Tag: S. M. Nolan

Band of the Red: Part 5

~ S.M. Nolan ~ Leave a comment

5.

BETRAYAL

I will admit that I am, by no means, a genius of stratagem. With that being said however, I am one to lay their plans knowing their strengths and weaknesses. When I joined The Band of the Red, I was told to prove my loyalty, and did so time and again. Each assignment afforded me more opportunities to gather information for both sides, but I was never foe to the Band, nor was I truly friend. I kept all sides in check with my reports, but ensured the least amount of damage was done to the ancient Order.

For instance, I was once sent to a Verbero-caravan as the attached guard. When I arrived aboard the new, pristine frigate, I learned that such ships were being manufactured and deployed fresh from non-combatant worlds. I leaked this information to the Federation knowing they would begin targeting the shipbuilding settlements to disrupt supply-lines. But I also leaked that information to Sharok. I knew the Federation would target the frigate ships old and new alike, and in response Sharok would have to withdraw her people from them or risk losing the Order to attrition.

The Band lost no members in those attacks, and Sharok’s “foresight” allowed her to adjust the bargain made with Lord Verbero to merely training their men. As such, the caravans were now vulnerable, but so too were the Band able to focus solely on training the Verbero’s new recruits.

However these sloppy stratagems appeared more to be the acts of a rogue, Federation soldier to Sir and his superiors. Admittedly, it was not all that much of a stretch to assume. I had yet recover anything for Sir, and there was no doubt his superiors were suspicious of their deep-cover agent. More importantly, I had cost countless lives and ships of both the Federation and Mustela armies and it was becoming more obvious that something had to have been exchanged for my standing with the Band.

The fact remained though, that this war might single-handedly teeter upon the information I held. Neither side was yet willing to risk my life, but still neither side was certain of my actions against them. Sharok was largely content with the information I provided, and Sir was hopeful for the mythic training I’d received. Even the small pieces of intelligence I leaked to the Band– that, in turn, were given to the Verbero– always ended in stalemates.

We received an order, in code, to provide Sir with manuals on training in the ancient ways. Each of us began writing them out, but agreed to their pointlessness. There is very little that can be written properly on the subject. It must be imparted from master to student, as it had been from the Band to the Einheit. But this excuse did not suffice for Sir nor his superiors. That we had yet to do much on paper forced Sir to call upon me– in the Einheit’s cryptic way– to explain our actions. It was dangerous, foolish, and we all knew it.

We met discreetly in a darkened room, as we had during the Einheit’s formation. It smelled of old welds and electricity with the distant sounds of the port’s PAs and ships beyond the metal walls. It was there that I heard Sir enter behind me, never showing his face, nor even stepping before me.

I was told to relay any information I had within the next month, otherwise I would be wanted for treason. It was an idle threat I knew– No amount of Gal-Net nor Intranet corruption could have contained the revelation of the Einheit once my face had been plastered across the Galaxy. Still, at heart I was a Federation solider. I hated that fat bastard Verbero, and the company of his men during my assignments with the Band only soured my feelings. I wanted to see the Verbero burned alive in plasma fire, their Lord’s eyes roll back in his head above my clenched hands.

At the time, that was my motivation. I still feared court-marshals, reprimands, and life in captivity. Sir could have jailed me in that room for any reasons he might’ve concocted, and at the time, I’d have taken my dues. So, I told him what little I could without endangering Sharok or the Band. He stopped pacing long enough to listen. Then, he informed me that Third and Fourth would be pulled from the field. After that, First would follow. But due to our standing, Second and I were to be left in under close watch for the time being. If we did not produce results within the month, we would be hunted.

He left the room to a slammed door that echoed in my head. From then on I was a suspect of treason. It bothered me at first, and as I made my way back through the systems to rejoin the Band, I realized the dangerous position it put me in.

Delicate political finesse was required to successfully handle the situation, but it was not something I had ever possessed. It was because of this that I made a grievous mistake.

When I returned to The Band, I had resolved to inform Sharok I was under suspicion. It was a stupid thing to do, and one of the few regrets I have now. I still remember the long walk through the ancient, stone bunker, passing other Band members in the hall who laughed and paid no mind to my suffering. When I reached the wooden door to Sharok’s room and office, I hesitated to knock. When I did so, I was certain I was to be looking death in the face.

Instead, she handled it in a way I thought impossible.

