Author's Note:
This is the first chapter to my upcoming debut novel, Sulcrus. This is my first work in the Science Fiction/Fantasy genre.
Chapter 1: Atmospheres
Wandu: Planet in Sulcrus Galaxy
She swam to the edge of the water, reached for the rocky ledge, and climbed out of the deep riverbank onto a grassy surface. She looked young. Long black hair and brown garments covered her modestly. She walked the edge of the crystal river, humming in sync with the native birds of her planet. Her hips swayed gently with each step as she now walked on solid rock. The path narrowed as she advanced. She was forced to walk closer to the river with only a couple feet between the river and the now thirty-foot-high wall beside her right arm. Water began to gush over the top of the wall and over her head, landing loudly in the swimming hole beside her. She was walking through a tunnel created in part by the rock wall and in part by the wide waterfall. She sat down against the wall, looked up, and watched the water soar over her head and explode into the water in front of her.
Her name was Ulani. She looked Wandulian, but her heritage was unknown. She was a prophetess, pointy-eared and copper-skinned, and for as long as anyone could remember, she never aged. She had an unyielding radiance, supple skin and glowing eyes. Even the old and dying women knew her the same a hundred years ago. Her lived years were a mystery, many said that the woman herself didn’t know them, that thousands of years had blurred her memory. Some of the Priests of Light traced her origin back to the First Age; claiming she had been the child of a rebellious spirit and a Wandulian princess — but this was all speculation.
She had eaten the underground fruits of the Misty Wood in the morning. A long walk followed her meal, the suns moved across the sky in the afternoon, and she arrived at this place of solitude. She came here to pray, beneath the suns and beneath the bright stars. She sensed the ancient kings and forefathers looked down on her from the sky. She felt the all-consuming and fiery presence of the One they called Ilham.
The waterfall came over her head and landed far enough away from the edge of the river to leave space for fish to swim next to her. This created a loud bubble that closed her off from the rest of Wandu. The fish flirted with where escaped drops hit the surface of the water. Ulani stretched her thin arm down into the pool, allowing the blue fish to play with her hand. They encircled it and occasionally nibbled on her fingers — she imagined her old sauro swimming up from the deep and taking them, with that mythical and devouring mouth it once had.
. . . . . . . .
Earth: Planet in Milky Way Galaxy
BOOM! -- a grenade exploded behind him, slinging mud and water all over his backside. He fell down behind a metal crate. He slowly rose to get a better view and — SKURTCH! — a bullet skimmed his helmet, peeling off flakes of grey paint.
“Geeze,” Josh said as he caught his breath. The noise of gunfire sent trickling chills down his spine. The explosions nearby shook his body like an earthquake. He looked around the side of the crate, scanning what he was up against.
There was an all-metal fort. On its roof stood a man operating a turret, a hologram shield floated around his headrest. The bottom of the fort was guarded by three men who were waiting for him to make a move. He looked both ways and made a run for another crate. Halfway between the two crates he slipped in the mud. As soon as he stood to his feet — TA-TA-TA-TA-TA-TA — the turret filled him up with bullets, causing him to fall backwards into the deep mud.
“TURN IT OFF!” yelled an angry and fuzzy voice.
An eclectic sequence of beeps sounded, and the metal building began to fade into colorless sheetrock. The bullets dissolved into rubber pellets and the men ahead turned into combat robots. The only thing that did not digitally change was the mud and grassy midland between the two forts.
“Get your things son. The captain wants to see you… ASAP!” yelled the voice over the speaker again.
He grabbed a gray duffle bag with the words “Joshua Stokes” written across it and left the battlefield. Many of his classmates were watching from above the simulation arena, shaking their heads in disappointment as they began to move to their next classes.
Joshua slung his bag against the metal door to his locker. The smell of sweat ran deep into the stone walls of the old combat locker room, the air felt like sawdust, and the constant showering kept things humid. A fifty-two-star American flag hung from the roof at one end of the narrow room. It was scuffed up and smelled like soil. Legend was that the combat troops who defended Israel in 2080 had dressed in this very room, most of them were killed in battle. Josh looked at his last name printed across his locker. He never felt so out of place.
He threw his shirt off and detached the armored chest plate beneath it. He exhaled as the pressure of the bullet impacts released from his flesh. The sounds of water falling and landing on the tile ahead called him. He tiresomely turned the knob and let the warm water run over him.
He had a prominent, nineteen-year-old jaw line and a straight nose. Everyone’s parents said he looked like John Tregotty — a heartthrob from their generation. He was relatively tall and naturally muscular. His countenance pronounced wisdom beyond his years, and his work ethic followed suit. It was only the beginning of his freshman year, and most of his academic professors already held him in high esteem.
He was majoring in IGRRAT (Intergalactic Relations, Research and Trade), a degree only offered at the NEC. He became aware of it just before he graduated with the class of 2094. Since his dyslexia had tripped up his performance on the high school assessments, he was forced to apply for the military program at North Emeryx. In so doing, he agreed to be trained as a foot soldier while he pursued his degree, and to be a soldier upon graduation for two years. In return, he would receive full financial support. To him it was a deal with the Devil.
He dried off and put on his military formal clothing: an all grey, tight-fitting suit with black boots and a black belt. A patch was Velcroed above his left chest. It pictured the yellow and striped flag of the NEC. He combed his hair, tightened his boots, and headed for Captain Jackson’s office. Unfortunately, the quickest way there meant crossing the men’s dormitory.
