Our Contest

by Phillip Murrell

  “You, too. I heard you were home. I assumed you would come here first to pay your respects to your father.”

  “I figured you’d find me.”

  “Your aunt has already begun preparing a meal for you. She boasts about her nephew the superhero.”

  “That could bring you trouble.”

  “Life brings us trouble. I’m not going to stop living it because of fear.”

  “Well said, Uncle.”

  “Actually, I think that fact helps us. Nobody wants to start trouble with the family of a Templar.”

  “Except for the Malignant Empire. They aren’t too impressed.”

  “You’re here. That means something. At least the first wave couldn’t stop you.”

  “No, they couldn’t.”

  “Tell me truthfully. Can we beat them?”

  “If Allah wills it, anything is possible.”

  “True, but you know what I’m asking.”

  “They aren’t as powerful as me and my friends. The real problem is that they have millions more for every one of us.”

  “I thought Claire Kennedy, to Allah we belong and to him we return, said you only had to fight one ship. If true, that should be easy.”

  “She only said that because one of my friends lied to her. We have to fight many more than one ship’s worth.”

  “That’s a shame. At least you have a lot of time to prepare.”

  Amine’s heart sinks further.

  “That was another deception, Uncle. We’ll fight them in a month. They have specific rules that Abel had to manipulate to even give us that much time.”

  “I’m uncomfortable with how easily you allow your friends to lie. The Quran teaches us that this is wrong.”

  “It does, but it also teaches us not to cause a panic that would lead to suffering. We had to choose the lesser of the two evils.”

  “I understand,” Sameer says. “It also means that we need to get to that dinner your aunt prepared. It may be our last one as a community. I don’t want to waste it.”

  “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  “You didn’t. Seeing you brings me great happiness. Let’s go eat.”

  “Yes, Uncle,” Amine says as he fights back tears. “Let’s go eat.”

  The two men walk together back to the village their family has lived in for many generations.

  Jillarni sits in his cramped cell, all but forgotten by his captors. Flaimeson informed them that his augmented power of surviving in harsh environments meant he did not need a permanent guard. The former captain of the Ahika finds it ironic that he was spared. He understands why the Malignant have not asked for him back. He failed. In fact, he would not be surprised if they did not even know he was still alive.

  To Jillarni’s surprise, the door just outside his cell opens. He sees two of the Templars, a ridiculous sounding name, standing before him on the other side of his cell bars.

  “I’m SOT,” the leader says. “This is my friend Catharsis. We have a few questions for you.”

  “I am not going to answer any of them,” Jillarni says. “You should just send me on my celebration.”

  SOT walks straight up to the bars that separate her from Jillarni.

  “It will be a lot easier for you if you just play nice, but I understand that you need some persuasion. Did Flaimeson tell you about the powers of each of your captives?”

  Jillarni launches a snot rocket onto his floor at the sound of Flaimeson’s name.

  “That kaufiebuck deserves to be exempt from the celebratory table.”

  “Not what I asked,” SOT says. “I want to know if he told you their powers.”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Then you know one of them can simulate pain? Her name is Catharsis. Does she really need to demonstrate?”

  “I am a Malignant officer. I—”

  Jillarni’s pompousness is interrupted by his own screams. It feels like thin razors are separating his eyelids and the small webbing between his fingers and toes. The cuts hurt, but the sensation of the flesh being torn open is unbearable. After some time, the sensation ceases entirely, and all Jillarni feels is relief.

  “Are you ready to answer my questions now?” SOT asks.

  “No,” Jillarni defiantly states.

  Pain erupts again. This time he feels like tiny insects are eating him from the inside out. The pain is debilitating. Jillarni writhes on the floor for what feels like an eternity, and for someone as old as he is, that is quite a long time.

  The pain leaves again. Jillarni is slow to stand.

  “I respect your bravado, but I also know we can do this a lot longer than you can,” SOT says.

  Jillarni looks at Catharsis and laughs.

  “Maybe you can, but your friend—aargh!”

  Jillarni rolls on the floor again and forcefully hits his head against the bars. Besides his face bleeding, Jillarni feels metal rods slowly pushing through every orifice in his body and destroying the delicate tissue they surround. Jillarni loses track of what hurts most. He cannot focus on any specific area. All he feels is torture.

  “Alright!” he manages to scream.

  His pleas appear to fall on deaf ears. The pain does not go away. In fact, it only increases in its magnitude. Until it stops.

  Jillarni does not even bother to stand this time. He looks up at his tormentors. Catharsis’ body language suggests she cannot continue with this, but SOT is determined. Jillarni realizes the other Templar is merely a puppet. Confessing is his only avenue. It hurts his warrior spirit to admit it, but he cannot endure anymore.

  “What do you want to know?” Jillarni begs from the floor.

  “Good,” SOT says as she squats to get to his eye level. “We’ve finally come to an understanding.”

  “Quit your games, ISH. What do you want?”

  “I’ll let you have that one,” SOT says. “I want to know why the Malignant shields are down on their ships. It seems a rather large tactical error.”

