by Adam Peled
The 13th Star
Adam Peled
The 13th Star
Adam Peled
EBook edition by: Mendele Electronic Books Ltd
Copyright © 2016, All rights reserved
The material in this book is not to be copied, photographed, translated, stored electronically or broadcast by any means, optically or electronically. No commercial use may be made of any material in the book without the express permission in writing from the author.
Table of Contents
Cover
Book title
Credits
Table of Contents
Chapter 1: The Prophecy
Chapter 2: The Twelve Tribes
Chapter 3: Gray and Black
Chapter 4: The War of the Warlords
Chapter 5: The War Within
Chapter 6: The Takeover
Chapter 7: The Return
Chapter 8: It all Starts and Ends with Education
Chapter 9: The Pioneer
Chapter 10: The Ice Planet
Chapter 11: The Power of the Scrolls
Chapter 12: Groping in the Dark
Chapter 13: The Trick
Chapter 14: The Plan
Chapter 15: The Meeting Point
Chapter 16: The Third Part
Chapter 17: The Wedding
Back Cover
EBook Details
Chapter 1: The Prophecy
On the planet of Falcon, some 400 yards beneath the surface at 2 a.m., the central labor room’s lights are blue. Five white-clad nurses, all in their forties, surround an operating table on which a fair-haired woman, about 60 years old and with delicate facial features, writhes. Contractions rack her tired body, the veins on her neck seem about to burst, burning sweat threatens her eyes, and she’s scared.
“Just don’t let me disappoint… Just don’t let me disappoint…”
The nurses do their work mechanically; they know the process and each has her own role. On each side one holds the woman’s hands so that she doesn’t raise them and disturb the area while giving birth. Below, a thickset nurse holds her legs so they remain in the correct position.
And there are two other nurses. In their absence, every laboring woman has to wait hours, or even days, to complete her task. The first is the head nurse, who wipes the woman’s sweaty face and keeps close watch on the proceedings. According to the law on Falcon, a child may not be born to a mother whose eyes are shut at the moment of birth. From the moment the newborn’s head crowns, the head nurse ensures the mother’s eyes are open and alert to receive the new citizen on Falcon properly.
The second nurse stands opposite, dictating the laboring woman’s rate of breathing and the smile. It is mandatory for the mother to smile when giving birth. She may not shout or curse; she must receive the new life smilinga guarantee for health throughout life.
“May he be born healthy… May he be born healthy… Ahh!”
The five freeze momentarily. The mother, not aware of the shout that escapes her throat, continues her efforts. After waiting so many years for this moment, her tired body is awakening to vigorous life, waiting for the head to crown. The birth will bring her smile and great sigh of relief.
The Cherka language is heard in the room, but none of the nurses understand the meaning of the muttering: “He’s coming, he’s coming, and hell is coming with him.”
(Until today, there are sheets of ice on the planet of Brisker that bear Cherka writing. The words note that the Jorash is like a person with an animal attraction to murder and looting.)
Benaya stands at the upper window, wearing rags that testify to her age and her long and convoluted life. Her gray hair grows whiter by the hour and reflects the blue light of the delivery room. She has the exceptional habit of observing all the babies born on Falcon. The Falconites add the nicknames “crazy” and “insane” to her name, but always with a smile and much love.
Like a small child, she is glued to the cold window above, her palms together. Her is nose always red, but not from alcohol, and it’s also glued there. Her gaze wanders from the mother’s face—who may not close her eyes and must smile the moment she receives the child—to between her legs, focused on not missing the moment a new child arrives.
Next to her, but not with her, is Rod Coldor, Bergin’s Minister of the Army and Falcon’s war lord ,a tall impressive man. His gaze is similar to the eyes of a predator after killing its prey, delighted with its full belly and, above all, satisfied with having realized the objective. Such a predator can then continue onward, as if nothing happened.
This man wears black and a black line, like makeup, defines his eyes. His beard is short and groomed, like a French beard, around his mouth. He doesn’t smile, nor blink. He, like Benaya who stands at his side, doesn’t miss any of the events taking place on the gurney below.
Something else draws his attention—not the sight of the old lady giving birth, which is not common on Falcon but has previously occurred, nor the scream that escapes her mouth. He neglects to give that fact the weight it deserves, but then neither does Benaya, who today looks different than usual. But he ignores that. Something different draws his attention. Amazingly, he feels as though he is watching his own birth.
After two and a half hours of waiting, and with great suffering, a small spikey head appears that doesn’t cry, but smiles, as if happy for bringing his mother’s suffering to an end. The head nurse brings Jorash to immunize and mark the new baby, holding it five inches from his head—a fixed and precise distance to prevent mistakes. She herself must not be stung.
But the Jorash, a light green, shiny, vicious, snake-like creature lacking joints, knows its role and moreover, knows its animal purpose. They have their own understanding, but they’re controlled by those who raise them. It’s not every day that a Jorash is removed from its cage, as sometimes months pass between births. Although extremely venomous, they’re used to immunize newborn babies and young children, and as a weapon by armies around the galaxy (when wrapped around the warrior’s forearm).