I knocked, entered at a beck, and put on a flustered air that included slamming the door behind me. Sharok immediately attempted to calm and soothe me. She set us beside one another on her bed, and mustered the gentlest, most angelic tone I have ever heard from her.

It was a strange thing to be part of. She was more than friendly– almost, seductive. I calmed myself as best I could; true frustrations had boiled inside me to produce a convincing air. What they were, I later realized, was a battle of my dual-lives coming into conflict. I had emulated the Band before I had been apart of them. Their honor and skill were par-none, and their rules firm, simple. They were the manifestation of an elegance lost over eons, but the Federation was my home.

Sharok’s private quarters are place few are allowed to be, when there, she is in-absentia– not to be disturbed by any but a close few. I was one of them. How long we sat there I could not say, and for a long time, there was nothing but silence. Perhaps it is this that caused the later rumors of her and I as lovers, but I assure you nothing that went on in that room was enough to call the rumors meritable.

When that contentious silence finally gave way to her angelic tone, the hardened warrior had returned beneath it.

“The way I see it,” she told me. “Is that my best agent is in danger.” She hesitated, pensive with thoughts that only those as wise and honorable as she might have. “Under normal circumstances, I would remove you from the situation. But given your standing with the Federation and myself, and the aid you’ve provided, we will have to choose a different path.”

What she did afterward caused utter chaos, and drove me deeper in-bed with The Band. What a fool I was to have told her.

I left the room moments after the conversation had taken place, and felt that fateful stirring in me that signaled my duality battling itself. Unfortunately, normal operations had to resume. I was sent to retrieve payment from nearby systems for their protection, then returned to base and readied for my trek back to the Federation.

When I reached Federation territory, it had been exactly twenty-nine days since I had left. I was greeted at Lucknor space port by a group of military police. They parted to reveal an aged, white-haired man. I knew even, before that familiar voice met my ears, that it was Sir whom greeted me.

That damned fool came to me in the light of day to tell me of an investigation against me. His posse were ready to take me in with only two days remaining to produce the requested materials. He knew I was unprepared. When pressed for an explanation as to the guard, he told me that several commanding Officers– men and women far above me– had been assassinated at a Federation’s consulate-meeting. These, no doubt, included some of Sir’s superiors.

I had no words. Sharok had ordered hits on my supposed senior officers, and now that damned fool was showing himself.

We knew long before this that Sharok had other operatives in The Federation and Mustela’s forces– as she had agents within the Verbero and her own forces as well. All of them were trained and planted for one purpose; to keep a close on her people and ensure the Band’s code was upheld. That was their sole job. Sir knew this, and used it to set a trap for me with himself as the bait.

He recited formal allegations of treason to me over the roar of thrusters and departing engines, all the while knowing he’d given permission to do the things I’d done. There was only one purpose for this; he was forcing me– his hand picked, elite spy– to choose sides. He was showing his face to those watching me, hoping he would sign both of our death warrants. Even he knew he would be dead before week’s end, but we both knew there would be no way to dissuade the Council I wasn’t solely a Band spy. The only hope I had of ever returning home was tied to the information I’d yet to produce, and knew I couldn’t. Sir knew too, and he’d rather see me dead than to withhold it.

What a damned idiot! I walked right into being framed to avoid the inevitable revelation of the Einheit’s existence. On the one side, my confidentiality with Sharok would either force me to leave The Federation or face death by them. Likewise, I would have to either join the Band permanently or be considered Khie’Yen– traitor– and hunted down. I saw the forest through the trees; if I chose the Federation, I would be imprisoned long enough for Sharok to have me murdered or broken-out. The latter did me no good if I ever wished to return home.

This last thing was the tipping point in my duality. As I said before, this was not a job to me, it was a way of life. It gave me fuel. The last thing I would let happen was my death at the hands of the true betrayer before me. I was still a Red Band member, but could no longer be a Federation soldier. And both The Mustela and Verbero could shove it if they thought I was going to join them. They had caused all of this, neither side willing to give up coin to keep the other happy, nor honorable enough to have done away with the other in a single fell.

The choice became clear, I would return to Sharok’s side, but not before I killed that stupid bastard Sir. He caused his own demise, and mine. No-one be allowed to get to him before me.

He informed me that I would be taken into custody in two days time. We both knew it would never happen. He and his posse of military police exited the port and left me to fume, but my plans were made before he ever turned smugly on-heel to march off.

I made my way through the housing block that night, down its long, narrow corridors, and disabled the lock to his home. I found him waiting in the front room. He was surprised to see it was me and not a masked assassin.

