Call of Courage: 7 Novels of the Galactic Frontier

by C. Gockel

  A foul, greenish-brown liquid erupted from Maxar's mouth. Hatcholethis jumped quickly to the side, the stream narrowly missing him. It made a wet splattering noise as it hit the composite floor.

  “By all that is right and righteous!” Hatcholethis yelled, his wife emitting a short, high-pitched scream. His pudgy, overweight face flapped, his jowls reminding Maxar of an ugly dog he had known as a child. “Someone has poisoned my player. They’re trying to invalidate my bet. Where is the medical aid? If I lose so much as one Ashcred, I'll order an investigation. I have a lot of currency on this man. Where are the medical personnel?” He was practically foaming at the mouth, his eyes crazed. Spittle flecked his comically thin lips, contrasting horribly with the rest of his overweight face.

  If anything had remained in his stomach, Maxar would still be vomiting. Even now he won't stop blathering, even when I almost blasted him. He tried to ignore Hatcholethis, but the man's voice pierced deep into his mind. Passing out would be nice.

  Just as Maxar was deciding he had enough will power to make himself spontaneously combust—anything to silence that piercing voice—the medical personnel came rushing into the room. Finally! he thought as the techs took him towards the med facilities.

  Just as they reached the exit doors, Hatcholethis' frantic babbling crescendoed as he called after Maxar, “You must stay healthy! You really must. I have a lot riding on you. It's really important! Don't let them kill—” but whatever he continued to say was lost as the large doors closed, cutting off the stream of words.

  12 - Tremmilly

  Tremmilly settled into the cramped seat as the ancient passenger ship powered up its engines. “What are we doing Beo?” she asked, scratching behind the wolf-dog's ears. The familiarity of the action calmed her, helping mitigate the stressful situation. “We are going on an adventure because of a prophecy made by a religion we don’t even believe in.” She smiled at the wolf-dog, and he pulled back his lips in a friendly snarl. Tremmilly loved how happy it made him look. “But we'll get to see new places. I'm excited for that.” She paused for a moment, feeling apprehensive. “I suppose we'll be meeting a lot of new people too.” She'd lived in the same small village for her 21 years. New people were intimidating.

  “It's a good thing we know how to take care of ourselves,” she continued. “Psidonnis did a good job teaching that. I'm so grateful he was there for us after Momma and Papa died.” She could only recall small wisps of her parents, but the recollection of their deaths was vivid. Fifteen years had passed, but she could still remember the way the plague had twisted their bodies and made them almost unrecognizable. Death, for them at least, had been a blessing. Psidonnis had cared for her since, had raised her like she was his own. She loved and missed him, but not nearly as much as her parents.

  Tremmilly's mind was a jumble of thoughts and emotions. She’d been studying the prophecy ever since she’d heard it, had memorized every word. Unfortunately, even though she knew them so well, the meaning still escaped her. The talk with the Dygar council had been—unsatisfying. They hadn't answered enough of her questions. Tremmilly didn't know if that was due to ignorance or if they were concealing something.

  A few parts of the prophecy were very prominent. The bit about: “The first be of a light most bright, spirit most pure. Her life touched by death before cognition, her desire only for peace,” actually made sense. Both Psidonnis and the council said the prophecy was referring to her, but she wasn't convinced. Tremmilly definitely desired peace and her life was touched by death, but she wasn't pure or bright. She would need to be on the lookout for someone who better fit the requirements.

  “But to you who would stay in comfort and safety, not yielding to the instruction of this prophecy: Blightheart shall establish itself on your head and the worlds will be sundered by the Breakers.” Now that part was clear and scary. And while it hadn't been the reason she’d left Eishon-2, she couldn't deny it played a part in the decision.

  The rickety vessel began shuddering, groaning as it lifted off the ground. Tremmilly hardly noticed, despite it being her first time in a spacecraft. The prophecy consumed all her attention.

