Earthborn Alliance

by Matthew DeVore

  “Are you not going to talk to me?”

  “Maybe you should talk to Aleena,” Allison said icily.

  One of the protectorate had taken Aleena to find an empty room for her to stay in.

  “I’m sorry,” Ethan said.

  “Hmpf.”

  “Fine, don’t talk to me. But there is something I need you to do.”

  She looked at him coldly.

  “Could you bring everyone here? I can’t send a messenger. They’ll only trust one of us.”

  Allison pushed off from the console and moved toward the elevator.

  “Thanks,” Ethan told her.

  He watched as she rounded the pylon out of sight, without looking back.

  “You look exhausted,” Kara said.

  Ethan collapsed into the command chair. “It’s been an interesting day.”

  Kara smiled. “I’ll show you to a room for the night.”

  As soon as he managed to stand, his stomach twisted with the same warning he’d felt in the barn. He doubled over, fighting with all his strength to keep from collapsing onto the floor.

  As comforting as it was that his premonitions had returned, he was starting to think he’d been better off without them.

  “Are you all right?” Kara asked, rushing to his side.

  “I’ll be fine.”

  He forced himself to stand straight, which left him staring out the window. In the distance, the town seemed to waver. A small distortion rippled across the Arc’s energy barrier.

  CHAPTER 18

  “You coming?” Zavier asked Traven.

  “No, go on. I’ve got some paperwork to do.”

  “You’re going to leave us alone with him? He likes you best.”

  Traven shook his head. “Sorry. Bring me something back.”

  “No way. I don’t intend to be coherent enough to carry anything. In fact, I’ll be lucky to find my room.”

  “Fair enough. Have fun.”

  Zavier headed off to the palace pub to meet Wren and Kalma.

  Traven watched his friend go, then shut the door to his quarters. He’d have to wait until Zavier was out of sight, maybe a little longer. He wouldn’t want his friend to come back for some reason and find he’d lied to him.

  He jumped onto the bed, stretched out, and thought about what he knew. The transport, the fake Guard, who are in fact retired Guard, His Highness Kalma. What other strange things happened? Kalma’s quick rise to prominence.

  Traven bolted upright in his bed. The weapons depot. We captured it, but the Alliance returned and blew it to hell. Everyone died. No survivors. No witnesses. It wasn’t exactly standard operating procedure for the Alliance. How could they have even managed to do it? Even then they were weak. The only reason they pulled off the rescue in the mountains was because of the Elves. And the Elves didn’t do it. They didn’t seem to be the type to use explosives. At least not those two.

  He thought back to the battle. The Earthborn girl twirling around like she was dancing, blocking shot after shot while the elder Elf rained death on the Urlowen troops with magic—until Kalma reappeared. He’d been missing.

  Traven jumped to his feet, ran to the closet, and pulled on his casual attire. There were answers in this palace. He just had to find them.

  He left his room and walked normally through the hallway. Subterfuge was second nature to him. To all the Guard. To Kalma. Where did he train? The archives he’d searched earlier in the afternoon were no help. They listed his commendations from the academy, courses, scores, and everything checked out. It even listed the instructors.

  Traven entered the palace’s west wing. The marbled floor and grand pillars were yet another overwhelming show of wealth. A few corridors later, he stood before Dr. Canteral’s private quarters and rang the doorbell.

  “What do you want?” a distinguished bald man said as the door slid open.

  Traven grinned. The academy professor hadn’t changed a bit.

  “Ah, my worst student,” Dr. Canteral said upon seeing Traven. “Here to gloat of your grand achievements?”

  “No, sir. I would never.”

  “Of course you would, and I want to hear all about them.” The man waved him into the suite. “Come in, Come in.”

  The sitting room was adorned with paintings of ancient battles and generals.

  Dr. Canteral motioned to a red couch by a large coffee table that hovered of its own accord, and Traven sat down.

  “Something to drink?” the man asked.

  “No thank you, sir. I can’t stay long.”

