Category: Fiction

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Band of the Red Part 2

~ S.M. Nolan ~ Leave a comment

2.

THE FIRST DAYS OF WAR

In the days and weeks that followed the resolution, many were drafted. Gal-Net’s reports of the numbers hit home with vids of lines of men and women that filed in to report for training. These outposts had, for security reasons, remained unnamed, but even so, their lobbies and ports were filled with civilian shuttles and masses of bodies whose fear and confusion were obvious in their wanderings. Until my shuttle arrived, I was merely an on-looker. That changed as my body was jolted outward and into the port’s shielded hangar. Then, I simply became one with the mass.

The military’s intranet, their own version of Gal-Net, said that the senior recruits had gone to war while they awaited their reinforcements to complete training. Never have I had such confusion underpinning depth-less hatred as when I was shoved to a desk with little more than a number card and the clothes on my back. It was undignified, humiliating– for myself and our species as a whole.

It took several months to train a company of a hundred or so men and women, and at first, only three companies were trained. This gave those higher-up strategists pause; if many too companies fell at-once, few could replace them out-right. It was therefore of the utmost importance that more effective training be devised and completed. The first wave of draftee’s training shifted from simulated-battles and tactics to Officer’s corps training.

As I was trained, so were two-hundred and ninety-nine others. We spent day and night drilling in simulators, strategizing as mock-fleet commanders, and practicing scenarios where-by, having simulated the loss of others in our squadrons, we were forced to take command. Only the best of us, with the most formidable skills were chosen to continue as commanders.

We had little time to indulge in personal pursuits. Each day was a mere few hours to recuperate, a moment to eat, then training. More than a few recruits were rushed to the infirmary after collapsing in a heap, but after revival, were immediately sent back in to complete training.

After our basic training, Commanders like me went straight to overseeing others as we had been. Where once there had been only two to three companies, now there were dozens. Each of us ran our companies through the same exercises we had practiced– until their limbs ached and their minds cracked. Time and time again draftees and recruits alike were forced past failure to sustain the Federation’s lust for new bodies.

Though they learned well and fast, something was unnerving about the training. All of it was being done in simulations, and almost none in physical respects. As most battles are carried out through the use of operator-guided weaponry, it appeared a sensible stratagem to the higher-ups. In the Officer’s eyes, it was not. We had not faced an adversary in thousands of years, but we knew our weaponry was more than sufficient. As operators at the controls, we were nigh-on perfect. But we had, in no way, been prepared for physical confrontation.

At this revelation, had there been a debate on which side to choose for combat-merit, regrettably, I’d have chosen the Verbero. Verbero caravan-guards were shrewd and vicious but combat experienced, pinned as a devastating threat far before the war had ever begun. Their experience was ten-fold that of any Mustela or Federation draftee. This made them a pendulum on which the battlefield might pivot. It also, however, made them a prime target if handled delicately: If the Verbero’s mercenaries could be infiltrated or eliminated outright, the Federation could level the playing field. This had seemed a futile proposition to even dream of, as just as The Federation and Mustela were building their armies, so were the Verbero. The difference? Training. The Federation’s training, while sufficient in defensive-weaponry operations, did not prepare its recruits for offensive combat, nor a style of warring unknown to us for thousands of years; Guerrilla combat.

Verbero’s mercenaries were guerrilla fighters, and damned good ones. If they hadn’t been, The Federation would have put Lord Verbero down for hiring them to protect the trade routes. But the specific Order the mercenaries were hired from was infamous, even in the furthest reaches of the Galaxy.

Gal-Net had done exposes on them along with the Intranet. Both showed vid-evidence of their protection of the former trade-routes against pirates and slavers. In all cases, vicious, skilled fighters, used ancient weapons and styles to cut literal swaths through their enemies. Each one it seemed, was also an expert marksmen with extreme agility. This was witnessed in one member whose primary blade-weapon lodged itself in an enemy. He seemed not the least bit impeded. I still remember the speed with which he hurled himself sideways, retrieving a plasma-blaster mid-roll to rise and clear the rest of the pirate scum from the room.

This was our most dangerous enemy: deadly no matter the engagement, and always– for a reason unknown to any– bearing a red cloth tied ’round the bicep of their right arm.