  “I don't even believe in the Dygar faith, or any gods for that matter,” she told Beowulf. Somehow she knew the prophecy was true though, its connection to the religious order irrelevant. Maybe it’s my trust in Psidonnis. Perhaps there was a higher power in the universe that had chosen to use her. Maybe it was just the first real reason to leave Eishon-2 and she was using the prophecy as motivation. It could be all of these things, she thought, feeling overwhelmed. Tremmilly didn't know. What she did understand, despite her initial skepticism, was that the prophecy felt true. Something bad was coming, and she had an obligation to fight it.

  Beowulf growled softly and let out a few muffled whimpers, his commentary on the situation. His head was firmly in her lap, eyes closed, but still awake. The rest of his body lay crunched into the seats beside her. She had never thought Beowulf was large, but when placed in this confined environment, he was massive.

  “I won't take him,” the ship’s commander had snapped when she was trying to book passage. “He's a threat to the other passengers. Besides, he's too big. There is no way you'll get him into a single seat.”

  “I can't leave him behind,” she protested. “I don't have many Ashcreds, but I can pay for the extra space.” She was angry the seedy man was extorting her.

  “That won't make him any less vicious. He looks like he could tear my arm off. If he hurts one of the passengers, I'll be liable. They'll take my ship and every Ashcred I have.”

  “You obviously don't have many fares, and I'm offering to purchase three seats. If you don't take me, you'll lose a lot of credits.” Tremmilly was beginning to feel desperate, stuck between leaving Beowulf and not following the prophecy’s mandate. For a moment, she considered bribing the commander, but she knew her savings wouldn’t last long if she spent any more than she absolutely had to.

  “Fine,” he said finally, turning away. “But if that dog barks, bites, or blighthearts on the buggered floor, you're the one to deal with it. I take no responsibility.”

  Hail Terra , she thought, the ship now moving through the planet’s upper atmosphere. If he hadn't changed his mind, I would still be on Eishon and who knows what the consequences would be. Tremmilly felt the turbulence fade as the rickety ship passed into space.

  “Look at all those stars, Beo,” she said, gazing out the small window. The points of light were far more numerous than anything she'd witnessed back on Eishon-2.

  “Hopefully we'll know what to do once we get to Noor-5,” Tremmilly continued, turning her attention back to Beowulf. “Psidonnis said it’s located on one of the major shipping lanes. Guess that means there will be a lot of people.” That spiked her anxiety, but she took a deep breath and fortified her resolve. No turning back now. “It would be nice if we could find the answers on Noor-5, but if not, we'll have to keep going. That means another transport. And that means negotiating for passage with another commander.” Her resolve to pursue the prophecy was strong, but she knew her love for Beowulf would override any conflicting desire. I could never leave him, she thought, even if it means sacrificing the entire Akked Galaxy.

  13 - Crasor

  The Facilitator, Crasor Tah Ahn, deftly slid through the crowded capital plaza on Noor-5. He moved with the grace of an elegant serpent in grass, barely brushing each blade. No one thought about him or even noticed his passage. I’m a shadow.

  Crasor was on Noor-5 to exact the Founder’s vengeance. I will make the Divisionists pay for their heretical idealism. And he would do it in a way no one would connect to the Founder or the Ashamine.

  What a blighthearted dump, Crasor thought disgustedly. These people will burn in the fires of the black star. Compared to the glory of Founder's City on Ashamine-2, it was dirty and run down, a dump ready for demolition. Once the Ashamine has finished with the buggered Enthos, he thought with sadistic pleasure, it can f
ocus on these small, backwater planets. Founder damn them all.

  He continued towards the front of the huge crowd, everyone around him enthralled to the preaching Divisionist. The speaker's rhetoric sounded like the same cliche garbage every one of them spewed. Crasor wasn't paying attention to what the man was saying. His attention was focused on his surroundings, on remaining an invisible entity inside the crowd.

  The situation between the Divisionists and the Ashamine continued degrading. The Founder's public proclamation was clear: “Those who choose to follow the Divisionist teachings shall serve five standard years hard labor on the newly established colony worlds. This is education, so they might see the justification of our war against the Enthos. For those who lead the Divisionists and cause a rift amongst the Ashamine, we must enact a harsher punishment. They know the truth about our foe, and yet continue spreading falsehoods. Therefore, all will be sent to prison worlds to live the remainder of their lives.” Crasor didn't think these punishments were nearly strong enough, but the heretical movement was gaining more popularity by the day. The Founder knows best and must handle the situation carefully.

