were of deep pain and immense suffering, all amidst Wazilban’s evil laughter. The darkness was blinding, the cold unbearable, and Marc’s despair absolute.
But the cries, evil laughter and darkness even
tually subsided, soon to be replaced by light from six sparkling stars. The stars came closer and surrounded him, bringing much needed warmth and hope. His despair faded away, and strength returned to his heart. He smiled at the stars, feeling happy and reassured that they were there with him. Then he heard a voice.
“He awakes!”
He heard the words, but didn’t recognize the voice. He wondered if he was dead.
“Can you hear us, Marc?” another voice said.
He instantly recognized the second voice as Sibular’s. “Yes, I can hear you,” he mumbled, slowly opening his eyes.
Once the blurry image around him had come into focus, he found himself staring up at three Aftarans. He was lying on a blanket spread on the ground, and the Aftarans were seated in crouching positions around him. Looming over him, they were intently studying his face. Their own faces were uncovered, allowing him to notice that two of them looked very similar, with their tan colored feathers, pointed beaks and round brown eyes. Perhaps they were siblings, he surmised. The other one had auburn colored feathers, and the facial features were softer and prettier – undoubtedly a female. He recognized her eyes as those of his executioner in the stadium.
No, evidently he wasn’t dead. He had just had another one of those wretched dreams, the dreams that constantly reminded him of his visions. Nearby, he could see Sibular’s familiar physique, standing in his usual upright, floating posture.
“Your other companion is fine too,” one of the two identical looking Aftarans said. “She’s still sleeping.”
“Who are you?” Marc asked.
“My name is Dumyan, of the 1238th generation of the Subhar clan.” He spoke quickly and with a strong voice. Pointing at the identical looking Aftaran sitting next to him, he said, “This is Sharjam, my younger brother. And that is Raiha. She is of the 789th generation of the Fuzia clan.
