Earthborn Alliance

by Matthew DeVore

  “As you wish,” he replied. Turning with military precision, he left the office but pretended to bump into the doorframe, allowing him to place a nearly invisible camera on the edge of the jamb. The woman’s insistence on transporting the video back to Urlow immediately was a complication he’d have to deal with. He didn’t believe she’d wait to have it broadcast, and he didn’t really want a revolt. That would complicate his plans.

  Passing the foyer without bothering to acknowledge the waste of being Anetta was, he entered the hallway and began the ten-minute walk to the High Councilman’s wing.

  CHAPTER 7

  Kalma walked through the gold-embroidered halls to the center of the palace complex. Ancient artifacts lined the walls leading up to the throne room; everything from bowls and cups to swords, armor, and plasma rifles were displayed on pedestals encased by transparent energy barriers. A large purple carpet ran the down the center of the wide hall. At the end, an enormous set of double doors reaching two stories tall was flanked by two Council Sentinels in gold-plated armor.

  As he moved forward, his hands hovered over the armor compartments housing his matching plasma pistols. Malikyne should’ve been aware of his approach by that point, but a few times through the millennia, at his other palaces, the High Councilman was too busy to notice Kalma coming and open the doors. He’d been forced to dispatch the sentries, as their orders were always to kill any visitor for whom the doors did not open.

  He was about to draw his weapons when the doors lurched forward, swinging into the throne room. Relaxing, he strode into the triangular underground chamber. The purple carpet continued straight, rising up a flight of stairs a single story in height, and stopping before a large platform on which Malikyne stood, his throne gleaming with rare Urlowen jewels of every color and plated in a thick layer of carved gold. The seat itself was plush, upholstered in the finest deep purple. Lights mounted in the ceiling rained down on the dais, illuminating the platform.

  Kalma stopped short of the steps and kneeled before the gray-haired man. He understood why Malikyne chose this appearance. The High Councilman thought a distinguished elder elicited greater respect from the councilors and the Urlowen people, but he couldn’t disagree more. Power elicited respect. Malikyne hid his power behind a mask of frailty; though everyone knew he was not to be trifled with, they didn’t understand the extent to which that held true.

  “Rise,” Malikyne said in his low, grating voice.

  Kalma stood and began climbing the steps Malikyne insisted on to slow down potential intruders.

  At the top, the large dais matched the triangular shape of the room, with four flat tiers each rising a small step higher than the previous. On the highest tier sat the High Councilman’s throne.

  Malikyne greeted him from the lowest platform at the top of the stairs, an honor reserved only for those the High Councilman trusted.

  “How are you this fine day?” Malikyne asked.

  “I’m fine as always,” he answered.

  The two progressed up each of the raised platforms. The first for commoners, if one were ever lucky enough to be granted an audience, the second for the honored houses, the third for the Council Guard, and the fourth which included five ornate chairs facing the throne in a semicircle, though all were diminished before the throne itself. This inner circle was reserved solely for the Council of Five.

  Kalma ignored the peasants’ protocol, strolling right past the five seats and stepping onto the final platform with the High Councilman as he always had.

  Malikyne sat on the throne. “They’ve finally finished the hoist system.” With a wave of the man’s hand, a plain chair appeared next to him.

  Kalma sat, thankful to be off his feet. Even still, the weakness caused from healing Traven ate at his body.

  “About time,” Kalma said.

  “Indeed.” With another wave of his hand, the room began to rise in an invisible shaft. After a couple of minutes, the motion subsided, and the walls and ceiling became transparent.

  The room now sat at the top of the palace, overlooking the countryside and palace gardens.

  “Breathtaking,” the High Councilman said. “I always liked this planet. It’s a shame we didn’t return earlier, really.”

  Kalma stared out the windows, then up into the blue, cloud-speckled sky.

  Malikyne turned toward him. “My friend, what news of the traitors have you brought?”

