by Greg Dragon
Three women were assisting the Gangster with his afternoon meal—if one would consider what they were doing to be assisting—when his android butler entered the chamber with a pretty, blue-haired woman in tow.
“Your honor,” Riyah uttered, bowing deeply to him. “I have a favor to ask you, which I am willing to pay heavily for.”
At the mention of money, the Gangster’s attention was given over to Riyah, and with a gesture he shooed the women away to their respective corners.
“Who is it you want killed?” he asked, his booming voice sounding as if he gargled water as he spoke.
“No one, your greatness. I need swift transportation to the planet Tyhera for myself and my husband. You see, he has quit the service of the Felitian Nation, and they want to question him about it. You know as well as I do what that means, Your Honor.”
The Gangster chuckled. “What’s his name, and which division was this husband of yours in?” he asked as he swallowed two small, unfortunate potatoes.
“His name is Oda Mancozulu, Lord. He has always kept his affairs private, so I cannot reveal more. We offer fifty thousand credits.”
The Gangster rubbed his fat, scaly chin then spewed back his offer: “Sixty-five thousand. No less!”
Riyah looked as if she was about to cry. “Please be reasonable, great one!”
Looking her up and down, the Gangster seems to soften. “Fifty thousand credits, then, but no less! You are quite fetching and are lucky to find me in a good mood today.”
Riyah sighed with relief. It was all the money they had, but it meant freedom and a chance to start over. The Gangster gave her a location and password to use that night to get off of Talula. It seemed like an eternity before she could leave his disgusting presence, but she was so excited to return to the camp to tell Rafian the good news that she forgot everything it had taken to get there.
That night, Rafian and Riyah boarded a run-down Tyheran supply ship under the guise of Mr. and Mrs. Mancozulu. They exchanged formalities with its pilot and settled in among some smelly boxes in the back. Trying to make the best of the situation, Riyah smiled at Rafian and took his hand, but he had the same distant look in his eyes that he always did.
“Where are you, Rafian? You aren’t here with me.”
Finally, his eyes focused on her, and he returned the smile. “I was in my mind’s eye, Ri. I was repenting my sins. It all came back to you, though. Only you can release me. So what’s it gonna be? Do you forgive me of my sins?”
Lifting his palms to kiss them, Riyah let a tear fall on them and looked up at him for a long time before speaking.
“You have it all wrong, Raf. You were forgiven from the day you killed my slaver.”
It shocked him to realize that she had known all along that he killed her pimp on the day they met in the saloon on the moon of Talula, so long ago. Over time, he had learned to stop underestimating Riyah, but he had no idea that all along she knew he had killed the brute. He wondered what else she might know.
“You have never asked about my past, Raf, nor I yours. We were just living day to day in our respective roles. I can’t begrudge you that. We have a long trip ahead, so I think it would be a good time for us to actually talk.”
Rafian agreed as he stared back at her. “Slaver? Riyah Mist, all this time I thought you were a willing partner to the scheme at the bar.”
Smiling, she assured him that she knew. For hours they talked and learned more about each other. It was the best of all ends to that beautiful moon of such ugly inhabitants. Throughout the night, he held her close as he mentally drifted back to his place of repentance. He felt he owed the world penance for his many crimes on Talula, and he made an oath to become a good person within his new life and new planet.
“Good-bye, beautiful Talula.”
He muttered this out loud, and the smile that Riyah displayed as the ship broke Tyhera’s atmosphere was bright enough to light the entire planet of Valuneer. Like two pups in a store’s front window, the couple watched as the lush planet came ever closer with the ship’s descent. It was very blue, a pretty azure field with clouds that masked beautiful green landscapes and occasional brown swampland. They were so enthralled; they did not notice the three vessels tailing them. Suddenly, a loud voice came over the speakers.
“This is the Felitian Air Patrol. Slow your descent to a halt and prepare to be boarded!”
Nervously, Riyah looked at Rafian. Their trip to paradise had hit a brick wall.
