Renegades
The Zygan Emprise, Book 1
By Y. S. Pascal
Copyright 2012 by Yolanda Pascal
Smashwords Edition
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For Anastasia, George, and Alexander
Acknowledgments
Thanks to E.G. and Effie for their encouragement; Anastasios, George, and Alex for their patience; and Stacy for her inspiration.
And thanks to John and Kerry for making a fantasy reality. Thanks to MotherMary for her wisdom, Finally, thanks to Cindy for standing by me all these years, sharing my dreams.
Copyright 2012 by Yolanda Pascal
Smashwords Edition
Book 1
Renegade Paladins
Where Angels Fear to Tread
Charge!
-- Shiloh Cynthia Rush
Chapter 1
Aurora
Mingferplatoi—two years ago
His heel hit the edge of my lip. I felt a sharp stab of pain and the blood begin to flow. Livid, I spun around and slammed the side of Spud’s cheek with my fist. He cried out and collapsed into a crouch, then sprang towards my stomach. I was ready. I tightened my abs and shot both arms up into his jaw before he could make contact. The force of the blows sent his body back onto the floor, where he lay grunting and clutching his face.
Still wary, I lifted my foot and lightly placed it on Spud’s writhing abdomen, then looked up at the pedagogue for an acknowledgment of my victory. I caught the flicker in in the edge of my vision, but it was too late. Spud’s powerful legs launched into my pelvis and threw me screaming against the wall. For the next few minutes, I remembered nothing more.
* * *
Maryland—three years ago
If I’d known I’d never see him again, I would have told him how much I loved him. John was my favorite brother, but I was furious at him for choosing the Army over us. He made the announcement at dinner on April twentieth, exactly two years ago, at 6:52 pm. This was going to be our last supper together for, he insisted, only a few months. I remember staring down, fiddling with my pendant. I couldn’t bear to look up at his face. I had just turned fifteen a few weeks before, and he’d promised to teach me how to ride his Moto Guzzi. Another broken pledge.
John’s flight was scheduled out of Dulles at 6:45 the next morning. The only thing on his mind was getting ready in time.
We were all kind of in shock. Andi was only eleven. She cried like she was losing Grandpa Alexander again. The rest of us tried not to. I glanced at Connie, who was nineteen going on thirty. Her eyes reflected disappointment and the barest hint of distaste. John had never been her number one sib.
With eight brothers and sisters to pepper him with questions, John spent the rest of the meal explaining why he’d made his sudden decision: to serve his country, for travel and adventure. For a chance to learn about things he’d always wanted to know. Tweens Billy and Bobby shared John’s excitement without really understanding the danger. The virtual soldiers in the war games they played every day could be resurrected to life with the simple touch of a button. There wouldn’t be such a button in the Army if something went wrong. I sat quietly at the table, sliding the food I could no longer swallow around on my plate with my salad fork.
John gobbled down his stew and then, anxious to pack, rushed to his room trailing siblings like a paternal Pied Piper. I didn’t feel like shouting my thoughts over a row of bobbing heads. My only hope to catch him alone for a few minutes was to set my alarm and wake up well before the sun. But it was the sheets of rain assaulting our cottage that made me leap out of bed in the middle of the night. The drumbeat of the drops on my half-opened window had almost drowned out the sound of John’s motorcycle as it sped away from our farmhouse and, carving an S-shaped skid in the gravel shoulder, turned the corner down by the gate to the main road.
I stood frozen by the window, long after he was gone. The rain tasted salty on my lips, which couldn’t speak the words they should’ve said: “Don’t go.”
* * *
Mingferplatoi—two years ago
Maybe Spud should’ve just knocked me out for good. My consciousness returned just as the adrenaline was fading—everything, and I mean everything, hurt. Especially my Academy classmates’ laughter from the gymnasium stands. I’d let that 6-foot gangling Ichabod Crane with the stuck-up English accent throw me against the wall like a sack of potatoes. That would never happen again. I’d be sure to return the favor before we graduated.
“Shall I call you a medic?” I looked up to see Spud bending down to help me.
“Call me a re-match,” I shot back, grunting, as I leapt up on my feet, ignoring his extended hand. “You won’t catch me with that trick twice.”
“I should expect not,” he whispered, brushing a stray lock of dirty blond hair from his sweaty forehead. “Unlike yours truly, Andarts are not known to be merciful.”
If he hadn’t said that with a hot British burr, I would’ve decked him.
* * *
Hollywood—present day
“Earth to Shiloh,” Chell’s voice sang in my ears. “Anybody home?”
I focused back on my image in the full-length mirror before me and had to admire Chell’s handiwork as a make-up virtuoso. The vanity lights, aided by several flavors of mousse and gel, had brought out the blonde highlights in my very, very short, spiky hair and covered the jagged pink scar just above my hairline. Chell, whose own long brown curls teased the toned pecs bursting through his shiny satin muscle shirt, had cloaked my scattered freckles with a smooth layer of flax foundation. My azure eyes were framed by an aggressive ebony corona and the faintest pink of my lips bled through the snowy layers of the ivory lipstick he’d painted on with delicate brush strokes. Standing behind me, I could see Chell, his hands resting at the low-cut waist of his slim-hipped jeans, shaking his head. “Girl, you are a space cadet.”
It had taken Chell a mere hour to transform me from acne-cursed thespian Shiloh Rush to Ensign Tara Guard, one of the teen commandos on the sci-fi action series Bulwark. (Catch us Fridays at 10, 9 Central, on the Singularity Channel and online at www.singularitytv.com/bulwark!)
I leaned my head back in the make-up chair and looked up at Chell with a grateful smile. “Thanks to you.”
“You were due on set three minutes ago, hon,” Chell chided as he pulled off the tissues protecting my collar and brushed some stray powder from the shoulders of my skin-tight black vinyl uniform, studded with the decorative insignia of the Phaeton Alliance. “Go get those bad guys.”
* * *
The flash of light was blinding. The blast from the laser cannon had just missed our Jetta starcruiser by millimeters.
“Arm neutron torpedos!” I barked at Spud, whose spindly fingers were frantically keyboarding over the controls of the Jetta’s weapons console.
“Fire!” I ordered.
A large explosion to my right threw me and my partner against the communications panel, smashing my left elbow on the hard edge of the metal. Fueled by the pain, I cried, “We’re surrounded! 360 torpedo dispersion!”
