by Craig Gaydas
The video monitor next to the communication console sprang to life. Grillick, looking completely flustered, barked orders to various crewmembers. He turned to face us while he wrestled with a nearby control lever. “As you could probably guess, we are now in the middle of the conflict over Gliese.” Sparks flew over his head and he turned away from us. “SANDOR GET THAT DIRECTIONAL CONTROL VALVE OPERATIONAL!” He commanded before returning his attention to us. “It is imperative that you take off now. The Gordian Knot is not designed for direct space combat and I will need to get out of range as quickly as possible.” As more sparks flew, Grillick turned and the screen went blank.
“Well, you heard the man,” Cantrell grumbled. “Time to go!”
I picked myself up off the floor and stumbled into my seat. I locked the seatbelt in place just as the shuttle started accelerating. Before we exited the bay, Cantrell activated the cloaking device. We exploded out of the exit like a bullet from the barrel of a gun. Outside was a scene of pure chaos.
“Oh my God,” I blurted.
Anarchy. That was the best way to describe the scene above the planet. The Timeless ships were fully engaged with the defending fleet from the Order of the Sun. I spotted a few of the familiar pirate ship vessels of the Scarlet Moon. Cantrell navigated us unheeded between two Order ships and it wasn't until we passed them that I realized I had been holding my breath. Grillick's cloaking device worked perfectly. As we approached the defensive ring surrounding the planet, a large oblong object floated toward us.
From my seated position, I pointed toward the screen. “What's that?”
Cantrell craned his neck forward and studied the screen intently. “The hell if I know,” he grunted. He placed his hand over a track ball embedded in the control panel and zoomed in on the screen. “It's metal,” he remarked. He zoomed in further. “It seems to be a part of a ship.”
As he zoomed in further, we all saw the logo painted on it. There was a charred piece of a flaming comet painted on it, representing the symbol of the Explorer's League. My heart sank; this charred, misshapen piece of scrap metal was all that was left of Captain Muriel's ship.
Cantrell glanced at me sideways. His expression was blank, but I knew he recognized the logo as well. He didn't need to say anything because I already knew the score. We were running out of allies.
One of the Order's ships exploded and the impact of the blast rocked our shuttle. Vayne's ship rose from the flaming wreckage of the ship like the mythical Phoenix. His ship rocketed past us and continued firing on a nearby Scarlet Moon vessel.
“Damn, we need to get out of here fast,” Cantrell growled. “It's like a goddamn obstacle course out here!”
He steered us away from the action and we entered the planet's atmosphere just above the Riverlands. The rivers were like veins cutting through the skin of the countryside. We passed over the wall which separated the Riverlands from the Farming Biome. Once we cleared the wall, high-pitched beeps from the navigation panel filled the cabin. Cantrell looked down and flipped a switch, which cut them short.
“We are close,” he turned to us and said. “Get ready.”
The mercenaries moved to check their weapons and made sure their ammo belts were fully loaded. The female mercenary next to me strapped her rifle across her back and leaned in close. “Just so you know, Nathan, I was born with a rifle in my hands,” she growled. “Unlike you, who was probably born with your mommy's teat in yours.”
I ejected the clip in my hand gun, checked to see that it was full, and slammed it closed. I turned to her and frowned. “I'm surprised your mother survived the pain of popping out a rifle,” I mocked and shoved the handgun into its holster.
Cantrell bellowed laughter. “See Bella, I told you he was as prickly as a Grotto Spiner.”
Cantrell landed the shuttle off a rural path leading away from the Farming Biome. I recognized the road immediately as the one which lead to the Bottle and Glass Pub. It was time to see if Bofor would back up his promise.
Cantrell shut down the shuttle and turned to us. “Okay people, this is the plan. Our first rendezvous is with the Bottle and Glass Pub, but I don't want you alcoholics thinking this is social hour. You touch a drink and I will shove a rifle so far up your ass that you will need a dentist to take a crap. As soon as we exit this shuttle, I want a two/three formation until we are inside the building, do you understand?”