  “I have secured the trust of Councilwoman Denetaa,” Kalma replied, “though I’ve yet to determine the allegiance of the other councilors.”

  “I see,” Malikyne responded, placing a wrinkled hand on his broad chin. “How much longer?”

  “Not long now.”

  “I’m ending this war, Kalma.”

  “Give me a week.”

  The High Councilman paused for a moment. “I suppose a week is meaningless in the grand scheme of things. Very well.” The man looked up into the sky above. “Time passes so quickly.”

  Removing a knife from the armor on his thigh, Kalma twirled it around in his hand. If it’d been anyone other than him, the High Councilman would’ve killed him on the spot.

  “The spire’s nearly complete,” the High Councilman said, not looking down.

  “Do you really think it’s even worth it here? The Elves are gone, and these Humans—”

  “These Humans may be capable of magic,” Malikyne cut him off.

  “I don’t think so,” he replied. This conversation had gotten old. It was always the same. Malikyne thought the Humans formidable in some way, even capable of magic, while Kalma objected on all accounts.

  “Better safe than sorry,” Malikyne said. “Besides, didn’t you say there were two Elves here right now? Why let their power go to such waste?”

  “Fair enough,” Kalma conceded.

  “Don’t get me wrong. I want you to kill them. But we might as well make use of them until that happens, since you seem to be having trouble with that task.”

  The insult didn’t go unnoticed. He twirled the blade in his hand. “When the time is right.”

  “The time is when I tell you,” Malikyne snapped.

  “Of course. That’s obviously what I meant.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  The slight suspicion in the reply didn’t bother him in the least. Malikyne was anything but a stable man. And it was getting worse as the years sped on. The man’s emotions rose and ebbed like the waves in a hurricane—suspicious one moment, trusting the next. The only real constant was the man’s deep reliance on Kalma. And he knew it.

  “The spire,” Malikyne commanded.

  “I’ll place it in a few days.”

  “Good.”

  “If that’s everything, then.” He stood.

  “Report to me when it’s done,” Malikyne ordered.

  “As you command.”

  The High Councilman waved, and the room sank back into the depths of the palace.

  Kalma descended the stairs and approached the entry. The door’s interior panels matched that of the exterior, an enormous likeness of Malikyne engraved on one while the other was that of Malikane. Of course, most people didn’t know they were both the same man, just different faces.

  Leaving the room, Kalma made for his quarters. There was time for a short nap to replenish his strength before dinner.

  The alarm on Kalma’s multiband chimed in his head, waking him. His eyes slid open with dread.

  It was time. But first, there was one last thing to do.

  Standing, he walked to the hovering desk across from his plain bed, picked up the multiband, and slid it on his bare arm. After turning off the alarm, he sifted through video retrieved from the camera he left in Denetaa’s office.

  About an hour after he left, a young cadet entered the room. The woman hounded him about the secrecy and importance of his new mission, then handed him a small data chip housing the day’s battle.

  Kalma froze the video and ran the boy’s face through the troop man
ifest. A moment later, the cadet’s name appeared above his brown crew cut. Well, Cadet Islar, welcome to the big leagues. Kalma pulled up the palace schematic and hacked into the personnel locator, showing him everyone in the building.

  A cold shiver ran down his spine. He’d done a lot of nasty things, killed thousands if not hundreds of thousands of people, maybe more, but this, this was going to be far worse than anything he’d ever done. Denetaa was in her personal suite while kitchen personnel kept entering and leaving, presumably to prepare for tonight’s festivities.

  He pushed the thought out of his mind and searched for the boy. There you are. The kid was in his quarters in section 20 of the palace, the slum of the High Councilman’s Earth-based ritzy home, still under construction.

  The images above the band disappeared as Kalma opened his closet. Most of the space was piled high with weapons of every type, but in the far corner, his black dress uniform hung from the rack.

  He got dressed and slipped on the tall gray boots that finished off the look. Satisfied from the once-over he gave himself in the mirror, he pulled a small black bead from his weapons cache and dropped it in his pocket.