“Aye, aye,” he responded in a terse clip, his eyes glued to the blue screens of our vessel’s navigational computers. “Engaging.”
As our spacecraft pitched forward, I reached over and slammed my fist into the weapons board, setting off a shower of fireworks just beyond my windscreen. Moments later, a massive jolt shook our cruiser and it yawed violently side to side. We gripped our control panels and looked at each other in alarm.
Spud nodded. “It is our only chance!”
“Evasive!” I ordered as I hit the giant red button flashing on my console and pulled my joystick back as far as it could go. Fighting the move, our spaceship groaned up and to port, and the starfield ahead of us morphed into a field of blinding lights. I threw my hands in front of my face to cover my protesting eyes and screamed.
“Cut!” Jerry Greenspan, the director of this week’s episode shouted. “That’s a good one, kids.” Without waiting for a reply, he spun on his heels and strode towards the far end of the giant hangar where the grips were lighting the Touareg II prison set for our next scene as alien captives.
Visibly annoyed, I climbed out of the prop ship, rubbing my elbow, Spud on my heels. My co-star eyed my arm with a mischievous twinkle, “One of Zygint’s best captains indeed.”
“Dude, I wasn’t the one piloting this ship,” I whispered back. I paused to glare at Mark, the special effects coordinator, who mouthed the word “sorry” from the safety of his shielded control panel overlooking our faux spacecraft. Spud knows I’m a much better pilot than Ensign Tara—or Mister William “Spud” Escott, in fact. I scored better on my final exam last summer than he did, acing the segment on dodging fusion torpedos in hyperdrive. My own Zoom Starcruiser, which goes zero to sixty light-years a second in a second, is totally ding-free. That is, if you don’t count the tiny dent from my little fender bender with the Soviet satellite Sputnik1 in 1957.
Yup, you read that right. Way before any of us was born—including me. I was just back in 1957 for a few minutes on a mission for the Zygan Federation. Of course time travel is possible. Don’t let all the paradox phobics tell you it isn’t.2 All it takes is the right technology. Earth doesn’t have it yet. But the Zygan Federation does. I guess I’d better explain that, too…
* * *
In the galaxy of Andromeda, just up the Universe and around the corner from our own galaxy, the Milky Way, there are billions and billions of stars. Almost all of those distant stars have orbiting planets, though Earth scientists won’t be able to see them until they launch the McAuliffe Telescope in 2053. One of those planets, Zyga, orbits a blue dwarf star near the center of Andromeda.
Zyga is three times the size of Jupiter, and has millions more inhabitants than our own solar system’s largest planet, even if you count all of Jupiter’s methane-breathing microorganisms. Zyga is the home world of the Zygan Federation, an alliance of intelligent beings from over ten thousand planets in Andromeda and the Milky Way. It’s a very advanced society with knowledge and technology that makes earthlings look like chimps, and, unfortunately, chimps with very dangerous toys.
Earth has a long way to go before it can even qualify for membership in the Zygan Federation. One criterion is discovering hyperdrive, travel faster than the speed of light. That should only take Earth scientists a few centuries or so. But another criterion, achieving world peace? Not in my lifetime. Which, like most Zygans’, could be as long as several thousand years.
Yes, I’m Zygan now. I used to be American, but you have to choose your loyalties, and I chose Zyga. It wasn’t to get the chance to live almost forever. In my job, the odds are kind of against that. My incentive was much more important, my brother John. And I’ve never had any regrets.
* * *
Maryland—three years ago
I remember it was early May. The cherry blossoms had already drifted to the ground and blanketed the path from our farmhouse to the gate like a pink snowfall. The suffocating humidity that envelopes the East Coast every summer hadn’t made its way up to Maryland yet, so the day was crisp, sunny, and clear. George had taken a heavy stack of books out to the gazebo to study for his finals. Law schools would not look kindly on an applicant whose grades weren’t totally impressive. Andi was sitting quietly on the wooden deck by his side, drawing a picture of her big brother with pastels. Connie was at the Bradfords tutoring their kids in algebra, and definitely wouldn’t be back for hours. Blair had flown back home to the UK, and Kris and the little guys were at an open casting call for some alien invasion movie they were planning to shoot at the Washington Monument. And John, well, none of us had heard from him since he’d sped off to his military “adventure” the month before. Every time the phone would ring, I’d jump out of my seat, only to be disappointed time and time again. The next call—that would be John, it had to be.
But the phone’s silence was one more broken promise. Blinking back tears, I spent a few minutes watching George and Andi from the shade of our front porch. I’d gotten tired of carving paths in the fallen blossoms with my skateboard, so, hoisting it under one arm, I finally wandered down towards the gate. That’s when I saw them, down the road, coming our way: two men in uniform, looking grim. There was only one reason I could think of for their visit. A reason I didn’t want to hear.
“Is this John Rush’s residence?” the soldier demanded as he approached.
I didn’t move to open the gate. I didn’t nod. I held my breath and waited.
“Can we come in?” the second man asked.
I glanced to see if George and Andi had noticed our visitors. No, they seemed rapt in their tasks, contented. Undisturbed. We had survived so much, I wanted to hold off their pain as long as I could. I turned back to the soldiers and tried to keep the tremor out of my voice. “Just give it to me here.”
“Shiloh?” From the second soldier, a hint of a question.
I didn’t answer, but my expression must have given me away.
The taller of the two leaned down over the gate and met my gaze. “All right, Shiloh. Here it is. You’ll know what to do.” He handed me a manila envelope that felt heavy in my shaking hands. I noted the insignia embroidered on his extended sleeve: two gold stripes and one glistening star, shaped like a sunflower in bloom.
“Everything is in there,” the tall soldier added. Nodding at his partner, he stood back up erect and turned to walk away. “Do not delay.”
“Wait!” I cried, “What happened to John?!”
But Sunflower-sleeve was now halfway down the road and ignored my cry. The other soldier, a few steps behind, turned towards me for a moment and, with a sad visage, shook his head. “Paraffin wings.”
Frantic, I tore open the envelope. It contained John’s wallet, his antique pocket watch, and a stiff paper bearing army letterhead. Oh my God! I dropped the package and vaulted over the gate, hoping to catch up with the military messengers at my top running speed. But, though the main road stretched for many yards before me, the two soldiers were no longer visible. The road ahead and the fields to each side were as barren of life as my heart.