While walking down the wide halls, he had to deal with the classic remarks pertaining to someone getting called into the Captain’s office. The whistles, the “Ooooooh’s,” and the ever-so-sweet slaps in the rear. Students came out of their dorm rooms as they learned of the spectacle. Josh never got into trouble. He did his work and he kept his head low. The whole crew had to take an opportunity to tease the man while they had the chance.
Josh finally made his way well beyond the unignorable male egos and proceeded. The door to the office was only around the next corner. With every step in the now quiet hall he felt more nervous. The air blew from the high ceilings and moved his brown hair. He kept taking deep breaths to try and calm himself as he repositioned his damp hair. A young lady professor in lab goggles and a white coat rounded the corner. He held his breath and attempted to look calm until she passed.
He slowed his walking pace. He crept up and stood at the office door. “Cpt. Jackson,” read the sign. He placed his hand on the door softly and paused. He thought of the lashing he would get for failing his Foot Soldier Techniques final for the third time in a row. The NEC didn’t need to be forgiving, he thought, there were plenty of others who would love to take his place. He noticed the door was cracked. He heard people speaking.
“So, there you have it. That’s all I can tell you about the project right now,” the deep voice said before coughing, “and that’s actually where you become relevant. You’re just the type of student we believe can take us to the next level.”
No reply from the person sitting across from the Captain. Josh thought to himself that it must be a woman (judging by her name), and she must be blushing with all that praise. He took a seat next to the door and leaned in close to hear more.
“Your grades are great and Dr. Demit recommended you, so I wanted to offer you the opportunity to do this in lieu of the Pledge Program.” He took a sip of something, must have been hot, considering he blew a gust of air before he sipped again. “Well, what do you say?”
“I would have to be crazy to refuse an offer like that, sir.” the woman assured. She spoke with a soft and confident tone.
“Alright, it’s all settled then.” the Captain said with enthusiasm. Josh heard some typing on a keyboard, “Tomorrow at 0600, Dr. Demit wants you in the tech lab, he’s working on a new insulation for the ship. I mean project. He’ll also have some scheduling things to go over with you.”
“Thank you so much for this opportunity, sir.” she said as a couple chairs slid across the floor.
Claire’s hip rammed his should as she walked past. She didn’t notice him. She walked down the wide military hallway with the confident strut of a woman who earned her place. She was dressed in her formal uniform. Her black belt displayed her hourglass figure, and her blonde hair was in a neat ponytail. She seemed fairly tall for a woman, but he was sitting down.
To him, everything she did was in slow motion, her every move was captured. She turned to talk to a passing friend — he was hoping to get a glimpse of her face. She began informing the girl of her recent ennoblement, which led to her laughing and smiling so big he couldn’t help but smile himself. Her teeth were white and symmetrical. Her eyebrows were light brown, wholesome. Her countenance bore the bright brilliance of a young scientist.
She rolled her eyes as she deflected the praise of her friend; she then pushed her friend on the shoulder to insinuate that her friend was more deserving than herself. He read the words on her lips, “Thank you so much,” as they escaped as white letters from her mouth. She made her farewell and turned to walk away, her blonde ponytail waved back and forth like a pendulum with each step.
“You got an eye for Claire Fairbanks, huh?” Captain Jackson said with his arms crossed, interrupting his thought process.
“Oh… um, what do you mean? I mean — I uh — I wasn’t watching her or anything, I just happened to be looking in that general direction when —”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah… whatever you say, son,” the man interrupted sharply as he let his arms down. “I got good news for you. You’ll be seeing a lot more of her soon.”
. . . . . . . .
“I’ve decided to release two students from their commitment to the Pledge Program in return for their help with a special project.” stated Jackson conspicuously, his head was abnormally large, fat and square. He sat across from him, behind his glass-topped wooden desk. The room smelled like paper and coffee. The window behind covered the tall wall. The man’s left chest was more decorated with combat medals than the rest of the NEC’s staff combined — excluding, of course, President Grey, he and the Captain were part of the few soldiers to return in 2080.
He went on, “Obviously, I’ve chosen you and Claire based on your academic performance. Clearly, you’re not the soldier type. You’ve failed your FST final three times.” He raised his eyebrows judgmentally as he stood to his feet. He moseyed to the window. The sun warmed him as he looked out at the courtyard.
So why me? Josh wondered.
The Captain turned to face him. His expression changed and relaxed, seemingly against his own will, “I know what you’re thinking. Why you? Well… Dr. Demit recommended you. I don’t always agree with the man, but he knows more about this type of thing than myself, as much as I hate to admit it. And, of course, we do need youth for this mission… I mean project!” He then whispered to himself a few curse words, and that he needed to quit saying mission.
“What’s the project?” Josh asked with a timid voice.
Jackson looked surprised that he asked a question, he appeared offended as he responded, “Demit will explain when you meet with him. Trust me, it’s right up your alley if you’re an IGRRAT nerd. So, are you interested?”
Josh wondered if he had a choice. The Captain had been known to kick kids out of school on a whim, if for no other reason than that he hated the way they looked. It was Trevor Linnings at the beginning of the year, he had told him the first day that he didn’t like his face — it unfortunately happened to be quite odd. Every day after he became nastier and crueler until he finally told him to pack his bags and leave. Regardless, Josh could not have been happier to escape the grips of what he called the Death Program.
“Yes sir.” Josh said optimistically.
Jackson smiled, “Great! Tomorrow, at 0600, Demit wants you in the tech lab. You’ll be working on… let’s see here,” he flipped through the stack of papers on his desk, “insulation for the ship. And of course, Ms. Fairbanks will be working alongside you.”