  The walk through the palace to section 20 took far longer than he liked, giving him too much time to think about his impending future. He stopped outside of troop quarter 548. Up ahead, the corridor split in two and headed off to the construction zones.

  He taped the room’s doorbell, then sprinted back down the hallway. When the door opened, he sprinted back toward it.

  “Hey, you,” he called out down the hallway.

  The boy stepped out of his room.

  “Come back,” Kalma yelled. In his fist, he held the small black explosive he’d brought with him. He ran, staring down the hall, playing oblivious to the cadet.

  When he smashed into Isar’s side, he slid the explosive into the kid’s uniform.

  “Watch where you’re going,” Kalma scolded.

  “Sorry, sir.” The cadet snapped to attention.

  Making a show of looking down the hall, Kalma grunted. “A prank, I suppose.”

  “A prank, sir?”

  “Yes, a prank. The brat who just rang your doorbell.”

  The boy looked down the hall. “Oh. They do this to me all the time.”

  Kalma looked him up and down. Isar was certainly a scrawny thing. “Get to the gym more. That should help. And why are you still in uniform at this time of night?”

  The cadet hesitated. “I, uh, I just haven’t bothered to dress down for the night.”

  “Are you lying to me, the High Guard Commander?”

  “I… no… I’ve been requisitioned for a mission back home, sir. My ship leaves within the hour.”

  Kalma nodded. “Very well. Make sure you don’t miss it, then. Be sure you keep that uniform on until you’re aboard. You’ll want to make a good impression on the ship’s captain.”

  “Yes, sir. Of course, sir.”

  Kalma nodded and left the boy behind, making his way through the complex until he stood before Traven’s quarters. A moment or two after ringing the bell, the door slid open.

  “Yes, sir?” Traven asked.

  He rolled his eyes.

  “Sorry, Habit. No more sirs. I got it.”

  “May I?”

  “Of course.” Traven backed away from the door.

  The room was sparse. Traven hadn’t bothered unpacking his gear, which sat in a large black duffel and backpack in the corner.

  Kalma sat on the standard gray sheets on the corner of the bed. “You certainly haven’t made yourself at home.”

  “Why bother? We’ll be off soon enough, I’m sure.”

  “There is something that’s come up.”

  “Exactly.”

  “How’s the shoulder?”

  “Eh. I’ve had worse,” Traven responded, though the Guard hadn’t moved that arm since Kalma had entered.

  “Really? I’m surprised anyone could even hit you.”

  “Well that’s clearly wrong.” Traven placed his hand on the wound caused from the plasma bolt. “Everyone gets a lucky shot now and then.” Traven grinned.

  Kalma stood, took Traven by the arm, and directed him to sit on the bed. “That’s not been my experience.”

  “I’ll bet,” Traven replied, taking his black T-shirt off. There was an edge to the man’s voice that Kalma hadn’t heard before.

  “Let’s get you fixed up.” He brought his hand up to Traven’s wound and paused. “This is going to hurt like last time.”

  Traven nodded.

  Silver magical liquid pooled into his palms, which he pressed hard against the gaping, cauterized hole in Traven’s shoulder.

  The room started to spin as the magic passed from his hand into Traven. The light seemed to dim, and then the world went black.

  When he came to, Kalma sat up on the floor, Traven’s legs dangling off the end of the bed near him. He checked the time on his multiband: 6:45 p.m. Perfect. It would take him a few minutes to get to Denetaa’s suite.

  “Passed out from the pain, huh, buddy?” Kalma slapped Traven’s leg, standing up next to the bed.

  Traven’s eyes burst open, glowing yellow with such intensity that his pupils had disappeared into the color.

  Kalma dropped his hand and took a step back. What do you see, my friend? He waited for five minutes, but the vision hadn’t ended. Glancing at the time, he couldn’t wait any longer. He opened the door and turned back to see Traven unmoving, the light from his eyes piercing the room.

