Zena- Soldier

by Edward Lake

  Zena: Soldier

  Edward Lake

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  To the memory of Deborah Sampson

  I. The Dream

  1. Zena

  2. Zena

  3. Zena

  4. Zena

  II. Slave Soldier

  5. Pastor Saros

  6. Pastor Saros

  7. Evander

  III. The Draft

  8. Zena

  9. Zena

  10. Zena

  11. Zena

  12. Zena

  13. Zena

  14. Zena

  IV. Forbidden Love

  15. Zena

  16. Zena

  17. Zena

  18. Zena

  19. Zena

  V. Death to Zena

  20. Evander

  21. Pastor Saros

  22. Zena

  23. Zena

  VI. The Fall of an Empire

  24. Pastor Saros

  25. Evander

  26. Zena

  All rights reserved. No part of this book shall be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher.

  Copyright © by 2018 Edward Lake

  The names, characters, places, and events in this book are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or places and events, are the product of the author’s imagination.

  Acknowledgments

  I would like to thank my sons, Liam and Ryan, for sacrificing their playtime with me so I could finish this book! My fiancé, Amber, for being patient with me and sacrificing our time as well. My editors, Gabriella Michaelis, Lauren Holton, Danielle Gomez, and Bodie Dykstra, who helped me prepare this book for publication. James, from goonwrite.com, who designed the cover art. Tom Prairie, my motivational speaker! Jennifer Raymond, for always keeping it real. Dave and Nicole, for all the sacrifices they made for me. Lastly, I’d like to thank my mother Judith and my sister Ricci, for all their love and support.

  To the memory of Deborah Sampson

  “I am indeed willing to acknowledge what I have done, an error and presumption. I will call it an error and presumption because I swerved from the accustomed flowery path of female delicacy, to walk upon the heroic precipice of feminine perdition.”

  Deborah Sampson

  Part 1

  The Dream

  1

  Zena

  The first time I saw a soldier, my heart fluttered. It was years ago, when I was a little girl. Marching around in his nifty body armor, he was tall and handsome like my father and seemingly unafraid of danger or death. Goodness, if only I could be like him, I thought back then. The idea of wielding a gun and having the power to kill a man was mesmerizing.

  I used to lie on my back at night, in our cold, grungy eight-by-ten cell, and dream about someday becoming a soldier of the Holy Army. When everyone else in my family fell asleep, I would take my shoe off and pretend it was a ray gun and that I was the greatest shooter to ever live. Zena, the most fearless soldier to ever journey the galaxy!

  I beamed as I imagined myself as a little girl again, running around with my muddy, holey shoe, blasting away the bars of our cell, and freeing my family from slavery. Those were much happier days.

  Unfortunately, over time, my opinion of soldiers had dramatically changed. I had been shoved in line too many times and yelled at like I was nothing more than a bothersome insect crawling up a soldier’s leg. When I grew up and learned the truth, I realized the soldiers were heartless tyrants who kept me and my family down—not fearless heroes bravely fighting in the name of God. That naive little girl who didn’t understand the meaning of slavery and oppression was gone.

  “Ezra, Zena!” a patrolling soldier called out as he walked up to our rusted cage.

  “Zena Ezra, present. Twenty years of age,” I sluggishly replied. This was a part of my family’s routine every morning. We were slaves of the North Star, a small planet located near the outskirts of Starlight—an ultra-religious galaxy ruled by Pastor Linus Saros, also known as the High Priest of Starlight. For most slaves in our prison of misery and pain, Pastor Saros was viewed as a corrupt leader, an evil man who cared only for the rich citizens of the galaxy.

  There were seven districts on the North Star. Our region, District Four, was controlled by the Galactic Gambling Corporation, also known as the GGC. It was run by greedy, rich men from across the galaxy, monsters who wagered their riches on death fights. Sadly, my eldest brother Declan was a slave fighter for the corrupt organization.

  “Ezra, Declan?” the soldier went on, marking us off with his fancy holographic device.

  “Declan Ezra, present. Twenty-six years of age.”

  I turned my head to get a better look at my brother. He leaned up against the corroded bars of our cell, gazing beyond the soldier like a madman, ready to kill. His face was marked with dirt and bruises, but that was normal. He always looked that way. Beat up and worn down. He had been fighting for ten years now, and the constant battles were starting to catch up to him.

  Most slave fighters died before age thirty. Our father, Valter, was killed in a fight when I was nine years old. He was thirty-four at the time. I prayed to God every day that Declan would outlive our father. He looked just like him: dark blue eyes, short, messy brown hair, a strong chin, and a scruffy beard that braided at the ends.

  The soldier shouted at Grandma Petra and our two younger siblings, Turk and Lydia, ordering them to wake up and state their names and ages. The three of them were still resting on the dry dirt ground near the back wall of our tiny cell, cuddled like a swarm of baby birds nestled under their mother’s wing, barely awake. Still, one by one, they mumbled their names and ages to the rude patrolman. Finally, the brute moved on to the next cell.

