Age of the Marcks

by Gregory Benson

  Flying in with reckless abandon, they just narrowly missed several spines from the large bushes. The boar skidded to a frenzied landing; its clawed feet dug into the marshy ground. Crix remained clenched to its back. He was fearful that if he let go, it would come after him again. The creature hacked and grunted from exhaustion, still whipping its neck about, but a little less vigorously than before.

  Crix took a moment and contemplated how he was going to get away from this highly agitated boar when he had a sudden recollection that he still had the sweet creams in his left sleeve pocket. He thought perhaps these saber boars would find them just as appealing as his droona beast and could be a perfect peace offering.

  He took the treat from his pocket and snapped off a chunk then tossed it to the ground in front of the boar. The beast stopped its struggling, lowered its head, and snorted at the ground. It stretched its neck forward to reach the sweet cream without moving its feet, and then gobbled it up. As it chewed the delightful treat, the happy boar foamed and frothed at the mouth and gave out excessive grunts.

  Crix snapped another piece and held it in his palm then attempted to lean forward to feed the boar. The animal startled and let out a squeal; Crix jerked his hand back and dropped the piece to the ground. The boar immediately lapped up the discarded treat without hesitation. Deciding to take a leap of faith, he dismounted the beast, and then stepped slowly forward and extended the stick in a peace offering to the boar. It cautiously leaned in and pulled the treat from his grasp. Then, surprisingly, the boar snorted around, looking for more. It approached him and began sniffing his clothes. It kept its head tilted so it would not lance him with the long saber tusks protruding from its face. The eager boar continued to nuzzle him, which caused him to chuckle from the tickling sensation. He placed his hand on its back to pat the five-hundred-pound boar like a pet as it continued to search for more sweet creams. After a while, the beast settled down, and he felt comfortable enough to head out in the direction of the crash, unconcerned about being this saber boar’s next meal.

  Crix nervously stared upward at the jagged cliffs behind him. At this point, now that he was deep in Drisal with no easy path back, he was much more concerned about running across a Monoglade. Monoglades were the descendants of a group of Andors that long ago immigrated into Mendac cities and eventually interbred. Once the xenophobic culture would no longer tolerate the crossbreeds, they banished them from their lands completely. When they attempted to return to Troika with their children, they were dishonored and unwelcomed. With no other options, they fled to the treacherous lands of Drisal.

  It was an inhospitable region where their day-to-day existence focused on basic survival. They turned to savagery when the scarcity of resources caused them to abandon their morals. The Monoglade legend told of the beasts of the boglands feeding on them until only a handful of the most brutal and cruel remained. They lived by their claws and fangs as they adapted until the day when they finally ruled over the land through their own brutality.

  Crix did not want to meet or tangle with any resident Monoglades. He heard a snap in the distance. His heart was pounding, and he leaned forward to examine the darkness. There was movement and another crack of a dead branch.

  CHAPTER 2

  T he crash site was further away than he had thought; he slogged tirelessly through the marshy thicket. The menacing thorns that infested the landscape tore into his clothes and scratched his skin as he persistently fought through the undergrowth. Whatever had snapped the branch earlier had caught the attention of the boar, and it took chase, charging off into the thick brush. Crix hadn’t seen or heard the boar since.

  Pain and fatigue finally caught up with his steady drive, so he took a brief moment and caught his breath. As he stood there with his hands resting upon his knees, he felt a stinging pain as if hundreds of needles stabbed the lower parts of his legs.

  What?

  On the ground were thousands of tiny black insects scurrying up his lower extremities. He leaped in the air and dashed into another area not filled with the pests. He was exasperated. This place was teeming with life, and everything seemed hostile. Following close behind him, he could hear heavy thumps and grunts. It sounded like the saber boar; he hoped it was the same one from earlier.

  It must still be following me. If the beast wants to follow, fine, but it needs to stay back and be a little quieter.

  The noise that creature made was enough to get every Monoglade in the area bearing down upon him before he reached the crash. As he looked back, the boar’s tusks poked through a dense patch of weeds. He tried to shoo the beast away, but that only made it want to come closer. Crix decided he would try to ignore it and press on and hoped it would lose interest and eventually go away.

  He walked as lightly as he could in the marsh, and at times, he sank up to his thighs in the stinking muck. The humid, wretched air stunk of rot, and his wet clothes clung around his body; he felt restrained. This wonderful bouquet of aromas worsened the further he went on. Occasionally, a creature would tromp in front of him but always seemed to be more startled by him than he was of it.

  Through the dampness and stink, he could catch the faint smell of charred metal, and he knew he must be getting close, but then he saw a sight that pressed fear deep into his bones. He had traipsed upon a monstrous, four-legged animal that had a long spear protruding out of its mouth. The jaws hung wide open with various-sized, pointed teeth, and its grey fur was stained with blood that slowly dripped to the ground. Crix could hear his heart beating as he stared at the creature’s long, black claws, which had remained protracted as though it was still fighting against its slayers. The sight sent an uncontrollable shiver down his spine, even though the hulking beast was visibly dead.

