Tag: War

Short Story: I Remember…

~ S.M. Nolan ~ Leave a comment

I remember the ships that hovered over our world in conquest. I remember it as if it had only just happened. Though it was decades ago now, nothing is so vivid in my mind. They came from the sky on glowing trails, like someone had hurled fire-bombs at us. An apt comparison given what came later. The only difference? They never hit the ground. They never had to. They came to a rest, searing heat and all, just above the tops of the tallest buildings.

I remember sitting on the couch, then later, standing in the streets, seeing the giant television in then times-square that revealed we’d been beaten, or rather surrendered– the beatings came later. I can’t remember those. I don’t want to. What I do remember was wandering, guided by my mother’s hand, through New York’s chaotic streets. I’d never known the scent of fear– real, pure, human terror– until then. It was palpable on the tongue, stank like the homeless did, like we all do now.

My mother… she had a gentleness that died with her, as if the world took such a soft creature to protect her from the wrath her child’s generation would bear. Even now, I remain glad that the madness of those first days claimed her. Though I was terrified and alone for a long while, I knew even then it was safer to be dead than subject to the horrors to come.

The first mistake we made as a civilization was existing. That was all it had taken to bring them from the skies over Alpha Centauri, have their forces launched across the openness of space to our backyard. Before the tele-streams and internet died for good, someone had calculated that they’d left their home system for Earth sometime around the broadcasts of Kennedy’s election, hadn’t arrived until the late 2010’s. It led to our second mistake.

I remembered being eight years old…. Christ, it feels like a life-time ago now. Maybe it was. Eight years old, with a gun shoved into my hands. It was a nine millimeter, fifteen round magazine with a thumb safety, and heavy. I remember that much. With that tool came the first beatings from my own kind, to instill in me how to hold it, aim it, kill with it. All because some armchair-genius had calculated the invaders expected our technology to be stuck in the sixties. What a fool.

It was only later that we learned, collectively, that our technological prowess would have never matched theirs. Not in a million years. They didn’t have to speak, or scream, or fire weapons. They simply arrived and the planet was already conquered. When we took up arms in resistance against our governments’ fealty, we spent immeasurable amounts of ammunition trying to kill them. They took full magazines from whole battalions of armed militias, their bodies riddled with holes, but bled not a single drop of fluid from their leathery hides. They were modern-day Khans, each of them, but even his conquest paled in comparison to theirs.

Their tactic was simple. To remember it now almost makes me laugh, but I can’t. I haven’t known joy or laughter, or anything more than fear for decades. I doubt there’s a human that has. As it was explained by a former-scientist just before his untimely execution, these humanoid creatures have some type of reinforced cartilage across their bodies– like the stuff our noses and joints are made of, but so strong it can withstand the force of bullets. They were walking kevlar, and because of their gel-like skeletons and regenerative abilities, nothing short of a nuclear weapon could stop them. Believe me, we tried them all; grenades, bombs, TNT, nothing worked. We learned that the hard way. Every one of them is like a walking terminator. Every. Single. One. Like those terrifying machines, they have only a goal to achieve– whatever it is– and they eliminate anything in the way of it.

Evidently, Humanity’s a part of that goal, because I remember the day their darkest weapon was revealed. As if compelled to by my own muscles, my body, fraught with the peril a rat faces in a sewer– and stinking like one at that– I encountered one of these invaders.

I was in an alley, running for my life after my militia detachment suddenly fell to the ground, began to seize, writhe, foam at the mouths. A few others and I managed to escape, but were split up. I had learned long ago not to scream nor draw attention. Even so, one of them must have sensed me, pursued me. It cornered me in an alley.

They don’t so much walk as float. Though they have two legs, it seems they’re useless. Their arms work though. I’ve seen it, felt it. They drift, lame, wherever they go. Queer-looking face tentacles take the place of mouths above three-fingered, malformed-hands with claws attached to arms longer than their legs. They make a god-awful sound– like someone’s ground metal against a cheese grater in your ear. It’s paralyzing. Both from fear and an auditory pain that seizes your muscles. It’s not even their greatest weapon– the one they conquered us with, or that I saw that night with my own eyes.

I remember sometimes doing things, even at a young age, and not remembering why I’d begun to do them or how. It was as if I simply materialized into the middle of an action, forgot everything about it. They have this way of doing that to you; making you freeze, drop your weapon, lie. For years, we thought we were gaining ground on them, and had received numerous reports about their deaths. We’d heard the war-stories of units that felled them in battle, and even I suspected the scientist’s words had been erroneous, that they could be killed.

How wrong I was. How wrong we all were.

They were lies; every story, every battle scar, ever supposed death of an invader. They’d fabricated the memories in the militia’s minds, used them as walking surveillance drones. They kept mental links through some kind of ESP, allowed them to spread their stories through the militias. Those stories flared into hope for victory, spread like wild-fires around the world. My best friend, the only person I trusted, was one of their plants. What she and I shared… it was the closest thing to joy left in the world. Even still, we could never smile. All of it was lies.

It’s been decades since they first came, and now all hope is lost. We know now what happened, even though we can’t remember how, or why we missed it. I remember hearing from a medic after a patrol that a person will sometimes forget the moments before and after a traumatic experience, sometimes including the trauma itself. It just sort of gets buried in your mind, so impossible to cope with you literally can’t. You fabricate things to put in its place, or else lose time altogether. It has something to do with an electrical overload in the brain that doesn’t allow memories to consciously form.

All I know is what happened after the raids. As if in a flash, we went from believing we might one day win, to knowing there was never been a fight to begin with. They simply appeared– walked in the front door as it were, and we were disarmed. Not a single one of us took up our weapons to fight. We couldn’t. We’d been brain-hacked, mind-controlled not to.

Now, I stand jam-packed with three-hundred other humans in a cage no bigger than a dozen feet squared, like cattle on a killing-floor. I don’t know where we are, or where we’re going, but I remember how we got here. I remember smiling and joy and happiness that once made days of sadness and sorrow worthwhile. But now all I know is despair and the sickly putrescence of two-hundred-odd other bodies smothering me. I forget my name, my friends’ names, even my home. But somehow, I remember my mother’s gentleness. I miss her. I miss the warmth of summer sun, and of childhood– what little of it I had– and the taste of fresh-water. I remember all of the good that came before the bad, something I cannot forget despite the doom we all face.

Maybe one day there will be hope again. Maybe not. All I know is that I remember it….

Poetry-Thing Thursday: The Shelter

~ S.M. Nolan ~ Leave a comment

The Shelter

 

In the shelter,

there is no happiness, no hope.

Our only home,

is desperation,

a levee soon broke.

 

With wide gaze,

we look into the beyond.

Through an unbidden haze,

of the generations gone.

 

Day comes with darkness,

night turns to light.

We hope for attrition,

some end to the fight.

 

Still we continue,

for reasons unknown.

Someone is watching.

Our hands raw to the bone.

 

In all our existence,

there is but one.

Who comes from happenstance,

for all or for none?

 

Scraps of humanity,

are all that’s contained.

Here in the shelter,

where it never rains.

 

In time we’ll die,

as more will rise.

Those that’ll cry,

forever reprise.

 

Here in the shelter,

where we bleed for power,

beat the last hearts of mankind,

that forever cower.

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.

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.