  Declan seemed especially pleased that our head count was over because it gave him a chance to focus again. It was fight day.

  “Are you ready for war?” I asked him. That was what fighting meant to us. Like any war, it was all or nothing. Life or death.

  Declan smiled wickedly. “Yeah, Zena. I’m ready for war.”

  I crawled over to him and got close. I leaned into the bars, copying his position, and looked into his eyes. “This never gets easy.” I reached out and firmly gripped his shoulder. “Seeing you before a fight, wondering if it will be the last time.”

  “You can stop worrying,” he snapped. Like a rock slamming into a shell, he slapped his hand over mine and squeezed hard. “I will be here to watch over you for a long time, Sister. You see, that’s what keeps me alive. It’s you…” He took a moment to check Grandma Petra, Turk, and Lydia. “It’s Grandma and the little ones. My family is my strength. No man will ever take that from me.”

  Sharing that warm moment with him was just what I needed. Yes, I was still afraid I might lose him, but I had to believe. Only one adult from each family could go with a slave fighter and be their caretaker for the fight. It was my turn to support Declan, and he needed me to be positive.

  “Okay then,” I said with a smile. “It’s time for war.”

  Once the patrolling soldier finished his head counts, he came back to our cell and announced, “Ezra, Declan. Fifteen minutes until fight time.”

  Right away, I helped my brother to his feet. He was still moving sorely from the last fight. “You’re injured, aren’t you?” I grumbled at him. It was ridiculous that the fighters were only allowed ten days to recover for their next fight. Considering the brutality of a death match, ten days might as well have been ten minutes.

  “No, Zena. I’m fine. Just a little tender.”

  I rolled my eyes and playfully nudged him. “Relax your body.” Carefully, I took his right arm and massaged it up and down. To finish, I massaged his other arm,
then worked my way down to his back, hips, legs, ankles, and feet. “How do you feel?”

  “Good. Really good. Thank you,” he said, rolling his neck.

  “Declan?” Grandma Petra’s raspy voice called out from behind us. She rose to her feet and walked over to Declan. “When is the fight?”

  “Soon,” I told her. “But don’t worry. He’s ready.”

  Grandma shook her head at me. “Zena, maybe I should go with him on this one.”

  Right away, I felt a burning tightness in my face and a sharp ache in my stomach. “I’m not a child anymore, Grandma. I can handle this.”

  Before the bickering between us worsened, Declan cut in and calmed the air. “Look, Grandma, Zena will be fine.”

  Grandma crossed her arms and gave us both a frowning stare. “Fine, I’ll let you be the caretaker for this fight. But the two of you need to remember something. I swore to your mother and father that I would look after the family.” She put her long nose up at Declan. “You may be the man of the family, but I am the eldest member of the Ezra tribe.”

  He smiled and kindly placed his hands on her shoulders. “Now I see where Father got his stubbornness.”

  The three of us shared some light laughter. Declan pulled Grandma in close and hugged her. I joined in and made it a big group hug. What a lucky woman I am, I thought. Many slaves in District Four didn’t have loved ones to hug and hold. There was too much pain and death for anyone to last. We were truly blessed to have lived together as a family for so long.

  “No, Declan. Don’t leave us,” little Lydia cried out.

  He broke away from us and knelt to her level. “Hey now, dry those tears. I’ll be back soon.”

  Lydia gave him a pouty face and groaned. “I am not stupid anymore, ya know! I know what you do when you go away.”

  Declan laughed and hugged Lydia close to his chest.

  Turk stood up and wrapped himself around Declan’s strapping arm. “Lydia is right, big brother. We know you are a fighter like all the other men. Can you please stop? You will die if you don’t stop.”

  Every time I looked at Turk and Lydia, it reminded me of Declan and me when we were that young—naive and bursting with energy.

  “Hey, first off, you were never stupid, Lydia. You have always been a bright young girl,” he said, then kissed her little head. “But I can’t stop fighting, guys. Big brother has to fight.”

  “No!” Turk demanded, the soft timbre of his voice echoing throughout the prison cell.

  It was hard to watch Declan stand up and pull away from them. The sadness in his eyes was heartbreaking. “Okay, I have to go now.” He quickly turned around and faced the cell door. “Guard, we’re ready.”

  The cries of Turk and Lydia grew louder and louder as the patrolling soldier from earlier marched over to our cell.

  “Who’s coming with you?” the burly tyrant asked.

  “My sister, Zena.”

  “Okay, Grandma, keep the sniveling children back,” he ordered. The soldier pressed a button on his device that unlocked the cell door. “Open the door slowly, put your hands up high, and walk forward.”

  Step by step, just as instructed, Declan opened the door and put his hands up. I raised my hands and followed him. The soldier closed and locked the door. He yanked out his metal locks and sealed our wrists and ankles.

  “You know the routine, Ezra. March!” the soldier shouted.

  Declan wobbled down the long hall that led to the elevators. I swayed along close behind him. All around us, from the upper to the lower cell blocks, hollers and hoots from the other slave fighters blared from wall to wall. Each block had about one hundred soldiers patrolling the area at a time. They were all armed, too, and ready to shoot if anyone stepped out of line.