Known as the Band of the Red, the Order was infamous, deadly. But for as long as we cared to remember, the Band of the Red had been diplomatic to The Federation– at their worst, simply indifferent. Though blamed for the D-335 raids by some, evidence suggested it was solely the Verbero wreaking havoc while the Band was present. As far as any could tell, the group never took more than their share. Their price was firm; in exchange for protection from pirates and other, anarchic scum, The Federation over-looked the droves of illegal activity on the dozens of planets they called home.

This last point requires elaboration. There was certainly corruption involved in the Federation’s dealings, though its intent was purely altruistic. Gal-Net never bothered to say it, nor investigate it, but yes, murders and drug-trafficking were overlooked. But no-one in their right mind crossed the Band. It was suicide. If one had found themselves in so deep a debt that they could not repay, there were other agreements to be reached. The Band’s leader, Sharok, was said to be a reasonable, logical woman, fair in her dealings. She killed anyone that would dishonor her by saying otherwise. Though few reports were ever released on the Band, those that were, revealed Sharok would parlay any indebted. What happened afterward was a private matter, but it was said any debt could be repaid with service to the Band.

The Intranet exploded suddenly after I began training my company. Vids of Verbero armies training by the hundreds, as we were, were led at the front of each company by a single person, a single, red band at each of their right biceps. We knew then that this war would become more than our mere simulations could handle. The vids never reached Gal-Net. The Council had barred them from releasing the evidence. The reason was obvious; if the Federation’s general populous learned they would be fighting Band-trained enemies, the number of defectors would reach new heights. Our army would be unsustainable.

Secret talks began then between the Officers, myself included, positing that the Federation might seek out Sharok to attempt to reason with her. I still remember my own disbelief that such an action would merit the desired effect: with all of their indifference, they were still weapons for hire to the highest bidder, and held their contracts to the highest honor. Perhaps then, some said, The Federation could buy-out Lord Verbero’s. This too was a futile notion, I knew. The matter of coin was substantial, but Verbero had undoubtedly promised much more than Sharok would willingly speak of. Thus she would hold a silent card against us in negotiations, its face impossible to read. Inevitably, she bluff to gain more than she Verbero had offered. The only possible course then, would be to engage the Band-trained men in combat.

But again, this was only so simple to the non-combatants. I was not one of them. I saw the path the war was taking, and it appeared to have more than one phase. In the first, battles had occurred in space over contested regions of the Mustela system. But everyone, the Band included, knew this was our field. There was no way to level it unless a paradigm shifted. I saw phased two before it ever began.

The battles would turn from space to ground fighting, as the Band and Verbero’s military would place the system’s planets in a foothold not easily dislodged. This speculation ran rampant through the Officer’s ranks until it broke free, reached Gal-Net’s civilian forums, then its vid-casts. Many from the Federation and Mustela’s support circle silently withdrew there support. Rumors of private conspiracies abounded. One-time loyalists now hoped to bring about the downfall of The Federation and the Mustela, and end the war altogether. The reason was obvious; fear.

Coupled together, the fear and rumors led the The Federation to conceive of a special military unit for one purpose alone: To infiltrate the Band of the Red. When it leaked from the Intranet that a new, classified unit had been formed for an even more secretive purpose, outcry flooded the civilian and military sectors alike. Though the unit’s soldiers were unknown to all but a few, they had been hand-picked for a certain set of specialties. Espionage would be their tool, subterfuge within the Band’s ranks their game. As I speak now in confidence, I have no reservations in saying that I was part of this unit.

Poetry-Thing Thursday: Finding the Sea Part 5

~ S.M. Nolan ~ Leave a comment

Desert Rain

 

She moans in her sleep,

needs something to eat,

must do more to earn her keep.

Yet she will not release.

 

Grips my arm,

looks forewarn,

it’s coming on now,

the heart will be torn.

 

Slowly cascading,

curving steadily.

Defying all the earth,

and laws of gravity.

 

The first rains,

this desert has seen,

in a thousand years,

of forgotten dreams.

 

So small and isolated,

yet great in its own,

finally she’s seeing,

how important is her home.

 

With us wherever we go,

no matter what we know,

or what we try to show,

all that glitters is gold.

 

Her sadness reaches me,

somehow I’m not ready.

Something appeases me,

something I’ve missed to see.

 

Her eyes open.

Concern, confusion.

