by Adam Peled
Not believing the galaxy would enter war, Lunia chose to remain in Rosten’s laboratories, busy inventing the newest technology useful on the battlefield. Koffee and Pandor didn’t see Lunia as a potential ally and quickly conquered the planet, exiling Lunia to Falcon—in Bergin’s palace.
Pandor hadn’t believed he could conquer Rosten so quickly. His intense greed propelled him on to Bucha, fearing that Koffee would discover his plot was huge. He didn’t hesitate before using his old war shuttles that had been decommissioned years ago. As they hadn’t been renovated and prepared for use, the shuttles emitted tremendous amounts of fire and heat that completely consumed Bucha, with all its inhabitants.
Koffee was taken prisoner and also transferred into Bergin’s faithful hands.
The forward march of the occupation proceeded quickly. Delta and Darfol readily fell into Pandor’s hands, followed by the rest of the planets—taken without a single fight. Their leaders were transferred in the silence of losers to Bergin’s palace.
Rettoul reached his 17th birthday with a personality, as well as looks, that had taken shape and afforded him a facial expression no one could decipher. He inspired confidence in his environment and also radiated power when silent. His eyes were gentle, but very sharp, leaving no questions unanswered—the eyes of a hawk. There was beauty in him, but more than anything, an undefined, limitless strength.
The Falconites appreciated him for his wisdom, silence, the way he solved problems, his eyes that missed nothing, his smile and sense of humor that never hurt anyone, and the love of man that was always evident in his actions. His friends knew he was with them even when not present, and always sought to be close to him.
Benaya looked at him from afar, her heart filled with love for him that was tempered by such respect and admiration that sometimes she forgot he was the son she raised. She, who could see his life in the future, had prepared him mentally for his expected trip. Now she began to prepare him for the journey to Kantara, where he’d learn the secrets of galactic warfare.
Evening descended on Falcon on Rettoul’s last night on the planet. His friends left his home after a lengthy good-bye, as departures are difficult for Falconites. Everyone knew Rettoul—their children or grandchildren played with, studied, and loved him, and those without children or grandchildren smiled broadly when they met the young man in Falcon’s alleys. Rettoul was a born leader who scared no one.
Benaya halfheartedly cleaned up after the good-bye party. Rettoul had already packed his bag and now sat on the porch of their home, watching the night sky. It seemed that night that the sky was not blue-black, as it always was. It had a dark red hue, as if the sun didn’t want to depart. Rettoul smiled, noticing the sky was filled with movement—shuttles passed overhead, discharging soldiers from the battlefield or sending others in their place. Boys on their way to train as soldiers.
Hot tears rolled down his cheeks. He didn’t try to hide his crying, which only intensified. Benaya studied him. This is the leader of the renaissance of the 13 star, she thought. He must not cry. But how could he not lament? Her heart wept with him and her fingers collected his tears like precious pearls.
“Rettoul, my son,” she cried with him. “Your path will be paved everywhere. May the black weeping sky not deter you. Your success will be our success, my dear son.”
Rettoul hugged his mother as he hadn’t since he was a child. “Do you think it’s true? Is this trip really necessary?”
Benaya smiled. “Nothing is truer than this, and you will discover it for yourself. Life gives us the tools to move forward. Sometimes it’s through fire, but it’s the only way offered. And you, my child, will march through the fire, through the darkness, and your path will be the path of all of us. Right?” she said, smiling through her tears.
Rettoul nodded. “Yes, Mother.”
“And another thing,” she continued. “Your scar.” Her fingertip traced the scar on his forehead. “It was from playing with a Roll. Do you remember it—using a flying disc with jagged edges and a slashing Roll when you were only six?”
“What?” he asked, surprised. “What’s the connection to my scar?” He didn’t understand.
Her face was grim. “The scar was the result of a game with a Roll toy, and nothing else. Anyone who asks, anyone who investigates—that’s the answer. There’s no other!”
“Mother, I know and remember that accident. Why do you have to go back to it now?”
“Because,” she said with a stern look, “people sometimes don’t accept a simple answer and look for more. And so I want you to remember this very well.”
He looked at Benaya and smiled at her face, furrowed with soft wrinkles. Her usual smile was absent, not even appearing in response to his. He realized things were much more serious than he thought. He hugged her and promised he wouldn’t forget.
Years later, when he could only recollect, he remembered her wrinkled face and her concerned expression.
Chapter 5: The War Within
It was impossible to ignore the fact that the commander was smaller than Rettoul, who was impressive in his stance and the width of his shoulders, even before discerning the strength in his face. There was no need for the man to shout again at the gang of kids dressed in black, which emphasized their pale gauntness and their frightened and sad faces. They listened to his order.
These 32 young boys—new cadet trainees—had just left their homes and parents, and not all of them were happy to arrive at the camp. Some cried at night into their hard pillows, some got up with their eyes red from lack of sleep and yearning. They hadn’t yet made friends with each other and everything seemed scary, especially their commander’s fingers. None of them had ever seen such strange, enormous middle fingers. Over the years, stories about his hands had mixed and mingled, and no one dared to verify their authenticity. To his benefit, his fingers intimidated others and made him appear far more evil than he intended.