George and Andi were standing at the gate when I trudged back towards our house. Andi was clutching John’s wallet to her nose and George was reading the letter with a stricken expression. Two weeks earlier, it read, during a top secret mission in a confidential location, John had unexpectedly disappeared. He had left behind the enclosed belongings and never returned. Despite intensive search efforts, my beloved brother was missing, and there was no trace of his remains.
I didn’t have the courage to read the letter myself for months. George had put it back in the envelope along with the watch. He’d gone up to John’s bedroom our farmhouse’s attic later that day for a few hours alone, and had come back down red-eyed, without it. Connie said George’d hid the envelope in the box where John had kept his research papers and flash drives. She didn’t encourage me to go look for it.
And, for a long time, I didn’t. There was no way I possibly could.
* * *
It had been one of the rainiest Novembers in memory. I had no appetite for turkey, nor for sitting around a holiday table without John in the head chair. I thought I’d go back to my bed instead and read a book or stream something, so I dragged myself up the stairs to the second floor. John’s room was on the third floor and I’d always looked away when I’d passed the closed door to the attic stairs. I don’t know why, but this time I stopped in front of it.
The dust on the handrail was pretty thick and I kept swiping my face to brush off real or imagined cobwebs as I climbed the stairwell. At the top, I could barely see inside John’s room. It was only around three o’clock, but the curtains were drawn and the sky beyond was dark from the thunderclouds. I turned on the wall switch and lit up the room with the single light bulb hanging from the rafters on the ceiling.
Something wasn’t quite right. It took me a few moments to figure it out. No cobwebs, no dust. Save for John’s things, the room was empty, but it was as clean as it had been when he’d come home to shower and crash after spending a week of nights doing research at the University of Maryland. How had it stayed so neat? George wasn’t terribly domestic, and I doubted Connie would have added John’s housekeeping to her responsibilities of supervising the young ones with their daily chores.
Not wishing to disturb the pristine bed, I pulled out the chair next to the desk and plunked down onto the soft leather seat. My eyes caught the box with John’s files on the adjacent bookshelf. The manila envelope lay on top, safeguarding John’s research secrets in the papers and drives below. I finally marshaled the strength to pick it up and open it for a second time.
I tossed the letter from the Army into the wastebasket. Months had passed and they still hadn’t found John’s body. George would call the Special Operations number they’d given us at least once a week, but the answer was always coldly the same. Their records showed John Rush was still missing. They could tell us nothing more. None of the other Army numbers we researched got us anywhere either. As soon as a responder looked up John’s name, he’d transfer us to Special Ops, and we were back at square one. We’d even tried going down to Headquarters, Department of the Army. They sent us from office to office til we landed back at Special Ops for our expected answer: no news. The Army could offer us nothing except a referral to a support group for families of those missing in action. We passed.
Fuming, I turned the envelope upside down and caught John’s pocket watch as it slid into my hand. The gold watch was unusually light and sparkled as I held it up to the light and admired its intricate etched designs. Grandpa Alexander had given it to John on his sixteenth birthday, my brother had told me. It had been a gift to Grandpa from his own great-grandfather many, many years before. John had treasured the watch, never letting it out of his hands and forbidding us to touch it. I’d always been eager to have a peek at the watch’s face. Feeling just a little guilty, I twisted and pressed the stem to open the hunter’s casing and--
Instantly, John’s room disappeared. Shaken, I found myself in a sparsely furnished contemporary showroom straight out of the Jetsons. In front of me was a large Formica elliptical table at which was seated a distinguished-looking, middle-aged man, dressed in a fashionable silver-gray pinstripe suit that perfectly matched the color of the hair at his temples. I covered my mouth with my hand to hold in the scream.
“Hello, Shiloh,” the gentleman greeted me, his voice warm. “My name is Gary.”
I knew I shouldn’t have touched that watch--what had I done? Where was I? I looked around the room again. We were otherwise alone. There wasn’t one window, nor even a seam in the curved metallic walls; just a red door behind Gary which was closed, and probably locked. Either this was one weird dream, or I was in big trouble. I took a few deep breaths, and prayed it was a dream.
“Hi, Gary,” I responded with a tentative smile and a trembling voice.
He seemed to be waiting for my question.
I took a few more deep breaths. “Okay, uh, where am I?” I eventually asked.
“At a fork in the road,” he answered softly.
Chapter 2
Zygint
I was terrified I’d wake up before I could ask my next question. “John. Where’s John?” I blurted at Gary.
A brief note of sadness crossed his handsome features before he answered, “I really don’t know. I am sorry.”
I swallowed hard. “But you do know something.”
Gary nodded. “He’d been on assignment—”
I interrupted, “For you?” Gary’s tailored suit sure didn’t look like a standard Army-issue uniform. In fact, it suddenly hit me that none of the Army uniforms we had seen in DC had borne the sunflower insignia worn by the two military messengers that had brought us John’s tragic news. I hadn’t realized that before…
“For us.” Gary agreed as a flash of sadness crossed his face. “He was one of our best catascopes.”
My confusion must have been obvious. “Us?” I truly doubted ‘us’ could be Army Special Operations. What was a catascope? A type of soldier?
“A Zygint agent,” he added, reading my thoughts. “An operative for Zygan Intelligence.”
I was still very confused. “And you’re … Z-zygan Intelligence?” I ventured.
“A very small part of it.” Gary’s expression softened, and he sat back in his chair. “John was working for us undercover. He had instructions to check in periodically, but he missed his last rendezvous,” Gary paused and cleared his throat, “and we never heard from him again. Our efforts to find him were … unsuccessful. A great loss.” Gary blinked several times. “His work over the past eight years had been outstanding. You should be very proud of—”
“Eight years?” John was … had only been twenty-four. “B-but he just joined the Army last spring!”
“John started working for us when he was sixteen,” Gary explained. “The Army was a cover story—their top brass work confidentially with us sometimes. We knew this assignment would take him away for a long time and—”
I leapt up towards Gary, unable to hold back my anger at the betrayal. “A long time?! You took him away from us forever!”