In response, he smiled and squeezed her hand. “Positive thoughts, pet,” he said.
“Hold on back there!”
It was the pilot’s voice now on the announcer, and before Rafian and Riyah could react, they were slammed into the rear wall as the ship bolted away from the pursuers. Shot after shot rained on them as the pilot did his best maneuvers to outrun the authorities. But there was only so much maneuvering one could do with a freight vessel. The ship was being torn apart, and it was not going very well.
“Oh, man, Gorda will be most unhappy!” the pilot uttered as a huge explosion rocked the side nearest Riyah. As they were torn apart by the sudden movement, Rafian desperately tried to grab her falling body. But the ship was hit again, this time propelling him into a far wall. When the pain had subsided enough for him to open his eyes, he thought he saw Riyah reaching for him. In almost an instant, everything went black.
* * *
Rafian opened his eyes to find himself on the banks of a swampy pool. The remains of the craft were strewn all about, and refuse seemed to be everywhere. He took in the situation soberly. They had been attacked, he had passed out, and now he was on Tyhera.
After checking for any visible wounds, he began to search for Riyah. The fragments of the ship were everywhere, and for hours he rifled through them, searching unsuccessfully for his mate. He managed to find evidence of the pilot’s demise, but it seemed as though Riyah had vanished into the atmosphere. Where was she? After a few more hours, Rafian came to terms with reality. The skies of Tyhera were all that Riyah would experience of her homeland. He was sole survivor—lucky, unscathed, shaken, but alive.
“May your next life be a royal one, my beloved. Maker knows you have earned it,” Rafian muttered to himself as he became overcome with emotion and fell to his knees crying. While onboard, he had neglected to tell her how much he loved her. He thought it would have been his first words to her in their new life. Now she, like his Memory, had been taken from him, and he felt very alone in the world.
Memory 15 | Freedom Fighter
The minute Rafian set forth into them, the swamps of Tyhera seemed endless. He had no idea where he was going but knew if he kept walking, he would eventually run into something or someone. Three hours passed, and the heat and his exhaustion began to play tricks on his mind. He began to see men and women coming and going between the trees. These people were dressed strangely, nothing like the inhabitants of Talula, and he felt as if he knew them. He tried to call out to them a few times, but they never paid much attention to him. They continued their ritual of emerging from one tree and then walking into another before disappearing.
He began to talk to himself. “Maybe there is a worse fate for me than you, Rhee. Obviously this is some hell that I am lost in, a hell with pretty phantoms to try my sanity. I can feel myself going mad.”
Stopping to catch his breath after a time, Rafian looked about at the vast swampland and considered his situation. Dark thoughts began to cloud his mind as he headed for a nearby rock to sit. He had not eaten for days, and he felt an interior ache throughout his entire body. Suddenly a Memory was triggered, pushing itself from out of the dark cloud of his delusion. He recalled himself as a starving boy. He was in a sort of jail cell, and he was alone, just as he was now, with no hope of escape. Was this Memory real, or was it just another illusion? With much effort, he forced himself to stand up and pushed forward, choosing to ignore the Memory as he put one foot in front of the other.
* * *
> Cally, Apun, is a small city that is barely on the thoughts of the Felitian Empire. So is not surprising that its population consisted mostly of freedom fighters, rebels, and their infamous resistance. Cally was not as advanced in its architecture as Dearin was on Talula. It did not have the metal work and masonry that blended to form graceful shapes on the horizon, or the advanced solar technology to keep it lit at all times of day. Cally was a slum in comparison to Talula’s cities, and the outskirts held savage, doglike animals that would devour those who dared leave with their guard down. Within its streets, the people were mostly outlaws and scavengers. It would be rare to find Felitian troopers there, and “the resistance” had gotten so comfortable with their haven that an open recruiter to the cause would patrol the streets looking to convert any nonbelievers he or she could find.