I stood before him in the dim light as his liquor-glazed eyes affixed themselves to mine. My words were my own, and I remember them better than I remember any of my life.

“A moment of enlightenment, Sir, from the greatest of your Einheit.” My blood boiled, but I kept calm, as Sharok had taught. “Had you been willing to recognize my importance, and that of the Einheit themselves, it would never have come to this.”

Still my anger frothed, but to kill in such a way is not honorable. To do so by the ways of the Band, one must be in great peril or at great peace with their prey.

I continued, “Your death would not have come had you not shown your face. And I would not have reached this conclusion had you not taken what minor vestige of devotion I had left for the Federation in doing it.”

He seemed reluctant to believe me, but my blades ran crimson all the same.

I escaped Lucknor with ease, stowing away in another medical frigate. I hold-hopped from there, and was a dozen systems away before news of Sir’s murder ever reached Gal-Net. To this day, I’ve no idea what they said, and I don’t care. With his dead I washed my hands of the Federation, and its ways.

My return trip to the Band was uneventful, but I was of a new mind. I was no longer a double-agent, nor a Federation soldier. I had no home to return to but that of the Band’s. It was with this in mind that I once more rapped at Sharok’s door.

When I informed her of what had transpired, all of her angelic tone was gone. There were no more words meant to soothe or comfort. She was furious. I was kicked from her room with a booth so heavy you could sense my standing with her hitting the ground as I did.

I was, simply, no longer as useful and I had done something that nearly caused an incident between the Band and the Galaxy; an unauthorized assassination. Had my skills of stealth and evasion not been so sufficient, she would have murdered me publicly for tarnishing the Band’s image and honor.

As it was though, I still knew things and I was still good at what I did. I was kept on as an outcast. This only fueled the rumors of she and I as lovers– that I was now I spurned by her. Such is of little consequence in the scheme of things, because what came next ensured an end to the war.

I met with Second, in private and away from all that might intervene or eavesdrop. She was still awaiting contact from Sir, unaware of his death or the price on our heads. I relayed what had happened at a hush.

“I murdered the bastard. He was going to frame me, likely you too, as the scapegoats for the Einheit’s perceived failure.”

Second had known me from training, and though her tone could never match the angelic quality of Sharok’s, she spoke to soothe, “I believe you. And either because time has changed me, or Sir’s betrayal has shown me a new light, I vow to remain with you and never return to those greedy fools. When First returns from assignment, we will approach him. For now, we must lay plans.”

Second, you see, was a Mustela recruit before transferring to The Federation. It was there that she was recruited into the Einheit. She was not however, a draftee. Instead, she had been an intelligence officer for the Mustela’s new army, a willing recruit of the war who’d joined years before when it was little more than a defense-force. This experience and motivation, combined with an encyclopedic memory, ensured she knew all there was to know of Mustela forces. I, in combination with First, carried all the knowledge of The Federation’s fleets and soldiers. All we needed was Verbero intelligence. With it, and Second’s strategic-mind, we could bring about a grinding halt to the war.

It also meant we needed Sharok’s help. Which in turn, meant she would have to know of the Einheit’s mission and its existence. She would have to know the whole story. If she refused reason, we would be forced to kill her– and most probably, the whole damned Band.

Short Story: Deadman Part 2

~ S.M. Nolan ~ Leave a comment

Deadman

Part 2

In the vast, underground complex, surrounded by millions of tons of cement and steel, the last of Earth’s civilized inhabitants carried out a quiet, peaceful life. The Complex, built over the waning decades of the Cold War, sprawled outward and downward. At it’s topmost level, an entrance from a WWII-era bomb-shelter offered easy surface-access. The second level of apartments and schoolhouses, sheltered and educated growing numbers of thousands from all countries and walks of life.

The inhabitants did their working, shopping, and fraternizing on level three. This level, larger than the others, consisted of separate sections: an agricultural zone; an industrial zone, and finally a commerce district; where the populous could take in movies, drinks, and if need be, shop others’ handmade wares.

A booming epoch had begun within a planet whose surface had been nearly eradicated. Generations ago, when the Complex’s builders had finished construction, they let loose weapons of unimaginable destruction. They had recruited as many like-minded people as possible to share a new vision for the future. Some declined. The rest moved began their lives anew with a prosperous future.

These foresighted individuals would never again see the beauty of the natural world, but knew their descendants would live a life of peace. In the meantime, they were allowed to bring what they pleased, but tell no-one of the mass exodus. Surprisingly, the plans had succeeded. So far there had been little complication; the greatest mechanics and scientists worked on the fifth and final level, monitoring the systems and when warranted, repairing them.

