Canaan

by David Salvi

  While calling out the count in the radio, Chris opened his cockpit, and pushed the glass upward. Just a few more seconds and then they’d collide with Riley’s bi-copter. A few more seconds.

  “Now!” Chris shouted into the comms.

  With her bi-copter suspended on autopilot, Riley jumped from her cockpit, free-falling for several seconds. Her arms were outstretched and her legs followed behind her torso.

  Chris’s bi-copter dove downward and banked left. He unhooked his safety harness, holding onto one strap. Riley was in his sight. He reached out his hand, hoping to find hers.

  Lavik, on the other side, dove and banked at the same time. Passing Riley and Chris in an instant.

  Chris felt an arm and squeezed.

  “Got ya! Chris said as he grabbed Riley by the wrist. Her body slammed into the side of the bi-copter and Chris pulled her in.

  Both of their bi-copters elevated, passing Riley’s.

  The Canaanite pilots, in a daze from the maneuver, panicked. Both aircraft tried to dodge the other, clipping into each other and knocking Riley’s suspended bi-copter. One clipped into a spin that sent him swirling to the ground. The second bashed into Riley’s, which turned them both into two dead weights that fell into Lake Albertrum. The tigrus fish would enjoy some bulky Canaanite pilot.

  Success.

  Pulling Riley into the cockpit, Chris adjusted his seat to accommodate the extra body. He made a joke about how the seats adjusted and they shared a giggle. Her face appeared swollen from tugging at the aircraft stick to evade their enemies. Streaks of dried tears were as river deltas on her cheeks. She took one look at Chris and hugged him.

  The two bi-copters then followed their compasses west toward Antiquity. Not much for comms at the moment.

  With the cockpit glass open, they enjoyed the breeze of the air over Lake Albertrum. It was thin, but refreshing. They flew quietly over the lake, peeking over at times to see where the fishing boats were. Ahead were the mountains. That grand vista Chris saw earlier was now in close view, as if a painting that became real. He was happy to have made the extra effort.

  Rob II spoke up to break the silence, “Christopher, you demonstrated the greatest trait of humanity—self-sacrifice. You follow footsteps, making the prints larger than those before you. You are a paragon of bravery, Christopher. That is why you and your family have my loyalty. It’s the right thing to do.”

  “Amen,” Lavik said.

  Riley remained silent. She only looked at Chris, who smiled at Rob II’s compliment. Then, with Chris focused on the path ahead, Riley put her head on his chest, grateful for everything this young man has done for her, even when she was the one who was supposed to be saving him.

  ***

  Back at the tower, Jack lowered his shoulders and trudged up an ornate staircase from the penultimate floor in Canaanite Tower.

  He passed a band of grunting brutes who headed down to further secure the Canaanite keep. One, bald and bearded, dug a shoulder into Jack. He nearly fell before snatching the railing.

  “Move it, Braukus.”

  Jack retorted, “Hey, I’ll—”

  “What was that?” The brute seethed at the mouth.

  Point taken. Jack continued up the stairs without further complaint.

  Once at the top, he entered the Arch Canaanite Council Chamber. Sacred ground only few in Canaanite City saw. The space had a panoramic view of Canaanite City.

  The chamber was a white oval-shaped room. The walls were glass with gold trim. Everything had gold trim. Lounge couches scattered about as if thrown in a riot.

  There was a blaring noise in the air. Pandemonium ensued.

  All around, a dozen council people and their cronies scorned the acts of their enemies. Arch Canaanites cursed Motus and promised vengeance. They seethed and gritted their teeth like bloodlusting animals who haven’t eaten for weeks, only to be mocked behind glass by their prey as smoke signaled a spark to Motus’s undying motive to destroy what they had created and maintained for several generations of Canaanites.

  The Arch Canaanites, dressed in elegant gowns and suits of all colors, were debating on the next move. What to do? Who to go after? How to mutilate the bodies of the prisoners of war, if there were any. Men and women alike were shouting.