  Dr. Canteral sat in a wide matching armchair, adjacent to Traven. “And what brings an honored member of the Council Guard to my lovely home?”

  “I have a question for you.”

  “Shoot.”

  “Do you remember all of your students?”

  “Of course. My memory is photographic. I remember everything.”

  “That’s what I thought. The High Guard Commander, Kalma Dryenaugh, do you remember him?”

  Dr. Canteral leaned back in his seat and rubbed the bottom of his chin. “I don’t recall ever having him in a class.” He paused a moment. “Truth be told, I’ve never had the honor of meeting the famed commander.”

  “Are you sure?” he pressed. “He wasn’t in your modern warfare tactics class?”

  “Positive. He must’ve taken it from Dr. Glassgo.”

  “The military archives say he was in your class.”

  “Then they’re wrong. Must’ve been an entry error. It happens occasionally. Not often, but occasionally.”

  Traven nodded.

  Sliding to the edge of his seat, Dr. Canteral leaned forward. “Do you know what this is, Traven?” He motioned to a checkered board sitting in the middle of the coffee table with odd characters arranged in two rows on each side.

  “No idea,” he answered.

  “This is an old Human game called chess.” The old man picked up a white piece from the center of the back row. “The object is to take the king.” He handed the piece to Traven. “Each piece can only move in prescribed patterns. To win, one must think several steps ahead of your opponent.”

  “Interesting.”

  “It is a game of tactics and planning. One must even sacrifice his own pieces in order to gain the winning advantage.” Dr. Canteral fixed him with a serious gaze. “Be careful, Traven. Make sure you stay several steps ahead. It’s the only way to win—the only way to survive.”

  Traven didn’t think Dr. Canteral was speaking of the game anymore.

  “I’ll keep that in mind, sir.”

  “You better do more than that. Knowledge can be a dangerous thing.”

  Traven stood. “Thank you, sir.” He held the piece out.

  “Keep it, as a reminder.”

  “I’d better be off. It was nice to see you again, sir.”

  “And you as well.”

  Entering the hallway, Traven rolled the strange king piece in his hand. The master tactician loved speaking in analogy. Traven put the piece in his pocket and headed to Kalma’s quarters.

  When he got there, he rang the bell. As expected, Kalma didn’t answer. The commander should be drinking with Wren and Zavier. Still, he’d have to be quick. Kalma was clearly a paranoid individual and getting caught snooping about certainly wouldn’t end well.

  Traven lifted his arm, bringing up the seeker controls in his multiband. Every Guard team shared one another’s seeker command codes so the artificial intelligence-based robots could be activated and used in the event a team member was incapacitated or killed.

  Entering Kalma’s codes, he took control of the critters. Activating their feeds, he watched them drop from the compartment in Kalma’s armor, which was clearly in the closet. Working together, the little guys escaped and crawled to the main door. One of the seekers scaled the wall and activated the door’s control pad.

  The door slid open.

  “Good girls,” he whispered to the bots as he stepped into the room, sendi
ng the drones scuttling about to avoid his footfalls. After closing the door behind him, Traven sent the seekers back to their home in Kalma’s armor and deactivated the control sequence.

  First he searched the room—the bed, the desk, the lights, the chairs. Anything out of the ordinary. Then he tried the computer systems, but only found a lack of any communication and paperwork. There was nothing.

  Damn, he’s good.

  Kalma’s multiband was gone, but even if it’d been there, Traven couldn’t access it. There was no way to break through the encryptions, and too many failed attempts would alert Kalma to the attempted intrusion.

  Last was the closet. He searched through all the clothes and weapons. Nothing. He wasn’t sure what he’d been hoping to find, but he needed some kind of hard evidence to corroborate his vision.

  Visions.

  He could try it, though it was risky. Some lasted far longer than he had time for, but it was a risk he had to take.

  The armor’s the best bet.