 

– I’m sorry must’ve been a nightmare.

Sounds like life, I’ve been there.

– I feel so strange and so close.

Our minds have no distance,

all we see is cloaked.

 

She smiles at me,

“I love what you do,

Set me up, let me see.

If things were different,

I know what you could do to me.”

 

Comfort.

Amazing.

Amusing.

Beautiful.

 

We can’t know who we are

until we do,

the unthinkable.

 

She laughs.

Desert love and sweet repress,

things will be different now,

– Nothing lasts.

Her decisiveness,

my relapse.

 

I’ve known now,

the most despairing kinds of love.

I see how we are all,

“sent from above.”

 

Nothing more in this world,

should be shown,

than true loving passion,

life’s sweet cologne.

 

We must love to pass time,

we must burn to shine.

 

Only our first day

already past dismay,

Now death and dying,

and earthly decay.

 

Today it has rained

in the Desert of Forgotten Pain.

Short Story: The Fee

~ S.M. Nolan ~ Leave a comment

The Fee

Dan stepped up to the shop-window of Midtown hardware store to stare at the white sign posted there. Its black lettering read out “Hunting Licenses, Inquire Within.” The few passersby that trudged along the damp street seemed not to notice his hesitation, but he glanced this way and that, fearful of suspicion on him.

Midtown was small, enough that Dan’s wife would learn he’d bought the license if the wrong people saw him now. Once a rest-stop for the nearby lumber-industry truckers, Midtown had grown in recent years, but still adhered to an almost, “old-west” mentality– especially when it came to gossip. Dan’s wife wasn’t a gossiper, but all her friends were. And she did, in fact, have a mean right hook– especially when drinking.

In a place like Midtown, drink was the national pass-time.

It wasn’t that Anna was mean, at least that wasn’t her intention. But she’d grown-up with seven brothers, all boxers and loggers. What was a girl to do but learn to fight, survive? Unfortunately for Dan, her softness for creatures of all kinds never extended to him– especially when drunk.

He heaved a heavy sigh. He had to do it, save the last scrap of his manhood, his dignity. She could “lecture” him all she wanted, but he was going to do it. He would hunt, and he would kill– if only to feel like a man, and if only for one moment in his entire life.

His shoulders slumped as he cast strained glances up and down Main-street’s antiquated storefronts. The haze of drizzle made good cover from any distant on-lookers, no-one close enough to have seen his face yet.

He steeled his nerves, “Now or never.”

With one, smooth motion, he side-stepped for the door and pushed it open.

The hardware store’s bell clanged before the few, meager aisles that comprised its center. Racks of hand-tools, power tools, and all manner of screws, bolts, and other assorted fasteners filled the place. Even still, everything was for small repairs, Dan’d had to special-order everything when he rebuilt the roof. Anna was never so energetic as when lecturing him then. “It’s too expensive!” “Can’t ya’ fix it yerself?” But Midtown was a stop on a road, never meant to house more than it had. Everything had to be special-ordered, even the water was piped in from the logging-camp’s rivers– at a high premium, too.

Dan chose the center aisle, rubbernecked his way along it to the rear of the store. He liked the center aisle, the far end-caps had the clearance section; mostly old things that had never sold. The items themselves were never quite as useful as he’d hoped, but even Anna couldn’t argue about a solid deal. Today though, he ambled right past them, straight to the “sporting goods” counter.

He chuckled to himself; sporting goods? It was never more than a few, old, double-barrel twelve-gauges used to keep the bears out of the trash cans. You could still smell their fresh powder on Monday morning after being used all weekend. On any normal day, Dan would’ve never considered purchasing one; they were too expensive– marked up, they called it– and Anna’d have his head for wasting the money. But today, he stopped at the counter and stared up.

The withered walnut was near-on the same hue as the old steel, but even a fool knew these guns still held their lead. They could scare off a grizzly with their bark, and if you got real lucky, might even take one down. They were perfect.

He leaned over the counter, glanced up and down the back of the store. The “ring bell for service” sign was faded, tattered, laminated to the top of the glass counter above all the ammunition, and right below an old bell.

Dan stiffened his neck, puffed out his chest, and slapped a hand down on the bell. It clanged with a higher tone than the door’s, rang twice as long in Dan’s ears. Shuffled steps of the ancient Jack Rower, one of the first to settle Midtown, and the hardware store’s owner, made their slow scuffs toward the back wall.

