Space Bound: A Dragon Soul Press Anthology

by J. E. Feldman

  “That should do it for the moment,” she said, scrutinizing her handiwork. She led us back to the main room. “I’ll need to go back home,” she explained.

  I stared out the window, that revealed my home like a giant sphere in the sky. How were we not constantly falling off? Fywin was even more mesmerized than I was. I could only nod absently.

  “So, where would you like to be let out?”

  I turned to her sharply.

  Let out? She didn’t look happy about it, but we also didn’t really know each other. We had only met today. But she had already saved me multiple times. Fywin as well.

  “Lucia,” I said her name for the first time. The foreign syllables felt strange in my mouth. I felt a kinship with her and I didn’t want to let that go. Not that easily. Not when everything else waiting for Fywin and I was misery.

  The spoken word had an impact on her too. Her nostrils flared and her eyes twitched, but not in a bad way. More… like surprise. A pleasant surprise.

  Today was meant to be my wedding day. And I promised myself to this woman, the wizard who saved my brother and I.

  “Lucia, take us with you,” I said, a small smile playing around my lips. “Allow us to see your world. Your home that is so full of magic.”

  She hesitated. She was playing with the idea; I could see it. I took a step toward her.

  “No,” she said. “I can’t.”

  I tilted my head to one side. “Why not?”

  She closed her eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. “It would be so overwhelming for you,” she told me.

  I shrugged. “Can’t be more of a shock than today.”

  She chuckled quietly and I could feel her resolve weaken.

  “You’d have to learn our language.”

  I smiled. “I’m sure you’re a good teacher.”

  Her smile disappeared. “You might never see your home again.”

  I glanced at Fywin, who was still staring in wonder out the window. Then I closed the distance between Lucia and I, squaring my shoulders and sticking my chin out at her. “Home is where I make one for us.”

  She sighed, but the smile in her eyes betrayed her. “You don’t have to marry me to come,” she said.

  I had won. Fywin and I would go to a new place. One where no one knew us or our history. I was sure I could rely on Lucia to help us every step along the way. And while I trusted her when she said I didn’t have to marry her for this future, I suddenly realized that I wanted to. I wanted to be this wizard’s bride.

  Peter VanGelderen

  Peter VanGelderen has made his home in Rochester Hills in his native state of Michigan, where he is surrounded by creative friends. He uses his experience from studying psychology at Kalamazoo College to create characters who reflect both the healthy and toxic aspects of human behavior.

  When taking a break from writing, Peter spends his time absorbing stories from all forms of media to broaden his creative mind.

  Peter’s stories have been a part of two anthologies from Dragon Soul Press: first with Wolves in Reign of Queens, and then again with Below in Lethal Impact. He is also going to be featured in DSP’s anthology Spirit with his short story Bear, as well as in Eerie River Publishing’s Dark Magic Drabbles anthology.

  Learn more at FB.Me/PeterVanGelderenBooks

  The King of the Moon

  Peter VanGelderen

  The falling rain rattles the roof of the car. The blaring of angry horns and the occasional siren make their way to your ears, but the downpour dulls them until they are no more than passing wisps you can barely acknowledge. Even the radio inside the car seems distant. The news report is only sharing details about Russia’s recent invasion into Serbia; you’ve heard more about the conflict in passing than the average citizen will ever know.

  You stare at the recently scrubbed glass of the windshield, watching the droplets race across its length like the beads of sweat down your forehead. You can barely think. Your breaths have been quick and frantic for hours. Deep in your chest, your heart hammers against your ribs. Unrelenting anxieties surge against the walls of your skull, stemming from your recent discoveries like uncontrollable ivy up a dilapidated wall. To keep them to yourself would be to leave poison running through your veins. I have to tell them, you think to yourself, if only just so others may know.