During the barren years, the considerable amount of concentrated venom accumulated in it can kill even itself, like cancer. Some say that the Jorash is a reminder of a person’s evil—prior to the six years of choice.
This particular venom-filled Jorash doesn’t restrain itself, stinging the head nurse with venom so concentrated that one drop is enough to kill. The head nurse clutches the Jorash tightly, knowing her fate is sealed, but fearing for the lives of the others in the room. This Jorash has stung in the past and hasn’t been satisfied with one sting. She doesn’t release it and it stings her a second time. Her immune system fails. The head nurse collapses in the delivery room, her hands locking onto the Jorash with greater force through the reflex of her dead body.
Benaya tenses, Coldor sweats, but the new mother doesn’t know what’s happening. She’s exhausted and happy. Before they took her son to be stung by the Jorash, she managed to count his fingers and toes. Everything’s all right.
The thickset nurse traps the Jorash with long pliers and brings it close to the baby’s shoulder, but the Jorash refuses to sting. It swings its head from side to side like a pendulum. Another set of pliers forces the Jorash’s tail to sting the baby’s shoulder and then it abruptly dies. Its body hangs slackly from the large pliers as everyone watches, astonished.
Coldor has seen difficult things in his life—some of which he was responsible for with his own hands—but he is unable to drag his gaze away from the dead Jorash body held by the thickset nurse. His legs move as though with a life of their own and he hurries t
o the elevator. Outside the observation room, his three permanent assistants wait for him, standing ready. His face is as white as a sheet and he mutters nervously to himself. They aren’t used to seeing him confused or upset. When he enters the elevator, his expression is neutral and he says, “We have to wake him up. The old man was right.”
Benaya, who is the age of the woman on the bed, runs between the babies’ rooms. Her face is determined. “This isn’t the Benaya of recent years,” those who have known her from childhood would say. “This is the sane Benaya.”
She passes between the many white plastic beds, quickly but gently moving the babies who have turned onto their sides, seeking the baby who killed the Jorash. In the middle of the room, she uncovers a shoulder that shows no sign of a sting. With an old knife stained with blood, Benaya cuts the baby’s shoulder in the shape of a semi-circle, as the dead Jorash would have done. The baby does not cry. She quickly exchanges the baby for Armada’s little son—her neighbor who’s dying of a serious illness. She uncovers his stung shoulder and strokes it with her saliva-covered finger. The sign of the sting fades rapidly; the scar is absorbed into the soft pink skin that hasn’t yet seen the light of day and vanishes completely.
Benaya lifts up Armada’s son and kisses him warmly. “Good luck, poor baby.” She looks at the two sleeping babies. “May all the stars of the world be with you, and I will, too.”
***
Late at night in Bergin’s palace, there was a slight commotion. It wasn’t every day that was Bergin woken from his sleep. There needed to be a very good reason—At least the beginning of a tribal war! thought the residents of the house. Bergin, drowsy and confused, urged his chief of staff, Rod Coldor, to speak. Coldor sent his assistants to the security room while closing the doors and looking nervously around to check if anyone was present.
“So?” Bergin urged.
Coldor bowed perfunctorily. “It has happened—exactly as the old man said.”
Bergin poured himself a glass of liquor and admonished him. “What exactly happened?”
“It happened,” Coldor stated emphatically.
Bergin understood what he meant. “Rubbish. You consider every old person over a hundred to be like Rouget.”
The door opened and Tula entered the room. Along with being Bergin’s wife, she was the daughter of Lunia, Luria’s warlord, who was a VIP of special pedigree because of the many battles he’d commanded and won.
Apparently the exceptional commotion got Tula out of her bed; her hair was gathered, as always, as if she’d not just risen from sleep—two thick braids hanging down from her crown hiding the familiar scar on her cheek. She met Bergin at 15 when the 25-year-old man came for a visit to Rosten. His thick red hair caught her attention—his eyes shone as if he was a real brat and his smile was captivating. He was on a familiarity trip after assuming the command of Falcon a week earlier and already dealing with world leaders gallantly and with charm. His famous father had died of a mysterious illness; his mother died a few hours later of sadness and in fear of the unknown. Bergin, who assumed the role of Falcon warlord instead of his father, visited each area to meet all the warlords. Until then he didn’t know how to hold a weapon and knew little of the trappings of government.
Tula fell in love with the young man with a broad athletic body and the truth in his eyes that captivated her. Years later, the couple joked that underlying the link between the under-aged girl from the Luria family and Bergin was her father’s wish to benefit from the many minerals on Falcon and take advantage of young Bergin’s vulnerability.
“I would like to ask Her Honor to leave the room, sir,” said Coldor somewhat nervously.
“I’m coming, my dear. I’m just putting Coldor’s brains back in his head. Please wait for me in the other room,” he said to his wife in a quiet, calm voice, as if nothing extraordinary had happened.
The door shut and they were left alone. Coldor moved close to Bergin—something hardly ever done—and Bergin tensed. There was a clear law that forbade coming any closer than two handbreadths to a warlord. Coldor asked forgiveness and raised his eyes to Bergin’s—another law broken. No one looked into Bergin’s eyes without permission.