Jack was hunched, or so they called it, and he supported himself along the back wall, all the way to the counter’s edge. A cleared spot in the “merchandise” had been rubbed black and yellow from the corner of the store to the gun rack; the testament to Jack’s ever-present posture.

“Ah, Danny boy,” Jack said as his hands shifted from the wall to the counter. He groped along it to stand in front of Dan, “How ‘ya been?”

“Alright, Jack. Alright.” Dan said, his shoulders slumping once more.

“How’s life with the wife?” He asked with his trademark, gravel throat.

“Same as usual, Jack.”

“Well, ‘ya know what they say; you can’t win ’em all.” He chuckled himself into a coughing fit. It took a moment to recover, “Ah hell, so what can I do ‘ya for?”

Dan’s head made a small tilt sideways, “You still sell those licenses?”

Jack’s face scrunched together like a sad, old bulldog, “Sure, sure. Just sold a pair last week to Rick ‘n his wife. Some kinda’ feud ’bout who’d get the bigger kill. Guess they’d decided to settle it the ol’ fashioned way– money where the mouth is and all that.”

Dan nodded, he knew Rick and his wife, Laura. She was what they called a home-wrecker; a big-city word for whore. By the time she married she’d gone through just about every man but Jack, Rick, and himself. Jack was too old even then, and Dan’d been married too long, but damned if Rick didn’t shack up with her anyhow. Dan’d see her car most nights off route-seventy-one, at the big truck stop with the franchise restaurant in it. Whether hooking or waitressing, she was usually working over time.

“Guess ol’ Rick finally called her bluff, eh?” Dan said. Jack just nodded.

There was a moment where their eyes met, and something between them seemed to be understood without words. That was one of the nice things about Jack, he’d been ’round so long he didn’t need words sometimes. Dan wanted to be like that some day, but it wouldn’t be today. Today, he was buying a license.

“Well Jack, the sign says “inquire within,” and I’m inquirin’,” Dan said.

The sad bulldog face scrunched even further, almost to a point where Jack’s eyes no longer showed through. It bobbed up and down in a nod.

“Well, you know the rules then,” Jack replied as his eyes reappeared. “Gov’ment says you get one a year, you bag any more’n that you get the big house.”

“One’s all I need, Jack,” Dan said.

He just wanted to feel like a man, if only for once in his entire life.

The small bobs began again, then broke off as Jack spoke, “Fee’s five hundred dollars ‘nless you want one’a these boomers you been eyin’.”

“Can I borrow it from ‘ya?”

Jack’s mouth half-lifted, “For ‘n extra, hundred, so long’s you get it back to me after the hunt.”

“Six hundred square then,” Dan said, reaching into his pocket.

He counted out five hundreds, then an extra for the gun, most of it in fives and tens. It’d taken him years to save up the money, but he wasn’t sad to see it go in the least. He’d feel like a man for once in his life, and no amount of money’d ever be too much for that. Anna could lecture him all she wanted, but he was going to hunt.

Jack slid a bright, white piece of paper across the counter filled with a bunch of blank lines and a government seal in the corner.

“Fill this’n out, ‘n I’ll print the license,” Jack said.

Dan took his time, made his writing real neat. In his little way, he wanted the government to know he’d be a man, even if only for a moment. When he was finished, he gave a scrawl of cursive at the bottom while an old printer groaned and squeaked a harsh, mechanical cacophony. It was music to Dan’s ears.

Jack slid one of the shotguns out of the rack, set it on the counter with careful hands. He reached through the open-back and pulled out a box of twelve-gauge shells, set it aside.

He gave Dan a stern look, “Now you ain’t never been huntin’ before, so I’ll tell you somethin’ my wife told me– god rest her soul.” Dan listened, he knew this was important, and listening to other men about hunting was a man thing to do. Jack eyed him, “Show ’em no fear, but you show ’em respect. They’re prey, ‘n you’re the hunter. It’s about respect, ‘n if you ain’t huntin’ with honor, you might as well not be huntin’ at all.”

Dan’s mouth stiffened, he gave a nod. He understood honor, and he wouldn’t be the tarnish on a steel tradition.