Gary kept his composure as he shook his head. “It was your brother’s choice, not mine. He heard the calling to serve the Zygan Federation, and he came to see me, in this very room, in fact.” Gary paused, glanced at the watch I was still clutching in one hand, and favored me with another warm smile. “And now, so have you.”
I stood stunned and speechless for a moment, letting the watch drop from my fingers as if it burned. It landed on the table in front of me and popped open like an oyster. Secreted inside the cap I saw a pearl: my favorite photo of John and me last year, arm in arm, standing victoriously on the top of Sugarloaf Mountain after a grueling climb. Swallowing a sob, I collapsed back down in the plastic chair and buried my face in my hands. I knew at that moment that my die was cast. I would follow my brother’s footsteps by following in his footsteps. And, maybe, just maybe, I might learn why he left us. And why he disappeared.
* * *
I had a lot to learn.
My new homeland, the Zygan Federation or, as we commonly call it, Zygfed, is ruled by two governing councils, the Selaf and the Kelab, under the leadership of His Royal Highness, the Omega Archon.
Kingdoms need their soldiers, and Zygfed is no exception. Zygfed territories are protected by an elite corps of cosmic guards known as the Sentinels, and by field operatives working throughout Andromeda and the Milky Way in Zygan Intelligence, or Zygint.
By virtue of my brother’s final sacrifice, I would now myself have the chance to earn my wings as a Zygan Intelligence agent, a catascope, and serve the Zygan Federation and its subjects. John had apparently been a valuable operative for Zygfed. Would I be able to measure up to him? And, a more difficult question, should I?
One of my earliest memories was of waking up in a barren, icy chamber, the sun scorching my fluttering lids. I fought to move, but my arms and legs were frozen, trapped, my struggles in vain. Terrified, I looked away from the blinding light and saw John’s face in the shadows. I could barely make out his features, but I was comforted by his gentle voice, a voice that reached out through my fog and told me that all would be well. “I am by your side, do not be afraid. Patience is the champion’s best tool.” Soothed by his words, I closed my eyes again and felt at peace.
The surgeon finished suturing the laceration on my scalp a few minutes later and directed the blazing operating room lamp away from my face. I was released from the papoose board, the straps that had imprisoned me flung aside as I leaped off the gurney and fell into John’s arms.
The damage to the sidecar of his motorcycle could easily be repaired, he reassured me. It was me he was worried about. Squeezing his hand, I told him there was no need. After my cut healed, I could wear a helmet and ride behind him on the seat instead. He promised he’d drive the bike slower in the future, but I was glad he didn’t. I liked the feeling of the wind blowing through my hair, and I was grateful I had a brother who did, too. Helmets were for chickens. We were eagles. We were meant to soar.
The answer found me. Not only would I soar into space on John’s trail, I would do him proud.
So, on my own sixteenth birthday, I joined the Zygan Intelligence team and started my training as a catascope on the planet Zyga at Zygint’s Mingferplatoi Academy in the bustling intergalactic capital city of Mikkin.
* * *
“It doesn’t mean I have to like it,” I grumbled as I instructed nav to begin our first practice mission. As the only two Terrans in our Academy class, Spud and I had been matched as partners for our upcoming internships. The thought of orbiting Earth in a cramped ship for six months with Spud the Stiff wasn’t brightening my day. The Scooter lurched and bucked as we lifted off from the Academy’s lush chartreuse grounds.
“Zygint endeavors to assign species near their home environments. Fewer chances of accidental discovery,” Spud rationalized, adding, “You are not the only one dubious as regards this arrangement.” He reached over and tweaked the antigrav settings on the nav holo, smoothing our ascent through the Zygan atmosphere.
I wasn’t about to thank him. “Let’s just get through this test, okay.” I turned my attention to navigating through the maze of guard buoys sprinkled through the planet’s stratosphere by Zyga Traffic Control.
His tone was cold as he returned, “You do not wish to wait for the pedagogue?”
I rolled my eyes. “I’ve done this course hundreds of times on the simulator.” The virtual experience had bolstered my confidence. “She’ll catch up. Contact metrics?”
“Working.” Sighing, Spud ran his fingers across his holo in front of his post. “Cygnus in ninety-two minutes. Rendez-vous with the target on Kepler 6b, metrics established.”
After flawlessly achieving apogee, I couldn’t resist sending Spud a smirk. Clear of Zyga, I gave the Scooter the command to shift into hyperdrive and speed us towards the Milky Way. Spud remained silent, focused on tracking our route on his nav holo, and scanning for signs of our pedagogue’s ship on our trail.
The constellation of Cygnus soon appeared on our viewscreens, a bright cross nestled in a ring of nebulae. Spud’s holo had highlighted our landing site as an ‘X’ at an uninhabited peninsula on a southern continental shelf of planet Kepler 6b.
“Cygnus is derived from the ancient Greek word for swan,” Spud ventured, “and contains two of this octant’s most populated planets orbiting Deneb and Albireo. Kepler 5b and 6b are among a ring of exoplanets that include the Glieser homeworlds.”
I yawned, hoping he’d get the hint.
He didn’t. “Cygnus is included in the Zodiac sign of Sagittarius, along with—“
I raised a hand. “I’ve uploaded all the Zygfed cosmography I’ll need, thank you. And medicine, science, and history. You shouldn’t overfill that ‘brain-attic’ of yours, anyway. Or mine.”
Spud’s eyes narrowed. “You are implying that the accumulation of knowledge could be finite. I should consider that possibility—
CRASH!
“Andarts!” I shouted as our Scooter rocked with the force of the attacking torpedoes. CRASH! CRASH! CRASH! We were being battered from all sides by the swooping projectiles.
“Armor’s holding,” Spud reported, his eyes darting from one holo screen to another as flocks of missiles struck our ship. “For the moment.”
CRASH! CRASH! CRASH!
“There must be hundreds of them,” I growled as I fought to stabilize our vessel. “I thought this was just supposed to be a mock search and rescue mission. Where’s our pedagogue’s ship?”
CRASH! CRASH! CRASH!
“Armor at 70%,” he said, adding, “Probably far back out of our range. And, alas, no other Zygfed vessels in our perimeter. I’ve sent a distress signal to Deneb 5, but it looks as if we are on our own.”
CRASH! CRASH! CRASH!
“Can we evade?”
“Unlikely. The torpedos are coming in, 360 degrees. Armor at 50%.” Spud’s words escaped through gritted teeth.