  “Jack! What happened?” the Secretary of the Interior asked. He was a slender man with a white goatee that grew past his neck. Strings of whiskers popped up and down as his mouth moved. His eyes wide. His voice shaken.

  Jack did not have an answer for him.

  Right behind Jack, following him up the stairs, was the Arch Canaanite who interrupted Riley, Lavik, and Chris’s escape in the lower level vault, and who ultimately found a gagged and shackled Jack pinned between scattered equipment. He grumbled to himself and leered at Jack before addressing the crowd.

  “That’s enough!” he shouted. The crowd halted their shuffling steps. Their mouths shut. Their attention craned to this man. He raised his arms and urged them to come closer. They did in silence.

  He continued, “What happened today is the worst attack on our city and our way of life since the First Mutiny.” He spoke with intensity, but was calm and measured with every word and inflection.

  “I remember my father told us as children of the great ancestral schism of Canaan two centuries ago.” He paused to look out. More black and gray smoke swirled. More explosions popped down below like little sparks of electric current. “What birthed that day many years ago was a rebellion, and Motus became the greatest threat to a Canaanite’s way of life. They fought relentlessly as they still do, against what was supposed to be our very own brothers and sisters. They claimed righteousness. They claimed freedom. But where our ancestors incorrectly acted by letting a band of rebels escape into the distance, we shall succeed. We will hunt them down, once and for all, and crush them into oblivion. Motus will become a thing of the past.”

  A mighty roar erupted from the group. Again the man raised his hand to calm his raucous spectators as he held court.

  “For any stragglers out in our streets, capture them and bring them to the city center. This ends now. We are mobilizing our forces to attack Motus Island.”

  A collection of gasps enveloped the room. This was unheard of because everyone knew Motus Island was hidden, in a mystical sense. No one knew how to get there. And braving the ‘canes was a foolhardy endeavor.

  “Council members, recruit your four corners and generate an army. Interior Department, divert all efforts to military equipment, machinery, and weaponry. Executive Department, get ready to train. We are going to war.” He had focus and strength in his voice. Every word hung out in the air like an emphatic call to inspire everyone in the chamber. It did.

  Scurrying and a cacophony of yelling morphed into something uniform and direct. They huddled in their pockets of respective fields and started to plan. The orating Arch Canaanite, the magistrate and most powerful among them all, walked off from his makeshift pulpit.

  Jack, still wide-eyed by his encounter with the band of rebels, approached the Arch Canaanite, “Magistrate,”

  “Ah, Jack. I heard you had a run-in with this Riley,” the Magistrate had a distrustful smirk on his face.

  “I did.”

  “I want her dead.”

  “Me too.”

  “Good, you better. Because your interstellar project hangs in the balance. I wouldn’t care about anything more, Braukus.”

  A lump passed Jack’s throat. He said, “How are we going to find them? The Ocean of Antiquity is too large and they have a head start.”

  “That device they took from the lower chambers…” his voice faded to allow Jack to finish. His eyes had a conniving look, trying to translate the rest over.

  But nothing. Jack did not figure it out.

  The Magistrate finished his own sentence after a sigh, “…has a tracking device, Braukus.” Why did I agree to let this guy in?

  “Oh!”

  “Yes.” Another sigh.
>
  “I want to lead the party.”

  “Not a chance.” The Magistrate walked off, but not before Jack interrupted.

  “Wait, why not?”

  “This is a military act. The commander leads this charge. This is too big for you, boy. It’s not too big for your friend though. He has gumption. And if you question me again, I’ll have you hanged.”

  With status, prestige, dominion, and money, Jack was still reduced to less than he ever wanted. Another comparison to Chris, this time by the leader of Canaan.

  Jack was pissed. He was going to exact revenge and show everyone once and for all.

  ***

  Three young rice workers ran across the Valley so fast their wide-brimmed straw hats flew off their heads. Chin straps prevented the hats from getting lost. Instead the hats flopped up and down at the top of their shoulders.