  You take a deep breath to summon your courage, then venture out into the deluge. Within seconds, you’re soaked to the bone. It’s finally starting to affect the United States now too, you whisper to yourself in your head, and we’re still doing barely anything. You look down the hill that the apartment building rests atop. The freeway below is already being consumed by the rolling waves of a flash flood. Lucky that you happened to not be down there when the storm began a few minutes ago. Funnily enough, the forecast claimed clear skies and a continued drought for the rest of the week. Fifty years ago, this may be called ironic, but now it’s not exactly surprising.

  Finally, you reach the door to the apartment building and ring the buzzer for number twenty-three. The light flickers above your head as you wait, just as it has for months. Your scowl deepens. With how exorbitantly priced these places are, they certainly have the money to fix something so simple.

  “Come on up!” a voice calls from the intercom. A familiar hum comes from the door, and you enter quickly. As the warmer air caresses you, you realize that your clothes might not dry for some time. Things more important than wet clothes are weighing you down right now though. You climb the stairs and approach the slightly ajar door. When you step inside, you see a slightly hunched woman with her hair in a bun. She cocks her head quizzically at you.

  “What’s wrong with you?” she says. Her brow furrows strongly the instant she sees your disheveled state.

  “Hello to you too, Mel,” you say. “There’s a storm.”

  “Yet you’re still dry as flour.” Mel rolls her eyes to the ceiling. “You know that’s not what I meant.”

  You step through the threshold into your friend’s home, removing your dripping coat and shoes at the door. “That easy to tell, is it?”

  “I can see your feelings on your face. That’s not normal.” Mel frowns and puts her hands on her hips. You shrug in response and she raises an eyebrow. “Come on, we’ll talk in the kitchen. We actually managed to save up for some real corn. I’m not letting burn.”

  You follow her into the kitchen, toward the faint scent of roasting corn and onions. As long as it’s been since you’ve eaten, even the pleasant aroma of Mel’s cooking does nothing to summon your appetite. She grabs the frying pan sitting atop a hot burner and swishes the assorted vegetables and white meat inside. A satisfying hiss fills the air along with a steady cloud of steam. Through the mist, Mel’s face hardens.

  “You’re making me nervous,” she tells you, looking up with a creased brow. “What’s going on? Don’t tell me someone’s finally pressed the button...”

  “No, not yet.” You take a deep breath; as deep as your lungs will let you. “I’ve found something.”

  “I assume you’ve found lots of things. Isn’t that part of your job?”

  “This time I wasn’t ordered to find it. In fact, quite the opposite,” you say, pausing for a long while afterward. As your mind struggles to formulate what you need to say, you fiddle with the ID badge still attached to your belt. The bold, black letters have faded after years of use, but you can still read The Office of Intelligent Defense and Protection under your photo.

  “Hey!” Mel’s voice and snapping fingers pull you out of your daze.

  “Sorry,” you say. “I’m still pulling my thoughts together.”

  Her face shrinks. “Nothing’s ever shaken you so hard before.”

  You sigh quietly. “You’re right. I didn’t tell you or Issac this before, but I’ve been working out a plan to access the Top-Secret files at HQ.”

  Mel’s eyes widen and she snarls at you. “Did you lead them here?”

  You hold out your palms. “No
, they know nothing. I’d been planning it for months and it worked out perfectly. If I had been made, they wouldn’t have let me get here in the first place.”

  She squints at you, crossing her arms and leaning back on one leg. “Okay then. So, what’s got you so nervy? You’re usually quite pleased with yourself when you enact your subtle bits of vengeance on them.”

  You need to begin telling your story. Doesn’t really matter where at this point, so you pick a place and start talking. “Do you remember the death of Lianjie Zhou?”

  “The Chinese ambassador?”

  “Correct, the ambassador whose execution prompted China to start one of the bloodiest wars in history.” You nod quickly. “Do you know why they executed him?”

  “I’m guessing he wasn’t trying to poison the Indian president like we were told?”

  You shake your head. “The poison and the detailed plan they found in his belongings were planted.”

  Mel’s face scrunches. “Planted? By who? And why would anyone want to?”