Whenever the Felitians were present, the city was relatively peaceful and quiet. The magistrates knew that Cally was a nest of traitors to the empire but left it alone to use for information gathering and for the occasional raid whenever pressure came down from the top. The city had its good parts too. The saloon was reputed to have the most exotic dancers in the entire Lucan galaxy, and it was rumored that the queen herself was born there, in the days before the rich and powerful moved out.
Rafian VCA looked the part of a vagrant as he plodded through the rain and wet road, limping towards the resistance recruiter. By fate, he had stumbled upon an abandoned bike whose saddlebags were laden with credits, a warm cloak, and a gun that still worked well. He stole the items before the owner returned and was lucky for finding it because the gun was enough to ward of the hum hounds that tried to make a meal of him. His plans now were to drown his sorrows inside the deep, red abyss of some Tyheran brandy, or at the very least, a cheap mug of beer.
The odd makeshift uniform of the recruiter caught his eye, and her warm smile and nod pulled him almost magnetically over to her. She looked no older than eighteen, and her jumpsuit seemed to be the kind he noticed being worn by trash collectors on the edge of the city. Her clothing was an olive color, but it was covered in various places by silver armor, which on close inspection favored that of the Felitian National Guard.
“Well hello, citizen. Are you interested in a world of peace, free from Felitian oppression?”
Hesitantly he looked her up and down, taking in her ambience, clothing, and demeanor.
“What is this? What are you talking about? The Felitians are everywhere. Best you quit this charade before you get yourself vaporized, girl.”
Smiling, she returned, “Thank you for your concern, but I represent a higher power. The Felitians who oppress you are fading. Soon light will be returned, and freedom through the resistance will be a reality.”
Rafian regarded the recruiter and asked her to wait. Making his way into the saloon, he purchased a tall bottle of wine and made his way back to her. Smiling, he offered her a drink, which she quickly refused. He seated himself on a nearby wall and motioned her over.
“Tell you what, sister. I would like for you to tell me about this resistance that you are so passionate about while I wash away the pain in my feet and legs.”
Obligingly, the recruiter began her story, and Rafian listened for a very long time. Riyah used to speak of the resistance to him; she had been passionate about their fight and wanted to join when they reached Tyhera. She had dreams of infiltrating Felitian bases as a spy and would make up long scenarios and relay them to him. He would always blow it off as political nonsense, since he saw the Felitian rule as absolute. The only “resistance” in his mind was men like him who “defied” them by breaking the law for a fist full of coins.
To actually meet a member of the infamous resistance intrigued Rafian, and the more the recruiter told him, the more he liked it. After all, it was three of these same Felitians who had killed Riyah. It was Felitian justice that had wiped out Corren, and when it came to any problems in his past, it was a Felitian figure that clouded his mind. It made him angry! Oh, his sweet Riyah. The bottle of wine was empty, and he cried openly, knowing that the rain would hide it from anyone who might see him. What a pathetic sight Rafian was, thoroughly soaked with a mixture of swamp water, wine, and tears, and slumped down in the gutter of a seedy saloon, in a town deemed as trash on a paradise planet. The recruiter helped him up and looked at him with stern eyes.
“Sir, we have all suffered at the hands of the Felitians. I have told you of our fight and you have told me of your past. This is your chance to right your wrongs and defeat those that have wronged you! Join us in our fight. Help us bring this planet back to what it should be!”
It seemed to take hours for Rafian to respond as he righted himself and looked back at her with red burning eyes. He recalled the one message that was embedded within his brain beyond the amnesia: join the resistance. So he weighed the odds and couldn’t fathom any other direction that would make sense for him.
“You may be right. Maybe revenge will finally give me some peace. I want to be recruited into the resistance army.”
Smiling, the woman entered his name and information into a data pad and handed him one similar to hers.
“You will be a hunted man, VCA; the Felitians aim to wipe us off the planet and will not hesitate to kill anyone who fights as a freedom fighter. Recruits must accomplish an assignment to be one of us. Will you accept an assignment?”