  His mind spilled over with the concern of what killed this beast and if it was still nearby. He then realized the crash site was right on the other side of a large brush pile, which unfortunately, was located directly behind the impaled behemoth. He carefully slid past the ill-fated beast and climbed over the brush pile to investigate. The uncertain boar would not approach the killed beast and kept a sizable distance from it.

  At the top of the massive brush pile, he peered down with what should have been a good view of the crash site. However, the thick smell of burnt metal mixed with the pungent odor of the stagnate marshlands was almost more than Crix’s uneasy stomach could handle. He squinted his eyes, but it still was not visibly clear through the darkness and mist, so he continued down the other side to get a closer look.

  As he broke through the murky fog layer to see what was hiding beneath, he observed what appeared to be a strange fighter ship, and a large portion of that ship had sunk deep into the loose, marshy ground. It was small, and like nothing he had ever seen or even read about before, especially since he lived in Troika. Still, this ship was very different.

  He noticed the ship’s circular tail stuck out from the marsh, and it was translucent black, which he realized was why it had been so difficult to see before. All around the ship, he observed oddly shaped footprints; they were long and slender with short claws but appeared to come from creatures that walked upright. Most of them were quickly losing their shape in the soft marsh, which indicated that whoever they belonged to had only recently left the scene. I really hope these weren’t Monoglades. He could hear the sporadic gurgling of the surrounding bog water as it bubbled up from around the crashed vessel. If there was something piloting this ship, it did not appear to have escaped; the cockpit seemed to be beneath the surface of the marsh. The ship must have belly slid for almost a mile before it finally dipped its nose and came to a stop there.

  His thoughts raced; he had come this far and was not about to leave before investigating the wreckage. Again, he heard his heartbeat within his chest, but not because of fear but something else. The pure adrenaline that coursed through his blood triggered an intense focus. He found a flat rock nearby and used it to dig through the mud around the small ship. Working franti
cally, he realized that resting would only allow the waterlogged soil to seep back over his progress.

  He followed along the ship’s outer hull and continued to shovel while he fought the oncoming effects of exhaustion. He gasped for air and wiped the burning sweat from his eyes. Eventually, he located a small hole, possibly caused by an energy blast, on the side of the ship. He reached his hand into the hole, but it filled back in with the seeping mud and further obstructed his view.

  He then cracked off a long stick from the brush pile and cautiously placed it into the hole. He attempted was to clear the obstructing sludge while creating a view into the ship. All at once, the determination within him was reignited by what he saw next; slumped over, inside the cockpit, was a helmeted individual in a jet-black flight suit.

  “Hey, can you hear me?” he shouted at the opening, but there was no reply or motion. He used the stick again, this time to nudge the hapless pilot. It was not in his upbringing to leave something or someone for dead, so he committed in his mind to retrieve the pilot from the doomed ship.

  If the ship still had power, he might be able to open the forward hatch. He looked closer; there was a lever inside marked with the word extraction.

  It almost sounds painful in a way.

  He had an idea. The stick needed to be strong enough that he would be able to move the lever up, and if the ship had any power, he hoped the hatch would open.

  Then, all of a sudden, in the scrublands off to his right, he caught a brief glimpse of a red, flashing light. Confused, he thought to himself, No modern technology should be in Drisal, so this struck him as unusual.

  Though after a couple of minutes, he shrugged it off as his weariness and fatigue. Besides, he wanted to stay focused on rescuing the stranded pilot.

  The ship must have some sort of auxiliary power system, but where would it be? His only view was from the far side of the cockpit to where the lever was located. As he leaned his hand against the ship’s hull to regain his thoughts, the ground gave a steamy burp, and the ship began to slip further into the marsh.

  He frantically dug next to the ship to keep the hole from filling back up with mud. There was a humming in the distance. It sounded as though it was approaching fast enough that it interrupted his efforts. As he looked forward, he noticed the red light again, this time with a much better view. A small, black and silver, oval object zipped forward and hesitated right in front of his face then flashed a bright red light. It backed up and flashed two more times at the ship before it zoomed off into the distance. Crix was bewildered.

  The ship slowly slid further into the mud; he had little time left to save the person inside. He needed power to slide the hatch open, and there was none around except the orb.

  Of course! The orb is pure energy, pure power; it could definitely power that ship!

  The problem was that Haflinger warned him that the Marcks could possibly detect its energy signature from orbit and would come for it immediately. For this reason, he was never to bring forth its power, never to reveal the secret . . . until today. Besides, he was not in Troika; he was in Drisal.

  His hands went numb and slowly gave off a subtle blue glow that crept up his arms. A bluish hue seeped into his vision.

  What is happening? The orb has never done this before.

  The light of day was upon him, and he could nearly see the sun break over the horizon. Now was the time! He always felt the energy deep inside of him, fluttering his heart, tickling the pit of his stomach. Nevertheless, the strict discipline from his Andorian rearing had provided him with the perseverance to subdue the urge to unleash this power. He was excited yet nervous. He placed the palms of his hands against the cold, wet surface of the doomed ship, let go of his clenched gut, his Andorian will, and allowed the surreptitious energy to flow.