“Then fire our fission grenades. That’ll buy us some time.” Unfortunately, we both knew that our limited weapons cache couldn’t overcome the obvious firepower levels of our unknown assailants.
CRASH! CRASH! CRASH!
Spud launched a wide dispersion of our own armaments to pick out some of our avionic assailants, but our meager hits didn’t do much to stem the flow. As I fixed my gaze on our viewscreen, something caught my eye.
“Their torpedoes don’t seem to be dodging very well.” I frowned. “Internal torpedo controls should respond as soon as they see our grenades and change course to evasive. Check out the two second response delay—I’ll bet these torpedoes are remote controlled.”
CRASH! CRASH! CRASH!
Spud sent out another barrage of fission grenades and nodded as he, too, observed the subtle discrepancy. He spun towards another holo screen and ran his fingers over the data display.
“Got ‘em!” Spud cried. “Two Andart ships hiding in the Veil Nebula at 20.62 h D +42.03°. Obviously gunning for us through their titanium messengers. Armor at 30%” He raised an eyebrow as he saw me lean over to our weapons holo. “What are you doing?”
“Rattling their cage.” I keyed in a few instructions and shot out the next volley of fission grenades—only this time, rather than aiming each grenade at an attacking torpedo, I guided our grenades to crash into each other and explode all at once.
The resonant blast waves rocked our ship onto its back and sent us flying several light years towards Deneb. Fortunately, grav sensors kept us tractored in our seats and we were able to regain control of the Scooter to re-con. We stared at the viewscreens in amazement as we watched all the surviving torpedoes retreating rapidly in the direction of the shrouded Andart ships.
“Andarts withdrawing,” Spud announced, nodding at his holo. “In hyperdrive, I might add.” He paused. “Surely a distant grenade explosion shouldn’t have frightened them away. They should not be able to hear sounds in space. What did you do?”
I leaned back in my chair, grinning broadly. “Our fission grenades are made of copper, tin, and silver, right?”
“Bronze, correct.”
“Well, the vibration of the fragmented bronze components combined with the explosion created a giant blast wave. The flash disrupted the remote wireless communications and sent the torpedoes into default mode, racing back home towards the Andart ships. Hope the Andarts have enough fuel to outrun their dangerous toys.”
To my surprise, Spud actually laughed. “In other words, you created a bronze rattle. Heracles’ sixth labour, brah-va.”
“De nada,” I shrugged, sitting casually on my hands until the adrenaline tremors wore off. Certainly wouldn’t want Spud to have gotten the wrong idea, you know.
* * *
Spud and I were given a hero’s welcome when we finally arrived at Kepler 6b. Turned out the Andarts had used their own communications disrupter to block our distress signals from getting through, isolating us from our pursuing pedagogue as well as any local intergalactic Zygfed patrols. Escaping the ambush relatively unscathed, without help from the Zygan “cavalry”, meant we’d not only passed our field test, but earned ourselves a commendation--and a chance to apply for Zygfed’s elite Sentinels team after graduation. The offer was tempting, but I declined. John‘s trail, and mine, was with Zygan Intelligence, not the Sentinel Corps. I was amazed that Spud demurred as well. He told me it was because the Sentinel Corps would fill his brain-attic with “feckless experiences without satisfying his curiosity”. My pedagogue told me weeks later that he’d told her he’d been loath to break up our team, considering we worked together so well.
I had to admit, that was a really nice thing for him to say. And even nicer was that he never snitched that I’d rushed into space without my pedagogue, my “training wheels”, in the first place.
* * *
Kingdoms like Zygfed need their warriors—but they also need their enemies. Nothing better than a passionate struggle between good and evil to hold an alliance together, right? And evil is a simple recipe. Take a teaspoon of the devil, a pinch of brute, add a name based on mors, the Latin word for death, simmer, and, presto! You have an archfiend that makes your side look heroic. You’ve seen it on our TV show (or, considering our ratings, maybe not): every week, Tara Guard and her cohorts fight the good fight for the Phaeton Alliance, against the dastardly killer Mordmort.
But, in reality, you don’t need horns, flaming retinas, and smoke from your facial orifices to represent evil. Zygfed’s enemy du jour is a balding, fifty-something human named Theodore Benedict, who wears bifocals and looks like a tax auditor.3 Evil exists all around us, and usually looks like a tax auditor. It’s the crimes, not the costumes, that make the villain; and Benedict’s crimes have included trying to violently overthrow the Omega Archon and His Highness’ government, and “damn the collateral damage.”
To achieve his malevolent aims, Benedict has enlisted Andarts, champion guerilla fighters from populated planets all across the universe, to launch terrorist attacks on Zygfed. My primary job for Zygint, and that of my fellow catascopes-to-be at Mingferplatoi Academy, would be to stop Benedict and his terrorist thugs and safeguard our King and his subjects.
Studying to be a Zygan catascope was hard work, but it beat spending four years at Earth’s military academies; I was done with the classroom in only six months. I’m not going to bore you with all the details of our education. I mean, everybody has to go to school, right? Then, on to our internships where we could focus on the fun stuff, learning to drive, fly, fight, and work our Ergals.
What’s an Ergal? It’s an instrument, a tool, that does, frankly, almost anything you could wish for, kind of like a Zygint version of a Swiss Army knife. An Ergal allows a catascope to transport from one location to another, change his or her appearance, levitate (lev), shape-shift matter (anamorph), become invisible, and, of course, travel in time. Sweet, huh? Our scientists say it works through a process called CANDI, Cascading Auxiliary Neurosynaptic Discharge Interaction, that sends wireless signals directly to the brain. Gary calls it magic, but then his generation is notoriously uncomfortable with new technology. My brother’s antique watch, I discovered to my amazement, was an Ergal. Anamorphed to look like a cell phone, it would be mine as soon as I graduated. Sweet.
