The man was known simply as "Le Saint-Coureur"—The Saint-Runner. The man’s actual name and identity were a mystery to most, though he had arrived in Paris to continue his vigilantism for the past several years. He was a world-class acrobat with renowned aim, well known for savagely tearing apart the crime network that had previously held sway in much of Western Europe. Such was the popularity and fame of the Saint-Runner among the people of Paris, that a statue approximating his appearance stood near the Sacré-Cœur Basilica. His elevation to folk-hero status had long proved a dilemma for Parisian law enforcement. The police found that they were both sworn to catch him for a number of extra-legal killings, yet were doomed to a public relations nightmare should they succeed.
The Saint-Runner proceeded to the far side of the tenement building’s roof and dropped down, one by one, from the brick windowsills on each floor. He hit the street running, again launching himself over and around the complex geometry of the aged city. A couple miles later, he clambered up the side of an abandoned warehouse—aided by the special friction pads on his boots—and propelled himself in through a high, broken window. On the other side he caught himself on an iron support and slid down its length like a firefighter’s pole, whereupon he landed next to a small stash of his belongings.
The empty confines of the condemned structure soon echoed with the rapid, staccato rhythm of blows softened by thick padding. Beneath a small mobile lamp, the Saint-Runner stood punishing a punching bag suspended from a metal strut. A gleaming, antique rifle with a dark wood body sat nearby on a small table next to the Saint-Runner’s discarded jacket. His skin was almost as dark as his clothing, and the sheen of sweat on his body granted him something like the appearance of polished obsidian. By any measure, he was a strikingly handsome man with the youthful cast of his face balanced by a well-trimmed beard and mustache. His hair was a dark cluster of coarse curls that flowed back from his hairline, and he eyed the punching bag with smoldering brown eyes that would have been considered dark on someone with paler skin.
In the harsh lamp light his close-fit garments made every shifting muscle and twitching tendon visible, demonstrating a slim physique as if someone had painstakingly fitted clothing to a sixteenth century masterwork. He alternated between a flurry of face and torso strikes, interspersing sharp kicks with the grace and poise of a dancer as he worked through a complex routine that would shame an Olympian.
Amidst the sounds of impact and labored breathing, he heard a voice from the darkness beyond the lamp in precise French. “I wanted to speak with you.”
In an instant the Saint-Runner had spun past the punching bag to the side of the structural support, snatching his rifle from the table as he did so in one smooth motion. He responded in a rich off-world accent long ago smoothed over by Parisian tones and inflection. “There are many who would wish to ʻsp-peak’ with me, so I am afraid you will need to be more sp-p-pecific.”
Bryluen stepped from the shadows deep within the warehouse. Her attire was almost suspiciously casual—simply a brown leather jacket over a blouse and slacks, with a pair of comfortable flats. The Saint-Runner recognized her face and relaxed, though he did not yet put down his weapon.
Bryluen strolled forward with her hands in her pockets, and continued to speak in French. “I’ve come with an offer for you.”
The Saint-Runner stepped out from behind the support and faced Bryluen head on. “I-O-oh … you really are quite an eye-catching woman, aren’t you?” He paused a moment to regain his train of thought. “I-I would be flattered if someone so renowned had come all this way to detain me, but I imagine your offer is more complex than ʻPlease co-ome quietly.’ ”
Bryluen smirked and waved her left ring finger, displaying a finely tattooed devotional band. She shrugged off her jacket, revealing her gray pistol holstered beneath her arm. Tossing the jacket on the small table where the Saint-Runner’s weapon had laid, she stepped in front of the punching bag and seamlessly slipped into an A-frame stance. “Always good to be complimented by a stranger regardless.”
The Saint-Runner dramatically placed a hand on his heart. “Oh I a-a-am quite aware, but the situation war-rranted the comment. She is a very lucky wo-oman, I’m sure.”
“Oh, that she is. To reciprocate: the stories have circulated for some years—and I can certainly appreciate that you really are very handsome in person. No wonder you raise money so easily.”
The Saint-Runner laughed nervously, surprised and off-put by her comment. Bryluen smiled. Aside from his ever-present stutter, Runner was clearly anxious. She found his unease endearing, considering how comfortable he was with blowing mobsters’ brains out the backs of their heads. “Though trading compliments is quite pleasant, I have come to grant you a unique opportunity. What would you say was the number one motive behind your destruction of the Milieu?”
The Saint-Runner placed his weapon down next to Bryluen’s jacket and placed a hand on the back of his neck. “An interview, then? How unexpec-cted! I would say without a doubt that they had been harming good people f-for too long.” He shrugged. “I decided b-blowing them to shit would just be the right thing to do.”
“That’s a good reason, and the results were what you intended—a dissolution of a crime order that had defied authorities for many years.” She shook the bag with a harsh uppercut.
“Fascinating,” said the Saint-Runner, tilting his head. “Y-you seem … less upset about me shooting private citizens than I might have suspected from a w-woman of the Law.”
Bryluen shifted in front of the bag and resumed throwing punches. “As a CSOE Operative I have the privilege of a unique stance. I believe that what you have done is morally justifiable but justifiably illegal.”