“The ship?” Josh asked.
“You think I was going to let SpaceTrek get all the glory?” Jackson replied arrogantly. “Oh, and that’s another thing,” he remembered, “everything you do in the lab is strictly confidential. You can’t discuss any of it with anyone outside of those rooms, not even me.”
Josh nodded.
“You mean, ‘yes sir.’” he corrected.
“Yes sir!” Josh replied as he stood to his feet. He was quite excited.
“Good. Now get the heck out of my office!” he said as his face returned to its usual, bitter bite.
Josh left Captain Jackson’s office beaming with pride. His cheeks were rosy. His heart was racing. He felt like he was finally getting his big chance. The left side of the hallway was a window which spanned from floor to ceiling and ran down its entirety. Josh paused halfway down and looked out into the light of the sun. It blinded him at first, but the warmth made him comfortable — it made him want to stay and look awhile — perhaps even lean against the window and nap. His heart rate slowed.
When his vision came to, he could see the arena where he had recently made a fool of himself. He could see a small city a few miles in the distance, and the greenery that rolled over the sharp mountains between. He took a deep breath as if it would be the last time he would see such a view. He turned and went back to his dormitory to do some research on insulation.
. . . . . . . .
“Dude, you are such a jerk-wad,” stated Josh’s obnoxious roommate.
“Why, because I don’t have to be a slave to the Death Program anymore?” asked Josh, sounding irritated.
“Exactly! We were supposed to be miserable together!” Josh’s roommate began to crack a smile.
“You’re right Riveran, I should have thought of that before I accepted. I better go tell the captain I can’t do it anymore.” his expression returned to normal.
“Yes, thank you, that’s what a real friend would do.” said Riveran with a laugh as he laid on his twin mattress.
“You know, I’m not going to miss training with you guys one bit.” Josh said as he typed on his computer across the room.
“Yeah, I wouldn’t either.” he said as he threw a tennis ball against the roof and caught it. “If I was smart enough to get out of the program, I would in a heartbeat. Too bad I’m a moron.”
Josh looked slightly annoyed by the ball but continued, “What do you know about Claire Fairbanks?”
“Claire Fairbanks.” Riveran repeated curiously. “Never heard of her. She must not party.” His face then enlightened as the lightbulb turned on. “Is this girl in the program with you? I should’ve known. Ole’ Josh, getting into the space program for a girl,” Riveran spoke with sarcasm, as always, “Should I be offended that you’ve traded our friendship for a babe?”
Josh gave no response.
“Well, she won’t talk to you anyways. You’re way too nice,” Riveran said confidently. “Girls like jerks, like me.” He pointed to himself with his thumb before tossing the ball again. “She’ll talk to you one time, realize you’re a nice guy, and move on. If anything, she’ll put you in the friend zone quicker than you can learn her middle name. The only action you’ll get will be when you get to listen to her talk about other men. Trust me man, I see it all the time; then I scoop in, treat the girl like dirt, sleep with her, and move on. It’s a viscous cycle that I’ve been taking advantage of for years. You can either own the game or —”
“Let me stop you right there, buddy,” Josh said to stifle his rant. “No good girl wants to be treated like dirt. Dirt likes dirt, and that’s why they like you.” he said with a smirk.
“Aren’t you a gentleman,” Riveran said sarcastically as he continued his twisted thought pattern, “Women today don’t respond to people like you. They want one thing, and they want it with a jerk for some reason. I don’t argue with it. I just reap the benefits of it.”
Josh opened his laptop and began typing.
Riveran argued with Josh all the time, whether he thought Josh was wrong or not didn’t matter to him, he just liked the banter. There did, however, always seem to be some effect of Josh’s words on Riveran, something about his innocent nature rubbed off on him. Riveran would never admit it, but he reflected often on Josh’s worldview — his belief in God, his respect for authority, and of course, his gentlemanly approach to dating, they were so foreign to his own ideals that they seemed to stick around in his brain for a while after their encounters.
. . . . . . . .
Comuco: Planet in Sulcrus Galaxy
A powerful green hand burst through the interior of a hollow root to grab hold of a fen. The hand pulled the purple creature by the ankle back into the root, skinning it clean on its way down, sending feathers flying. It was here, in the dark hollow underneath the earth, that the beast snapped the neck of the innocent prey and slid the carcass into his haversack.
The monster was green all over, broad, and about twice the size of a human; his muscles popped out of every inch of his body; his teeth were sharp; some were long enough to hang over his bottom lips. His head was shaped like an ape’s; he had long and braided black hair, but it was pulled back and hung gently down his back, tucked behind a tan backpack.
The alien’s name was Mercum, or “Merc” as his tribe called him. What was most noticeable about him, though, was a red birthmark on his face. It ran across his left eye and came down his nose. It was undeniable. It contrasted greatly with his green complexion. The village doctor said it was simply a “discoloration of the skin,” but the village people believed it had a much darker explanation. Some even said that he was possessed by the Dark Lord, who is known by all of Sulcrus as the Principalian who rebelled against the great Creator.
The village people had good reason to believe such a thing; after all, it was right after he was born, with that stunning red across his face, that darkness fell over their entire planet. It was immediate, surely it had not been a coincidence. Dark clouds have consumed the sky ever since, blocking out the two suns that used to radiate Comuco with glory. Most of the plant life went extinct shortly after this event — except, of course, those rare and unfruitful species that could withstand such conditions. Those mostly undesirable in appearance and taste.