  As they scurried through the brushes of vegetation, the rice workers joked and laughed. They were young after all, and didn’t have a care in all of Canaan. They were off work. Curfew wasn’t for a few hours. Two boys and one girl.

  “Let’s see how far we can get this time,” the girl said. She had straight dark hair that ran chin length. Apollo glistened off her beaded bronze complexion.

  Though the activity tired them and forced their pores to sweat, breaking up the muggy air felt good and invigorating.

  “To Gulf of Marian! We can make it!” one of the boys shouted over his shoulder. He was a little older than the other two. He led the pack with his lanky frame and full strides.

  The youngest boy watched each of his sprinting steps, carefully navigating the Valley’s floor, which was littered with leaves, sticks, rocks, and debris. He huffed and puffed his way through. Several times he asked the other two to wait. Hold up. Slow down. He did not want to feel like the youngest one of the trio.

  When the youngest caught up to the other two, he saw them stopped in their tracks and he did the same, skidding across the dirt floor before hitting a patch of long grass.

  “What is it?” the youngest asked. Each breath was difficult. He felt the edges of his wind pipe take in all the air it could manage. He lowered his head between his knees and waited for their response.

  But they said nothing.

  When the young one looked up, he saw their heads facing the Gulf of Marian.

  He said again, “What is it?”

  Instead of waiting for an answer this time, he poked his head around them to bear witness to whatever phenomenon struck his friends.

  The Gulf of Marian ran long and wide a southern seascape to the Albertrum Mountains. There were rock cliffs and faces, as well as pebble beaches down at the water. No one was ever in sight. No one ever went this far.

  “What? It’s the gulf. A bunch of water.” The youngest gave them a confused look. But then noticed where the other two’s eyes were focused.

  Lining the rock face, attached by chain and rope, were massive metal and wood ships. Larger than anything they had ever seen on Lake Albertrum. These ships were wide and angled at the fronts. On top of a few were expansive landing pads. Others had cannons as long as krakona tree. They hardly bobbed while floating, obviously not miffed by turbulent water.

  “What’s that?” the youngest one asked.

  “Shit, we gotta get out of here.” The oldest backed away slowly. His eyes darted into the sky, then around the brush of trees and bushes. “They could be here.”

  “Who?” said the girl.

  “Canaan.”

  “But we’re not past curfew. It’s fine.”

  “Didn’t you hear what happened to Rico? Killed in the Valley.”

  “I heard that was Christopher Menas, the weird gardener kid,” the youngest one chimed in with his bit of information.

  “What if it was Canaan? Hiding this.” The oldest motioned to the naval fleet of armored death. His eyes were wide. He wanted to run. Now.

  A rustle in the bushes several yards away stiffened their bodies. The rice workers turned in unison. They were frozen. Wide-eyed and quivering under their breaths. The oldest spread his arms and anchored the others in a slow walk backwards. He turned to see a krakona tree they could hide behind, at least for a moment to see what the disturbance was.

  More rustling, but nothing coming out of the thicket.

  “Let’s go,” the oldest whispered. He led the way and the other two followed in a hasty walk. They crouched and kept low.

  Everything was fine until they heard a voice, low and bellowing.

  “Hey! Who are you?” a Military Force officer said, donning the tactical pants and tight shirt. Utility belt on the waist. This one had sandy peach hair, frazzled and sweaty.

  The youngest made a mad dash in fear, but three more Military Officers were in his way. They surrounded the trio of rice workers. Immediately the young one was scooped up and into the tree-trunk arms of a sweaty, smelly brute. He squirmed a bit before kicking his leg backwards and into the officer’s groin. He was dropped and ran for his life. The other two rice workers dodged the

  “Get ‘em!” they heard from behind them. They didn’t care to look back.

  Within seconds the Military Officers snatched all three in their arms, barking hate and anger for the attempted escape.

  The rice workers squirmed to escape.

  “What’d we do?!” the oldest said in defiance.

  “Yeah, it’s not past curfew!” the girl said.