The Saint-Runner began to pace. “A-alright, Dame Branok, but if that’s so then how do you reconcile a legal system that outright rejects-s what you say is a moral action?”
She shrugged. “Because matters of morality are not why government exists, Saint-Runner. The nature of the Social Contract—the exchange of certain freedoms for certain securities—is not rooted in morality. Law exists so as to maintain an equitable state of survival that allows people to thrive in peace and happiness. It is a question of how much and what type of order is ideal. Any governing state intent on morality only serves as a tool of ideological oppression.
“Vigilantism should be illegal because, through a long series of difficult lessons, civilization has agreed that necessary punishment should be performed through vetted individuals held accountable such that they serve both the stability and freedom society needs.”
The Saint-Runner smiled. It had been quite a while since he had spoken with someone able to have a decent discussion. “But once someone is-s in power, what exists to s-stop them from using that power to push ideology anyway? Once a party controls the big gu-uns, what stops them from using them?”
Bryluen stopped throwing punches and turned toward the Saint-Runner. “Always a good question. A decent contract has enforceable clauses punishing a party that breaches that contract. In our modern system, accountability requirements for election funds, and the dissolution of political monopolies keep oligarchs from acquiring power. In fact, the strictures on the acquisition of a state office ensure the existing practical power of the individual is removed so they cannot use monetary or extra-legal means to assert excess influence. This also serves to de-incentivize them from allowing another official to attempt to abuse their position. That meaningful accountability and involuntary sacrifice is why elected officials can be trusted and why vigilantes on the whole cannot be.”
The Saint-Runner leaned his elbow against the support, resting his head on his hand. “You’re even more b-beautiful when pontificating, madame.”
Bryluen reached up and patted him on the shoulder. “That’s sweet for someone with seventy-two counts of pre-meditated murder. I’m sure you say that to all the women who come to forebodingly question you in abandoned warehouses. But enough with the pleasantrie
s: I am here on behalf of the CSOE to form a task force to oppose a burgeoning threat against Human and allied space. I have come here to ask you to participate. In exchange you will be officially pardoned for those murder counts I just mentioned and other conditions can be negotiated as well. We already know your actual identity, but that can remain our little secret. You would be required to live at the headquarters for the task force, but would receive pay and as much freedom as can be allowed outside of missions or tasks I assign you. I’ve got the full contract on a drive here with me.
“I know you are extremely agile with incredible aim, a gift for modifying weapons, and no problem getting your hands dirty. But the true determining reason I’m asking you to join my task force is because I knew what you would say when I asked for your motivation. Good people are going to be hurt, Saint-Runner.”
She placed a storage drive on the table. “Read through and think on it.”
◆◆◆
The world of Pothles IV had been quiet and serene, the pale turquoise grasslands spreading out for thousands of miles around the colony of Daydream. It had been little more than a small habitation with expansive farmlands that shipped various kinds of the unique grasses of Pothles IV to other worlds as both base foodstuffs and exotic delicacies. The rural colonists had acquired the quiet, pastoral life they had sought—aside from the vortex incident.
One night about six months ago, a great storm of reds and pinks had lit up the sky a little over fifteen miles from the colony. After almost an hour of the terrifying spectacle, a column of fire rushed up into the storm and dissipated. The sky returned to its usual hazy lavender, but something had appeared in the glassed-over crater the storm had left. A creature had been spotted by several colonists who went to see the site of the storm, and upon seeing them over the lip of the crater it produced a great gout of flame. Further attempts to see the new arrival had resulted in not only more flame, but arcs of lightning. Notably these emissions from the being had been directed away from any who came to take a look, as if it had little choice but to create the destructive waves.
The CSOE Contact team that soon arrived was awed by the appearance of the being. It was clearly intelligent, but attempts at communication were plagued by an inability to understand one another. The team slid a small modular shelter and various forms of nourishment into the crater, until the creature found something it was willing or at least able to eat. After several communications the creature had begun to attempt vocal sounds with all the carefulness of a master painter, seemingly trying to imitate the Human voices it heard. Gradually the team was able to demonstrate the alphabet, letter sounds, and words. They watched as the creature started to learn the language, though its methods of generating sound made it unable to speak properly. Eventually the team, still maintaining its distance from the being, left a device allowing it to type messages that would be read aloud by an artificial voice. Paired with a series of pictorial explanations of words, phrases, and concepts, this allowed it to slowly begin forming messages that became more and more coherent. The short sentences gave the impression of curiosity, of being lost and confused. The Contact Team was soon able to not only trade questions with the bright creature, but approach it and communicate face-to-face. At last the alien gave its full formal name, most accurately formatted as:
R’Fl||
Kth’||T||
Rk;
Oeyauoaeiyuiioa
Once the Contact team had determined this was not an error of some manner, it explained the structure of its name as roughly coinciding to Public Name/Personal Name/ Matronymic/Clan Name. The creature’s native language revolved around a dual alphabet, with one sound set used for narrower, more specific concepts, and the other—mainly a tonal progression dependent more on rhythm than outright sound differentiation—was used for broader ideas. In this instance the first alphabet was used to state his (the alien further identified itself as being approximately male) names, while his clan affiliation was a melodious sound-pattern he had chosen to render in terms of vowels. In light of this cultural and linguistic insight, the Contact Team began to trade information with the being about its whereabouts and intentions. He claimed to have been displaced by an exotic energy source and had little concept of where his home would be located relative to his current surroundings. Initially, he would say little else about his occupation or life situation prior to the event that brought it to Pothles IV. He had not heard of any familiar species or locations the Contact Team brought up, leading them to agree the creature was an unfathomably long way from home. The method of his forced travel remained unknown.