  Another complication.

  Shutting the door behind him, he took a deep breath. The worst was yet to come. He was weakened severely by yet another healing, but it couldn’t be helped.

  On second thought, maybe he should’ve saved his strength. He’d need all he had to go through with this dinner.

  He was in front of the councilwoman’s door at seven precisely. He lifted his hand to ring the bell, but the door slid open before he even had the chance.

  “Good evening,” the not-so-sultry voice of the councilwoman called from her chambers.

  You can do this. Kalma stepped over the threshold into the luxurious suite’s foyer.

  “Come on back to the bedroom. Before dinner, I thought some entertainment might be in order—a little something you’ll never forget.”

  A cold shiver ran rampant through his body. At least we can agree on that.

  CHAPTER 8

  Traven stood in an Earthborn command center as chaos broke loose. An explosion rocked the room, sending the Elves nearest the blast flying over consoles that were built into the top of long sweeping pedestals.

  A tall blond-haired Elf with strikingly green eyes screamed orders over the noise. Plasma bolts rained into the room through a gaping hole left by the explosion.

  Traven felt a pull toward the back corner of the room. He turned, following the tug. It was her, the Earthborn girl they’d fought outside Madison City. The Elf he kept having visions about. The girl who kept showing up in his dreams.

  Her green armor glittered as the light from weapon fire danced across it. Her blonde hair was pulled into a tight bun above her head, but she wasn’t watching the ensuing battle. Instead, she dropped behind one of the pedestals.

  Traven ran across the room, jumping over debris and vaulting over the workstations. No one paid his presence any heed.

  Sliding his rear over the top of the last console, he twisted so his feet landed easily on the floor, right next to the girl.

  “No,” a teenage boy screamed at her.

  “It’s the only way. Once they move on, meet me at the chamber.”

  The boy looked furious, but unlike the girl, he wasn’t wearing the traditional Earthborn armor. Instead he wore a silver-embroidered dark blue tunic over dark leather pants.

  “I can fight,” the boy yelled.

  “You’re not ready,” the blonde girl replied.

  The resemblance was uncanny. The boy had the same blond hair, angled chin, and gre
en eyes as the girl.

  Siblings.

  The girl wrenched open a small door at the bottom of the console. Using magic, she ripped out the computer boards, wires, and mounting equipment, sending them flying across the walkway into the wall behind her.

  “Get in,” she commanded the boy.

  He was definitely younger than her, but by how much, Traven couldn’t tell.

  “No,” the boy said firmly.

  The girl peered over the console, then ducked below.

  “What?” the boy asked. Her face had gone ghost white.

  “The Council Guard are here.” She grabbed the boy by the arm and began shoving him into the small opening. “There’s no time to argue. They won’t find you in here. When it’s clear, meet me at the chamber.”

  A tear fell from the boy’s eye. “But I’ll never see you again.”

  “Of course you will.” She wiped his tear, then helped him squeeze into the tight space. “You’ll be fine,” she reassured him.

  After the boy nodded, the girl shut the door. Then she stood and joined the fight, but to no avail. The Council Guard, along with a regiment of standard troops, pushed the Elves back.

  Traven was more than a little impressed by the Guard. They all flung magic almost as easily as the Elves, something that obviously deteriorated through the generations.

  The Elves began a slow retreat to an exit on the opposite side of the room as the hiding boy. Finally, they turned tail and fled in full retreat. The Council Guard took up the pursuit, followed by most of the standard troops.

  After the room cleared, the boy remained hidden for hours, no doubt trying to make sure the Urlowens had cleared out. Eventually the door under the station swung open, and the Elf climbed out onto the debris-ridden floor. Just as he stood up, a contingent of the Council Guard strolled into the command center.

  Oh, rotten luck, kid. The girl’s plan almost worked.

  Traven walked around the table toward the Guard. To his surprise, an older man with salt-and-pepper hair strode into the room. He had a neatly trimmed short beard and needed no introduction.