  The real problem, however, lay in the fact that governing officials on certain planets, like Noor-5, were ignoring the Divisionists, allowing additional strongholds to spring up. Crasor was happy to obliterate the enclave here. I will bring this situation back under control.

  “Up until now,” the Founder had told him, “we have tried peaceful tactics. It isn't working, and they continue to stage disruptive protests and dissension. It is creating morale loss amongst the Ashamine Forces. With the final Entho offensive occurring soon, we cannot afford these types of setbacks.

  “I've come up with a plan you are perfectly suited to execute. We will fabricate a patriotic organization to strike the Divisionists. The Ashamine itself cannot be associated with terrorism, but a group of concerned citizens certainly can. Travel to the worlds with the highest concentration of dissension and devastate them. Make it look like our group of patriots is at fault. You must be extremely careful. Let no ties be traced to the Ashamine. If all goes as I believe it will, the sentiment amongst the masses will swing back towards us and the Divisionists will wither.” Crasor, after compiling intel, had decided Noor-5 would be the best starting point for his retribution.

  As he made his way through the clueless multitude, Crasor broke into an empty pocket. A young woman stood in the center of the void, a massive, wolfish dog at her side. The animal turned to look at Crasor and their eyes met. Crasor could see malevolence in the pale blue eyes, malevolence directed at him. The dog bared his teeth in a snarl, but emitted no sound. The girl didn't look at Crasor, didn't even notice her animal's behavior. She was entirely focused on the Divisionist and his heretical diatribe.

  Crasor quickly slid back into the crowd, hoping the dog didn't follow. He would find a different path, one that didn't involve the strange pair. The girl was definitely an oddity. Her clothing, hair style, and most of all, her pet, set her apart. Maybe she is one of those back-world, para-political religious types. So many new groups had sprung up lately, but none were as successful as the Divisionists. Crasor put thoughts of the girl out of his mind. More important things to think about.

  It took Crasor a considerable amount of time to get to the front of the assemblage, but he expected that. Stealth required caution. He reached into one of his pockets and pulled out a compact respirator, thinking about his appearance as he did so. His disguise was impeccable and would keep him from being identified by any survivors. Any security devices recording his image would come up empty when they tried to match him in the civil or criminal databases. I’m a non-person.

  Crasor would rather have been in the center of the huge crowd, right where the strange girl had been standing. His weapon would be most potent there, but the Founder had been very specific. “Your primary targets are Divisionist preachers and their immediate contingent. The death of participatory crowds is encouraged, but they are a secondary concern. We want survivors left to recount the horror.”

  The Divisionists will feel the wrath of the Ashamine, Crasor thought. This is only the beginning. Those who practiced heresy would be punished, and perhaps citizens who heard of this event would think twice before listening to seditious speech. The governments of every planet allowing the verbal insurrection to continue would feel pain. Crasor’s next step was assassinating officials who didn't punish Divisionist adherents.

  “I have already begun writing a speech for after your first strike,” the Founder had said. “It begins: 'The citizens of the Ashamine are upset with the unlawful, traitorous acts of the Divisionists. They seek justice and an end to the divide growing amongst our population.' I should add a line about how these patriotic citizens are heroes. That will help shift public opinion. And also something about how innocents that perished were martyrs on the altar of justice.” The Founder was a genius. Crasor was glad he served him.

  Placing the respirator over his mouth and nose, Crasor breathed through it. Immediately, the air had a sterile, stale smell. He reached into his pocket and grasped the weapon’s triggering mechanism, but didn't engage.

  This is it, he thought, mind running through a final check of all his preparations and plans. He knew his equipment and tactics would work flawlessly. The small pump and tank concealed under his jacket, the respirator, the decontamination pod on his waiting starship, the packed crowd, the Divisionist scum—all were where they should be, just waiting for him to trip the switch. He was calm, at peace, and ready to serve his Founder.