Jack added, “You lock eyes with ’em, ‘n you tell ’em without words that you’re the hunter, ‘n you’re givin’ em a chance to escape. ‘N you do, Danny. Don’t you ever take that away from your prey– that’s the respect part.”

Dan understood.

As he exited the shop, he no longer feared being seen, but just as well the rain had picked up, and the sky’d darkened. It was a good day for hunting.

He followed the sidewalk to his rusted-out pick-up, climbed inside, and set the gun on the seat beside his license. He was nearly there. He’d didn’t care about the limit, bagging one was all he needed, all he wanted. He thirsted for it all the way home; he’d clean-up first, then he’d show Anna he was a man by hunting.

He was so focused he didn’t even notice Carl in his shiny SUV cruiser sitting at the top of the hill. He blew right past him at near-sixty, gave himself a start when Carl’s lights and sirens blared after him. He pulled to the right like he’d been told, and Carl– recognizing the truck– sauntered straight up to the window without a care in the world. He hitched up his pants, and leaned against the truck while Dan rolled down the window.

Carl pinched his trooper-hat upward with a pair of fingers, “Dan-boy? That’chu? What’chu thinkin’ goin’ so fast down this road in the rain? You coulda’ been kill’t.”

“Suppose I wasn’t Carl. Damned if I’m not a little off today,” Dan admitted.

“Uh-huh.” Carl gave a shifty look through the truck’s cab, “That one’a Jack’s ‘ol boomers in there?”

“Yes’sir,” Dan handed over the license. “Picked me up a license too. Goin’ huntin’ today.”

Carl’s hat sank back to his head with a few nods. He read over the license, “Jack give ya’ the rundown?”

“You bet.”

Carl squinted an eye sideways, “You sure ’bout that, Dan?”

“Look ’em in the eye.”

Carl gave another nod, handed the license back, “Well good huntin’ then, Dan-boy, ‘n slow ‘er down.”

“Will do, Carl.” Dan said, his arm making fast circles to roll up the window.

He watched Carl turn around behind him and disappear up the hill, then pulled away.

The rest of the ride home was usual, and Dan kept a close eye on his speed. The hills rose and fell and the truck groaned and wheezed, but he made it to his muddy driveway in the forest without any complication. When the truck came to a stop next to Anna’s old Bronco, he left the shotgun inside and hurried in with muddy boots to get cleaned up. Anna was boozed out and focused on the television, didn’t even notice him walking in. It was fine by him, she’d know soon enough.

He cleaned himself and shaved up in front of the medicine cabinet, and when it was time, he put on his best pair of camouflage pants and his cleanest, brown shirt. He made his presence known in the living room with a rap on the wall.

“Anna, honey, I got somethin’ to show ya out in the truck,” he said, perking up her ears.

“What is it, ‘nother limp dick? Already got one’a those, ‘n I don’t wanna’ see it anyhow.”

“I think you’ll like this,” he said.

He knew she wouldn’t, even before she grumbled up off the couch and followed him with begrudging mumbles. She griped about the rain wetting her house shoes, and the way the roof repairs looked, and the way the old log-cabin seemed to slump like Dan’s shoulders. Dan didn’t mind, he led the way to the truck, threw open the door, and fished for the license on the seat. She stopped short, nearly hit by the door, and growled booze-stench at the air.

He handed over the license, “I got me one.”

Her eyes took a moment to focus on the words, as Dan leaned back into the truck. He fished for the box of shells, snatched two out. The words took shape in Anna’s in mind as her face tumbled toward rage. He straightened from the truck, shotgun and shells in either hand, and shouldered the door shut.

Anna’s eyes flitted across the license again and again, fury rising behind them. Dan broke the barrel of the boomer, dropped the shells in, then snapped them back together. He held the shotgun in one hand, pinched the license in another, and slid it away from Anna. He shoved into a pocket with a step back.

Her eyes lingered on nothingness for a moment, rage building like a steam-whistle ready to scream. They rose up at Dan’s eyes beyond the raised barrel of the shotgun.

Old Jack’s words were in his head now; “You lock eyes with ’em, ‘n you tell ’em without words that you’re the hunter, ‘n you’re givin’ em a chance to escape. ‘N you do, Danny.”

Anna’s hands fell, clenched into fists.

“Don’t you ever take that away from your prey– that’s the respect part.”