But, as always, there is a catch. Ergals are only provided to certain Zygan citizens, like Selafs, Sentinels, and Catascopes. And, using them without authorization is a crime. There were several thousand megabytes of policies and procedures that guided and limited the use of Ergals, all vetted personally by the Omega Archon, which we had to upload before our Ergals were assigned to us and activated. They didn’t want us using Ergals to turn the school bully into a pig or to go back and buy up all the stock in Microsoft in 1986. Darn! Unfortunately, we weren’t allowed to use them to change history either. Time travel was only allowed with specific authorization for a specific assignment, along with strict instructions to only “observe and preserve”. As much as you might be tempted to assist the Resistance in assassinating Hitler or to warn President Kennedy’s driver to avoid the grassy knoll, such unauthorized actions would land you a visit to the Omega Archon and an extended sentence in Hell, flames and all. And, even worse, if you survived Hades, you could be exiled from Zygfed forever. So, we get these wonderful tools with all these options, but the rules for using them are super-strict and the consequences of violations dire. I think that’s called “free will”.
Or in my case, “a challenge”.
Chapter 3
Terror Time
“We’re done for! There’s no escape!” cried Spud. His T-shirt was in tatters and rivulets of sweat trickled down his muscular biceps as he sprinted ahead of the pack of rapacious paparazzi. He leaped into my Zoom Cruiser through the open right gull-wing door and, pulling it closed, rolled into the passenger seat of what, to casual observers, resembled a late model DeLorean car.
“I’ve got it,” I said as I locked the doors and ordered, “Windows opaque.” Our side and back windscreens became darkened and impenetrable. I activated navigation and scanning holos and observed that the advancing paparazzi were bearing down on us quickly. Gunning the engine of the Zoom cruiser, I streaked off down Cahuenga Boulevard, barely missing a camera-laden aggressor who had leaped in front of our car.
As we sped away, the hungry pack of photographers dispersed to their vans and SUVs, intent on motorized pursuit. Their driving skills were no match for my razor-sharp reflexes and the Zoom’s touchpad steering, but, with the heavy Friday afternoon traffic making the streets an action-film obstacle course, I wasn’t able to lose them as quickly as I’d hoped.
Playing a futuristic space agent on TV gives you a great cover if you get caught working as a futuristic space agent on a real assignment. You can pretend the spaceship, the weapons, and the special effects are all a publicity stunt. On the other hand, being on TV does have its drawbacks. And they were gaining on us as we zoomed towards Burbank.
As we neared the studio, I steered a sudden hard right turn through a bolted aluminum fence into an empty construction site. Fortunately, the Zoom Cruiser’s titanium body trumped the chicken wire, and we were inside the lot without a scratch. The starcruiser’s tires bounced roughly over the packed rocks and dirt and then lurched forward and down with a sickening drop into a multi-storey well that had been dug out waiting for a future skyscraper’s foundation—and additional building funds. I could hear the screeching of paparazzi brakes as they tried to follow my turn into the site. I could also hear Spud’s cry as we fell into the pit, “Lev!”
“I’ve got it!” I said confidently as, once below the lip of the pit, I invisible-ized my cruiser and activated levitation. Mere inches from the bottom of the abyss, the cruiser began to rise and, its wheels quietly retracting, invisibly glided up past the rows of paparazzi vehicles that were skidding to a stop at the rim of the excavated hollow. Hovering, I giggled as I watched them jump out of their cars and struggle to explain how our car had disappeared, avoiding a crash landing that would have provided the bottom-feeding lens hounds with weeks of lucrative photo sales.
As we glided off towards Universal City, even Spud cracked a smile. “Someday,” he vowed, wiping the beads of sweat off his face and chest with the remnants of his T-shirt. “I shall earnestly seek a more incognitious and solitary existence.”
“My brother Blair told me there was a bee farm for sale in Sussex,” I joked, as I touched down under a deserted freeway overpass near the rear studio gate and made my “car” re-visible and road-worthy.
“Ha,” was Spud’s only response. He continued scowling until we were waved through the entrance to the studio and heading for my designated parking space.
* * *
It was early evening, and I was praying it was the last take for the Touareg prison scene. I so desperately wanted to scratch my skin. To appear convincing as captives tortured by Mordmort’s guards, Spud and I had had to spend much of the afternoon with the FX make-up specialists getting tortured. After dressing in ragged versions of our Phaeton Alliance spacesuits, we had been imprisoned by the special effects artists as they’d slathered us with silicone wounds, fake blood, and painted gashes. Chell’s delicate artwork was no match for the industrial efforts of the FX team. We soon looked as traumatized as Chell would be if he saw us in this condition. And, unfortunately, their make-up really itched!
“Okay, kids,” Jerry shouted to my relief as the soundstage lights came up. “That one worked.” He waved at us, signaling our freedom, and turned to talk to the gaffer about his next shot, which was blessedly without us. I started peeling off the silicone even before I had stepped off the set. Spud and I were done for the week. I could scratch away to my heart’s content.
As I’d predicted, Chell gasped when he saw us. “My God, what have they done to you? You need Dr. Chell’s first-aid!”
“Thanks, but a warm shower will do just fine,” I returned with a friendly smile, as John’s--my Ergal started to vibrate in a pocket inside my costume. Strange, we were off Zygan duty today. I pulled out the Ergal, now a stylish cell phone, and, holding it up, added, “I’ll take this in my trailer.”
Spud’s own cell phone Ergal vibrated a second or two later. He reached for it in his back pocket under his cigarettes and chimed in, “I, too, shall take this in her trailer.”
Our eyes met, and I knew Spud had also received the outwardly silent CANDI signal that this alert was an emergency. We set off for my dressing room at top speed. The sudden appearance on our soundstage of a holographic Zygan aggellaphor messenger would be very hard to explain to Chell, Jerry, and the crew.
* * *
Safely in my trailer, I flipped open my phone and hit the activator button on the Ergal’s keypad. The aggellaphor hologram M-fanned—appeared--before us and sat stiffly on the rim of my beanbag chair, looking quite irritated at our delay. “Zygint Central has received intelligence that Benedict’s Andarts may be attacking Zygfed territories and vulnerable protectorates within the next solar week. You are needed to stop one of these temporal aggressions.”
“Contact metrics?” asked Spud.
“Temporal aggressions?” I interjected. Could Benedict be planning new guerilla attacks in the future or the past?
Our questions were succinctly answered. “Eight Av 3778, 24-3, mark six, Sidon. You’ll be briefed further at Earth Core. Status: Condition one.”
The aggellaphor X-fanned—disappeared--before we could get any more details. Aggellaphors are like that; not much for conversation really. In any case, the message was loud and clear. Condition one was of the highest urgency. We’d better get a move on. And fast.