A chorus of “ayes” rang out from everyone, except me, of course. I didn't know the difference between a two/three formation and the engineering specifications for the Large Hadron Collider. Cantrell stopped talking when he saw the apparent confusion etched on my face.
“I forgot we have a newbie here.” He held up two fingers. “Two/three formation means we line up as two.” He paused and raised a third finger. “Followed by three.” He paused again, dropping one finger. “Followed by two, rinse and repeat.”
“Scanner is clear,” the mercenary closest to the exit stated before donning his helmet. He was a Drith who bore an uncanny resemblance to Shai, which brought bad memories flooding to the surface. Memories of my hands pummeling Shai's decapitated head had been the most prominent among them. I shoved them aside and focused on the task at hand.
“Thanks Sari,” replied Cantrell. “Okay folks the pub is close. I estimate it to be no further than a kilometer. Stay tight, mouths closed, and eyes open.” He pointed at me. “You will be between Sari and Bella in the front three. I will lead with Athew. Behind you three will be Grappa and Mulou followed by Hiro, Phadi, and Shrade.”
The hatch opened and the mercenaries readied their weapons. Since I wasn't sure what role I played, I removed my weapon from its holster and held it by my side. “What do you want me to do?” I asked.
Cantrell stepped out onto the ramp, which I noticed was not really there, thanks to the cloaking device. “Try not to die.”
Cantrell and Athew stepped out and swept the area with their weapons. We were next to step out. As I descended the ramp, I felt the sensation of floating to the ground instead of walking. I looked around and was relieved that no outsiders happened to wander by at that moment. To an innocent bystander, it would have looked as if the air was spitting up mercenaries. I'm sure that alone would have driven anyone to question their sanity.
We stayed off the main road, immersed within the concealment of the nearby tree line. The journey had been relatively uneventful until Bofor's bar emerged in the distance. A loud boom erupted from the sky which froze us in our tracks. It sounded like a nuclear reactor had exploded in space. Several large vessels were rocketing toward orbit from a nearby launching pad.
“Reinforcements,” Cantrell grumbled. “We better make this quick or we won't have a fleet to return to.”
The bar's parking lot was much different than before. Instead of tumbleweeds, the lot was full of vehicles. Most of them were in various states of disrepair while several were rusted shells of their former selves. I knew immediately that these vehicles belonged to the workers, the people who slaved for their Order masters. Images of the luxurious train car we rode during our previous trip to the planet crept into my mind and I found myself disgusted at the social status disparity on the planet. It had been no surprise that they took to a rebellion.
“Seems to be a full house today,” remarked Cantrell. He stopped outside the front door and turned to us. “Nathan and I will go in here and figure out what the situation is. The rest of you remain vigilant.” He turned to Athew. “Try not to 'shoot first and ask questions later' around here, okay?”
Athew tapped on the side of his helmet with his index finger twice. “It'll be tough, but I will try.”
“It will be hard to win these people over if you go around murdering innocents,” Cantrell grumbled. “One confirmed kill of a local, and I will feed you a plasma grenade for supper.”
We stepped inside, leaving Athew muttering obscenities under his breath. As soon as the door closed, the voices in the bar stopped and several heads swiveled
in our direction. The tension in the room could have been sliced with a knife.
“I've seen movies that started like this,” I muttered.
“Well how did it end?” asked Cantrell.
“Not good.” I scanned the many faces in the room. Some appeared curious, others uneasy. All were distrustful. I suppose I would be too if two armed men wearing full suits of body armor interrupted my social hour.
A voice cried out from the back of the room. “I can't believe it.” Bofor strolled through the crowd and stood before us with his arms folded across his chest and a wide smile splitting his face. “You didn't break your promise after all.”
“I told you I'd come back,” I replied as I matched his smile.
Bofor eyeballed Cantrell. “I hope you came back with more help than this, otherwise this reunion will be short lived.”
“Nice to meet you too,” muttered Cantrell.
“It seems you have gained quite a few customers since we last me,” I remarked. “Business is good I guess?”