The original occupants had quickly outgrown remorse and sorrow of the passing of the world above. Many chose to start new families. These children became the first born of a

subterranean utopia. And so it went for a dozen generations, the inhabitants waiting patiently for the time when they might re-emerge upon the face of a once-more mysterious planet. Were others left, their generations passed in hiding from radioactivity? It was plausible, but no such observations had been made from the systems-level via their surface instruments. These instruments, designed to withstand the decimation of the nuclear attacks, measured the atmospheric radioactivity, and sensed when living beings were near. In all of the Complex’s history thus far though, there had been no confirmation of life beyond. With their sporadic placement, it seemed unlikely anyone had survived. So they left the hope and uncertainty of Terran lifeforms long behind them, focusing their efforts instead on living to one day reclaim the world.

Within the systems level, science laboratories were established that, even in the time of man’s reign would have put the best to shame. The builders spared no expense in creating meccas of research and development. Of course with all greatness comes minor disruption. The Complex was not with out its disgruntled parties. Those few whom wished to return to the surface, or hungered for more, when offered provision to leave, hastily turned tail. The others, having been given what they wanted, soon wished not to have been. In seeing that each man, woman, and child had their fair share, their own guilt would overwhelm them. With sorrow they apologized, divided the extra share amongst those closest to them.

It was, in essence, a communist state with-in utopian walls. Everyone was given their fair share, accepted it. There were times of stringent rationing of food, imposed near harvest, but all obliged. In the spirit of things, harvest became a new period of sharing, giving. Families would band with one another to make feasts of their rations, eat their fill, then dividing the leftovers. When harvest was calculated again, the new rationing limits put forth, the sharing period ended with no-one left out. Even among growing thousands, a sense of community was pervasive. Their togetherness as one only served to strengthen hopes for the future and the thoughts of a world ruled by their way of life: It would become the utopia every philosopher and common-man had dreamed of.

So, as more and more decades passed, and the sensors read the steady decline of radioactivity. A meeting of the people was called. The recreation area was re-situated to accommodate the mass. A team of scientists posed the question; Who might be the first to step forward into the new world?

At once everyone spoke, all wanted to go. The head scientist, determined so by his education and experience, reminded them of the dangers they may face. One by one, the voices went silent. In the end, a team of five was chosen, their names picked randomly for their varying positions and experience. Those of the appropriate skill submitted their names to a drawing for their

respective positions. The need for an agriculturalist, a businessman, a strategist, a scientist, and a ‘common-man’ was decided. Each, in their own way, would help to determine the viability of the area chosen for settlement. They would have to reach an agreement on a location, otherwise a better one must be found. Meanwhile, the remaining scientists would hurry their research in developing radiation-devouring bacterium that would cleanse the radiation from the land by eating and excreting the soil, removing its detritus in the process.

With the team assembled, a second mass was held for speeches to thank those they felt grateful for, and take the oath to retain the values of their utopia in their search. They would think only of the others, not of themselves, and at the end of their journey, they would return with a new home.

When the five stood before the ladder to the surface, they began upward without hesitation. They emerged into dim light, looking excitedly among each other. Each one, clad in an oddity of white, plastic-like material, designed to eliminate radioactive penetration. The scientists below clicked through on radios, wished them luck. The hatch to the lower level closed with mechanized movements, and its seals locked in place. The radios clicked through again; the seal on the bomb-shelter’s door had been broken.

With a hiss, click, and the exhaled of gleaming dust upon the air, the door swung wide. The five stepped forward daringly into light that shined from the sky, eager to find a new home upon a long forgotten rock.

Band of the Red: Part 4

~ S.M. Nolan ~ Leave a comment

4.

DEPLOYMENT

My training had finished with the recruits, and I was forced into a test. Roughly a hundred other– most of which the original Officer’s of that first wave of recruits– were tested with what we believed to be advanced Officer’s training. In time, it was revealed that we were chosen for our aptitude in espionage and subterfuge. Where most of the Federation’s people have since lost these ways from eons of peace, evidently, I was one of the few personally suited for it. The deception and stealth involved gives me great personal satisfaction– I smile as I slowly stab my enemy in the back. Many would find this a point of disgust for me, but most do not know it. Just as well, I was perfect for the Einheit.

