“Letho, I think that if you search your mind, you will find that you already know the answer.”
“You left your planet on the Fulcrum stations?”
It was a stab in the dark. A guess based on a glimmer from the recesses of his mind.
“That is what our legends say.”
“So the Tarsi made the Fulcrum stations?”
“It would seem so, wouldn’t it?”
“How come no one figured this out before?”
“Well, the answer to that question is simple as well. No one bothered to ask us.”
◊ ◊ ◊ ◊
The Tarsi brew was really getting to Letho; his legs seemed unable to execute the will of his mind. Thankfully, Bayorn’s arm was there whenever he faltered.
“You took a great risk in speaking to the Elder directly. You could have brought great embarrassment upon yourself and those associated with you,” Bayorn said.
Letho waved him off, blowing air between his relaxed lips and making a flatulent sound. His whole body felt numb yet also tingly.
“What was all that about prophecies and planets in a galaxy far, far away?”
“That is the legend of our people.”
“Legend? The Elder stated it as though it were fact,” Letho said.
“Letho, you will find that among the Tarsi, there are those that believe every word to be true, and those that are unsure. For many, the notion of redemption is what keeps them going. It gives their suffering and sacrifice meaning. It makes the moniker of slave bear a burden that they are willing to carry.”
“You don’t believe it, do you?”
Bayorn sighed, and was silent for some time.
“I think that many of the things the Elder says are true. However, I also believe that the truth has been embellished in the many years that have passed since the Tarsi left their home world.”
“How did the Tarsi lose their knowing? If you guys made the Fulcrum stations, why are we piloting them instead of you?”
Bayorn sighed. Though it was a forlorn expression, it resonated pleasantly in his chest.
“I was born on the Fulcrum station, as were my forefathers. No one knows for certain the purpose of our journey and how we came to be subservient to your race. We do our work, and hope each day for a better one to follow. Perhaps someday the prophecy will come to light, and we will be free,” Bayorn said. He patted Letho on the head, and turned to leave. “Get some rest, Letho. The morning call comes sooner than we would like.”
“Wait, I have some more questions!” Letho called after him. But Bayorn did not respond.
“That guy,” Letho muttered.
◊ ◊ ◊ ◊
“What are you doing up here, slave bear?” the station inspector shouted.
The Tarsi remained crouched. At his feet was a little girl, and there was blood.
“What have you done?” the station inspector asked.
The Tarsi replied in his own tongue. Letho understood, but the station inspector did not.
This girl’s arm became trapped, and I freed her. She needs medical attention, the Tarsi had said. The sound of the agitated Tarsi’s thrumming voice seemed to ignite something in the station inspector, as he took his shock baton from his belt.
“Bedamned slave bear.” He turned his head to speak into his com device. “I need backup here, we got a slave bear that’s done attacked a little girl!”
Letho tried to rush forward, but his legs seemed to be glued to the spot.
“Wait, he didn’t hurt the girl!” Letho attempted to shout, but all that came out of his mouth were strange mewling grunts that only he could hear.
The Tarsi began to stand, and the station inspector lashed out with his baton. A meaty thud, the crackle of electrical discharge, and the sound of blood spatter rang in Letho’s ears. The Tarsi cringed, but didn’t go down. The station inspector bludgeoned the Tarsi’s head again and again. Letho tried again to unstick his cement legs. Then everything vanished into a red and black haze.
Letho awoke, covered in sweat, screaming in Tarsi.
TEN – Prophecy
The next day brought with it an odd taste in Letho’s mouth. He cringed as he sat upright, preparing himself for the inevitable anvil that was about to smash his forehead. But to his delight, he found that Tarsi brew didn’t seem to come with the morning-after consequences associated with Eursan liquor.
Then Letho realized that he had awoken of his own accord, and not to the roaring of work klaxons. I guess even the Tarsi get a day off every now and then, he thought.