* * *
Still in our costumes, we immediately M-fanned to the warehouse on Hill and Alameda. Well, more precisely, to the giant green garbage bin in the alley behind the rundown building near Chinatown. Even more precisely, inside the foul-smelling garbage bin, where rats scurried from pile to pile of malodorous, worm-ridden trash.
I greeted the rats with a warm hello. Chidurians are normally a gigantic crab-like species, from the Zygfed planet Chiduri in the constellation of Orion. Their universe-renowned fighting skills make them very desirable soldiers and guards. When assigned to work Zygint Security on primitive non-Zygfed planets and protectorates like Earth, however, they often take the visible form of rodents of some sort to blend into the environment and keep a lower profile. Fortunately, the spoken Zygan language does sound something like a rat squealing, so any intoxicated human staggering down the alley near the bin would probably interpret squeaky greetings as a rodent infestation rather than a welcome.
And, the worms? No, they’re just worms.
We felt the warm light of the WHO4 scan bathe us for a few seconds before the metal wall of the bin facing the warehouse slid open to reveal a dark corridor that automatically lit up as soon as our feet stepped over the threshold. About thirty feet ahead of us was a titanium door that whooshed open after we’d passed a second WHO scan. We stepped into a small room and faced yet another titanium door. The school of hard knocks, and the resultant bruises, had taught us to grab the platinum railings that lined this chamber before the door behind us had fully closed. We kept our balance as the elevator started its death-defying drop with its usual sickening rush (no relation). I do so wish the impenetrable shields that surrounded Zygint’s Core Station would allow us to use our Ergals to transport in instead.
A minute or three later, the front door slid open to reveal the plasterboard walls and linoleum floors of the main entrance. Once we were out of the lift, a more intensive NDNA scan5 cleared us quickly, and the drab industrial decor transitioned into the welcoming oak paneling and thick plush carpet of Earth Core Reception.
Fydra, our Scyllian greeter, put down her fur-brush and, with her canine floppy ears flapping behind her, bounded up out of her chair when she saw our grisly appearance. “Rrrough assignment?” she barked with concern, as she wagged her tail and smelled our costumes with her moist snout.
Spud and I looked at each other and laughed. Scylla, the largest planet orbiting Sirius in Canis Major, requires olfactory education for all its citizens from childhood. Scyllians can smell a rat at fifty paces, which is why the Chidurians prefer to stay on the surface above. It took only a moment for Fydra to discover that our blood and wounds were synthetic, and, embarrassed, she stepped back and pointed one of her manicured paws at the red portal. “They’re all in Briefing Three,” she sniffed.
“Grrreat,” I responded, and added a conciliatory, “Thank you.” Scyllians are not known for their sense of humor. They take their responsibilities—and themselves—very seriously.
Entering Earth Core Control Center, we stopped cold beyond the portal, awestruck. The entire center looked like a Christmas department store exhibition. All the giant holos that filled the cavernous room were dotted with flashing red lights. Perspiring profusely, portly Station Manager Everett Weaver was anxiously running from one holo to another, jerkily jotting down data on an electronic tablet, and looking to all the world like he desperately needed a rest room. Condition one, no kidding.
We hurried to Briefing Room Three to find Gary had just begun his presentation. I nodded to Wart, Ward Burton, Earth Core’s Assistant Chief, and to our fellow catascopes, the Drexel twins, Dieter and Derek, who, looking up at us from their seats, echoed Fydra’s alarm at our bloody condition. With apologies to Gary for the interruption, I reassured my colleagues that we were merely decked in impressively horrifying costumes for our TV show covers. Spud and I each grabbed a—washable, I hope—plastic chair and tried not to rest our stained arms on the polished cherrywood surface of the conference table.
The central holo in front of us was displaying an ancient city scene, with tunic-clad pedestrians and overburdened donkeys trudging down dusty dirt streets that were lined by small huts made of mud-bricks and stone. Women balanced baskets of wheat on their heads as their rag-robed children rolled pebbles on the road and dodged piles of equine excrement. Is that where we were headed? Foo. I’d been hoping we’d score an assignment at a luxury resort by the sea.
Gary paused to welcome us then briskly resumed his narration. “Recent Zygint Central intelligence reports that Benedict is launching a new wave of guerilla attacks in multiple locations throughout Zygfed, and, unfortunately, throughout time. As you know, one Andart operation last year in Hutunye resulted in the deaths of over one million Zygan citizens. If Benedict succeeds in destroying his target again, we could see a similar disaster on Earth.”
“What’s the target?” I asked, alarmed.
“Not what. Who,” Gary responded.
The holo over our table dissolved into a vision of a thin, wiry, dark-haired boy about, I’d guess, the age of my brother Billy. Twelve or thirteen. He seemed to be engaged in an animated discussion with a group of bearded older men in what, judging by the décor, looked like a place of worship. The chamber’s walls were lined with wood panels bearing carvings of winged figures, palm trees, and flowers, all painted or gilded with gold.
“Yeshua Bar Maryam,” Gary continued. “Our last trace of him here was a couple of years ago.” He nodded at the holo. “In Av, 3778, our contact metrics in the period, he is reported to be about eighteen years of age and working as a tradesman in Sidon, one of the largest cities in ancient Phoenicia, western Lebanon today.”
I glanced over at Spud who was taking in the information in his typical pose, leaning back in his chair with his eyes half closed, his hands resting on his abdomen, fingertips together.
“We haven’t been able to track his exact location. Frankly, Zygint Central dropped the ball. They weren’t expecting Andarts to have time travel access. Central now believes that an Andart or two might have gone into the past, with the mission of eliminating Bar Maryam.”
Spud raised an eyebrow. “Time travel? Without Ergals?
Gary shrugged. “Don’t ask me how. But Central isn’t ruling it out.”
“I’ve got another question,” I said, puzzled, “Every life is precious, but I’ve never known His Highness, or Zygint, for that matter, to spend resources to preserve one life.”
A wry smile crossed Gary’s face. “No, no … not typically. But, the Bar Maryam you see here is a young man. As an adult, he plays a critical role in Earth’s history—” Gary seemed to stop himself. “If the Andarts kill him, the impact on the future would be devastating. Earth’s timeline would be changed forever.”