A tall, barrel-chested man stood near the bar. He slammed his drink on the bar, spilling most of it. He looked as if he could qualify as a linebacker for most NFL teams. He scowled at us and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “We're here 'cuz we see the ships. The Order is in full defense mode and we be paying the price for it!”
Several disgruntled murmurs of approval came from the crowd. “It's yer fault!” shouted a skinny female dressed in rags, sporting an eye patch. “If it weren't fer you outsiders sticking yer noses were it don't belon', we wouldn't be sufferin' fer it.”
“Where it doesn't belong?” growled Cantrell. “We came to save your sorry asses!”
“Well, lookie here,” mocked a mousy fellow who stood at the bar next to Mister Barrel-Chested. “The boy and his pet came to rescue us!” This statement elicited some laughs mixed with a few jeers.
Cantrell may not be the most diplomatic person in the universe, but he had been correct. We were here to save them—to free them. As I looked around the room at the mix of laughing and mocking faces, I found myself second-guessing our decision to come here. Perhaps we should have just snuck in, grabbed Kedge's body and snuck back out. Maybe we should let them rot under the tyrannical rule of the Order of the Sun. I was nearly ready to grab Cantrell and walk out when I saw the expression on Bofor's face. He never once suspended his disbelief that we would make any sort of impact on their current situation, but when I saw him at that moment, my thoughts of walking out the door vanished. Even though his face was serious, accentuated by a scowl, his eyes were apologetic and seemed to plead with me for help, despite his people's antagonistic mannerisms. That was when I knew, despite their stubbornness and reluctance, they needed our help whether they believed in us or not.
“Their lack of faith is disturbing,” I muttered under my breath.
Before I could explode with frustration, I grabbed a nearby empty chair and hoisted myself upon it. With anger in my voice I addressed the hostile crowd. I had no idea where the words came from, only that they came and once they did, there was no stopping them. “I can't believe you. Look at you!” I swept my arm across the room for dramatic effect. “Jori and Yori died for us. They died for you! They stood against the tyranny while the rest of you sit here and sulk in your drinks. I made a promise to them. It is a promise I intend to keep. Your world is being run by despots who have forged an alliance with a greater threat. Is that what you want? Do you want to sit here, in the shadows of Bofor's bar, drinking your woes away?”
The laughter died away and the heckling lessened. The people looked at each other, unsure of what to say. Mister barrel-chest picked his drink up, drained the glass, and set it down on the bar. He dropped into his seat and his arrogant look morphed into one of self-doubt. His eyes fell to the floor, and I knew my chance to make an impact on the crowd would never be greater.
“Blood has been spilled and will continue to be spilled. The most dangerous course of action for you right now would be to sit by and take no action. Continue sitting here, drinking your drinks, and musing over better days long past,” I looked every one of them in the eye as I addressed them individually. “That is the riskiest course of action. 'Those who stand for nothing will fall for anything.' ”
Several heads slowly nodded in agreement. Although a few remained unconvinced, I felt I was winning my case. I needed to press on.
“Someone told me long ago that no matter the cause it only matters that you fight. The Insurgents cannot win this battle for you.” I pointed toward the ceiling. “Up there, right now, we are dying for you. We have nothing to gain by any of this. Your rebel forces are too small to make a difference in our battle with the Consortium and there are no resources on this planet that we couldn't find on a thousand others.”
“If you have nothing to gain then why would you help us?” the mousy fellow blurted.
I looked around the room. All eyes locked on me waiting for an answer. I looked to Cantrell and noticed he had removed his helmet. His face held no emotion. When he noticed me looking at him, he shrugged it off, as if I had just asked where the bathroom was located. Apparently, mercenaries made for poor diplomatic support.
I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Because if we don't stand up for what's right, then what are we really fighting for?”
Silence blanketed the bar. You could hear a pin drop in the place. Mister Barrel-Chest stared at his drink. Even the mousy fellow had no retort. Bofor stepped behind the bar and poured himself a drink. Within the silent halls of the bar, the flowing liquid sounded like a raging waterfall. He set the bottle down, grabbed the glass and lifted it to his lips. He finished it in one swallow.