Thankful for the dual blessing of no work and no hangover, Letho began to piece together what he could remember of the previous evening. He licked his lips, savoring the aftertaste of meat that had survived the night on his lips and beard. What an evening! The food, the music… and at last he had met the Elder.
His thoughts returned to the discussion with Bayorn regarding the Elder’s prophecy. He wondered who this great warrior might be. His imagination was dominated by visions of a magnificent Tarsi, twice as tall as Bayorn, his fingers tipped with razor claws, the coarse fur around his head rising in a full, verdant mane. This image of the perfect Tarsi turned to Letho and donned a warrior’s visage: brow furrowed and a low, mad grin spread across its face. Letho saw razor-sharp fangs glinting inside that hellish grin.
Though the mythic Tarsi images were a pleasant fantasy, the notion of supernatural beings and metaphysical transformations rang hollow to Letho. As had happened with many of his peers, Letho had found that the notion of a controlling, omniscient being vanished when the planet Eursus became uninhabitable, forcing a large portion of the population to board the Fulcrum stations.
Letho shuddered to think of those who stayed behind, drinking tainted water, knee deep in the refuse of their folly. If there was a God above, he had abandoned man, who had in turn almost destroyed his own race. If the Fulcrum stations hadn’t shown up, ancient but advanced monoliths appearing just outside Eursus’s orbit, Letho’s race might have breathed a collective final gasp on the pocked surface of their planet.
The heady scent of food wafted into Letho’s nostrils, rousing him from his thoughts and causing his stomach to contract with hunger pangs. He quickly headed out to find the source of the wonderful smell.
He found the Tarsi gathered in the cafeteria, the tables piled with leftovers from the previous night’s feast. Letho took a seat next to Bayorn and Maka.
“What’s for breakfast?” he asked.
“Breakfast? It’s two in the afternoon,” Maka snorted, reaching out to slap Letho’s shoulder. With speed and grace that belied his form, Letho ducked and swayed to the left as the Tarsi’s fur-coated pillar of an arm swung through the air where Letho had been. Bayorn watched the exchange with raised eyebrows. The look of amazement on Maka’s face caused Letho and Bayorn to break into laughter.
“Shut up,” Maka said. “I wasn’t even trying.”
Bayorn stroked the fur on his chin, bringing it to a point, his brow furrowed, eyes fixed on the surface of the table. Letho imagined for a moment that he could hear the Tarsi’s intricate mental machinery purring.
“What are you thinking, Bayorn?”
Bayorn shook his head from side to side, as he might to rid his coat of water droplets.
“Memories, Letho,” he said.
Maka was tracing the outline of his massive scar with a single finger. He, too, appeared to be lost in thought.
“You guys are acting strange today. Well, stranger than usual, anyways,” Letho said.
A bit of pseudo-egg dripped down from between his parted lips, and he wiped it away with his napkin.
“The Elder came to me in the evening past, when the others were retiring to their domiciles,” Bayorn said.
“And?”
“The Elder had another vision after the feast.” The severe expression on Bayorn’s face caused Letho’s stomach to wring itself in an anxious knot.
Guess it wasn’t a vision of gumdro
ps and rainbows, eh Letho? The copilot had returned, fouling Letho’s thoughts like a migraine. Letho shook his head, clenching his eyes shut. “Spit it out, Bayorn,” he said.
“He has seen a vision of great evil. He saw the face of our oldest enemy, Abraxas.”
“Abraxas?”
“The corrupted one. The great evil that drove us from our home world.”
“But he’s just a legend right? The boga-man that hides under the beds of naughty Tarsi children?”
“The elder wishes to speak to you in person, Letho. Perhaps he can explain it to you. My words… fail me,” Bayorn said at last.
Letho studied the faces of his friends for a time. They looked frightened, as if they had just discovered that the boga-man did in fact exist—and he was coming for them. Letho knew better: there were no monsters under the bed. To Letho, such beliefs were merely the echoes of primitive beings trying to make sense of the world around them. Shadows that skulked just beyond the shifting glow of the campfire became demons. Sickness and crop failures were the result of angry deities.