“That’s not good.” People were still talking about the mess Gary had made of Roswell. Changing Earth’s history thousands of years in the past might mean that Earth’s events evolve very differently and our present might never even come to pass. And neither might we. We had to make sure Benedict didn’t succeed.
“But you can’t identify Andarts in … Sidon?” I asked, worried. “Nothing on our scans?”
Gary sighed. “Zip. If Andarts are there, they’re under deep cover. We’ve started monitoring transport fields for time-traveling invaders now, but the only way for us to catch anybody that’s already gotten through is from the inside. If and when they make their move against Yeshua.”
“Any estimates on when that might be?” asked Spud.
“A week, give or take.” Our Head shook his. “That’s the best we can guess based on their attack patterns—“ he looked pointedly at me and Spud—“throughout the Milky Way and Andromeda.”
“Okay, team, History’ll give you the upload and help you Ergal your costumes and look.” Gary stood up decisively. “We’ll need you to M-fan in Sidon within the hour.” He strode to the door then turned back to us for a final word. “Remember, failure could be catastrophic.”
“Got that, Gary,” I said, warily. “Isn’t it always?”
* * *
In 3778, Sidon was a bustling Middle Eastern port city on the Mediterranean in what was then an independent colony in the vast Roman Empire. According to our History uploads, the Greek poet Homer (who wasn’t really Homer but another poet with the same name, ha, ha6), had sung the praises of Sidon’s skilled craftsmen who manufactured glass and purple dye. Think about it: if the Roman Empire had not supported the colony’s renowned industry, all the cathedrals in western Europe today that are mobbed by tourists awed by their exquisite stained glass windows might have ended up instead with rather uninspiring wooden green shutters that wouldn’t be much of a draw.
Emperor Tiberius had newly risen to power and was experiencing a brief honeymoon, perhaps launching the Mediterranean as a favorite honeymoon site; before his nervous breakdowns led him to attack many of his close relatives, perhaps launching the model of an unhappy marriage. Fortunately, in 3778 on the Hebrew calendar (around 18 ACE), Tiberius was keeping himself busy in Rome and Capri, and wasn’t really of much influence in Sidon. His decision was completely understandable, as I would have much preferred an assignment in those two burgs myself, especially considering that the average temperature in midday Sidon hovered at over one hundred degrees Fahrenheit.
“It is decidedly sweltering,” Spud moaned, as he mopped his forehead with his mantle, an ancient white scarf. From the zero degrees Celsius briskness of England’s moors to the zero degrees Kelvin chill of deep space, Spud was much more at home in a cooler environment.
“It is 110 in the shade.” I nodded, shaking my tunic to create a momentary breeze. I looked at my Ergal. The screen displayed a detailed map. “About two more kilometers due southwest.”
Spud pulled his mantle over his head and I followed suit as we trudged forward on the dirt footpath under the blazing sun. I had hoped we could have M-fanned right in the town, but Gary felt our chances of discovery by a monitoring Andart were too great. Sure, we could invisible-ize, but if the Andarts had an unregistered holo scan pointed in the right direction, they might be able to pick up the Ergal activity and track us down.
Spud and I had bronzed our skin so we wouldn’t look out of place, and our costume beards and mustaches looked genuine. Yes, plural. In ancient times in the Middle East, there were a lot of things that women just didn’t do. So, I’d dressed up as a man. Come to think of it, in some of those countries, I’d do the same today.
Cursing Gary’s caution, we plodded slowly onward in the baking sun for what seemed to be forever. The Phoenicians were smarter than we were. Most of them wisely opted to stay indoors and avoid the heat. We’d only passed two travelers, both going in the opposite direction, until we reached the Temple of Eshmoun, the Phoenician God of Healing, a kilometer north of the city. Alongside its entrance, blocking our path, stood a wizened old man with long gray hair and a salt-and-pepper beard. Oops. So much for staying under the radar.
“Hail, journeymen,” the elderly man greeted us, eyeing us from head to toe. “I am the Keeper of the Temple of Eshmoun. What brings you to our gates?”
Despite the high quality of our disguises, I was still uncomfortable under the man’s intense gaze. I let Spud do the talking. His Phoenician was more passable and in a lower register than mine.
“Hail, neighbor,” Spud responded. (I’m giving you the English translation, of course, guessing that most of you are even worse at Canaan dialects than me. Oh, and sorry about the stilted medieval dialogue. Phoenician is kinda short on slang.)
“I am Akbar from Berytus, and I walk with my brother Danel.” My partner continued, “We are seeking our cousin, Sakarbaal, in East Sidon.”
I know Spud chose Sakarbaal as a common Phoenician name, but, I was still annoyed. It was so hard to keep from giggling at the pun.
The aged gentleman nodded. “From which clan is he?”
“Manchester United,”7 I mumbled sotto voce, biting my lip to stay silent as Spud’s heel met my shin. Yow! Okay, that worked.
“Cousin of Milkpilles,” continued Spud, picking another common and funny-sounding name. This time, the pain in my leg made it much easier to maintain a straight face.
“Ah.” The old man smiled and, still watching us intently with his bright hazel eyes, stepped aside. “Then you are nearing the end of your journey, Akbar and Danel. Go forward in good health.” Acknowledging his blessing, we both bowed our heads and proceeded briskly down the path. I felt the Keeper’s eyes boring into my back until the road curved and we were beyond his sight.
The path became much wider and well-trodden as we inched—or cubited8, ha, ha—closer to our goal.
As soon as we were out of earshot, Spud gave me an English earful. “You might have blown our cover! And, besides, it’s football in Britain, not soccer.”
As if I didn’t know. I looked at him through narrowed lids. “Milk pills?”
Spud returned my glare and we both trudged silently for the next quarter hour. The sparse vegetation soon gave way to irrigated land, with fruits and vegetables in neat rows surrounding small cottages made of stone and fired brick. In the town, occasional oblivious pedestrians passed us in all directions, many carrying sacks or baskets of what seemed to be produce or other foodstuffs, and carefully balanced containers of water. I pressed the touch screen of my Ergal, now anamorphed into a knife and hidden in my clothing, and pulled a similar container from the folds of my tunic to drench my parched lips.
“Careful,” whispered Spud, then grabbed the canteen from me and gulped the fresh water greedily. “Blistering desert.”
I was about to grumble, “Ergal your own,” when I spied a ramshackle structure a couple of hundred yards down the road.