Mercum looked up through the hole he had formed to check the time of day. He quickly saw a thrust of lightning rip across the sky so loudly it hurt his ears. It was time to get back. The dark storms that often characterized a night on Comuco would soon be coming. The rain that followed would be tremendous and dangerous. The surest way to die outside the village would be to get caught in a muddy ditch whilst golf ball sized raindrops drowned you from overhead. His mother would kill him if mother nature didn’t first.
He slung his club over his shoulder and began a jog homeward. The blood rushed to his face as did the humidity, but soon he was in a rhythm. His mind began to wander as he scaled the landscape he knew by heart.
He reflected on the days when his father took him hunting. It was exactly ten years before this very moment, when he was just a youngling. The hunting and farming were split between the two of them in those days. Now, it was just Merc, and he alone had to provide for his poor mother. He thought about what happened to his father the day the Oppressors came. It was a rainy day just like this one, as was disturbingly too common and too gloomy.
The boy and his father were both ready to give up when they saw a herd of lakas trampling through the sumick trees. They ran alongside the galloping creatures, watching and waiting until they could find an opportunity to strike one down. These brutes were very large, their skin was slimy, their four legs were long and thick — which made them difficult to take down — and their heads closely resembled that of a shark, with rows of teeth going back into their skulls as far as one was willing to look. Needless to say, when provoked, they didn’t have a problem devouring another lifeform.
As the pair ran alongside the herd, one of the lakas got off track and became separated from the pack. This was their chance. Mamos pulled out his club and threw it harshly towards its front legs; with one sweeping force, it broke them both. The beast yelled for help, but the herd didn’t pay any attention, you left the protection of the group at your own risk.
Merc and Mamos circled the beast, opposite one another to confuse it, as it roared back and forth at them in anguish. His father gave Merc a quick look in the eye and he knew exactly what to do. He drew an arrow with his bow. He pulled it back with his young and weak muscles. The sweat from his brow slid down his mark, making him want to touch his face. He aimed at its forehead. Before he let the arrow go, he had a brief conviction about the writhing animal. Before Merc was born, Comucian villagers said they had conversations with the lakas, but his father assured him that they were liars, superstitions who wanted him to feel as though he was the reason their world was dying. Regardless, as gross and demented as the animal looked, he still hated to end the life of it. But the villagers’ stomachs needed him to be heartless. He exhaled as he released, pinning the sharp arrowhead in the back of the beast’s skull. He wiped his indifferent face.
The pair chopped up the beast, created a pallet out of smooth bark, and pulled the remains towards the village.
Spacecraft thrusters radiated deafening blasts ahead of them. Merc’s heart dropped when he heard. They dropped the pallet ropes and ran towards the village with their primitive weapons. Mamos got in front with his powerful stride. Soon he disappeared beyond the thin vegetation. The speed with which he ran scared Mercum.
A few minutes later he heard the rage of blaster fire — at the time he had not known what it was, but a feeling of terror and fear came over him nonetheless. A tingling sensation trickled down his spine with each discharge of the blasters. The rain increased; he was soaking wet when he slipped in the mud. It drenched him and the thunder roared. He picked himself up, his young heart beating rapidly.
He arrived to demolished chaos: blaster holes, burning homes, broken stones, screaming women and running children. All the carcasses he saw were male, the soldiers were rounding up the rest of them. The state of the dead bodies signified the brutality by which they had been dealt.
Mercum stepped onto the bloody stones of the village well. His father’s friend, Kur, had been sliced in half, his innards spilled out on the grey stones their forefather Yocab had placed there when he wed the daughter of Mannassa. Mercum didn’t want to see the weapon that was capable of such a thing. The rain had settled to a light drizzle, it hardly washed the wealth of blood from around his green, twelve-year-old feet. His scrawny arms were shaking violently. Where was his father? He fell to his knees in tears as those in dark armor paid him no attention, and the women and children ran from their grasps.
He looked up; his father slung his spiked club into the neck of one of them, ending him silently while protecting his mother from their capture. Mercum ran towards them, his legs weak. They weren’t far, just across the dirt courtyard, he remembered. He had then dropped to his knees when he heard the noise; blaster fire skimmed over his head; he could have died that very moment.
He looked up from the moist dirt; hundreds of dark ships soared beneath the cloudy sky. He could smell the thruster fuel; he could feel the heat. He stood to his feet again and ran towards them. His mother stood behind Mamos, screaming hysterically as he sparred with the butt of another’s blaster.
The Oppressor — as those serving the Dark Lord were called — knocked his father’s club out of his hand with a blaster beam, slammed him against their home with a shove, and shot him in the forehead before Merc arrived. Mamos’ strong body slid down the wall as his legs dug into the soil, motionless. He would never forget the blank, indifferent stare his lifeless face had given him when he arrived. The man who had once rolled the olden stones to make the way to new farmlands, could now only stare, hopelessly.
Mercum picked up his father’s hand from the dirt. He squeezed it strongly. Father, I love you, he had said in tears, don’t leave us father, I love you. He wiped his face with his muddy hands, please come back, father, I love you. He hoped for a miracle from Ilham, but none came, only the insolent flame that took his form into the Next World a day later.
His father’s murderer dragged his mother away. She had not resisted him, her face hopeless and forlorn.
From that day forward, the Oppressors established their wicked system. The men who grew up with Mercum served as slaves for them, mining the dangerous caves and pits they had dug for minerals, which were then loaded and transported off the planet. Some women became cooks, others who were weak or lucky enough not to be needed were left alone.
