Timeless (The Cartographer Book 3)

by Craig Gaydas

  Scribe nodded and followed him to the council chambers. Already seated on one side of the rectangular table was Varooq. Calypso stood on the opposite side of the room. His back was turned toward the door as he gazed out the window at the view—the terrarium located in the main courtyard. Varooq had his feet on the table and his furry nose buried deep within a book. The cover had Ancient Astronaut Theories written across the front. When he heard us enter the room, he looked up and grunted.

  “What is that saying they have on Earth?” Varooq placed the book on the table and rubbed his hairy chin thoughtfully. “Oh yeah…'look what the cat dragged in.”' He bellowed laughter.

  “I never understood that saying,” grumbled Hark-Kalech. “Then again, most of what the humans pass off as humor is droll, at best.” He took a seat and pointed at Scribe. “What do you think, Kale? You are our resident diplomat. You have encountered humans before. What's your opinion?”

  Scribe took a seat across from Varooq. “I don't think my opinion on the subject matters,” he replied dryly.

  Hark-Kalech sighed, clearly disappointed. “You underestimate your importance. You have traveled the cosmos as the diplomatic arm of the Consortium and have met countless leaders across numerous worlds. Surely, you have an opinion.”

  Scribe turned to Calypso who remained with his back turned to the group. “I'm not quite sure what this has to do with the meeting that has been called here. I assume, I wasn't summoned for my opinion on diplomatic matters of the past, which have no bearing on our current situation.”

  “You would be correct,” Calypso replied without turning around. He clasped his hands behind his back and rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet. “The reason I called this meeting was based on some very disturbing events currently happening. Are you aware that Gliese is under attack by the Insurgents at this very moment?”

  Scribe had a sneaking suspicion that Nathan would successfully convince Embeth to attack the planet. After all, one of his closest companions had been killed by Calypso's men. He needed to probe Calypso to see how much he actually knew. “I was not aware. That is a pretty bold move, even for Embeth.”

  “Indeed, it is.” Calypso turned around. His eyes were filled with an intensity that Scribe had not seen before. They seemed aglow with an inner fire. “What Hark-Kalech forgets is that I also traveled the cosmos with the Explorer's League.”

  Scribe wondered where Calypso was going with this, but before he could ask, Noz entered the room. His usually sour demeanor was unusually cheerful despite his blatant interruption of a private Council meeting.

  “I'm sorry, am I late?” he asked. “You people should really redesign this damn place or something. I almost got lost in the maze of corridors around here. Does this planet really need a building with eleventy-gajillion hallways?”

  Calypso's expression softened and the fire in his eyes faded. “Ah, Noz, you are not late at all.” He motioned toward the empty seat beside Scribe. “As a matter of fact, you are just in time, please have a seat.”

  Beneath Kale's disguise, Scribe frowned with confusion. “Excuse me, but Council meetings are usually a private affair,” he pointed out. The only non-Council member who had ever attended a Council meeting before was the High Prince himself.

  Calypso smiled. “You are correct, Kale.” He placed his hand on his chest. “Who am I to break a tradition that has stood for centuries? There is no one here, but Council members.”

  Scribe realized his intentions. Noz had been made a member of the Council. Although he had only infiltrated the Council a short while ago, he was aware of the Consortium's traditions concerning such matters. A vote had to be conducted among the members of the Council before swearing in a new member. Calypso's blatant violation of protocol angered Scribe. “You cannot be serious!” he exclaimed. “No vote was conducted!”

  Calypso appeared wounded. “I hope you are not implying that I violated any long standing laws regarding the introduction of new Council members, Kale? What sort of effective leader could I be if I abandoned protocols and threw out centuries of tradition?”

  “A vote was conducted by current Council members,” Varooq stated. “Noz was officially confirmed as a Council member last night.”

  “I was not present for such a vote,” Scribe argued.

  “Kale was not present for such a vote,” Calypso hissed. “That's because he was murdered on Gliese some time ago by a cowardly assassin.”