  Despite your reluctance before, the first words opened a floodgate and the rest are pouring out. “A janitor had been paid to do it. One who’d been given explicit orders on how to carry it out. Can you guess who paid him?”

  “The OIDP…” She bites her lip in thought. “Wanted to weaken China, maybe?”

  “That’s what I thought, but there’s more. Normally, the numerous post-incident inquiries might have caught the conspiracy, but a high-ranking official in the Indian government hurried the process and silently quashed any true investigation.”

  “So, your colleagues paid off an Indian politician as well.”

  You purse your lips. “Not just one. Dozens of officials would have been necessary to pull that off.”

  Mel shrugs with reluctant acceptance. "It's evil, but not exactly surprising given how you guys normally operate."

  “Don’t I know it,” you mutter. A similar atrocity is why you infiltrated them in the first place. “They’ve done more, though, often against U.S. interests. You know the constant push our military is making into Latin and South America? What about Russia’s new empire that’s about to cause World War 3? Nigeria and South Africa at each other’s throats? They all trace back to the OIDP.”

  Mel’s eyes narrow in thought. You know what she’s doing; you did the same when you first found out.

  You step closer and lean in. “The OIDP is trying to enfeeble every major global power by pitting them against each other. It’s the only explanation.”

  Mel scratches her scalp and shakes her head. “That explains why we haven’t seen any nukes yet. The directors must be profiting from constant global war, and they can’t do that if the world is on fire.”

  You shake your head. “War profiteering isn’t a new thing, but I couldn’t find anything to prove it. I did find something else in the search that’s got me worried, though. The OIDP doesn’t even answer to the United States Government.” You stand and begin nervously pacing. “During its inception after we disbanded the CIA, numerous subtle laws were silently passed that made the OIDP an organization completely independent. They’re funded by massive donations from the ultra-rich and aren’t subject to any investigation or intervention from the federal government. The conspiracy is hidden deep in a web of footnotes and convoluted references. Even the most skilled lawyer would need years to figure it out from the outside, and any who’ve stumbled upon it are marked, catalogued, and coincidentally deceased.”

  “So, the directors and their backers are just plunging the world into chaos. They’re not getting any orders, and if their motive isn’t profit, then what?”

  You shudder upon thinking of the next step. They’re getting orders from somewhere, alright, you think to yourself, but can't quite say the words out loud yet. The crushing depths and cold darkness didn't stop the radio transmissions and frequent transport vehicles. The world's problems have a singular root.

  Behind you, a door opens. Your training kicks in and instead of panic flooding your system, you reach into your jacket and retrieve the handgun holstered on your hip. You twirl and aim it at the newcomer, only to recoil at the familiar face holding a grocery bag. The face freezes at the drawn weapon and after a tense second, you put away your sidearm. Issac's jaw drops and his brow creases in anger.

  “Jesus, what the hell are you doing?” He growls, staring daggers at you as he closes the door to the apartment, “Don’t point a gun at me when I enter my own home!”

  You tremble a little with the shame that an opening door was enough to make you pull your pistol. “Sorry, Issac. I’m a bit jittery.”

  “No shit,” he says as he places the bag onto the counter, “You’d probably miss with your lousy aim, at least. What the hell’s gotten into you though?”

  Mel goes to her husband and places a hand on his shoulder. “You need to hear this.”

  Issac’s shrewd eyes fall on you, worry quickly building in the creases of his face. “What happened? What did you do?”

  You backpedal and restate everything you just told Mel to Issac. As you speak, your longtime friends listen intently. Issac keeps quiet until you finish, his face still but for a few small clenches and twitches. Mel turns off the oven as their dinner finishes, but makes no move to plate the meal. When your recounting is done, you fall silent to wait for Issac's response. Not surprisingly, he lets out a frustrated sigh and brings his fingers to the bridge of his nose.

  “You shouldn’t have done that,” he mutters. “Do you know what they’d do if they’d found out?”

  “Of course, I know!” you snap. “I can’t take them down without risks, you know that.”

  “Yes, yes. I’m sorry. You’re right,” he admits. “I get that this has always been your goal, but I hate the idea of you putting yourself in danger.”