Rettoul looked into the eyes of his officer, who didn’t take his eyes off the unusual boy. He’d never encountered so powerful a cadet, embedded with such natural ability just waiting to be exposed. Rettoul’s thoughts drifted off. He toyed with the idea of shouting “Rolltoy!” to see what those in charge of the training camp would do. Would they be allowed to take time out and play a bit? Would they be allowed a smile, or a word of encouragement? Would anyone understand that they were all just very homesick?
Kantara had two distinct characteristics: one part was covered with extremely dense evergreen forests. The sun was unable to penetrate the branches of the enormous trees and they gained the name “Forests of Great Darkness.” The other part was a giant desert whose horizon was far distant. The desert areas were routinely used as firing ranges and training areas, while the Forests of Great Darkness were a wonderful place to practice long-range navigation. The entire essence of the planet seemed to be war.
The school for warfare stretched over a vast area of 25 acres, bounded by transparent electric fences and hungry wild dogs that ignored orders to calm down. Sometimes, thought Rettoul, fear can paralyze you, leaving you unable to cross the threshold of your room to escape. On the other hand, he believed there was no truly impassable boundary. The dogs that barked constantly and the invisible fences didn’t deter those who were determined to leave—or enter.
The residential areas were clearly separated from the training and study areas, including the dining room, by a walk of up to 20 minutes from the living room to the classrooms.
Trainees always started the morning with a run to the dining room and ended the day with an exhausted, slow walk back to their rooms. In the center of the classrooms was a large blue building, whose purpose was unknown. Only Rettoul, with his inquisitive eyes and keen senses, knew it was the famous Mayjing room.
At the northern entrance to the camp was the landing strip, which looked like a full parking lot. Many special aircraft were permanently parked there, with at least 200 aircraft divided into six or eight different types.
The students’ imagination sparked when thinking about the landing strip. Sometimes their thoughts were related to escaping the distant and harsh place, and other times they thought, “I so want to fly one of these vehicles. I can meet any task.” None of the cadets, and few of the staff, had any idea who the galactic pilots were. It was forbidden to know who these heroes were. One couldn’t speak in praise or condemnation of them, they only handled the skies.
The pilots took off their overalls inside the aircraft itself and exited through a special sleeve connected to the interior of aircraft, which lowered the seats of the pilot and his team down one floor. From there was a tunnel connected to a passageway serving the team through which they walked to the opening and mixed with the others. They didn’t have their own dining room; there was no distinction between them and the others. They didn’t talk about their actions and their abilities, and they weren’t allowed to demonstrate their knowledge or say anything that might connect them with being galactic pilots.
The pilots’ heroism stirred dreams in all the cadets.
***
The warm noon sun affected the boys training in the desert. The heat was oppressive and they weren’t accustomed to functioning under a sun so hot. Everyone was itchy, the sand sticking to their sweat. All day long they had tasks to complete, even during rest time.
Rettoul’s group had completed the strength exercises some time ago, but had no appetite. The heat, the fatigue, the different food, and the shock of the new place made them dispirited. Rettoul, equipped with a considerable amount of food that Benaya had prepared for him before his departure, finished his home-cooked meal in silence. She’d also concocted a concentrate for him that would strengthen his body and bones, and even increase his height. Her unique skills in making concoctions was credited to him. She was often happy with a slice of bread and a piece of fruit, while for him she always cooked hot, nourishing meals. Indeed, Rettoul received the best nutrition his body and soul could use.
He ate the meals he brought with him sparingly, a little at a time, so the taste of home would accompany him for a long time. His bag was full and heavy, despite the fact that several weeks had passed since his arrival. That night in his room, he tried to replace the bag on top of a metal cabinet, but the awkward size and shape made it fall repeatedly. From out of nowhere, a hand reached up and balanced the bag. Rettoul, surprised, turned around.
“I’m Mattoui,” said the dark-skinned child with round searching eyes. His spiky hair included a small bald patch in the center that didn’t seem to fit with his age. It was impossible to ignore the smell of Sinta on his breath, which told Rettoul at once that he came from Bucha, where the enormous Sinta trees grew. They had branches that were like long, thin sticks of macaroni. The narcotic Sinta was manufactured from them, which produced a sense of relaxation.
The lad continued unnecessarily, “I’m from Bucha.”
Rettoul introduced himself with a big friendly smile. “I’ve heard so much about your planet. My mother told me about it.”
Mattoui mumbled halfheartedly, as if apologizing, “There’s nothing much to tell about us.”
Buchawans felt ashamed of their home planet, Rettoul remembered Benaya telling him: “You know, people of the galaxy cannot change their origins, but those who want to more than anyone else are the Buchawans, who feel tremendous guilt, although they’re not really guilty.”