  Scribe's initial anger and outrage was sucked out of him like a vacuum. He had been so focused on Calypso's flamboyance that he never saw Hark-Kalech stand and move behind him. When he stood up to protest, he felt a fiery pain in his back. Confused, he looked down to see the blade of Hark-Kalech's dragonfish dagger protruding from his chest. Shocked at the violent turn of events, he whirled around and back-handed Hark-Kalech. Surprised by the move, he let go of the dagger and fell against the wall with a thud. The impact stunned his adversary, but Scribe did not have the strength to follow through. Already his life blood was pouring from him like water from a faucet. He grabbed weakly at the blade, cutting his hands in the process before falling to his knees. His hands were covered with green blood, the blood of his ancestors. The feeling of hot metal being passed through his vital organs coursed through him as Hark-Kalech recovered and yanked the weapon from his back.

  “You have fight in you,” Calypso stated. “More fight than Kale ever had in him.”

  “How…” Scribe sputtered before spitting out a wad of blood, which covered the inside of his helmet.

  Calypso hovered over him when he fell to the floor. With a smug look pasted on his face, Calypso chuckled. “How did I know who you really were?” Calypso circled Scribe's prone body. “I admit, I had my suspicions based simply on the discreet change in your mannerisms. I chalked it up to the stress endured from this conflict, however, so I needed more.” He stopped pacing and looked down at Scribe. He bent over and ripped the helmet off. Scribe's bandanna hung off his face at an awkward angle and smears of blood contrasted the pallid color of his cheeks. “Let me just say that the Insurgents aren't the only people with spies hidden in the shadows.”

  “Traitor,” Scribe spat.

  The wounded look returned to Calypso's face. “Me?” he asked innocently. “I betrayed no one.”

  “You…betrayed…the Consortium!” Scribe coughed. He was growing weaker by the minute.

  “I SAVED THE CONSORTIUM!” Calypso thundered. “It was Meta who was slowly destroying it. The Consortium sought knowledge. They were the pioneers of free trade among the many civilizations across the known universe. They were peaceful gatherers and innovators, defenders and protectors. The Consortium's policy for eons was to defend those who could not defend themselves! Where were they when Charr needed help? Where were they when my son, a highly respected member of the Explorer's League, needed help? Meta attacked Earth, decimating the humans.”

  “That…was…on you,” Scribe rasped.

  “No,” Calypso barked. “I admit…I tried to rally the planet to my cause, but I was not responsible for their destruction. That blood lies solely at the feet of Meta.”

  Scribe was dying. He wanted to hate Calypso for his part in this conflict, but his words had been sprinkled with truth. He refused to die without knowing the whole truth. “There is someone behind all this…” he coughed up another phlegmy ball of blood. “Someone is pulling your strings…”

  Calypso's jaw dropped. The shocked expression on Calypso's face confirmed Scribe's suspicions. “What do you mean?”

  Scribe tossed him a toothy, blood-stained smile. “Tell me who is truly behind all of this…” he rasped through another bloody wad of spittle. “Who?”

  Calypso crouched over Scribe's prone form, rubbed his chin and leaned in close. “I suppose there is no point in hiding it from you,” he whispered. “You can take this knowledge to your next life.” He pressed his lips against Scribe's ear and muttered a single word.

  Scribe's smile faded insta
ntly. An expression of despair came over him. “Noooooo…”

  The word continued to escape his lips, like steam from a teapot, until death finally claimed him.

  A Rebellion Renewed

  “We are enduring heavy fire!” Hiro's voice blasted through the speakers of my helmet, piercing my eardrums. The sounds of gunfire erupted in the background. “Grappa and Shrade are down!”

  Cantrell dragged a bar stool over to the lone slotted window in the corner. Despite his tall stature, he had to stand on his toes in order to obtain an angle of sight through the window. “DAMN!” he roared and fumbled to get his helmet on.

  “What's going on out there?” I asked.

  A shell fragment pierced the wall about six inches from Cantrell's knee. “What's going on?” he repeated incredulously. “It's a war out there and my men are getting slaughtered. That's what is going on.”

  He hopped off the stool and moved toward the entrance. He gripped his rifle tightly, pointing the barrel at the door.

  “Wait a minute, what are you doing?” I blurted. “Surely, you can't be serious? It's suicide to go out there.”