  As he began to pull the trigger, a high-pitched shriek assaulted his ears. The ground shook beneath him. What is this? Crasor wondered as the assault intensified. The sound made his head feel like it was imploding. His hands left the trigger, and he tried to cover his ears, but this did little to keep the sound from penetrating. He stumbled a few steps, trying to remain standing.

  Fighting through the pain, Crasor could see the surrounding mass react to the acoustic assault. First, disorientation, then panic grew as people started to scream and flee wildly. Those who didn't keep up with the herd were knocked to the ground and trampled.

  The rumbling worsened as seconds passed. The square started shaking violently and many of those fleeing fell. Crasor watched as thousands tried to crawl to a non-existent safety. They're disgusting, he thought, his well-trained body maintaining balance. His composure had returned, and he calmly assessed the situation. The longer I wait, the less effective the weapon will be. He removed his hands from his ears and went for the trigger. Once it was firmly in his grasp, he tripped the switch.

  14 - Cazz-ak-tak

  Cazz-ak-tak felt the bi-pyramid shudder as it touched down onto the hard desert of Haak-ah-tar. He sensed the power of combined thought trickle away as each of his crew uncoupled their minds. In turn, he lessened the connection between himself and the Great Thought. He could still feel the Entho-la-ah-mine suffering as a dreadful ache in the back of his mind.

  This mission was presenting several new challenges. Am I up to the task? Thankfully, with his leadership and the new technology, they had snuck through the human blockade around Haak-ah-tar. Cazz-ak sent a mental signal to the scientists that had developed the stealth ability. “The humans failed to see us, at least so far. Our crew successfully handled the cloaking demands and all are healthy.”

  The moment they’d passed onto the other side of the wormhole, Cazz-ak felt on edge. The scientists had said the technique would work, but no one had tried it in a hostile situation. “Ti-el-loth, make us unseen,” he had ordered, and the weapons Hax-ax-on had done just that. None of the battle starships they passed had attacked. Invisibility was achieved by tricking human minds into incorrectly interpreting their instruments. It is now a race against time. Their ships’ logs will give away our presence if anyone reviews them. Cazz-ak and his crew wouldn't be on Haak-ah-tar long, but every passing second, he worried the fleet above would discover their location.

&nbs
p; Cazz-ak had ordered them to land near the edge of a slot canyon in the middle of a vast desert. At the bottom was an entrance to a complex system of tunnels, caves, and caverns the Entho-la-ah-mines had inhabited for as long as the Great Thought could remember.

  The day the Ashamine had forced Cazz-ak to evacuate Haak-ah-tar had been one of the worst moments of his life. Each planet that had fallen to the human aggressors was a supernova of pain in the Great Thought. Haak-ah-tar had been worst of all. It was the home-world, the origin planet, the place where all Entho-la-ah-mine life had begun. It was also the place Cazz-ak had been born.

  Growing up on Haak-ah-tar presented many opportunities to see the history of his species, to be educated at the hub of Entho-la-ah-mine existence. Hatching in the First Hive was an amazing experience, especially when he was old enough to see it from the Great Thought’s historical view. To have developed in the same hive as the queen was a prestigious honor. Now, the whole planet is controlled by the humans, Cazz-ak thought, his perpetual sadness deepening. The First Hive is destroyed, the Crystal Chamber lost, and the city of Entho-hal-is empty. Without the Crystal Chamber, the species couldn't produce a queen connected to the Great Thought. Lacking that, they were without leadership.

  Cazz-ak's mission, even if successful, was just a temporary solution. And it’s only half the plan to save our people. All over the galaxy, from a million eyes, Cazz-ak watched Entho-la-ah-mine bi-pyramids evacuate the colonized planets. They would have to find new worlds to live on, places hidden from humans. Is that even possible? Cazz-ak wondered. What he did know was his current mission was vital to the survival of his species. If he failed, they would likely go extinct whether the humans found them or not. We need a queen to bind us together, to give us hope, to give us direction.