“I’d love to offer you some of the delicacies from my home.” Rettoul smiled. “My mother prepared enough for three courses.”
“Thank you, but you must know that part of our acquaintanceship process is smoking or chewing Sinta together. The ancient ceremony—two people smoking or chewing a piece of equally divided Sinta together—forms an alliance that no descendant can break.”
“I’d be honored to chew Sinta with you, although it will be my first time,” said Rettoul with a broad smile, knowing he’d found a true friend. “But first, let’s get through today.”
It was the first day of the fourth week and the boys knew they were going to have a Mayjing lesson. The name of the class and its instructors were famous. Some said that the number of cadets who didn’t survive it was greater than those who completed it.
They were to have Mayjing lessons every day during the coming week. The instructor claimed the lessons were no different from each other in intensity—the first lesson was identical in its intensity and demands to the last. The level of difficulty was uniform, and high. It was doubtful that those who didn’t complete the first and second lessons would have the strength for the following ones. And it was questionable if those who survived the first lessons would still have any strength remaining for the last. Most of the cadets were already exhausted just from the knowledge that the lessons were identically difficult.
The nervous group of youths had already gathered by the instruction pavilion, this time really scared about what they were to face.
The door opened, but they hesitated and didn’t enter. A thunderous, roaring voice commanded: “Come into the lesson!” The beginning met, and even surpassed, their fearful expectations. In the center of the pavilion stood the instructor, like a cast pillar. Rettoul estimated his threatening appearance as being six feet tall. He was broad, but very thin. One could clearly see his ribs through his blue shirt and his thigh muscles through his white trousers, which had a broad gap that allowed the freedom to kick high and freely. His eyes were a little sunken and too distant from each other, and his nose had clearly been broken several times.
He waited for the whole group to enter, his gaze never wavering. A strong odor of sweat and blood, perhaps even of a carcass, hung in the air. As the stench sank in, the cadets turned their frightened eyes from the instructor, covering their faces with their hands.
The instructor ignored their actions and breathed in heartily, as if it were clear mountain air, and spoke in a voice that was metallic and harsh.
“Good day. This is the only time you’re allowed to answer freely when I speak to you. From this point on, you speak only when I address you. Scratching is prohibited. Talking is prohibited. Undirected movements are prohibited. In fact, anything not related to my demands is forbidden!
“I will guide you. What I tell you to do will be the only thing you do. You will only leave here either on a stretcher, or with my permission. Sometimes I also delay the stretchers until I feel like calling for them.”
There was no arrogance, pride, or aggression in his words. He spoke as if they were the laws of the place, and not his own laws. Yet, everyone understood that he didn’t bend laws. The stories said this Deltan instructor had trained hundreds of cadets, some of whom never saw their homes or their parents again.
“Everyone down on their fists,” he ordered and they prostrated themselves obediently. In this exercise, generally most of the students survived the first few minutes. The better students and those with good physical abilities lasted a quarter of an hour. The rest—although many times there were no others left—barely managed to survive 17 galactic minutes.
In this case, his personal Jorash, not always able to be curbed, felled the strongest, with the last barely surviving 15 minutes. The instructor said nothing. No one knew if they’d done the right thing when they stayed or left.
The second exercise was more difficult mentally, and physical and emotional cracks began to appear among the cadets. Some wiped their faces of the sweat of fear and effort together with tears of physical and emotional pain. Some swore at the whole world in their hearts and released a juicy curse, resulting in paralysis and more fear.
The third exercise third took place in silence. The instructor passed from one to another, beating them mercilessly. The students were shocked and didn’t react, split lips and bruises already adorning their bodies. Between the blows some wished for death after becoming the instructor’s 32 punching bags. It was as if he’d decided to beat them to death.
At the end of Rettoul’s first lesson, most of the cadets
couldn’t breathe, let alone walk on their own. The instructor finished the Mayjing lesson after three and a half hours and left, leaving them bleeding and in pain on the floor. They knew that they had no activity scheduled afterward, being allowed to go eat, bathe, and sleep, but they were unable to gather any strength. Some were crying like babies in pain and insult, some wept over their bitter fate, others were silent, not believing they were lying on a strange floor after taking a beating and not fighting back. And they had come here voluntarily.
Slowly they gathered in supportive groups and dragged themselves to the showers and their rooms. Everyone ignored supper.
The Mayjing lessons were the hardest of all. The instructor—whose name no one knew—had been correct when saying cadets would only leave on a stretcher, or with permission. The pervasive heavy odor no longer hampered them, but the blows they received from each other did.
In the first lesson, it was the instructor who beat them mercilessly. Thereafter he declared, “You hit each other. I will not choose who beats and who will be beaten—you do the work yourselves. Split into groups, not pairs, and I want at least five groups. You choose the cadet to be struck. If you don’t, I will beat you as much as on the first day, but harder.
“From today, everyone I hit will no longer be able to stand by himself, if at all.”