Mercum stopped to catch his breath. The village was ahead. Much of it had been rebuilt since they had come, but the spirit of the people had never been the same. He picked up the pace again, carrying a little food and remorse for the ten-year anniversary of his father’s death.
She swam to the edge of the water, reached for the rocky ledge, and climbed out of the deep riverbank onto a grassy surface. She looked young. Long black hair and brown garments covered her modestly. She walked the edge of the crystal river, humming in sync with the native birds of her planet. Her hips swayed gently with each step as she now walked on solid rock. The path narrowed as she advanced. She was forced to walk closer to the river with only a couple feet between the river and the now thirty-foot-high wall beside her right arm. Water began to gush over the top of the wall and over her head, landing loudly in the swimming hole beside her. She was walking through a tunnel created in part by the rock wall and in part by the wide waterfall. She sat down against the wall, looked up, and watched the water soar over her head and explode into the water in front of her.
Her name was Ulani. She looked Wandulian, but her heritage was unknown. She was a prophetess, pointy-eared and copper-skinned, and for as long as anyone could remember, she never aged. She had an unyielding radiance, supple skin and glowing eyes. Even the old and dying women knew her the same a hundred years ago. Her lived years were a mystery, many said that the woman herself didn’t know them, that thousands of years had blurred her memory. Some of the Priests of Light traced her origin back to the First Age; claiming she had been the child of a rebellious spirit and a Wandulian princess — but this was all speculation.
She had eaten the underground fruits of the Misty Wood in the morning. A long walk followed her meal, the suns moved across the sky in the afternoon, and she arrived at this place of solitude. She came here to pray, beneath the suns and beneath the bright stars. She sensed the ancient kings and forefathers looked down on her from the sky. She felt the all-consuming and fiery presence of the One they called Ilham.
The waterfall came over her head and landed far enough away from the edge of the river to leave space for fish to swim next to her. This created a loud bubble that closed her off from the rest of Wandu. The fish flirted with where escaped drops hit the surface of the water. Ulani stretched her thin arm down into the pool, allowing the blue fish to play with her hand. They encircled it and occasionally nibbled on her fingers — she imagined her old sauro swimming up from the deep and taking them, with that mythical and devouring mouth it once had.
. . . . . . . .
Earth: Planet in Milky Way Galaxy
BOOM! -- a grenade exploded behind him, slinging mud and water all over his backside. He fell down behind a metal crate. He slowly rose to get a better view and — SKURTCH! — a bullet skimmed his helmet, peeling off flakes of grey paint.
“Geeze,” Josh said as he caught his breath. The noise of gunfire sent trickling chills down his spine. The explosions nearby shook his body like an earthquake. He looked around the side of the crate, scanning what he was up against.
There was an all-metal fort. On its roof stood a man operating a turret, a hologram shield floated around his headrest. The bottom of the fort was guarded by three men who were waiting for him to make a move. He looked both ways and made a run for another crate. Halfway between the two crates he slipped in the mud. As soon as he stood to his feet — TA-TA-TA-TA-TA-TA — the turret filled him up with bullets, causing him to fall backwards into the deep mud.
“TURN IT OFF!” yelled an angry and fuzzy voice.
An eclectic sequence of beeps sounded, and the metal building began to fade into colorless sheetrock. The bullets dissolved into rubber pellets and the men ahead turned into combat robots. The only thing that did not digitally change was the mud and grassy midland between the two forts.
“Get your things son. The captain wants to see you… ASAP!” yelled the voice over the speaker again.
He grabbed a gray duffle bag with the words “Joshua Stokes” written across it and left the battlefield. Many of his classmates were watching from above the simulation arena, shaking their heads in disappointment as they began to move to their next classes.
Joshua slung his bag against the metal door to his locker. The smell of sweat ran deep into the stone walls of the old combat locker room, the air felt like sawdust, and the constant showering kept things humid. A fifty-two-star American flag hung from the roof at one end of the narrow room. It was scuffed up and smelled like soil. Legend was that the combat troops who defended Israel in 2080 had dressed in this very room, most of them were killed in battle. Josh looked at his last name printed across his locker. He never felt so out of place.
He threw his shirt off and detached the armored chest plate beneath it. He exhaled as the pressure of the bullet impacts released from his flesh. The sounds of water falling and landing on the tile ahead called him. He tiresomely turned the knob and let the warm water run over him.
He had a prominent, nineteen-year-old jaw line and a straight nose. Everyone’s parents said he looked like John Tregotty — a heartthrob from their generation. He was relatively tall and naturally muscular. His countenance pronounced wisdom beyond his years, and his work ethic followed suit. It was only the beginning of his freshman year, and most of his academic professors already held him in high esteem.
He was majoring in IGRRAT (Intergalactic Relations, Research and Trade), a degree only offered at the NEC. He became aware of it just before he graduated with the class of 2094. Since his dyslexia had tripped up his performance on the high school assessments, he was forced to apply for the military program at North Emeryx. In so doing, he agreed to be trained as a foot soldier while he pursued his degree, and to be a soldier upon graduation for two years. In return, he would receive full financial support. To him it was a deal with the Devil.
He dried off and put on his military formal clothing: an all grey, tight-fitting suit with black boots and a black belt. A patch was Velcroed above his left chest. It pictured the yellow and striped flag of the NEC. He combed his hair, tightened his boots, and headed for Captain Jackson’s office. Unfortunately, the quickest way there meant crossing the men’s dormitory.
While walking down the wide halls, he had to deal with the classic remarks pertaining to someone getting called into the Captain’s office. The whistles, the “Ooooooh’s,” and the ever-so-sweet slaps in the rear. Students came out of their dorm rooms as they learned of the spectacle. Josh never got into trouble. He did his work and he kept his head low. The whole crew had to take an opportunity to tease the man while they had the chance.