  After a long trot to the elevators, I took a deep breath and closed my eyes. Dear God, let us be free. Grant us the privilege to leave this horrid planet and go to a place where we can roam and enjoy our lives in peace. A place far away from the North Star, I prayed. The Holy Spirit is my savior. Now and forever. I had faith that God would answer me—someday.

  The elevator doors dinged open and the soldier shoved us inside. I glanced at Declan and gave him a wink. He replied with a poised grin and a swift nod. He was ready for war, and so was I.

  2

  Zena

  When we left the elevator, the roar of those vile, rich scum assaulted my ears. They hovered above the prison yard in their fancy, sleek spaceships, waving bags of money chips around like towels.

  The prison yard was the only place of recreation for us slaves. The dry grassland was well over two hundred yards long and bordered by a glowing forcefield. I grew up here, running around with Declan when we were kids and playing games with the other children.

  Up above, about twenty feet over our heads, I noticed that a few of the ships had their ramps open. The ships with the open ramps had several men standing at the edge of the openings. I carefully studied the faces and outfits of a few of them. They were dressed in swanky garbs, and their skin was clean and smooth. Perhaps they bathed with special chemicals to look that good. Spoiled fiends, I thought.

  Their empires of wealth had been built off the pain and suffering of men like my brother. If given the chance, I would have killed them all. I would have transformed my holey shoe into a real ray gun and shot down all their posh ships, one by one, and happily watched them squeal in the flames of the destruction.

  Even worse, a so-called righteous man, Pastor Saros, the High Priest of Starlight, allowed this kind of cruelty. How could a God of love and grace condone such behavior? Pastor Saros was nothing more than a fraud. For years, I watched him feed countless lies to us slaves, falsehoods that made us feel more like animals.

  The blare from the sky grew louder when the second fighter and a lowly woman, both locked down with restraints like us, emerged from the elevator. Another soldier shoved him and his caretaker forward. When they came over to us, I looked them up and down. They seemed to be around the same age as Declan. Late twenties or maybe early thirties?

  The soldier who had escorted them to the yard asked the man, “Would you like a moment to say anything to your wife before the fight?”

  The man glanced at me and Declan, his eyes baggy and bleak. He shook his head at us and said, “No need to say anything. I’ll do that when we return to our cell.”

  The woman was clearly afraid for her husband. She hugged him close and kissed his cheek. “Just think of the kids, Maven. It always gets you through. I love you.”

  He kissed her forehead and said, “I love you, too, Rena.”

  My brother and I stared at each other with great intensity, and I knew we were thinking the same thing. This is going to be a tough one.

  The fight announcer, Jarvis Primo, came swooping down from the traffic in the sky and landed his ragged aircraft with a resounding thud. Like always, he opened the rusted, squeaking doors of the hovercraft and marched down the clunky ramp. Strolling along with stains all over his saggy outfit, he had a smug wrinkled grin stretched across his flabby face. I wondered how much money the GGC paid him to do the announcing. Perhaps he wasted his money on overeating. Or maybe he earned a lot less than I imagined. Or a combination of the two.

  “Good dawn, slaves and soldiers. Are the fighters ready to do battle?” Jarvis hooted.

  Both soldiers nodded and removed the restraints. The soldier who had brought me and Declan here shoved us to the far left side of the prison yard while the other soldier took Maven and Rena to the opposite end.

  Jarvis yanked out his trusty amplifier and turned it on. It was a floating gadget that broadcasted his annoying voice over the speakers of every ship in the sky. “Good dawn, members of the Galactic Gambling Corporation. Today, our death fight will be Declan Ezra versus Maven Zant. Both slaves have over ten years of survival, but one streak will end today!”

  The tens of thousands of members in the sky cheered and clapped and again waved their money around like wild animals
eager to feast on a pile of raw meat. Once more, I scanned the ships and thought, Monsters, every one of you. That is what you are.

  “Take your time, pick your shots, and wear him down,” I told Declan and rubbed his arms and shoulders to loosen him up.

  He slowly rolled his neck and replied, “We’ve been here before, Zena. I’m not leaving you today. I will kill this man.” He peered at me and gave me a wink. “This is my yard.”

  Inside, I was shaking, but I smiled at Declan and offered him a reassuring nod. All I could do was hope he was ready for a fighter like Maven—a fighter who had a family to take care of.

  Jarvis pointed at Declan and shouted, “Ezra, are you ready to fight?”

  He nodded and bounced on his feet.

  The oafish announcer spun around and pointed at Maven. “Zant, are you ready to fight?”

  The brute pounded on his chest and yelled, “Ready!”

  Jarvis screeched into his amplifier. “Fight to the death!”

  The crowd from above erupted into a thunderous cheer that rocked the prison yard. My heart nearly jumped out of my chest as I watched Declan and Maven creep forward in their fighting stances. I had been my brother’s caretaker off and on for years, sharing the duty with Grandma Petra. Still, the nervous sting of watching him fight never went away.