My instructions were simple, received via old-fashioned, coded-letters written by hand: become a member of the Band of Red, receive their training, then return. Regardless of which side I was loyal to, there was a potential to do great harm to both. As such, I made sure to keep both sides in check where I felt they were lacking in morality or conviction. The Band of the Red nor The Federation ever knew whom was sabotaging them at these points, and I wish not to divulge them. They are not essential to the story, nor do I wish to be linked with them anymore than I wished to be linked with The Federation during my time with The Band.

The mediator for the Einheit, known only as Sir, was the one who hand picked me. We never met face-to-face in a lit room, so for all I knew he was Sharok’s right hand. I doubted it though, but didn’t care in the least if it had been. See, the Einheit have become known for their secrecy, and deviously-cunning espionage, but it is a matter of fact that I was the only one properly motivated for the mission.

The others, while their merits do not go unrecognized, were of an improper mindset. I liked the Band of the Red’s members in my time there, I would even have gone so far as to call some my friends. The others were different. The Einheit was a job to them, something they wished to go home from one day and forget about. I had no such wishes, nor could I ever. The Einheit was an honor-bound duty for me. I was chosen to become one of its shadows, an anthropomorphic entity attuned to whatever task lay before me.

It was this difference that set my deployment apart from the others. I wasn’t a refugee, I wasn’t a defector, and I certainly wasn’t a foolish duo that could have cost us the whole operation. I was a federation draftee, a training officer, and I was damned good at both. That was how I presented myself. I was a highly-valued intelligence link, because I was within The Federation’s Officer ranks. I was invisible to the higher ups– Ah, but an officer has ears, and might hear all sorts of things. Why not play both sides? I had an eternal trust, unshakable within The Federation, but I needed that from The Band.

I hid aboard a civilian freighter bound for a medical outpost in a contested system, laid in wait in the cramped cargo-hold, and laid my plans. When I emerged, I was in neutral territory. These enormous medical barges remain separated from the fleets of both sides, flying no flags by those of medical aid. Either side can use them, and it is treatise held to the greatest heights, even by those that would otherwise rape and plunder.

To see them in space is to understand that they are off-limits. They are armed with heavy guns that would be suicide to even the strongest of Federation cruisers to attack. It was there that I found my opportunity to begin executing my plan.

Within the sterile-white halls of this medical barge, I found a Verbero company bound for a settlement on the planet. Amid the cries of pain from the wounded and dying, I followed them unseen into the ventilation shafts of their shuttle. When we set down, the settlement I found myself in was one that would have put the greatest of the “agrians” to shame. It was little more than thatched houses, inns, and businesses that only wished to thrive on war-profiteering and not be murdered by either side.

To the locals I was on-leave, but in truth, I was waiting for The Verbero to break the hopes of the settlement and ransack the place. When they arrived at the inn, I seated myself in the tavern– a place of ancient architecture; wood and stone easily burned by our modern weapons. Ransack would be a kind term to what the Verbero did to the place. Even still, I sat in the corner booth, drinking, and watching.

Ah, the adrenaline-filled exchange between myself and the soldiers that came when I wasn’t intimidated. The soldiers with their plasma-blasters had obviously yet to train with the Band, or I surely would not have survived. As it was however, they engaged me.

Blasts flew. The inn caught fire. But I was faster, had seen the Band enough to emulate them– if sloppily. My fist and arms worked like lightning. Bones broke, and armor cracked. I incapacitated all but one of the men, and when he begged mercy, I told him how he might earn it: set up a meeting with a Band member. He agreed to oblige, but not before I killed the others to convince him not to risk incurring my wrath. It was rather foolish now that I look back, but I stand by my actions.

I helped to extinguish the fires before the inn burned to the ground, and informed the soldier and other patrons that I would be present for another two weeks. If in that time an emissary from The Band did not contact me, I would defect solely to hunt he. (I may have too, for he was my only lead, and perhaps sticking to my word would have caught the Band’s attention.)

It was only two days of miserable food, and sour drink before the emissary met with me. He was a small sort, but dangerous-looking. Scars across his exposed skin etched warnings of death at any challenge to him; either your or his, it didn’t matter.

He spoke with me in low tones so that I had to become accustomed to leaning over my drinks, and was given a look to speak in kind as I told him of my intent. Though apprehensive in his belief we brokered a deal: in exchange for an audience with Sharok, I would relinquish battle-plans for the attack on this planet. I would remain here as the fighting began, and if the information was accurate, he would return to bring me to Sharok.