  Cantrell swiveled his head toward me. The blue neon rings around his eyes flashed in quick succession. “I told you before what this mission was all about. It was suicide as soon as we stepped off the shuttle.” He cocked the rifle. “Do you intend to go down fighting or hiding in the shadows like a cockroach?”

  Even though he had been looking directly at me, I knew the question was intended for the rebels behind me. This moment was the reason I had been brought here. If I didn't unite these people behind our cause, then we were as good as dead. I turned around and scanned the room. Grim, forlorn faces stared back at me where moments earlier they were filled with renewed vigor and a willingness to fight. It seemed the fight had been brought to them much earlier than they expected. They were now ants caught under a magnifying glass, twisting uncomfortably under a fire they never expected. I was nearly as dejected as they were, but I refused to show it.

  “This is it!” I cried. “They have come for us…and for you.” I paced the room and addressed each and every one of them individually by locking eyes with them. “I stand here today because I refuse to bow to them. The Consortium destroyed things that were precious to me and I drew the line in the sand. NO MORE!” I shouted. “Outside they may have more numbers and more guns, but they do not have more determination.” My eyes fell to the back of the room, toward the bar. Bofor was nodding slowly and tapping his forefinger methodically on the bar's surface. We locked eyes. “I'm not sure about you people, but I would rather die on my feet than live on my knees.”

  Bofor reached under the bar and produced his guitar weapon. He laid it gently across the top of the bar. “Aye, lad, as would I.”

  Barrel-Chest looked at the weapon on the bar and closed his eyes, seemingly comprehending his options at this point. After a moment passed, he picked up a nearby empty barstool and smashed it against the floor. The seat splintered and he tore off one of its legs, wielding it like a club. “I stand with you.”

  Eventually, the others followed. Grabbing whatever furniture was handy and smashing them into usable weapons. As chunks of wood and metal flew past my face, I approached Bofor. “Thank you,” I said.

  He shrugged and looked at the destruction being wrought inside his establishment. “I been meaning to redecorate anyway,” he murmured with a smile.

  Cantrell remained by the door, watching the scene in silence. After the din of the furniture remodeling had died down, most of the rebels surrounded us with makeshift splintered weapons in their hands. I knew a seasoned mercenary like Cantrell, who had led well-armed soldiers into numerous battles, was rolling his eyes underneath his helmet. “Well, this should be interesting,” he grumbled.

  The sounds of battle crackled through our headsets. Hiro kept us updated as best as he could as he dodged incoming fire. Cantrell placed his hand on the doorknob. He looked down at it and took several deep breaths before scanning the room. “Okay, here is the situation. I have eight men out there, two of whom may be dead. From my initial count, there seems to be around twenty of them, but there could be more concealed among the trees in the distance. I am still trying to figure out your terrain around here,” he grumbled. He turned to me. “It's your buddy out there…the one with the robots. The good news is we now outnumber them. The bad news is they badly outgun us.” He looked towards Bofor's guitar. “No offense.”

  Bofor fingered the guitar strings. “No offense taken. Don't you worry though, I can handle myself.”

  “On the count of three I am going to throw open this door. There are several vehicles out front and I suggest you get behind one. Nathan and I will provide cover fire for you guys. Your job will be to try to get as close as you can to those metal heads without them seeing you. Hopefully, you can get up close and take a few out with your wooden pokers.”

  I knew Cantrell was rolling his eyes and writing this off as a lost cause, but I was not. I would not. I refused to accept anything other than victory. I had lost too many people up to this point to fail now. I reached into my pocket and pulled out one of Grillick's turrets. I held it out for Cantrell to see. “Hiro, this is Nathan. Whatever you do, make sure you stay in cover. When we come through this door, we are bringing the fireworks.”

  “What the hell?” he responded. “Who is this? Where the hell is Sergeant Cantrell?”

  “I'm here Hiro, calm down or you're liable to blow an ass gasket,” growled Cantrell. “When these doors open, you better get out of the way, or you best dig yourself a hole.”

  “Roger,” he replied curtly.

  Cantrell pointed at me and turned the door knob. “On three,” he commanded.