  “I know you do. And I appreciate it,” you say, moving to put a hand on your friend’s shoulder.

  “You still haven’t mentioned if you found any sort of motive,” Mel pipes up from her slumped lounging on the couch.

  The question stops you, and your thoughts stumble again. Your throat gets tight as you remember the answer and you nervously run your tongue along your teeth.

  "Weapons manufacturers profiting off the constant war still seems likely, but there should at least be somewhat of a trail," Issac muses. Unlike his wife, he's still perfectly awake. He's always been more of a night owl than her. “With something this big, there’s got to be some sort of hierarchy. There’s got to be at least a few people at the top.”

  “All the orders are coming from one central place,” you say. “That’s got to be where they are.”

  “Where?” the pair asks together.

  You take another deep breath. “I found records of a sea base. A laboratory erected before the OIDP’s founding, but has since been claimed to be abandoned. However, subs are still making the trip down every few weeks or so.”

  Issac strokes his chin. “Clearly not abandoned.”

  “No,” you say, “the records show that every high-ranking member of the OIDP has been to the base at least once, usually right before their promotions. Stranger than that,” you turn slowly, meeting your friends’ eyes, “numerous officials from various world powers have also been down there.”

  Mel raises an eyebrow. “So, the Indian officials? The Russian leaders? The president?”

  “All of them. Every single one has been to this sea base, and none of them have said a word about it.”

  The three of you fall into silence. Not much time passes before Issac’s eyes widen with realization. “No,” he says with soft desperation. “No, you’re not thinking of going down there, are you?”

  You slowly nod. “I’ve procured a one-person submersible from one of my contacts. I leave tomorrow morning.”

  “For fucks sake, do you have a death wish?” He plants his face into his hands. “You can’t hide this from them, you understand? You can’t sneakily dock onto a sea base!”

  “Y
ou’re right, I can’t,” you admit, “but I can’t just sit on this. I might not have anything more than a slim chance to stop whatever’s going on, but it’s more than anyone else has.”

  “He’s right, Issac.” Mel stands and wraps her arm around her husband’s. “I don’t like it either, but who else has a chance?”

  “Goddammit…” Issac growls to himself. He looks up with watery eyes. “I know you’re the only one who can do this. I just hate it.”

  You feel a lump form in your throat. "I wish it could be different too." The face of the clerk at the front desk of your office jumps to your mind's eye. You've always wanted to speak with them and ask them for coffee or maybe even dinner. You can't have gotten involved with them without either dropping your mission or bringing them along though. You can't justify putting someone else in danger like that. Issac and Mel have had it hard enough already. The clerk was not the first you've had to ignore, but you feel your body tense upon knowing they will likely be the last.

  “Be careful, alright?” Mel says, her own eyes reddening from coming tears.

  You move in to embrace your friends, purposely not answering the question.

  The metal surrounding you moans like a plague victim. An eternal ocean’s worth of pressure closes in around the shell upon which you’ve entrusted your entire existence. You remain stalwart, just as you have in all perilous situations before this. The real danger is awaiting you at the end of your submerged journey. Still, though, every time you hear the creaking of your vehicle, you can’t help feeling the smallest twinge of panic deep in the most primal parts of your brain. You frown, frustrated that even with decades of extreme frugality and employment with the most influential intelligence agency in the world, a tiny, ramshackle, one-person sub was the best you could afford.

  Your irritation at your unfortunate watercraft fades as you spot the blocky, metallic structure built into the rocky outcropping. The only way you see it is through the small lights on your submarine; if you hadn't already known where the base was, you would have had no chance of finding it in the abyss. As the automated system prepares to dock, you brace yourself for a quick exit. Your muscles tense and your eyes widen as your fingers wrap around the cheap crowbar you could barely afford after you bought the sub. Your firearm is at your hip as well, but no one with a brain would risk bullets when a hull breach means the destruction of the whole base. Better for you, as you know how poor your shooting can be.