I told only truths. Yes, I caused the deaths of my own people, but it was on Council orders. It was also, the only perceivable way into the Band. The planet was next on The Federation’s list, held the largest mine of D-335 in the system, and was a strategic stepping-stone to establishing a sustainable presence there. Those plans had deployment dates, troop numbers, and the expected paths of the various detachments. Even still, I did not care how the information was used– In fact, I never have. It was only my job to acquire it, what I or anyone else did with it was only the concern of those who suffered the consequences.

My information was accurate enough for the Emissary to return during the staging. I was led out of the inn as the first bombardments began. I only just saw the counter-attack on the shuttles launched for ground-incursion before I was blind-folded. I was led to a ship, felt its cold metal reverberate my boots, then a pinprick in my neck. When I awoke, I was being carried forward with my feet dragging behind me, in what I later learned was the Band’s main-base.

The logistics of the battle I sabotaged are not something I know, nor do I wish to. They are simply a foot-note on a much larger story. And only the beginning of my vicarious killing-spree. Again, however, I digress.

As I was led through the base, I was met with a strange sense of complacency. For better or worse, I felt, this was where I was meant to be. It was a dilemma I later faced when given a silent ultimatum.

I was led into a small room and my blindfold was removed. It was dark, save for a dim light hanging in its center. I was forced into a chair beneath the light, and my hands were bound behind me. An interrogator, likely desiring to torture me attempted to question. I was resolute: I would share nothing more with anyone but their leader.

I still remember my exact words, “I would be more than happy to divulge everything I know, but only with Sharok. And only alone.”

There was quite a commotion over this, but I said no more. Though I suspect this was not the first time it had been suggested, for what came next seems almost comical to me now. Sharok entered the room, a beautiful woman in all respects and strengthened through years of physical training and combat. With her were two guards whom took a place on either side of the doorway.

She spoke to me with an almost angelic voice, but an undertone imparted the danger of taking it at face value, “The guards are deaf. Their eyes the only thing that works properly on them, save their fists.”

Those tones were both music to my ears and blind terror in my veins. I agreed it would be sufficient, and asked for only one, additional comfort; that my hands be unbound.

I thanked her, posed my bargain thusly; “I am an officer in the Federation’s ranks, one who distrusts my people and their ways. But the Verbero are scum, thieves without honor. Take me on as a member of The Band, train me, and in return I become your spy. The information I seek will be at your request, and yours to do with as you see fit.”

She stood pensively, but listened as I imparted a final parameter, “But only if you train me yourself. I want no man or woman’s hand-me-downs.”

She laughed, replied something about flattery. I assured her this was the catch. She sensed as much, replied in kind, “I’ve no use for anyone without boldness. That you’ve come this far says you have it, or that you’re a fool.” She waited a moment, in which I didn’t not bat an eye, then added; “Very well. Take me at my word, and know that to distrust it is to dishonor me. You give me what you know now, and you will be my new apprentice.”

I did not smile, nor blink or speak. The simple silence was enough to affirm the deal under that single, dim light. After a moment, Sharok began to pace beyond the edge of the light as I divulged all that I knew. She took it in stride.

“Several Verbero planets will be coming under Federation and Mustela attack soon– retaliation for Verbero attacks on defenseless planets. They wish to level the playing field. You will need their jump and arrival coordinates to plan your attack properly.”

I recounted them all from memory; platoon numbers, dates of the attacks, inter-spatial coordinates– everything she needed. When she was satisfied, I conferred that I would have to return to The Federation to renew my intelligence, and be gone several weeks, but would return with information for the coming months. These returns, we assured one another, were when I would receive my training.

And so it went for a year that the only contact I had with The Band of the Red, was Sharok in confidence. Her honor in obliging me still leaves me with a certain satisfaction knowing that there is such honor left in the universe.

As the information flowed, so did my training. Planets and ships burned while Sharok imparted fighting-styles that only she had truly mastered. The rest were child’s-play for The Band, but these were something her and I alone shared. Among the training I gained deeper insights into espionage, employed them all against both sides– most notably when my honor was challenged by a member of The Band.

Someone had sought to wreak havoc on the Einheit’s plans, calling me out as a spy, betrayer, and double-agent for the other-side. While it was true, it was still hardly admissible. There was simply no proof to base the accusation on. That was the point of the Einheit. Moreover, I never truly betrayed the Band. It was not in either side’s interest, I was sent to learn their combat methods, not sabotage them. Even still, I was not going to let some fool jeopardize my standing with Sharok for a personal conspiracy.