  He pulled it from the closet and set it on the desk. Taking a seat next to it, he placed his hand on the chest plate. The room faded, and he found himself standing in the entryway to a barracks. He ran to the nearest window and looked outside. It was night, but he was exactly where he’d hoped—the Alliance weapons depot. Most of the men were asleep in their cots, but one was listening to music through a vibration inducer on his jawline. Across the small entryway, another soldier sat at a desk with a lamp, working on a tablet.

  He made his way down the plain dark corridor, coming across a back door that silently inched open. A moment later, Kalma stepped inside.

  He was here! I was right.

  Kalma’s footsteps were completely silent, not a squeak or sound of any kind. In fact, Traven couldn’t even hear him breathing. Eerie would’ve been an understatement. It wasn’t natural.

  The dark-armored Guard moved slowly through the hallway, stopping just before it broke into the open entryway.

  Kalma sized up the situation, glancing at the soldier at the desk and the sleeping men. He backed up and placed unsophisticated charges on the building’s structural supports, back down through the hallway, then returned.

  Traven inspected the charge closely. They were the same as the ones found in the wreckage.

  Why? Why would he do this?

  A knife flew from Kalma’s hand, sailed through the entryway, and lodged itself in the voice box of the soldier sitting at the desk.

  The man fell out of his seat, landing hard on the ground, but strangely, there was absolutely no noise. Traven looked back to Kalma, who held his hand out toward the dying soldier. A dim orange glow surrounded his fingers.

  Reaching to his right calf, Kalma extracted another knife from his armor. This time he simply strolled past the bunks and stood before the soldier listening to music. When the man realized a Council Guard was standing at the foot of his bed, he jumped up and saluted.

  Kalma strode forward to whisper in the soldier’s ear but stabbed him in the heart instead. The body slumped against Kalma’s chest, but he didn’t let him fall. He lowered the man to the floor gently.

  Making his way around the room, Traven watched Kalma dispatch each sleeping soldier one after another, then move their bodies to an adjoining dining room.

  Footsteps echoed down the stairs near the entry, and Kalma disappeared into a dark corner of the room. “What was that?” the soldier said, running to the window and drawing his weapon.

  The soldier got off one shot before Kalma slipped the knife in his back and covered the man’s mouth with his hand. He pulled back from the window just as a blue-white sphere of energy careened through the opening, slamming into the wall behind them.

  Traven instantly recognized the magic. He leapt to the window just in time to see the flash of green armor worn by the girl.

  He’s helping them? Traven stared out the window as Kalma placed the body with the others. That doesn’t make sense. He’s killed far too many Alliance and Resistance troops to be a double agent.

  The images faded and Traven was once again sitting at Kalma’s desk.

  Why?

  Then it hit him. Kalma’s rise to power was only necessary because of the sudden appearance of the Earthborn girl and the long-lost Councilor of Magic. But he still needed proof.

  And then there was the retired Guard. Your Highness, he called him.

  It was like a light bulb went off in Traven’s head. But he had no proof. And worse, what would it matter?

  Placing Kalma’s armor back into the closet, he reset everything in the room. Once satisfied his presence had been concealed, he left the quarters and walked toward the nearest data archive.

  As he approached the circular door, two sentries stepped forward. “Identification, please.”

  “Guard Commander Traven Talval,” he responded. The sentry before him held up a device that scanned both eyes and his facial structure.

  “Thank you, sir,” the sentry replied, stepping out of his path.

  Next, he placed his hand on the door itself. A moment later, text appeared and scrolled across the metal just above his hand.

  Guard Commander Traven Talval

  Commanding Officer: High Guard Commander Kalma Dryenaugh

  The hallway filled with a low rumble as huge metal poles hidden in the wall were drawn into the door. Traven knew the magnetic seal was also released, but that was too quiet to hear. The massive door swung open before him.

  Traven looked back to the sentry, who nodded and deactivated the energy barrier behind it.

  “Please let us know if you need anything,” the sentry offered.

  “Thank you.”

