by Greg Dragon
He began laughing hysterically at Rafian’s stoic face and then continued to tell him about himself.
“You let the meditation practice of that mystic world interfere with your brain, boy. This is why the Memory that should have triggered your return did not come back to you. Then you got married—which is a violation of our rules. Congratulations, by the way.”
Rafian felt a sharp pain in his back as he fell forward from the sudden elbow that Arn hit him with after teleporting behind him. The elbow was meant to hit his spinal column, but reflexes had caused Rafian to move, and it caught him on the side of his spine. It still felt as if he had been shot with a massive bullet.
Using his training to ignore the pain, Rafian stood up using breathing techniques. He brought the las-sword to life till its edge grew hot and the blade glowed bright white with intent. He was after Arn like a rabid dog, feinting slices to hide intended cuts, which followed after every step.
Arn was deflecting the sword using only his palms, and Rafian searched his thoughts in wonderment of how he was able to teleport and move things around with telekinesis. He wondered about the environment, being that he had never seen Arn leave the building. He wondered if he used gravitational tricks that were manipulated by his clothing and jewelry. Perhaps that was the source of this magic that only he of all the jumpers knew how to use.
Arn caught his sword swipe one last time and shattered the blade into a thousand pieces. He could hear Marian gasp as the old man countered with a palm-heel thrust to Rafian’s chest, but Rafian had centered his thoughts on the fight, and it was as if Arn moved in slow motion to him. Deflecting the strong thrust with a palm-heel of his own, Rafian kicked Arn in the testicles and followed it up with an uppercut to his chin. When the uppercut connected, he twisted on the balls of his feet to hook a punch into Arn’s soft ribs and then stood suddenly to let his built-up energy explode into a shoulder thrust that knocked the old man into the tables, causing a crunching sound to come from his broken body.
“Wait…” Arn managed to say as the young man approached him with deadly intent, and he rolled to the ground with his hand over his face as if to plead for his life. “You have exceeded everything that they told me you would.”
The blood ran fresh from his mouth and nostrils.
“What are you talking about?” Rafian asked as he kept his distance.
“We have always watched you, Rafian VCA. We have watched you from your days as a mangy dog in the slums of Basce City to your ascension to lieutenant on that tiny ship Helysian. You are meant to lead us.”
Rafian looked confused. He was a man of logic and didn’t believe in prophecies, fortune-telling, or anything like it. When he went in for training, he felt that the jumper operation had been a bit too mysterious and odd. In the back of his mind, he knew there was something bigger. But he still didn’t understand their reason for the hell they put the recruits through; their casual behavior with letting him—their supposed “chosen one”—sit on a planet risking his life for years. No, he thought, Arn was buying time—but for what? He didn’t know, but this was nonsense, and on Tyhera, this delaying tactic normally meant that a detonator was about to go off.
He looked up at Marian, who nodded at him with a fire in her eyes, and Camille, who was poised to strike if anything was to happen.
“Tayden, how much were you able to learn about this place and its history in the year that you were free?” he suddenly asked.
“I learned enough, baby, and the rest are in deep archives stored in the seventh room,” she replied playfully, as if the other women weren’t there.
Rafian managed to wink at her as he always did whenever they would revert to the relationship they had that first week of training. It was always that way between them, an odd mixture of strict military protocol and cutesy love games that made it seem that they were more than they made people believe.
“Sounds like I have enough to start this leadership you have been meaning for me to have, then, Arn.” And with that, he knelt next to the old man and held his throat until his body stopped moving.
Memory 20 | Kept Oaths
“We have always watched you, Rafian…” The eerie words of Arn stayed with Rafian through the long months since Tayden’s coup had dethroned the old man and his followers. When Rafian won the fight and had taken Arn’s life, the old man cloned—as was expected—and was held captive until the other leaders of the organization could be summoned to chat. The leadership would not comply with the requests for a meeting, and Rafian, Camille, and Tayden learned that Arn’s temple had gone rogue a long time ago. This resulted in his organization being removed from the regular order of jumpers, so they were not considered official. This meant that the murders and treason committed by Rafian and his cohort would be their own secret, but they would have no support from their foreign guild members. They were on their own.
Rafian was primed to take over the organization—a motion set forth by Tayden—so he spent most of his days interrogating Arn and reading numerous files in order to better understand the crystals and their power. Marian and Camille found a way to work out their differences, and Camille began training the ex-baroness in the ways of the jumper so that she could assist them in any future movements. The student body was reorganized and made to keep training, and Rafian applied military protocol to their rank, status, and promotions. Tayden became his subcommander, and she kept the order going while he pulled what he could from Arn.
Due to Arn’s stubbornness and behavior, it was not going smoothly. His words “We have always watched you” frightened Rafian. There might be bigger players in the game, and he might be just a pawn moving only as he was instructed. He began to hate the temple, which had always felt like a prison to him, but he did not dare speak a word of it to anyone, as they could lose faith in his ability to lead them.