Looking down at his data pad, Rafian observed the mission details and nodded.
Saluting sternly with a smirk on her face, the woman got serious and replied. “Very well, recruit VCA. When you have accomplished your mission, please return here in appropriate dress for your induction into our faction.”
“What is appropriate dress?” Rafian asked.
“Anything that is more respectable than that cloak. You will encounter opposition in the camps that we are sending you to. See if you can scavenge something that fits, and we will take care of the rest.”
Lazily returning the salute, Rafian shuffled off into the night. The sudden change in events was not easy for someone who had no recollection of his former life and training. The Rafian of old would have laughed at the simplicity of this operation, but the current version was rightfully nervous. Some would-be slaver thugs had attacked some farmers on the outskirts of Cally. Five people had been abducted, and Rafian’s mission was to get them back home safely. His datapad gave information about the camp’s location, and he made his way close until he was roughly a mile away from them.
It had taken him an hour of jogging to get this close, and after some fits of vomiting combined with his aches, he arrived soberly aware and anxious to prove himself.
The rain stopped, and he was feeling dizzy. It dawned on him that he needed sleep, so he found a slight depression bordered by rubbery trees. He set up a hammock by tying a number of the giant leaves across it and then securing it with fabric torn from his cloak. He tested it to see if it would secure his weight, and then he rolled up into his cloak and went to sleep. It took mere seconds for him to pass out, and he slept for a very long time.
The recruiter had given him an old rifle that was barely functional, and while it could fire, he did notice that the aim was off. When he woke up the next morning, he cleaned the rifle. However, he knew it would come down to luck and his special gift in hand-to-hand fighting.
As Rafian neared the slaver camp a few minutes later, he felt as if his heart were in his throat. Five thugs were patrolling the grounds, and from what he could see, they were armed and seasoned. These men were killers with a lifetime of gunfights to back them up. Rafian contemplated his next move for a bit, but it seemed suicidal to him. Was this a trick? Who in their right mind sends a new recruit on a rescue mission? Maybe the recruiter had seen something in him that made her feel he was capable of pulling off a one-man operation that truly needed a small army. But then again, he wondered, what in a tired outsider coming into town for a drink would lead someone to assume any of that? The whole situation was making him frus
trated, and as he fumed over it, he heard a noise.
“Psst! Hey! Are you Rafian?” a voice whispered, and he quickly nodded at the yellow eyes that emerged from the bushes behind him. A young Daltak dressed and armed for battle stepped out from behind a pair of trees wearing a grin not unlike a child that was up to some mischief.
“Who the hell are you?”
“Orion Zee, rifleman, at your service, Rafian VCA. Seems like we are to be mission mates.”
Shaking his hand, Rafian observed the Daltak with interest, then sighed and expressed his gratitude for the help. Daltaks were humanoids that seemed to be carved out of stone. It was merely how they looked, however; they were soft like humans and could show emotional expressions visually, as humans did. However, Daltaks didn’t have all human features because they were missing a nose and ears. Instead, they had holes covered by flaps to smell and hear, and their skin tone ranged from a pallid white to a light blue or deep indigo, depending on the area of Daltak where they originated. Orion was the color of the azure sky, and what he lacked in hair, he made up with tiny bones that resembled horns. This was the pride of the Daltak people. They considered humans to be ugly due to the lack of bones protruding from their heads.
“So you’re a rifleman? Hmm…how good are you?”
“Well, I made second rank just today…”
Rafian had no clue what second rank was but assumed it would be good. So he assured the man by saying, “It will have to do, Orion. Cover me when I go in.”
“Are you crazy? Go in? We aren’t supposed to go in. We’re supposed to stay hidden and eliminate this threat from a distance!”
Rafian laughed and said, “I figured as much with you, but I do better hand-to-hand than I do popping melons from a distance.”
Orion shook his head in disagreement. “Trust me; we need to do it this way.”