I engaged him in single combat. What the Band calls a duel to the death. As all questions of honor are met with death, Sharok immediately agreed to it. In truth, I believe she wanted to see my progress– or perhaps rid herself of my company. In either case, the duel was to begin immediately. The rest of The Band on-base was in attendance around a wide room. There, we were to fight until one or both men lay dead.

I knew I was to employ the techniques Sharok had imparted. After all I learned them harshly from her, and thus to challenge me was to challenge her. No doubt had it seemed I would lose, she would have just as well finished me herself. No matter, I made easy work of the fool with ancient blades, maintained for this very purpose.

As an aside; The Band of the Red is a very ancient order. This I learned in my training on honor with Sharok. They are as old as the ways of peace, which in turn seems fitting. For the peace in the universe to have sufficed for all those millenia, something had to be its counter-weight. This was The Band of the Red’s purpose: To take advantage of the peace of the star-systems, bend it to their will.

In truth, it was much more worthwhile to have The Band as a the counter-weight than any other group of miscreants, smugglers, or thieves. The Band’s prospects have always been heavily stunted by the burden of its self-imposed honor.

The crossing of the ancient blades was yet another tradition, as only a man truly at peace with the blades’ use and his own conviction could have won the fight.

The fool and I sparred, and he got the better of me in a couple of positions– sliced me well across the belly, but not so deep that it was mortal. He also scarred my face, something I’ve had to explain away in my time with The Federation and with others whom knew me outside of it. It was a bar accident, I told them. Most believed it. It was an easy lie– I’m a terrible drunkard, barely able to hold myself up after a few drinks.

With quick parries, I positioned myself rightly, circled the wretch with predation. Then, a flurry of moves in a full-body spin injured the poor bastard more completely than most have ever seen. That technique was one of Sharok’s, and a dangerous one at that as it is easy to slice oneself if the upper-body is not poised just right. But mine was. There was a pride in her eyes, I think, when I finished the man with a leaping spin-sweep that sliced him in two.

My success earned me a new-found respect from both the Band and Sharok. But only after this, was she convinced my training was complete. By this point however, I had begun to make a case with Sir; the combat experience was important, but not enough to compromise my position with Sharok.

In this, I made the mistake which almost cost me life.

First Short Story: Forgetting the Moral

~ S.M. Nolan ~ Leave a comment

This will be presented in two parts. Today is part one. Next week is part two. Simple enough, right? Enjoy!

 

Forgetting the Moral

Part one

The Survivors

Our species’ cultural history has varied greatly through the passage of time, as have our ideologies. Geography has determined this, and as the human race has evolved over time, brought upon us poorly-divided arguments. The truth of this bears repeating, for in our own time we have learned to meld technology with dangerously conflicting ideologies. We have harvested the atom, the wave-particle, and the quantum particle; perfected nuclear dispersal, implementation, and eradication, all whilst forgetting the value of peace.

The severity of this has led humanity to the situation it is in. Our leaders, though meant to speak for us, willfully fought against our cries. But perhaps it would be best explain what led humanity to this predicament first.

Somewhere nearer or farther than two-hundred years ago, we discovered the atom. That is; we were able to see it with immaculate instruments, scrutinized and perfected since the time of the great Galileo. Where he wished to view the vastness outward, we wished to turn inward. To look upon that which has so gracefully eluded us, and is beyond the ranges of the most powerful microscopes.

And so we devised a quantum-nuclear microscope. Fusion powered and capable of reaching views in the billions of times, we looked down upon the minutiae with an awe found anew. But Our devious nature was bound to catch up with us. With this newly discovered subatomic sight, we began to experiment with the basic building blocks of all reality. And licking quantum physics by discerning the state of the universe at the Big Bang, created new technologies, elements, and a number of other fascinating advances. We agonized upon the most crucial of subjects, then perfected particle transportation.

This transportation, though limited in its range at first, went into wide-spread use. The first of the travelers through this strangeness, a feline aptly named Schrodinger, (or perhaps ironically, as this test made obsolete the man’s theories) was transported from one laboratory in Massachusetts, to another thousands of miles away in Berkeley, California. The trip itself lasted only six seconds; from the transporter firing at M.I.T to the other powering down at U.C.L.A.

But what of those who felt the machine might tear the fabric of time, sundering particles, and thus the universe itself? Naysayers, they were called. And the others, worried there were far too many, unpredictable circumstances might disrupt the transport? They were wrong. As were those that said the poor animal would be turned outside-in upon arrival– they and their riled activist groups.