“Commander Rafian,” they would say before making any requests, even one as trivial as permission to leave. Former rivals now regarded him with respect, and he was back to people walking on eggshells around him, as they had on Helysian. Although he accepted it, he was not comfortable with it, as he felt that he didn’t know enough to lead them. For days he would drill Arn, but the old man would only provide hints and riddles, still hiding the secrets of what the jumpers true calling was. It was an exercise in patience, and though Arn felt he was leading the younger man in pointless circles, he was disclosing information without realizing it.
* * *
“It’s been several months, Rafian. Can we have that talk?”
It was Camille who entered Arn’s office—now Rafian’s—wearing a beautiful white frock, with her hair pulled back tight into a bun adorned with sparkling crystals set off by the tiny necklace that he had given her as an inseparable couple on the Helysian. It seemed that she had learned a thing or two of Marian’s fashion, because her entire outfit rang similar to the way women dressed on Tyhera. She had been trying to have this chat with him for many days, and he had managed to slip away from her every time. Now he was seated and alone—and she was absolutely beautiful.
“Seeing you makes me want to die, Cammy,” he said softly under his breath as he rubbed his forehead desperately, as if doing so could reverse the fateful trip to Tyhera that had made him swear himself to another woman. His mind was tortured with guilt, shame, and confusion. On one hand, he felt as if the fault was not his own due to the amnesia, but another part of him scolded himself for not finding some way to remember. Rising to his feet, he crossed the stark white room and held her. She cried lightly into his shoulder, and her slender, feminine figure made him excited, as he had not touched her in years.
“OVO activate locks!” he announced into the air. “Ambient lights, lounge motif, and status lockdown.” The room dimmed, and the desk descended into the floor. The lights flickered as images of a couch, ottoman, holo-projector, and plants materialized and then became solid. The white room had become crimson, and Camille watched it happen over Rafian’s shoulder and
could not hide the astonishment in her voice.
“I didn’t know that rooms could do this!” she said incredulously. Rafian didn’t seem to hear her as he walked her to the couch and began to kiss her longingly.
“Marian does not yet know our way with this, Rafian,” she said as she held him away from her, staring into his eyes.
What he read in those eyes spoke differently, however, and he slipped between her arms and laid her down as he continued to work on her dress, jewelry, and Jalakian-styled boots. It was a lengthy session—lengthy, tender, and passionate. They spoke of the past—when they were between rounds—and they spoke of the future.
“I cannot go back on my vows and betray Marian, Cammy. It will be my lifelong struggle, but a man who makes vows like the ones we took and breaks them is not the kind of man I aim to be.”
Camille YAN lay back on the soft couch playing with her necklace a bit. Her hair was all over the place, and the crystals that decorated it were all over the floor. The frock was neatly folded and rested on top of the ottoman, and her boots were in a corner so far away that it made little sense how they got there.
“Marian and I spoke in length, Raf. We both love you, and she even attempted to back down so that you could divorce and I could be yours again.”
Rafian sat up, interested and a bit frightened as to the resolution that both women had come to regarding him. The last thing he wanted to do was to hurt or upset Marian, because his feelings for her were still fresh—though his love for Camille was no different.
“I told her that I am a jumper. That is what I told her.” She trailed off a bit, as if she didn’t like to hear what her lips were now saying.
“I told her that jumpers do not belong to anybody, Raf. You don’t belong to her, and I don’t belong to you. We have no connections, which of course we actually do—I can’t just very well stop loving you, now, can I? But formal relationships…none of it is for us to have. You made THAT oath before you made the one to her. Remember? Sure, it’s all a big pile of shtill, but she is going to have to share you because your position, job, and oath decree that she shares you.”
Rafian listened intently to Camille and tried to imagine what would have gone through Marian’s head upon hearing it. On Tyhera, women were raised to be extremely untrusting and jealous of their men because the way of their world was for one man to have one woman. Any change to this rule, any variation, was seen as perversion, and people would look down on couples who condoned cheating, multiple wives, or multiple husbands. Space jocks like him and old Vestalian tradition saw this differently. A man could have multiple wives if they agreed to it, and a woman could have multiple husbands. Traditions like the ones Marian had grown up with were not ones that could be easily broken through words. No, his wife would be upset, and the explanation that Camille gave him now made him understand why Marian had been so cold over the last few weeks.
“Would it be so selfish if I took you to the Warp Room and jumped to one of the remote moons of Oclus? Would it be terrible of me as a commander if all I wanted to do was make love to you, Camille YAN, and keep you happy until our bodies decide that it’s time to die? Because the world is such a confusing mess right now, babe, that I would really do it if you told me that I should.”
Rafian looked around the room as if an answer would materialize the way the furniture did, but he knew that everything he said was nonsense. Camille was compliant to rules; it was a quality that he had loved and admired in her from the days of their friendly chats all the way up until now, when she stood reciting the rules of the jumper hellhole that had broken their union.
“I love you, Cammy.”
He said it in a way that people say it before taking poison or jumping off of a structure to their death. His voice had a frightening finality to it that set Camille back in wonderment at his intent, but he wasn’t doing anything but sitting up with a hand caressing her upper thigh.