Josh finally made his way well beyond the unignorable male egos and proceeded. The door to the office was only around the next corner. With every step in the now quiet hall he felt more nervous. The air blew from the high ceilings and moved his brown hair. He kept taking deep breaths to try and calm himself as he repositioned his damp hair. A young lady professor in lab goggles and a white coat rounded the corner. He held his breath and attempted to look calm until she passed.
He slowed his walking pace. He crept up and stood at the office door. “Cpt. Jackson,” read the sign. He placed his hand on the door softly and paused. He thought of the lashing he would get for failing his Foot Soldier Techniques final for the third time in a row. The NEC didn’t need to be forgiving, he thought, there were plenty of others who would love to take his place. He noticed the door was cracked. He heard people speaking.
“So, there you have it. That’s all I can tell you about the project right now,” the deep voice said before coughing, “and that’s actually where you become relevant. You’re just the type of student we believe can take us to the next level.”
No reply from the person sitting across from the Captain. Josh thought to himself that it must be a woman (judging by her name), and she must be blushing with all that praise. He took a seat next to the door and leaned in close to hear more.
“Your grades are great and Dr. Demit recommended you, so I wanted to offer you the opportunity to do this in lieu of the Pledge Program.” He took a sip of something, must have been hot, considering he blew a gust of air before he sipped again. “Well, what do you say?”
“I would have to be crazy to refuse an offer like that, sir.” the woman assured. She spoke with a soft and confident tone.
“Alright, it’s all settled then.” the Captain said with enthusiasm. Josh heard some typing on a keyboard, “Tomorrow at 0600, Dr. Demit wants you in the tech lab, he’s working on a new insulation for the ship. I mean project. He’ll also have some scheduling things to go over with you.”
“Thank you so much for this opportunity, sir.” she said as a couple chairs slid across the floor.
Claire’s hip rammed his should as she walked past. She didn’t notice him. She walked down the wide military hallway with the confident strut of a woman who earned her place. She was dressed in her formal uniform. Her black belt displayed her hourglass figure, and her blonde hair was in a neat ponytail. She seemed fairly tall for a woman, but he was sitting down.
To him, everything she did was in slow motion, her every move was captured. She turned to talk to a passing friend — he was hoping to get a glimpse of her face. She began informing the girl of her recent ennoblement, which led to her laughing and smiling so big he couldn’t help but smile himself. Her teeth were white and symmetrical. Her eyebrows were light brown, wholesome. Her countenance bore the bright brilliance of a young scientist.
She rolled her eyes as she deflected the praise of her friend; she then pushed her friend on the shoulder to insinuate that her friend was more deserving than herself. He read the words on her lips, “Thank you so much,” as they escaped as white letters from her mouth. She made her farewell and turned to walk away, her blonde ponytail waved back and forth like a pendulum with each step.
“You got an eye for Claire Fairbanks, huh?” Captain Jackson said with his arms crossed, interrupting his thought process.
“Oh… um, what do you mean? I mean — I uh — I wasn’t watching her or anything, I just happened to be looking in that general direction when —”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah… whatever you say, son,” the man interrupted sharply as he let his arms down. “I got good news for you. You’ll be seeing a lot more of her soon.”
. . . . . . . .
“I’ve decided to release two students from their commitment to the Pledge Program in return for their help with a special project.” stated Jackson conspicuously, his head was abnormally large, fat and square. He sat across from him, behind his glass-topped wooden desk. The room smelled like paper and coffee. The window behind covered the tall wall. The man’s left chest was more decorated with combat medals than the rest of the NEC’s staff combined — excluding, of course, President Grey, he and the Captain were part of the few soldiers to return in 2080.
He went on, “Obviously, I’ve chosen you and Claire based on your academic performance. Clearly, you’re not the soldier type. You’ve failed your FST final three times.” He raised his eyebrows judgmentally as he stood to his feet. He moseyed to the window. The sun warmed him as he looked out at the courtyard.
So why me? Josh wondered.
The Captain turned to face him. His expression changed and relaxed, seemingly against his own will, “I know what you’re thinking. Why you? Well… Dr. Demit recommended you. I don’t always agree with the man, but he knows more about this type of thing than myself, as much as I hate to admit it. And, of course, we do need youth for this mission… I mean project!” He then whispered to himself a few curse words, and that he needed to quit saying mission.
“What’s the project?” Josh asked with a timid voice.
Jackson looked surprised that he asked a question, he appeared offended as he responded, “Demit will explain when you meet with him. Trust me, it’s right up your alley if you’re an IGRRAT nerd. So, are you interested?”
Josh wondered if he had a choice. The Captain had been known to kick kids out of school on a whim, if for no other reason than that he hated the way they looked. It was Trevor Linnings at the beginning of the year, he had told him the first day that he didn’t like his face — it unfortunately happened to be quite odd. Every day after he became nastier and crueler until he finally told him to pack his bags and leave. Regardless, Josh could not have been happier to escape the grips of what he called the Death Program.
“Yes sir.” Josh said optimistically.
Jackson smiled, “Great! Tomorrow, at 0600, Demit wants you in the tech lab. You’ll be working on… let’s see here,” he flipped through the stack of papers on his desk, “insulation for the ship. And of course, Ms. Fairbanks will be working alongside you.”
“The ship?” Josh asked.