  The room was full of computer consoles, all connected to the central Urlowen military archives. And it was fortunately empty.

  Oh to be an analyst. They always got their evenings and nights off.

  He waited until the door shut, then entered his security credentials and logged into the system. He brought up everything about the Alliance weapons depot they had captured, and that Kalma had subsequently destroyed.

  Command given to Colonel Yaneen. Blah. Blah. Blah. Ah, security surveillance. He opened the video file for the base. Dammit. Nothing. There were no files on the day the base was destroyed. He knew it was a long shot, but he had to try.

  Pushing back from the terminal, the chair glided into the station behind him. He sat for a moment, thinking. So far, he’d held his tongue, refusing to tell Wren what he’d learned on the last mission, but now it was time. He couldn’t do this alone. Maybe they’d think of something he hadn’t.

  A flashing red light on the terminal two seats down caught his eye. After logging off, he made his way to it and logged back in. This particular terminal had direct access to satellite sensor data, which was warning of abnormal behavior above the old European continent.

  He accessed the warning, imagery of snow-covered mountains showing on the display. He activated the holographic view, which caused the landscape to jump to life above the screen. A small segment of video played on repeat, showing a small, relatively flat valley highlighted between two enormous mountains. He looked closely at the image of a small town and for a split second, thought a city flashed on the screen. He set the video to play frame by frame slowly.

  There.

  He stopped the playback. Sure enough, adjacent to the town, a small metropolis appeared. A few frames later, it disappeared.

  What the hell?

  He rewound the feed until it was visible again. The architecture was immediately recognizable—Elven.

  He sat down in the chair, his eyes glued to the screen. After five minutes of staring in disbelief, he logged off the terminal and cleared the warning. With his mind racing, he left the archive and made his way through the palace to the pub.

  Unlike the well-lit halls, the pub was dark and jammed with patrons. He found the team at a raised table just in front of the bar.

  “Youza made itz,” Zavier said, standing and ne
arly falling over as Traven approached.

  “Easy there, buddy.” Traven helped Zavier back onto his stool.

  “We ver jus say’n how lame you’ve are,” his drunk friend continued, “but nows I’s takes it backs.”

  Wren, who was sitting on the next stool, slapped Zavier on the back, laughing way too much.

  “Good times, huh?” Traven said.

  There were several empty glasses in front of both of them, but only a single half-drunk glass of beer in front of Kalma, who was across the table.

  “Glad you could make it,” Kalma said.

  Traven pulled out the other tall stool next to Zavier and waved the waiter over. “Wheat beer, whatever kind you’ve got.”

  “Yes, sir,” the waiter replied, then headed back toward the bar.

  “Youza wanna play somes pokits?” Zavier asked.

  Hiccup. “Pokits?” Wren repeated. “You means pokzits.”

  Shaking his head, Traven pushed the beers the two were nursing to the other side of the table. “I think you’ve both had enough for the night. Let’s get you back to your quarters.”

  Zavier’s face fell. “No pozkits?”

  The waiter returned, set Traven’s drink down, then left.

  He took a sip. “Tempting, but it wouldn’t be right. Not like this. No poker tonight.”

  “Youza arez scarred.”

  “You got me. I’m terrified.” Standing, he waved to the bartender and raised his glass. “I’m taking this with me. I’ll bring it back tomorrow.” One of the few perks of being a ranking officer.

  The bartender nodded.

  Slipping his arm around Zavier, Traven helped him to his feet. Kalma followed his lead and helped with Wren.

  “Any big missions tomorrow?” Traven asked.

  “Not for you three,” Kalma replied. “And I’ve canceled the morning meeting. There’s something I need to take care of.”

  His interest was piqued. At least he’d get some time alone with Zavier and Wren.

  They dropped their friends off and went their separate ways. Traven finished his beer while sitting at his desk and mulling over their precarious situation. A commander who would just as likely kill them himself as have their back in battle. And when it came to Kalma, that was just the tip of the iceberg. Who knew how far down it’d go.