“We may not belong to anyone, like you said, but I am yours, just as I am Marian’s. This will not end us.”
Camille YAN cleaned herself up, tried her best to reset her hair, and walked out of the office happy and satisfied after their “talk.”
Rafian, however, was not happy. Their physical connection being renewed had awakened feelings for Camille within him that he had long suppressed, thinking it was out of respect for Marian. That night, he entered the apartment he shared with his wife to find her sitting on their bed next to the Mocktual fireplace waiting for him. She wore green, a color that looked so good on her that it made her even more beautiful (as if that were possible). Marian stared at him intently, but she didn’t say a word. Her intent was for him to start talking so that she could catch him in any lie he would utter.
“I made love to Camille today, Marian. I imagine I will make love to Tayden soon, as she keeps trying to book personal time with me, and we haven’t felt each other in many years. I wish I could explain.”
The Tyheran beauty kept staring without blinking, so Rafian kept talking. He hoped that what reflected on her face was actual surrender to his ways.
“We have physical relationships here. I know this sounds like the sermon of an adulterous bastard, but hear me out, please. My heart belongs to you, my heart does. We are not supposed to have attachments, as they will render us weak during wartime and create compromise if the enemy captures us, but—”
Marian tore off the ring and threw it so hard at him he could barely afford the time to step out of the way and catch it midflight. His training would not allow his reflexes to lie dormant when a precious object like Marian’s wedding band was flying towards a wall, where it could shatter, crack, or scratch. He spun and looked at Marian with a glance of desperation.
“ARE YOU SERIOUS?” he asked, anger flushing across his face at his wife who now stood up, las-sword in hand and fire in her eyes. She ignited the sword, and the edge glowed hotly as she adjusted her bare feet in an aggressive stance to face him. Rafian could not believe this was happening.
“If I have dishonored you, Marian…”
He began to reason with her, but she whipped the blade through the air so that the motors hummed to let him know that the time for talking was over. Marian’s temper was never something that was easily cooled, but Rafian had not undergone the therapy that newly jumped recruits needed to settle back in to their normal lives. Jumpers tended to come back disoriented, sometimes depressed, and without treatment, they became suicidal. In Rafian’s mind, this was the sign that it was time to check out and meet the Maker.
Kneeling on the floor to expose his neck, Rafian bowed low and began speaking under his breath.
“Mera ku gol, senus amu showel Rafian.”
It was the final words that Mera Ku monks would utter if they were lucky enough to see the death goddess face to face. Its meaning was simple: “Take your son Rafian into your arms with honor.” A good monk embraced death by a worthy adversary, which was why the Mera Ku order made for fearsome warriors. Their meditation exercises, their doctrine, and most of their oaths dealt with death and passing on to the “other realm.” It seemed like an hour as Marian struggled with herself over whether to lop off her husband’s head or accept his perverse jumper organization with their casual sex and brainwashing. Her head cooled as she decided, and she suddenly felt sorry for him.
In the months that had passed with them as husband and wife, he had told her about his history and his wonderful career that had ended up here. He was a man who knew only tragedy, and even now, she knew that taking his head would grant him a peace that he had never known throughout his life. What if she could give him that peace through love and support instead? she thought. What if she could help him rebuild the order into something better? She turned off his sword and relaxed her shoulders, then placed it back into the scabbard that leaned against their bed.
“What sort of wife threatens to kill her husband?” she asked as she knelt in front of him and began crying. Rafian got up off his knees to hold her and s
troke her hair, and she bawled for a very long time that night.
Memory 21 | Guidance of Gods
The ship was shaped like a banana—this was what crossed Rafian’s mind as he saw the large starship descend upon the temple. It was all black against the beautiful orange sky of Seryac, the planet that he had figured out was home to their jumper temple. It was on an inquiry from Tayden that he had thought to look outside; apparently, the ship had always been in orbit, but due to their limited training on the outside world and the fact that they were never allowed out at night, he had not seen the blinking lights and trace energy that radiated off of the vessel.
The air was breathable but thick, so they wore their 3B masks and stayed together, remarking on who their watchers were and why they were descending to greet them. Rafian thought the old master Arn had found a way to signal for help, so he placed fifty jumpers on the exterior pillboxes to fire on their guests if things got out of hand. He closed his eyes and tried to feel out the ship, but he could not feel anything but the warm air against his face and the hilt of Marian’s sword brushing against his hand. The ship landed in front of the castle-like temple, and from the center of the banana, a doorway materialized—as if it were drawn by an invisible hand.
From the doorway floated three beings whose alien race was not one that Rafian or his comrades had seen before. Their eyes were large, and they had no nose, ears, or mouths. Their skin (if they had skin) was a royal blue color, and they had striped heads. One large cyan strip ran down the center, which took up most of their face, and the cyan was bordered with smaller white lines. They had three fingers on each hand and wore long robes made from a material that kept them rigid even in the wind. Their heads were bald, and their bug eyes held a mesh texture that appeared black from a distance. The trio floated close to the crowd, and lights began to dance across their foreheads as they clasped their hands in what appeared to be deep thought and telekinetic communication.