“You think I was going to let SpaceTrek get all the glory?” Jackson replied arrogantly. “Oh, and that’s another thing,” he remembered, “everything you do in the lab is strictly confidential. You can’t discuss any of it with anyone outside of those rooms, not even me.”
Josh nodded.
“You mean, ‘yes sir.’” he corrected.
“Yes sir!” Josh replied as he stood to his feet. He was quite excited.
“Good. Now get the heck out of my office!” he said as his face returned to its usual, bitter bite.
Josh left Captain Jackson’s office beaming with pride. His cheeks were rosy. His heart was racing. He felt like he was finally getting his big chance. The left side of the hallway was a window which spanned from floor to ceiling and ran down its entirety. Josh paused halfway down and looked out into the light of the sun. It blinded him at first, but the warmth made him comfortable — it made him want to stay and look awhile — perhaps even lean against the window and nap. His heart rate slowed.
When his vision came to, he could see the arena where he had recently made a fool of himself. He could see a small city a few miles in the distance, and the greenery that rolled over the sharp mountains between. He took a deep breath as if it would be the last time he would see such a view. He turned and went back to his dormitory to do some research on insulation.
. . . . . . . .
“Dude, you are such a jerk-wad,” stated Josh’s obnoxious roommate.
“Why, because I don’t have to be a slave to the Death Program anymore?” asked Josh, sounding irritated.
“Exactly! We were supposed to be miserable together!” Josh’s roommate began to crack a smile.
“You’re right Riveran, I should have thought of that before I accepted. I better go tell the captain I can’t do it anymore.” his expression returned to normal.
“Yes, thank you, that’s what a real friend would do.” said Riveran with a laugh as he laid on his twin mattress.
“You know, I’m not going to miss training with you guys one bit.” Josh said as he typed on his computer across the room.
“Yeah, I wouldn’t either.” he said as he threw a tennis ball against the roof and caught it. “If I was smart enough to get out of the program, I would in a heartbeat. Too bad I’m a moron.”
Josh looked slightly annoyed by the ball but continued, “What do you know about Claire Fairbanks?”
“Claire Fairbanks.” Riveran repeated curiously. “Never heard of her. She must not party.” His face then enlightened as the lightbulb turned on. “Is this girl in the program with you? I should’ve known. Ole’ Josh, getting into the space program for a girl,” Riveran spoke with sarcasm, as always, “Should I be offended that you’ve traded our friendship for a babe?”
Josh gave no response.
“Well, she won’t talk to you anyways. You’re way too nice,” Riveran said confidently. “Girls like jerks, like me.” He pointed to himself with his thumb before tossing the ball again. “She’ll talk to you one time, realize you’re a nice guy, and move on. If anything, she’ll put you in the friend zone quicker than you can learn her middle name. The only action you’ll get will be when you get to listen to her talk about other men. Trust me man, I see it all the time; then I scoop in, treat the girl like dirt, sleep with her, and move on. It’s a viscous cycle that I’ve been taking advantage of for years. You can either own the game or —”
“Let me stop you right there, buddy,” Josh said to stifle his rant. “No good girl wants to be treated like dirt. Dirt likes dirt, and that’s why they like you.” he said with a smirk.
“Aren’t you a gentleman,” Riveran said sarcastically as he continued his twisted thought pattern, “Women today don’t respond to people like you. They want one thing, and they want it with a jerk for some reason. I don’t argue with it. I just reap the benefits of it.”
Josh opened his laptop and began typing.
Riveran argued with Josh all the time, whether he thought Josh was wrong or not didn’t matter to him, he just liked the banter. There did, however, always seem to be some effect of Josh’s words on Riveran, something about his innocent nature rubbed off on him. Riveran would never admit it, but he reflected often on Josh’s worldview — his belief in God, his respect for authority, and of course, his gentlemanly approach to dating, they were so foreign to his own ideals that they seemed to stick around in his brain for a while after their encounters.
. . . . . . . .
Comuco: Planet in Sulcrus Galaxy
A powerful green hand burst through the interior of a hollow root to grab hold of a fen. The hand pulled the purple creature by the ankle back into the root, skinning it clean on its way down, sending feathers flying. It was here, in the dark hollow underneath the earth, that the beast snapped the neck of the innocent prey and slid the carcass into his haversack.
The monster was green all over, broad, and about twice the size of a human; his muscles popped out of every inch of his body; his teeth were sharp; some were long enough to hang over his bottom lips. His head was shaped like an ape’s; he had long and braided black hair, but it was pulled back and hung gently down his back, tucked behind a tan backpack.
The alien’s name was Mercum, or “Merc” as his tribe called him. What was most noticeable about him, though, was a red birthmark on his face. It ran across his left eye and came down his nose. It was undeniable. It contrasted greatly with his green complexion. The village doctor said it was simply a “discoloration of the skin,” but the village people believed it had a much darker explanation. Some even said that he was possessed by the Dark Lord, who is known by all of Sulcrus as the Principalian who rebelled against the great Creator.
The village people had good reason to believe such a thing; after all, it was right after he was born, with that stunning red across his face, that darkness fell over their entire planet. It was immediate, surely it had not been a coincidence. Dark clouds have consumed the sky ever since, blocking out the two suns that used to radiate Comuco with glory. Most of the plant life went extinct shortly after this event — except, of course, those rare and unfruitful species that could withstand such conditions. Those mostly undesirable in appearance and taste.