“What are we fighting for?” he echoed. Everyone focused their attention on him. “It is a sad day, indeed, when an outsider shows more spirit than a roomful of self-proclaimed 'rebels'.” He stared at the bottom of his empty glass before slamming it on the bar. “I'll be damned if I let a bunch of outsiders take the glory if the Order falls. I stand with ya!”
“If?” Mister Barrel-Chest roared. “No…it will be when they fall.” He stood up, towering over his mousy compatriot. “I choose to fight!”
Soon the chants began to pick up steam throughout the bar. Eventually, all fifty men in the bar cried out in unison. “FIGHT!”
“Not bad kid,” Cantrell leaned over and whispered.
They continue to chant and slam their fists on the bar and tables. Bofor and I exchanged smiles. I had won the moral victory, now it was time to win the physical one. The chants increased in intensity, but were silenced by a single sound. A gunshot, followed by a second. Then more came in quick succession.
Tat. Tat. Tat.
I turned to Cantrell, who removed his rifle from his shoulder and turned toward the door. For a moment, he was unsure how to proceed, the eruption of gunfire seemed to have caught him off guard. I knew what it meant, however.
The Order of the Sun was here.
A Council Broken
Scribe wandered the halls of the Akropolis as he tried to sort through his thoughts. Recent events coupled with disturbing revelations had deeply troubled him. Communications with The Timeless had been limited since he returned to Caelum. Calypso was planning something and Scribe did not want to risk getting caught at this critical moment in the conflict with the Insurgents. He needed to find out more information so he could relay it to Ibune. Scribe slipped into a nearby stone bench and dropped his head in his hands. His fingers caressed the smooth glass surface of the bowl helmet and cursed the damned thing. He longed to feel the touch of his own face, but the mission required him to maintain the Kale farce for a while longer.
“Sacrifices for the greater good,” Scribe muttered.
The sound of boot heels tapping against the cobblestones rang throughout the hallway. They were getting closer. Scribe looked up to see Hark-Kalech approaching.
“When I saw you weren't in your room, I figured you'd be roaming the halls like a
ghost,” he remarked.
Scribe stood and stretched. “Should I be flattered you are stalking me?”
Hark-Kalech chuckled. His deep voice resonated throughout the halls like thunder. “I always admired your dry sense of humor, Kale. Unfortunately, I can't take credit for seeking you out. You can thank Calypso for the honor. He has called a meeting.” His laughter died out and his expression turned serious. It was eerie how quickly Hark-Kalech could change emotions, which made him difficult to read emotionally. Calypso kept him as a close confidante for a reason.
“I see,” replied Scribe. “Did he happen to mention why?” Scribe suspected the reasons. He just wanted to hear Hark-Kalech's thoughts on the subject.
“Apparently, the prisoner has escaped.” His hand fell to the handle of his dragonfish dagger. “The warden found his guard dead. They say he was nearly decapitated by one of the legs from the bed. We found the weapon outside the exit ramp of the ship.”
“That's terrible news,” replied Scribe.
Hark-Kalech tapped his index finger against the hilt of his dagger. Scribe took a step back and nearly fell over the bench. “It is indeed,” replied Hark-Kalech. “It had to be an inside job because there was no way Moro could have released himself.” He stared at Scribe through icy, unblinking eyes.
Scribe grew uncomfortable under his gaze. Did he know? Moro was long gone. His Timeless colleagues were engaged in a fight over Gliese. Scribe was defenseless. He would find no allies here. The halls were empty, but even if they were full of people, he doubted anyone would rush to his aid. Kale was not well-liked among his peers.
“Are you positive?” Scribe asked. “Moro was a crafty assassin so a jail cell may not pose as much of a test to one of his caliber.”
Hark-Kalech stopped tapping the handle of his weapon. “Perhaps,” he replied cryptically. His stone-cold stare lasted for a few seconds longer before he broke out into a wide smile. He held up his hands and shrugged. “But who am I to say? I'm just a soldier, Calypso calls the shots now. Let's see what he wants to discuss, shall we?”