Her body poised to attack.

“…you get one a year…”

She shrieked something so high it made Dan’s ears hurt.

“One’s all I need…”

He felt the double-hammers go down under his thumb, waited just long enough to see the start of Anna’s lunge.

The squeeze of both triggers at-once nearly broke his shoulder, but it was enough.

He’d given her the chance, and she’d seen it. Anna’d seen the hunter offer his prey an out, but choose to fight. In that moment, Dan was a man– if only for that moment.

Something no-one’d ever told Dan about hunting was not to pull both triggers at once. His shoulder sure did hurt, and digging the grave didn’t make it any better. It hurt so much, he’d even have to wait to build her a cross. No matter, tomorrow morning he’d go to pick up some nails and return Jack’s boomer.

He’d paid his fee, and if only for a moment, he got to feel like a man and hunt.

Update and Story!

~ S.M. Nolan ~ Leave a comment

Happy Friday Everyone!

So I’ve decided, in addition to Tuesdays and Thursdays, I will begin posting longer stories in “parts” each Friday. I have several novella/novelette-length stories that I’m working on, and a few finished.

For the next few weeks, I’ll be posting the first of these longer works called Band of the Red. Hopefully you’ll enjoy it and the others to come.

Also, I may be adding more pages/content (not stories) to the site in the next few weeks, so keep an eye out and enjoy your weekend.

 

Band of The Red

1.

PRELUDE TO WAR

At peace for thousands of years, and presided over by the loudest voices in ten galaxies, The Federation’s open-court held deliberation. The issue at-hand was whether or not to break treaties passed long ago by ancestors whose names have been forgotten. The leaders of many, great worlds pled for continued peace in the council’s enormous chambers. They cited that no man nor woman has a warring sense about them any longer. The strategically minded agreed; there was no favorable outcome to aggression, our weapons were powerful, but our tactics untrained. These voices echoed endlessly off the Council’s great, metallic walls.

And in reply? Nothing more than their echo back at them.

How did it come to this? The truth is, it should not have. At least it would not have, had the decision been left to those whom would fight. But they were not the individuals in the position to make the call. Those old, robed fools merely sat on-high, deciding the fate of Billions with less consideration than a larvae to its evening meal.

So, what then was the motivation to break three thousands of years of serenity, tranquility? It was, as it always has been, personal gain.

Two major factions began a conflict that led to Federation intervention; the Verbero, and the Mustela. The Verbero, represented in council by their Lord and namesake, sought profits with an unchecked desire. Verbero was a fat man in the grandest of senses. His robes fell over his stained undergarments, that rarely (if ever) were cleaned or changed. Jewel-encrusted rings shined across his plump fingers that groped mercilessly for all within grasp– in both a literal and figurative sense.

For many years, he and his faction had been responsible for trade among The Federation’s planets. He held himself a king. But fiefdom was not the Federation’s way. Often Verbero-shipments were accompanied by the Lord’s personal men; scoundrels and dregs of the galaxy that hassled merchants for increased payment on delivery. The Verbero (both the man, and those whom took his namesake) were unscrupulous scoundrels.

The Mustela, until very recently, were a poor and simple folk– farmers, hermits, the like. They wore the obvious rags of their station, and it was said their Council representative owned the only suit to be found in the whole system. Only after massive veins of the mineral D-335 were discovered within their planetary system, did the representative even have cause to wear it.

For whatever reason, (perhaps at the beginning of time, the formation of their solar-system allowed it) this mineral seemed most abundant in their system. As the main component to The Federation’s defensive weaponry, the discovery placed the Galaxy in a unique position. The balance of economic and political power tipped from Verbero to the Mustela.

In a literal, over-night sense, this tattered, agrarian system became the most important political power in The Federation. Their representative quickly curried the Council’s favor through his home-grown charisma and ever-present suit. Gal-Net news briefs showed him in Council perched humbly in his seat, or at banquets for those of The Federation’s highest esteem. As such, his voice became both well-heard and well-regarded.

That was, to everyone but Lord Verbero.

Ancient and unforgiving, the fat, old-bastard felt entitled to a share of profits from the D-335 mines. As far as the Mustela were concerned, he was not. For a moment, this was only a minor source of contention with either side pitted against the other in negotiations.