  “They will come up when the battle nears. I assume the only reason we are still here is because Mother was gracious enough to allow you time to celebrate your fallen.”

  “Good,” SOT says. “I already knew that. Now I can trust you to be a good boy. Next question. How many warriors are on Mother’s ship?”

  “More than you can handle.”

  “Please be more specific.”

  Jillarni hears the threat.

  “She has a crew of a million. It takes centuries of intense training to earn the privilege of serving her. A handful would overwhelm you.”

  “Fair enough, but is everything on that ship run by computers?” SOT asks.

  “Yes. Why?” Jillarni asks.

  “That’s for me to worry about. What about the layout of the ship?”

  “The Womb is a giant grid. Hallways intersect at precisely a hundred meters. You will not be able to hold all the corners if you are thinking about boarding her ship directly. It would be a lot easier on you if you just let them destroy this ship, then bore the planet. It will be a lot less painful that way.”

  “What a gentleman,” SOT says. “After all we’ve done to him, he still wants to spare us any pain. Does Mother have any weaknesses?”

  “No. She is perfect.”

  “I’ll rephrase. Is Mother afraid of Abel?”

  “How dare you use Father’s birth name.”

  A quick blast of pain to Jillarni’s groin reminds him to play by the Templars’ rules.

  “Is Mother afraid of Abel?”

  “I would not call it fear, but Father is more powerful. He will not be your savior, if that is what you think.”

  “How long would it take to jump start the Womb?”

  “What?” Jillarni asks.

  “If the ship shut down entirely. How long wou
ld it take to repair itself?”

  “I do not know. I do not serve on the Womb.”

  “Good point. How long would it take to restart this ship?”

  “This ship would not lose power.”

  “Let me worry about how I’ll do that. How long?”

  “You would have to replace all the active power cells in engineering. Assuming you had all the cells, that would take at least two hours.”

  “Good. You’d agree that the Womb would be down even longer.”

  “Yes, but you will not . . . wait. No!”

  “I see you finally remembered another of the Earthborn augments you found for me. I assure you. The power will go down.”

  Jillarni rests his back against the frame of the bunk in his cell. He is disgusted with how easily he provided information that could conceivably defeat Mother. The man cries. He feels his beard, woven into his ponytail, tug at him. His face and scalp burn as the hairs are yanked free in large patches. He grabs his face and feels his full beard still present.

  “Please pay attention,” SOT says. “I’m not finished with you yet.”

  “What more do you want?” Jillarni asks.

  “What will the fleet do when the Womb goes dark?”

  “They will wait to investigate. They would never dare scan the Womb to realize a problem. They check in at the commencement of each hour.”

  “So, if we perfectly time our attack, we’ll have an hour without any pestering except from those on the ship?”

  Jillarni is disappointed in the ease of his betrayal. “They will be more than enough to beat you, but yes, you would have an hour.”

  SOT considers this. Jillarni tries to deduce the intricacies of her delusions of grandeur.

  “Are the animals really a threat?” she finally asks.

  “No, they are weak. They do not care for war, but if Mother wants them eliminated, we eliminate them. Her will is always optimal.”

  SOT paces outside of Jillarni’s cell. Every time he thinks she is done, she asks another question. Each answer he provides nauseates him further.

  After what seems like hours of endless questioning, Catharsis hears the words she’s been waiting for.

  “Thank you for your help, Jill. You may go back to your whimpering now,” SOT says.

  SOT and Catharsis leave his cell. Jillarni is alone with only his own self-disgust to keep him company.

  SOT and Catharsis stand in the hallway and walk back toward the bridge.

  “You were perfect in there,” SOT compliments.

  “I’m going to be sick,” Catharsis says.

  She struggles to remover her helmet. Eventually she remembers how to rescind the strange alien technology to expose her face. SOT watches as Staci drops to all fours and vomits on the orange floor.

  “How are you feeling?” SOT asks.

  “I’m one day closer to death,” Staci answers.

  “Aren’t we all.”

  Staci stands and wipes her mouth.

  “Funny,” she says, “most people get weirded out when I say that.”

  “We aren’t normal, my dear. Never forget that.”

  The two women continue toward their destination.

  The next morning, all the rookie Templars, the winners of the training match, assemble for their day off in the bay. They stand in the civilian clothing they were captured in as they wait. Staci is especially cheerful. James, standing next to her, wonders why.

  “I’ve never seen you this happy,” James comments.

  “And you never will again,” Staci responds.

  “What does that mean?” James asks.

  “I’m out,” Staci whispers.

  “What?” James asks.

  He isn’t sure he heard what he fears he did.

  “Julie made sure I didn’t have to come back. I’m not a Templar anymore.”

  “You can’t quit on us!” James shouts.

  His outburst draws the attention of the other Templars.

  “You’re quitting?” Mary Lee asks.

  Staci looks momentarily ashamed when Julie steps forward to address the situation.

  “Yes, Staci is leaving us. I’m sure many of you all came to the same conclusion that our line of work doesn’t agree with her.”