Soon, he was given a customized device that mounted to him and allowed him to type out messages with his snout. The creature eventually revealed he was an explorer among his people, all of whom often “sang” to communicate with one another. When the alien tried to “sing”, he instead produced violent elemental bursts. With great dismay, he attributed this fact to a lack of what the alien referred to as “Peacestone”. This stone was some manner of element important to his native culture, and to be in its absence was to hearken back to a darker and more violent time in his species’ history.
The alien voraciously ate up all knowledge he could acquire, and was clearly used to technically advanced societies. Once he learned the language, he was intensely trusting and soon enough was taking an interest in Human affairs. He learned with purpose, and chose not to dwell long on his seemingly hopeless absence from his people. Soon the creature began to experiment with the new results of his “singing”, and learned to control the effects when taken to a firing range by CSOE representatives. The creature even allowed scans of his body to study him. In recognition of his willingness to humor the Human researchers, the first accomplishment using those scans was to create a customized translator module allowing him to think messages rather than type them. The module was a small device mounted just above the alien’s eyes. During the time he spent with researchers and representatives, the creature was allowed access to equivalent information about Humans and as comfortable a place to live as could be made for him.
It was at this point in the alien’s new life that Bryluen came to speak with him. The being had taken the name “Vort”—short for Vortex. Bryluen sat at a metal table across from one of the strangest alien lifeforms she had ever seen. Vort’s body was an oblong mass around half a meter long and a quarter meter high, culminating in a sort of trunk vaguely similar to that of an anteater from which he produced sound and ’song’. Two feathery wings capable of easily carrying him grew from his back, and between them protruded a short pair of yellow sensory and heat-dissipating vanes running parallel to the wings. When not flying, Vort walked along on ten stumpy legs at surprising speeds. He had three eyes in a triangular pattern near the front slope of his body, each a glossy emerald sphere in which a gray and white swirl—almost like a miniature galaxy—constantly spun at different speeds according to Vort’s mood and excitement levels.
The most astounding part of Vort’s appearance was that every portion of his skin flowed between numerous, vibrant colors. The tuft-like feathers of his wings were iridescent, and went through the same color cycle as the rest of him. This color change was constant, but also responded to his mood at times in a similar vein to his eyes. Overall, Vort was an astonishing sight to even the most seasoned explorer.
As Bryluen sat across from him taking in his outlandish appearance, she began to ask the alien questions. “Vort, you’re familiar with some of the more famous CSOE missions, aren’t you?”
A brief bubblegum-pink pulse of excitement rushed across Vort’s skin. His speech module lit up and emitted his words in a choppy artificial voice. “I am! I know you are Dame Branok! I have read much about you! You are here to visit me?”
Vort’s excited tone made Bryluen smile. The sum total of Vort’s absolute bizarreness made him fairly adorable, like a fantastical stuffed animal. His tone through the module gave him a childlike air, belying the fact he was a full a
dult of his species who had experienced plenty of trials and tribulations in his time.
Bryluen answered him. “More than that, Vort: I’m here to ask for your help with an important initiative.”
Vort turned a shade of rich brass as he responded. “You mean on a mission? I had heard you were heading a mission. Something to do with the Shadowy Ones.”
Bryluen’s brow lowered. “Are you familiar with the things that struck the UASC research lab?”
Vort tilted his body to one side, possibly in imitation of Human gestures. “They sound like something my people have been struggling against. The thin ones—only four limbs like you, petal heads—is that familiar?”
“They certainly are. So—we aren’t the only ones with this problem.” Bryluen tilted her chair back and set her feet on the table. “We’re going to figure them out and stop them. You can call up firestorms and fly, and though this isn’t your home I know you could make a big difference. If you say no, we say no more on the matter and you go on with your life.”
“Okay, let’s go!”
Bryluen paused. “Well that was easy. This will be extremely dangerous, and I debated coming and asking because of that—the idea to ask was run through the Contractual Ethics department. There’s a form to look over so you can be sure.”
“They are a threat to many things and need to be stopped. Without Peacestone I am a Yuuaioei—like an outcast or … ronin to you? I must fight for the greater good, until I can rejoin my people and the Lasting Peace. Also—you gave me food and shelter even though I almost incinerated some of you. I like Humans.” Vort cycled through several shades of deep green as he spoke.
The Shadow Among The Stars: Book One of the Dread Naught Trilogy Page 4