Why there were negotiations in the first place is beyond me. Had you asked, I’d have said Verbero wasn’t entitled to a damned thing– but I digress. The contentious negotiations later broke down. The Federation’s mediator, a neutral party if Gal-Net were to be believed, as well as the Mustela representative, failed to see reason for a tithe to Verbero. Though the mineral was found along his trade routes, he had not found it. And so long as the Mustela did not use his caravans to transport it, he had no rights to it. In simplest terms, the mediator sided with the Mustela even before the talks broke-down.

Gal-Net went wild when The Federation formally denied all tithe Verbero sought. Some called for Verbero’s head, others for annexation of the Mustela system. Still more made speculations and predictions of what was to come. Though most of them were wrong, the few that later turned out to be right, wished they weren’t.

What followed Gal-Net’s formal reports was the beginning of a series of hit-and-runs that turned to a formal declaration of war. While no evidence against Lord Verbero personally, was found, even a fool could see it was his men ransacking the Mustela trade-routes.

One such incident was widely reported, amid obvious rumors, on Gal-Net: Mustela’s caravan had made its hyper-jump between its system and the next, only to emerge before an armada. The plundering thieves tore through the Federation-appointed guard, and boarded the Mustela ships. They murdered all aboard, took the D-335, then made for the black market. The few Federation scouts that escaped did so with brutal, visual evidence of the attack. Even now, years past, the images of their scorched ships are used as a symbol of remembrance.

Following Gal-Net’s report, many system-leaders chose sides. Those seeking profit sided with Verbero, hoping to create a veritable aristocracy among the stars. The others, seeking justice and retribution, sided with Mustela. This led to a precipice of peace, where it was possible look down into a chasm of war.

How could we war over this? It was undoubtedly foolish, selfish even. But as I said before, it is not those who take up weapons to fight that have the final say. The Federation has always had a vast army, but its main purposes are defense, posturing. The Verbero though, have always had vast riches at their side. At that, rumor suggested that Lord Verbero, with aid from certain mercenaries, was building an army to rival The Federation’s own.

This was the point where we attempted to jump the chasm– leap its distance and land on the other-side at a peaceful resolution. A final round of peace-talks began. But the chasm was as wide as it was deep, and stretched into the bowels of planet as volatile as the Lord’s lust for riches. Little hope for peace remained, and when the talks once more faltered, The Federation began drafting recruits.

There was no point in lying to ourselves anymore. War would begin in the coming days. Ships and weapons that had not been launched or fired in anger for thousands of years would immediately loose themselves upon the stars. Until the first shots came, some held hope with bated breath that a last-minute resolution would be reached.

I for one, held no such hope. I had been drafted. The final session of Council in those blasted chambers determined my fate. With The Federation at his side, the representative of The Mustela appeared on Gal-Net to personally condemn the attacks suffered on the D-335 trade routes. Though the word was never said, war had been be declared. Undoubtedly, the fighting immediately began; either side laying in wait for the formal acknowledgment with their first targets already sighted.

But how did I feel about it? The truth was, it didn’t matter. I’m one of the few who smelled the Verbero’s treacherous nature before Mustela’s D-335 was ever discovered. I knew their Lord, greedy and ruthless as he was, would one day bring an end to peace. The only thing needed to spur the warring was something valuable enough to both he and The Federation. The trade-routes presented ample fuel for the fire, and I sensed it outright.

Never has a thing been more dangerous nor depraved than a leader whose sole pursuit is riches.

I smelled the proverbial fire before it was ever thought to be lit. And in the nights of the first peace talks, I dreamed of assassinating Lord Verbero and his seconds. I wished nothing more than to see his bloated corpse begin to rot beneath my outstretched hands. In the years that I have lived, the Verbero traders have slowly imposed their stranglehold on The Federation. Inside it has been near-invisible. From the outside, it has been subtle, insidious, but even with the greatest foresight there was little to be done about it; the Verbero had monopolized trade. At the formal declaration, that trade came to a screeching halt. The majority of The Federation’s populous who’d sided with the Mustela would starve before the end of the war unless something were done.

When the council adjourned live on Gal-Net, The Federation had split damn-near down the middle. It was almost as if one could see the aristocracy rise and exit the chamber to one side, while the crusaders wandered out the other. Regardless of my feelings, I prepared for war.