“My eyes saw a child born whom the Jorash feared to sting, as if it had feelings,” Coldor said sharply. “After it stung, it died. If you think I’m wrong, come to the nursery and see the baby without a mark.”
He lowered his gaze and moved away. Bergin donned a red cloak over his portly body and walked toward the elevator. Coldor followed him, and the three assistants behind him.
“Come and walk next to me!” commanded Bergin.
The nursery was quiet. The nurses had gone to sleep and only one remained, drowsing. She leaped up, confused by the unexpected visit.
“Uncover the shoulders of all the babies born today,” ordered Coldor. The night shift nurse began to stutter while hurrying to do his bidding.
“Shut up and do what I said,” barked Coldor.
The warlord and the chief of staff walked between the white plastic beds, quietly examining the little shoulders. They stopped by a bed occupied by a baby with no sign of the Jorash on his shoulder.
Coldor picked him up roughly and showed him to Bergin, who demanded, “Who’s his mother?”
The nurse replied quickly and fearfully. “An older woman.”
“This is the baby. I saw his mother—she wasn’t young,” said Coldor nervously.
Bergin opened his palm and revealed a Jorash. It looked at the baby, squirmed in the air, and with the speed of light, stung the baby’s shoulder. The baby died instantly, without crying.
“You woke me for this? For the exceptional event of a sick Jorash,” Bergin said contemptuously. He stalked out to return to his palace, surrounded by guards.
Coldor, a cold-blooded man who’d performed hundreds of executions with Jorash and his slashing Roll, looked at the babies. Not wanting to take a chance, he called the head nurse and ordered her to scar all the babies’ faces.
If the day came when the baby grew up and became a warrior, sweeping the kings into a war of the clans, Coldor would know where he came from.
Chapter 2: The Twelve Tribes
This was the seventh year of choice. A year of choice covered 50 years, according to the known method of counting. This was the year in which God afforded the right of choice to the 12 tribes: the right to discern and to choose between good and evil, between what there is and what there is not, between darkness and light. The tribes had been tested during the six long years of choice. Their deeds were carefully examined and each tribe selected its steps, its path, and its objective. The individual tribes were tested for their ability to preserve the good, the quiet, and the tranquility, and their abilities to maintain peace in its area over the years and to reflect its peace to the other tribes was also tested—how each of them lived in harmony with the other; how, despite the diverse winds, they all played the eternal melodies.
God frequently intervened in each tribe; he never restrained himself. He always pointed out their mistake. The greatest fear was that they wouldn’t meet the rebirth of the 13th planet bravely, which would do everything to destroy them totally and proclaim itself over the extinct world instead.
God also knew this would be his toughest day. The 13th planet would rise. The only question was, how strong would the previous 12 be against it They’d never work with it, always against it, because it would challenge them.
***
Falcon—the largest planet in the galaxy. Total darkness prevailed. All the means of lighting, even those developed and tested on the planet and those unfamiliar, were useless in the great darkness. The darkness didn’t recognize the known laws of universe. Half the day lit, half dark. No dusk, no sunrise. Falcon was ruled by the old warrior, Bergin, whose name was known around the galaxy, and some say even beyond—if there was a world beyond. Falcon’s enormous population lived in the center of the planet, where the only spot of light was. No one had manag
ed to crack its structure, and therefore was not able to replicate beyond the fixed area.
Falconites’ skin color was absolute black—just a row of white teeth, the white of the eyeball, and the yellow pupil cried out from the black—and they all wore yellow robes, with a black line from head to toe along their spines. Their threatening appearance was impossible not to notice. Their glistening white teeth weren’t usually visible since they hardly spoke or smiled. But their eyes communicated more than any other galactic language. The Falconites were further known for their quickness to pull out a Jorash. Their well-practiced, smooth, flexible movements simulated hovering, as if their feet don’t touch the ground when they walked or fought.
In the days of Bergin, one could hear singing throughout the planet. Happiness and laughter were seen on the faces of the men and the women who had crossed the barrier of frozen faces. The Falconites’ hovering was peaceful, as if they were born to it, like a butterfly whose flight scares no one. During the days of Bergin’s father, Micha—a short, perpetually angry man who tried several times to conquer other planets, but whose attempts were repulsed by God—there was vigilance in the air. Tremendous fear accompanied everyone at that time. It was even recognizable in their walk—like a dog using invisible wings in order to advance.
Bergin, who lived in the shadow of Micha, knew why his father had died. Bergin was intensely frightened of finding himself confronting God. But at the same time, he wanted to speak his mind and protect his father, the instigator of discord. Throughout his rule, he tested God, withdrawing time after time out of fear…
***
Levi, the smallest planet in the galaxy, existed without a ruler, being run by a democracy comprised almost entirely of men of religion and mystery. As equals, no one imposed tasks on others and no one ordered another about. This remarkable harmony had lasted for centuries, without a declared leader, according to the one path known to them—and only to the Levites.