Science moves ever forward, yet again a day had come for it to show that eternal persistence. It was magnificent, marvelous. Though the public’s lack of knowledge into new physics does not permit a proper explanation, it was perfect in its function, and after an overhaul, in its form.

The transporters were manufactured with swiftness. New industries sprang up to accommodate them, others died out. The automobile was obsolete, as were planes, trains, and all other manner of transportation. So it went that particle physics became the aspiration for many, new minds. From cooks, to welders, and all in between, the sole occupation became programming assorted machines to the specifics of the clientele ordering it. The new technology became as common as the television, more so even through it boundless applications.

It was a beautiful time, it seemed. Science had clutched so tightly on the consciousness of man. As expected, it caused many an outcry from the faithful. However, in time each renounced their apprehension, in danger of being left behind in a new golden age.

Such great detail of this achievement has been imparted, but only because it was through this that we humans lost our true sense of right and wrong. In truth, none saw it that way– it is the folly of man that we become myopic in the sense of great pains and pleasures. We played with the fabric of our reality, and in turn were so fascinated with it, we wished to stretch it to our will– morph it into some facade of a canvas with which to paint.

Much of what came next has been lost, but enough is known to relay the effects.

Two decades after the wondrous new transporters were constructed, distributed, and subsequently marveled upon; a new imperceptibility was encountered. Fields became stagnant, industries threatened. Most of the learned were satisfied to begin research, (and not long after, production) of quantum multiprocessors. Once again these inventions were hailed as a venturous step forward, a great marveling of humankind. True to effect, they were bought and sold unscrupulously.

But it was in the first new industry that pioneers had been born. These pioneers, having made unimaginable fortunes in transporter technologies, saw the new computational industry as merely a footnote. In keeping with human behavior, they sought other, more profitable applications. There they found the epitaph to Earth’s story.

Several, major manufacturers and military organizations, under the false pretense that someday we would fear militant invasion by extraterrestrials, developed the Particle Bomb. The specifics of its construction were kept secret– unlike the transporter machines, a renowned story of mankind. But it was later tested upon a plot of land in Nevada. It was immediately apparent that something was terribly wrong with this new technology.

Worldwide organizations of peace lobbied for its destruction, pled for disarmament with our allies, whom vowed immediate conflict were the weapons not destroyed. Still the tests continued unabated, and soon their disastrous effects were seen by all.

It seemed an impossible thing to hide from the public’s eye: a portion of the Mojave desert, inhabited only by those few beasts that can live comfortably in such a clime, simply disappeared. The bombs differed so completely from our other weapons as to make Nuclear Fission primitive by comparison. Where an atomic or nuclear weapon exploded, leaving behind radiation, these bombs achieved critical mass. There, their vibrations triggered isolated, earthquake-like tremors. But what was there in place of cracking earth? The horrifying ripping of the seams that held together the fabric of space and time. Whole swaths of reality disappeared, the spans varied by yield.

It was not destruction. It was eradication. To see the Mojave afterward would leave one as empty as it is. The land rises and falls with normality. Then, isolated nothingness– a veritable black hole in the desert without the physical gravity to tear the shattered heart asunder. What a dreadful sight!

Once revealed to the other countries, they offered us an ultimatum; destruction of the bombs, or war. It was challenged, cast aside by the shortsighted leaders whom fought against us. Chaos ensued. The coming wars were swift, bloodshed a given. Those against their enemies equally offered their citizens safe-haven. But a coalition was formed, nuclear weapons of old reintroduced. By war’s end, the whole of North America had become incurably irradiated– but not without a moment’s revenge.

The particle bombs were dropped in clusters, disintegrating masses of Europe and Asia. Beautiful, timeless, mountains; serene brooks and fields; even the occasional, drab beauty of human habitation was cut-clean from existence as though that particular part of the universe had never fully formed. When the dust settled, all were eerily silent.

To tell of the rest would introduce far too many uncertainties, opinions, and speculation. Most of us, the Survivors, have wandered out and around the voids and radiation zones for so long our minds have left sanity behind. Those few who’ve retained that precious commodity have devised new aims for the particle technology: We shall leave this hallowed world, find a place to start anew. Cunningly devised ships, in only a few years time, will transport us to a new world to Terra-form it. One, perhaps, where we may finally learn to co-exist peacefully. Only one thing is certain now; where we go from here, only time may tell.