  “One.”

  “Two.”

  “THREE!”

  We poured through the door like water through a faucet. Cantrell moved to the right as he laid down cover fire in quick bursts. The digital view screen in my helmet sprang to life. Several of Janero's robots were hidden within the cover of the trees, which stood alongside the dusty roadway. Targeting reticles appeared everywhere as they zoned in on each enemy, one by one. The rebels hurried past me to take cover behind the vehicles in the parking lot. Two of them were taken out by robots before they could reach the safety of cover. One of them fell two feet away from me with blood gushing from a hole in his neck, still clutching a broken piece of bar table in his hand.

  I held the mobile turret in my hand and pushed the button. “GET DOWN!” I shouted and tossed it over a six-wheeled flatbed truck where it landed in the road.

  Athew was the closest mercenary to where it landed. He continued to fire into the woods, unaware of the weapon. Cantrell sprang from his spot and tackled him to the ground. Both of them crouched with their faces buried in the sandy gravel of the parking lot.

  I pressed my back against an oversized tire of a nearby truck. A whispering click could be heard as the turret barrel released and unfolded from itself. Janero could be heard shouting warnings to the robots, but it was too late. The weapon exploded with gun fire, but it was music to my ears. The screeching sound the bullets made, as they tore through their metal skin, filled me with such joy that I closed in on a state of giddiness. Although I was hidden behind a truck, I envisioned Janero's face twisting with rage as he watched his soldiers topple like dominoes.

  I peered around the corner of the truck and counted three robot corpses, and I frowned in disappointment. I hoped to have taken out more. When the turret ceased firing, the robots emerged from their hiding spots and continued their advance. Athew roared out in pain as a plasma beam tore through his leg. A high-pitched scream was cut short as Bella fell under the onslaught. She died the same way she claimed she was born—with a rifle in her hands.

  I had another turret in my pocket, but I did not want to take a chance with using it. Janero's forces were too close now and there would be too much collateral damage done by friendly fire.

  “The best way to c
atch them off guard is to rush them,” Cantrell's voice roared over the radio. “We might stun them long enough to take a few of them out.”

  “Agreed,” replied Hiro.

  Before we could put the plan into action, Bofor crawled out from behind a nearby vehicle with guitar in hand. He pointed the head to the advancing horde and stood as if he was about to serenade them. He turned to me and nodded.

  “TAKE COVER!” I shouted into the radio.

  Bofor's fingers danced across the strings methodically. Sparks flew from the robots caught in the line of fire. Although I didn't see anything, I knew the sonic waves he had described earlier were working their magic. Bofor took about five of them out before Janero's return fire caused him to dive behind the same truck I was hiding behind.

  “What the hell was that?” Cantrell's concerned voice echoed over the radio.

  “KISS THE DRAGON!” Bofor shouted, his face contorted behind a red veil of rage.

  I had no idea what “kiss the dragon” meant, but I assumed it was some sort of Gliese-based curse upon one's enemy. Even though his attack managed to take out only five of the advancing robots, it bought enough time for the remaining rebels to get close. Barrel-Chest was the first to reach them. He pounced on the closest robot and wrapped his arms around its neck in a death grip. The robot flailed wildly and its fingers tore at the man's flesh, leaving behind angry lines of red. The robot didn't stand a chance. The man popped its head off like a cork from a champagne bottle. He held the head in his hands and he spit on it before tossing it aside like a piece of trash. He turned toward another one when his face exploded outward, raining flesh and bone on the dusty street. The large man fell to the ground revealing Janero holding a large-barreled weapon similar to a shotgun, smoke oozing from the tip.

  The robots took out three rebels for every robot they destroyed. The odds were not tipping in our favor. As quick as the surge began, it was over. Every rebel, except Bofor, lay dead or dying. Hiro and Cantrell were the only mercenaries still alive with the exception of Athew, who suffered from a grisly wound to the knee. The meter embedded in the helmet counted seventeen enemies. We were outnumbered three and a half to seventeen. I looked across the parking lot to Cantrell who was hidden behind a semi-truck. He ripped off his helmet in fury and held out his rifle.