  A warm sensation whirled and tickled within his core, and then billowed throughout every nerve and muscle in his body. He felt each hair stand on end, and then he looked down at his arms and observed that they were ablaze with a blue aura. It felt good, almost like a drug that was going to be difficult to wean himself from now that he had tasted it.

  The power of the orb caused the ship to start whistling and humming with a slight vibration that came from its hull. He looked inside and noticed the pilot’s body was flinging and flailing around. The instrument panels illuminated and began blinking; he pushed the lever forward with the stick he had retrieved earlier. A small hatch just over the pilot seat slid open as the loose, wet soil poured into the cockpit; it left a small sinkhole above the ship.

  He pushed his hands into the mud-filled cockpit and under the pilot’s arms and pulled it to safety. He dragged the pilot to the side and located the helmet release latch so he could remove it. He was concerned that it might no longer provide life support. To his astonishment, as he pulled the helmet off, long, shiny, black hair fell out and revealed a fair-skinned young woman. Her skin was like smooth porcelain.

  She slowly opened her deep green eyes, which made his heart skip a couple of beats as they made contact with his for the first time. She was beautiful, more than beautiful; she was unique and could be the only perfect thing he had ever seen. Until that moment, he had never seen a Mendac female in person, and now that he had, he never wanted to take his eyes off of her again.

  She slowly regained her focus. “Who are you?” Her voice was subtle yet raspy, as though she had just awakened from a lengthy sleep.

  Crix was at a loss for something eloquent to say. “Umm, I’m, uh . . .” He shook his head to force some sort of composure from himself. “Crix . . . my name is Crix. Are you okay?” He noticed that she was squinting and not looking at him but past his shoulder.

  “Who’s that?”

  Shocked, he snapped his head around to witness, for a split second, a flash of a large face, a face of horror, one that you only saw in nightmares. It had grey flesh that was thick and cracked like dry mud. The rage-filled, bulging eyes of this monstrous being stared at Crix. Its enormous, black, flaring nostrils filled with wiry hair snorted out a pungent odor of rotting meat.

  Crix was motionless; his unfortunate hesitation was just long enough for this repugnant creature’s thick, bristly arm to wrap around his neck, and it lifted him from his feet. The weight of his body viciously smacked into the ground. The impact cost him his strength, and all went dark.

  CHAPTER 3

  H igh above Soorak, on Sinstar’s zero-G weapons testing facility, a tall figure lurched over a young man huddled down on the floor of a dimly lit room. Zearic, the overlord of Sinstar Corporation, appeared acrimonious.

  “If you’re unable or unwilling to tell me where the Prototype X88T is located, then I have no more use for you, do I?” The man was painted red in his own blood, his face swollen, burned, and clothes shredded. Shivering, he said nothing but kept looking behind Zearic with terror in his eyes.

  “Hmmm, how pathetic. You dare steal from me, you sightless coward!” He raised his left arm and spoke into an embedded device. “I’m finished with this worm. You have your next test subject, Pietal.” His voice had an irritating pitch that tapped one’s nerves when he spoke.

  A broad, cloaked figure stood behind him. Its round eyes appeared red in the dimly lit room. He waved the shadowy figure back, and it hissed quietly then disappeared completely into a dark corner. Seconds later, Pietal, Sinstar’s chief of weapons development, stepped in through the doorway as it slid open. A shiny, black cap covered his head with a slender pipe that had an emitting light blinking from its top. His large head lurched out from a floor-length coat, and a menacing scowl formed across his jawline.

  Pietal glanced down at the bludgeoned man as if he was nothing more than a piece of lab equipment. He slapped his hands together, and two silver-clad guards wearing black helmets and visors marched into the room and hauled the man out by his arms. The man screamed, his terrified voice fading into the passageway.

  “My lord,” Pietal said as he snapped to attention and nodded in Z
earic’s direction; the eager scientist then quickly exited the room.

  A rapid beep rung out from the device on Zearic’s wrist. He tapped the device with his finger. “This had better be important.”

  “Please forgive me, Lord Zearic. There is a priority alpha encoded transmission coming in from orbital surveillance station 222.”

  “Allow it through then,” he replied, annoyed, yet somewhat intrigued.

  “Our searcher drones have detected and verified the X88T prototype in the Drisal region of Soorak.”

  Zearic’s right eye illuminated, and his jaw tightened. “I want that ship back in our development station right now. Deploy ground forces to retrieve it immediately.”

  The voice continued. “Be advised, orb energy signature was detected at two short intervals in the matching proximity of the X88T.”

  Zearic clenched up, and the figure that remained lurking in the shadows of the room gave out a faint hiss. He smashed the bottom of his fist on the blood-soaked table next to him, and his appearance became grave as he spoke into his wrist unit.

  “Now . . . turn up your audio receptors and listen to me. I want the X88T and the orb; the orb is of the highest priority. I do not care what the costs are; I want it brought to me, as well as the current carrier. Immediately! Put the Knactor Legion on the ground in Drisal now, and lock down the entire region! I do not care if you have to eradicate all of the life in Drisal to do so! Besides, no one will miss the sub-species waste there anyway.”