  “Good riddance,” Greg says.

  James ignores him. He wishes the man would just stay invisible.

  Abel also steps forward. He creates individual portals for each Templar. Most run forward to theirs and receive an envelope with cash from Julie moments before vanishing. Now only James and Staci are left. He feels betrayed that she doesn’t want to stay with the team, or at least with him. He thought they had something.

  “James, time to go,” Julie urges.

  James takes one last look at Staci.

  “You’re a coward. You’re a weak coward, and it’s because of people like you that we might lose this war.”

  Staci cries from the abuse. James feels a combination of shame and satisfaction. Staci runs for the portal meant for her.

  “Wait,” Julie calls.

  Staci halts. James watches the interaction.

  “You forgot this, Staci,” Julie says as she hands Staci her mace in passive mode.

  Staci rolls the marble in her hand.

  “I don’t want this. I don’t need it.”

  “The time may come when you do on both counts,” Julie says.

  Staci considers the weapon again, then thrusts it into her pocket.

  “A token to remember my time in outer space,” Staci declares.

  “Of course,” Julie says. “Thank you for your assistance. It did help save the planet.”

  Julie gives Staci a hug, then Abel gives her one as well. James is bewildered by the kid gloves they treat Staci with. He scoffs and turns his back on the scene. It’s time for him to enjoy a normal day. He runs through the portal and vanishes.

  Chapter 8

  Taking inspiration from her teammate, Gallery also speaks to a grave. She sits alongside one with a marble tombstone and colorful flowers decorating the base.

  “Hey, Grandma, it’s Ashley,” Gallery begins. “I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that I’m a superhero now. I’ve got a magic weapon and a uniform and everything. I hope you’re not too ashamed at how many people I’ve killed. There was a time when a comment like that would have been ridiculous. Now, it’s just who I am. It scares me how much I’m beginning to like it. The people I’ve killed are aliens. They may look like me underneath their armor, but I just pretend they’re heartless robots. I know I have the heartless part right.”

  A soft breeze cools Gallery’s bare arms. It feels comforting on a warm summer day. Gallery breathes in the open air of her country community. Even before she became a Templar, she had to deal with the issues of being famous. This small town is the only place where she’s treated like a normal person.

  Gallery looks at the grave marker one final time. She glances at the life span of her grandmother. It reads May 15, 1932 to February 10, 2009.

  “I miss you, Grandma. I need your advice right now. I’m sure it would be to follow my heart or something like that, but I need to hear you say it. Oh, well, I’ll catch you later, Grandma.”

  Gallery rises from her spot on the grass and walks away. She remembers one last thing. Gallery promptly turns around and goes back to her grandmother’s grave. She kisses the emblem of an angel at the top of the stone.

  “I almost forgot. Apparently, we’re related to Apollo. I’m sure you’ve met him by now. Please ask him to send his love and support for me and all my friends. We’re going to need it in the weeks to come. I love you. Bye for real this time.”

  Gallery turns again and walks back to her expensive sports car. It’s parked conspicuously among the weathered vehicles of the simple community she calls h
ome. Leaning against said sports car is a person she hasn’t spoken to in years.

  “Hey, Ashley,” the man says.

  “Hey, Jeff. Did you know I was here?”

  The man lays into his country accent to make it extra thick.

  “Well, gosh, Miss Gallery, it’s hard for someone as purty as you to walk around unnoticed.”

  “Fair enough, smart ass.”

  Jeff relaxes his accent to its normal Tennessee charm.

  “It’s nice to see you again.”

  Gallery walks up and accepts the warm hug from a distant friend. She breathes in his cologne. The scent takes her back to her prom night.

  “Thanks for waiting,” Gallery says.

  “I figured you and your nana needed some time alone. Waiting for you is nothing new. All those talent shows should have taught you that by now,” Jeff says.

  “I don’t want to have that old fight again,” Gallery states.

  “I don’t either. I’ve put that behind me. It worked out anyway.”

  “How’s that?” Gallery asks.

  “You blew up, Ashley. Everyone knows who you are now. Leaving for the music industry was the right call. In fact, I apologize for ever trying to stop you.”

  “That makes me feel worse. You make it sound like I got what I wanted and you didn’t.”

  “I wouldn’t say that. If you hadn’t left, I wouldn’t be a father today.”

  The casual comment stings. Gallery isn’t sure if it’s because she could have been the mother or the fact that he moved on before she did.

  “You’re a daddy?” Gallery asks.

  “Yeah, but don’t think less of me. I’m a husband, too.”

  Jeff waves a gold wedding band between the two of them. Despite herself, Gallery fills with sentimentality.

  “That’s great, Jeff,” she says.

  Gallery gives Jeff a warm hug.

  “I want to know everything. Who is she? How old is your kid?”

  “Kids, actually. I have a boy and a girl. They’re four and one.”

  “You have to show me pictures.”

  “Sure,” Jeff says as he digs for his phone in his pocket.

  He sorts through the photos and shows them to Gallery.