Mercum looked up through the hole he had formed to check the time of day. He quickly saw a thrust of lightning rip across the sky so loudly it hurt his ears. It was time to get back. The dark storms that often characterized a night on Comuco would soon be coming. The rain that followed would be tremendous and dangerous. The surest way to die outside the village would be to get caught in a muddy ditch whilst golf ball sized raindrops drowned you from overhead. His mother would kill him if mother nature didn’t first.
He slung his club over his shoulder and began a jog homeward. The blood rushed to his face as did the humidity, but soon he was in a rhythm. His mind began to wander as he scaled the landscape he knew by heart.
He reflected on the days when his father took him hunting. It was exactly ten years before this very moment, when he was just a youngling. The hunting and farming were split between the two of them in those days. Now, it was just Merc, and he alone had to provide for his poor mother. He thought about what happened to his father the day the Oppressors came. It was a rainy day just like this one, as was disturbingly too common and too gloomy.
The boy and his father were both ready to give up when they saw a herd of lakas trampling through the sumick trees. They ran alongside the galloping creatures, watching and waiting until they could find an opportunity to strike one down. These brutes were very large, their skin was slimy, their four legs were long and thick — which made them difficult to take down — and their heads closely resembled that of a shark, with rows of teeth going back into their skulls as far as one was willing to look. Needless to say, when provoked, they didn’t have a problem devouring another lifeform.
As the pair ran alongside the herd, one of the lakas got off track and became separated from the pack. This was their chance. Mamos pulled out his club and threw it harshly towards its front legs; with one sweeping force, it broke them both. The beast yelled for help, but the herd didn’t pay any attention, you left the protection of the group at your own risk.
Merc and Mamos circled the beast, opposite one another to confuse it, as it roared back and forth at them in anguish. His father gave Merc a quick look in the eye and he knew exactly what to do. He drew an arrow with his bow. He pulled it back with his young and weak muscles. The sweat from his brow slid down his mark, making him want to touch his face. He aimed at its forehead. Before he let the arrow go, he had a brief conviction about the writhing animal. Before Merc was born, Comucian villagers said they had conversations with the lakas, but his father assured him that they were liars, superstitions who wanted him to feel as though he was the reason their world was dying. Regardless, as gross and demented as the animal looked, he still hated to end the life of it. But the villagers’ stomachs needed him to be heartless. He exhaled as he released, pinning the sharp arrowhead in the back of the beast’s skull. He wiped his indifferent face.
The pair chopped up the beast, created a pallet out of smooth bark, and pulled the remains towards the village.
Spacecraft thrusters radiated deafening blasts ahead of them. Merc’s heart dropped when he heard. They dropped the pallet ropes and ran towards the village with their primitive weapons. Mamos got in front with his powerful stride. Soon he disappeared beyond the thin vegetation. The speed with which he ran scared Mercum.
A few minutes later he heard the rage of blaster fire — at the time he had not known what it was, but a feeling of terror and fear came over him nonetheless. A tingling sensation trickled down his spine with each discharge of the blasters. The rain increased; he was soaking wet when he slipped in the mud. It drenched him and the thunder roared. He picked himself up, his young heart beating rapidly.
He arrived to demolished chaos: blaster holes, burning homes, broken stones, screaming women and running children. All the carcasses he saw were male, the soldiers were rounding up the rest of them. The state of the dead bodies signified the brutality by which they had been dealt.
Mercum stepped onto the bloody stones of the village well. His father’s friend, Kur, had been sliced in half, his innards spilled out on the grey stones their forefather Yocab had placed there when he wed the daughter of Mannassa. Mercum didn’t want to see the weapon that was capable of such a thing. The rain had settled to a light drizzle, it hardly washed the wealth of blood from around his green, twelve-year-old feet. His scrawny arms were shaking violently. Where was his father? He fell to his knees in tears as those in dark armor paid him no attention, and the women and children ran from their grasps.
He looked up; his father slung his spiked club into the neck of one of them, ending him silently while protecting his mother from their capture. Mercum ran towards them, his legs weak. They weren’t far, just across the dirt courtyard, he remembered. He had then dropped to his knees when he heard the noise; blaster fire skimmed over his head; he could have died that very moment.
He looked up from the moist dirt; hundreds of dark ships soared beneath the cloudy sky. He could smell the thruster fuel; he could feel the heat. He stood to his feet again and ran towards them. His mother stood behind Mamos, screaming hysterically as he sparred with the butt of another’s blaster.
The Oppressor — as those serving the Dark Lord were called — knocked his father’s club out of his hand with a blaster beam, slammed him against their home with a shove, and shot him in the forehead before Merc arrived. Mamos’ strong body slid down the wall as his legs dug into the soil, motionless. He would never forget the blank, indifferent stare his lifeless face had given him when he arrived. The man who had once rolled the olden stones to make the way to new farmlands, could now only stare, hopelessly.
Mercum picked up his father’s hand from the dirt. He squeezed it strongly. Father, I love you, he had said in tears, don’t leave us father, I love you. He wiped his face with his muddy hands, please come back, father, I love you. He hoped for a miracle from Ilham, but none came, only the insolent flame that took his form into the Next World a day later.
His father’s murderer dragged his mother away. She had not resisted him, her face hopeless and forlorn.
From that day forward, the Oppressors established their wicked system. The men who grew up with Mercum served as slaves for them, mining the dangerous caves and pits they had dug for minerals, which were then loaded and transported off the planet. Some women became cooks, others who were weak or lucky enough not to be needed were left alone.
Mercum stopped to catch his breath. The village was ahead. Much of it had been rebuilt since they had come, but the spirit of the people had never been the same. He picked up the pace again, carrying a little food and remorse for the ten-year anniversary of his father’s death.