But the Elder, you believe in him. He is different; there is a glimmer about him. I feel it tickling at the back of your mind right now, Letho. Something you can’t explain.
“Hey, Letho. Letho! Are you listening?”
Letho felt Maka’s massive paw bristle against the naked skin of his forearm.
“Yeah, I was just thinking is all.”
“Come then, let us not keep the Elder waiting.”
◊ ◊ ◊ ◊
If I fall, I die! his mind screamed as his whole body spasmed.
The blat of Zedock’s uCom caused him to jerk as if a bolt of lightning had coursed through his body. In that ethereal space between sleep and waking, he felt his body falling, and instincts deep within the base of his nervous system kicked into overdrive.
He was not falling. There was no danger. He had merely dozed off at the desk inside his domicile. He felt the familiar buzz in his hand, and he conjured his uCom screen. The number was blocked, as was the name. Only the word SECURE in bold letters.
“Hello,” he answered.
“Is this Chief Inspector Zedock Wartimer?”
“Who else would it be? You called my uCom,” he said, his mind still blurred, spinning from his false near-death experience.
“It has come to our attention that, some months ago, there was an altercation in the Red Sector involving several of your inspectors and one citizen named Letho Ferron,” said the voice at the other end of the line.
There was something off about the voice. Zedock couldn’t quite place it; it sounded flat, dull, monotonic.
“Who is this? Wait, how do you know—” Zedock began.
“It has also come to our attention that, as per your direct orders, no action has been taken to apprehend this Letho Ferron, and that he is currently residing with the Tarsi on your station.”
My station? he thought.
“This is most irregular. As a direct consequence of your poor judgment we are hereby placing you on leave until further notice.”
“Under whose authority? Who is this?”
“We speak with the authority of the governing body of United Fulcrum stations. Your station inspectors have already been given their dispatches. Do not try to intercede, for doing so could incur penalties of the most extreme nature. Good day.”
Zedock winced at the uCom’s beep, signaling that the connection had been severed. He leaned back in his chair, stroking the thick black corners of his moustache, twirling them. At last, moving with surprising quickness for a man of his size, he sprang to his feet.
“Like hell I’m not going down there!” he said to no one in particular.
He reached into his bottom desk drawer and withdrew a bottle of whiskey. Grasping it by the neck, he threw it back, pouring the sweet burning liquid down his throat. A deep cough-gasp escaped from between his glistening lips as the fumes hit the back of his throat, causing his eyes to water. Placing the bottle back on the table, he then reached all the way to the back of his desk drawer, removed a metal panel, and retrieved a large bundle wrapped in oily rags.
He removed the cloth wrapping quickly. When he reached the last layer, he placed the final cloth and its contents on the faux-wood surface of his desk.
Two massive pistols, heavy and black, lay before him. He lifted them gently, like they were holy relics, and felt their weight in his age-spotted hands. The guns showed their age as well: the rosewood handles were worn and smooth, conforming to the shape of his palms, and of his forefathers’ before him. Glimmers of the high-carbon, multi-folded steel swam beneath the gun’s blued coating, worn down from the many times the big pistols had been drawn from or inserted into their holsters.
Across the side of the gun, the maker’s brand was etched:
Black Bear Automatic - .50 cal, 1908-X1
Zedock breathed deep the sweet but acrid scent of oil and metal, of spent cordite. He had never fired the guns before, but he knew in his heart that they would fire, you’d better believe it. They had aided many a Wartimer when the shit got thick, and there was no doubt in his mind that the protection of his forefathers would extend to him. It was as close to a faith-based experience as a man like Zedock Wartimer had ever gotten.
“Storm’s a-comin’,” he thought. The words came un-beckoned, as if inserted into his mind by an outside source. They felt right, though, and he thought them just as good as any to christen what he knew was a very foolish decision.
He removed the stun gun and the tranq-pistol from his hip holsters, and placed the black bears in their stead. They fit, but just barely. The old but supple leather stretched willingly.