  The one officer not holding a rice worker circled around to face them. He crunched leaves and sticks under his boot.

  “You saw something you shouldn’t have seen.” He snarled with spittle and foam coming out of the corners of his mouth.

  The girl looked away in disgust.

  “We won’t tell anyone. Honest!” the youngest yapped out. He stopped squirming.

  “Doesn’t work that way.”

  The brute holding the girl said, “What now, boss?”

  “We’ll call it a worker’s accident.”

  All four officers laughed.

  The rice workers, only kids, made one last attempt for an escape. Nothing. Not against the strength of these muscleheads.

  The leader of the brutes took out a knife. First he slit the oldest’s throat. The other two watched in horror. Squirming morphed into a limping screaming. Then he slit the girl’s throat. Right before she begged “no!” Then the youngest’s turn was up. He looked at the officer in a teary-eyed stare.

  The boy then said, “You’re supposed to protect us!”

  “I am.”

  The last throat was slit. Each of the bodies fell to the floor like dead tigrus fish thrown to shore. Blood poured from their necks and into their chests. The officers wiped their forearms clean of the fresh, warm crimson liquid on their black pants.

  “Dump the bodies into the gulf. I’ll tell the Administrator we found them dead from a bonzo cat attack and that we dumped the bodies to not attract any more creatures. You shouldn’t be wandering the Valley late at night.” He winked at his band of brutes.

  Again the four laughed with hearty, maniacal breaths.

  Entry 1 -- Space

  I write these for future generations. Always make progress possible.

  We have left for good. The place on which I lived and breathed is now in our rearview mirror.

  Although we organized the mission and operation to transport everyone in the compound, several people decided to stay. That was their prerogative.

  I wished them luck. That’s all I could wish.

  Now we are in space, one day into our mission that will impact generations of our species. Our people are excited. Our crew is ready. I am fine. Content with what is, and anxious for what is it to come. This is where we are meant to go. I know it in my heart.

  I have ventured to space before, televising it to masses of millions, if not billions of people, with our company’s ventures shortly after the Space Freedom Act. Waving and smiling to strangers who took their focus to the stars above. But they only had unrealiz
ed dreams. They did not have the intellectual curiosity to dream bigger than me, or the conviction to gather the brightest minds to make it a reality. It was me. I am the catalyst for what will be our survival.

  In one day, we will reach our point of entry, releasing the exotic matter at the exact same cosmic time as Rob II does near Canaan. The wormhole will open, and we set sail across the galaxy. Godspeed, as they say.

  This may be my last entry. I won’t know until tomorrow.

  End of Entry.

  Oscar Marian

  CHAPTER 19

  “NOT MUCH POWER LEFT,” Lavik reminded Chris again over comms.

  “We’re almost over the peak. Then we’ll descend sharply to the coast. We got this, El-Vee.” Chris wasn’t worried. His voice was strong. He gripped the control stick and scanned the area. Weather was clear. No strong winds either. Good heading.

  When the summit of the mountain passed under their hull, they dipped the noses of the bi-copters and began their descent. The Ocean of Antiquity was in full view as a white accented blue canvas in motion. Chris smiled and told Lavik how happy he was to see the big blue beauty, even if a ‘cane was in store. Lavik agreed with a sense of relief in his voice. The past few weeks tested them.

  Riley, who had fallen asleep halfway into their trip, awoke to take in a salty breeze. She inhaled a deep breath and smiled, the first in seemingly ages. Chris noticed an innocence in her face, but he thought maybe it was relief. He was glad to see her smile.

  Lavik said, “There are the boats.”

  In a line, on the line, were the Santa Maria, Pinta, Nina, and Armada bobbing up and down with the motion of the waves. A few soldiers who manned the line were milling about on the sea rocks. A few fishing poles were speared into the hard edge with lines cast out into the ocean. Fresh fish carcasses were in a pile by a fire.

  “Too bad we didn’t have these suckers when we made shore!” Lavik said as he slapped the side of the bi-copter’s hull.