He decided that he needed another pull of whiskey before he set out to meet his fate.
◊ ◊ ◊ ◊
Bayorn and Maka led Letho to the Elder’s chamber. It was smaller than Letho expected, filled with shelves and surfaces adorned with the accumulated totems and keepsakes of a life well-lived. Letho recognized the copper-wire dragon resting in a place of prominence on the Elder’s curio, and saw that it was only one of many wire figures on display. In one corner sat a wire-form that could only be a Tarsi warrior of eld; on a desktop near the Elder’s cot, a creature snarled, its form somewhere between the golden dragon and the Tarsi warrior sculpture.
All were painstakingly crafted with a level of intricacy and detail that didn’t seem possible considering the medium’s brittle nature. Letho stole a glance at Bayorn’s massive hands. They looked like implements of murder and survival—the only thing missing was a set of claws like the ones at the end of the Tarsi sculpture’s hands—yet the statues stood as evidence that within those hands, those paws filled with strength enough to rend flesh and break bone, flowed the gentle will of meticulous creators.
The Elder greeted them warmly. “Letho, so good of you to come and visit an old Tarsi.”
Letho felt an unabashed grin spread across his face before he could stop himself.
“Hey, my schedule’s pretty free, so, you know, I figured I would stop by and say hi.”
The old Tarsi chuckled, then descended into a phlegm-muted coughing fit. Bayorn placed his paw on the old one’s shoulder with the care of a doting son, and the Elder, recovered from his fit of coughing, placed his own gnarled hand atop Bayorn’s.
“A sense of humor,” he said in his leathery rasp. “An oft-underappreciated sign of intellect. They say that a man who brings laughter to his fellow soldiers is worth a bevy of the finest swordsmen. I must say, Letho, your Tarsi speak is quite impressive.”
Letho smiled again. The Elder’s dialect was different than that of the younger Tarsi. Letho found himself charmed by his archaic manner of speech.
“Master, Letho wishes to know more of your vision,” Bayorn interjected.
“Thank you, Bayorn. My old mind tends to wander. Letho, how much do you know about the prophecy?”
“Only what Bayorn has told me, and what you said at the feast.”
&n
bsp; “And what do you know of this figure of prophecy?”
Letho hesitated. The words that came to mind seemed false, sour in his mind. He felt like a child reciting a fairy tale. At last he struck upon a compromise that he hoped would offend neither the Elder nor his own sensibilities.
“The Tarsi believe that a pure being will release them from their self-exile. He will return them to their former glory, and lead them home.”
“Very good, Letho,” the Elder said. He winked. “And if you had to describe this being, what would he look like?”
“He would be a warrior. The biggest Tarsi anyone has ever seen. I saw him once, in a dream.”
“Did you now? What if I told you that the prophecy does not specify that the Supreme Being is a Tarsi?”
“That’s impossible. What else could it be?”
“Among the Tarsi there is some disagreement on the wording of the prophecy. The Elders have done their best to retain the knowledge, passed down through generations, but like all things, it has been marred by the passage of time. The point of contention resides in one sentence: He will redeem the Tarsi through his own sacrifice, and lead them to their home. Some believe this line implies that the being is not a member of the Tarsi race. Many others cannot accept that their savior could be anything but a Tarsi.”
Bayorn snorted at this, and the Elder cast him a disapproving glare. Bayorn bowed his head in obedience.
“If not a Tarsi, then who else? A Eursan?” Letho asked, punctuating his question with a sardonic chuff.
The Elder made an open-handed gesture to the ether, his shoulders shrugging. “That is the nature of prophecy, Letho. It cannot be taken on brute facts alone. There will always be gaps that can only be traversed with faith.”
A silent pall fell over the three Tarsi and The Eursan. It was broken by a thunderous clap as the Elder’s door was thrown open. Three station inspectors filed into the Elder’s domicile, moving in lockstep, bringing their rifles to bear on Letho with uncanny synchronization.
Fulcrum Page 12
