The Renegade

by P. M. Johnson

  “I must say, old friend,” said Harken angrily. “Neither I nor the Guardians before me ever treated you as you are treating me.”

  “Well, old friend, that’s because you and your predecessors were fools,” replied Kurak, his words dripping with contempt. “What’s more, you are forgetting the regimes which predated the foundation of the PRA. I received my share of unwelcome interrogations and experimentation.”

  “Yes,” said Harken as a new shiver ran through his body. “I und…und…derstand. But…”

  “Be silent!” roared Kurak in a voice that caused the Myr to squawk in fear.

  The Sahiradin warrior signaled for the Myr to proceed. Then he turned to look at Harken. The device the Myr had attached to the man’s skull began to glow red and orange.

  “I feel a buzzing in my head,” said Harken, no longer able to hide his fear. “What’s happening?”

  “You’re about to find out, old man. All will soon become clear. If you survive, that is.”

  “Tell me what’s happening, Kurak,” said Harken, his eyes wide. “We were once friends, you and I. Tell me what’s happening!”

  “I don’t want to ruin the surprise. Goodbye old man,” said Kurak with a sinister laugh.

  The one-time Sahiradin castaway gave the Myr a few instructions then exited the laboratory to the sound of Harken’s ear-splitting screams as the objects in his head pulsated with blood-red light.

  Chapter 21

  I am River.

  Rock splitter,

  Shore flooder,

  Thunder and roar.

  Come ride me if ever you dare.

  I’ll swallow you whole and spit you into the sea!

  - Anonymous. “I Am River”.

  Kane stepped over the trunk of a white oak tree that had fallen during a recent wind storm. The tree had been dead for years before toppling and had snapped into three large sections as it collapsed. The largest of these now lay across the trail Kane was following along the heights overlooking a slow, winding river. After stepping over the log, he paused to study a set of hoof prints just to the side of the trail in ground made soft by the morning dew. He looked to his right and saw the matted down underbrush where a deer had recently slept. Judging from the size and depth of the hoof prints, he concluded it was a mature buck. Knowing the feeding habits of deer, Kane suspected the buck was grazing within a few hundred meters of this spot on the green leaves and clover so abundant in the spring.

  Taking mental note of this location, Kane continued on. The trail he was following was used by humans and animals alike. It ran between the little village of Burnley, located on the eastern banks of the river, to an old railroad bed, which in turn led to a dirt and gravel road. And if one followed the road long enough, one would arrive in New Culver, a town of about seven hundred people, the biggest settlement for a hundred kilometers in any direction.

  But Kane was not going to Burnley, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to New Culver. He was merely following the trail until he came to a little ravine where he broke to the east and climbed up a hill to a spot where patches of good clover and wild arborvitae grew. On the edge of a large patch of clover stood a tall tree. Attached to the north side of the trunk were several small wooden boards. He unslung the shotgun that was hanging from his shoulder and set it against the base of the three then placed a game pouch next to it. He climbed the tree and inspected the seat wedged between two branches before sitting on it and testing its strength. He looked down at the ground below him then through nearby tree branches. It was a good spot and afforded him a commanding view of the surrounding forest. He would use it in the fall to hunt bucks, boar, and other game coming to this area to feed.

  He climbed down from his perch, picked up his shotgun and pouch, and continued walking eastward. It wasn’t long before he heard the wumm-wumm-wumm of a male grouse rapidly beating his wings to attract any females who had not yet chosen a mate, an iffy prospect this late in the spring. Kane paused and hefted his pouch while looking at the thicket where the grouse was hiding. Had he not already taken two males that morning, he might have flushed it out and downed it. But two birds was all he needed, so two was all he would take.

  After another forty-five minutes of walking through this pathless part of forest, he came upon a little stream where he stopped to refill his canteen and wash his face. He looked at his reflection in the water. A few more wrinkles around the eyes, a few more gray hairs on his head and in his beard. So it goes.

  Continuing on for another few minutes he came to an area containing an assortment of potatoes, onion, and other vegetables. Fifty meters away stood an abandoned house. Its partially collapsed walls had all but disappeared under thick creeping vines. They reached all the way to the roof, seeking to claim a patch of sunlight in an area dominated by tall trees where a well-maintained lawn had once dominated.

  Kane took what he needed plus a few more for planting in his own garden, then walked in a southwesterly direction. An hour later he was once again looking down upon the meandering river. He glanced to his left where a little flat-bottomed boat loaded with various goods was making its way downstream to customers living in the isolated communities that dotted the banks and estuaries of the wide but lazy channel. On the boat were sacks of flour, cured meats, bolts of cloth, cookware, books, tools of various shapes and sizes, sweets, toys, and much more. Whenever the pilot tied up on a dock or pier, the whole community, usually consisting of just a few families, came out to see what remarkable goods the boatman had brought. They also came to hear the latest news of events that had occurred up and down the river as well as in the wider world. These people had radios, televisions, and even a few computers, but they still took great interest in what the boatman had to say, often seeking to delay his departure with offers of food and drink in order to squeeze every last bit of news out of him.

  Kane looked up into the sky. The sun was reaching its apex on that clear, spring day. The smell of decomposing leaves and wood mixed with the pollen of blossoming trees and flowers drifted up the slope from the river below. Kane breathed in deeply then slowly exhaled, a smile of contentment upon his lips.

  Just then, a pair of Falcon fixed-wing fighters whistled through the air just a few hundred meters above his head. After crossing the river, they dropped down until they were just above the trees, the tops of which swayed in the Falcons’ turbulent wake. Kane knew that the fighters were ripping their way toward the Harmony Joint Operations Base just west of the Mississippi River. He squinted his eyes and watched them quickly fade to tiny specks then disappear in just a few seconds. At the speed they were traveling, those pilots would be on the ground and in the showers long before Kane reached his little home in the woods. He frowned and shook his head then turned and continued on his way.

  He walked along the high ground overlooking the river, thinking of the Falcons and the pilots in them. He wondered whether Cap had been assigned to one of them or if his famously cavalier attitude toward authority had kept him out of the cockpit. Kane thought about the others too, Lena, Styles, Logan. They were all in the thick of it, fighting the forces of oppression both near and far. The thought of more fighting made his bones ache.

  He thought next of Ravenwood. The old man had sought him out six months prior, suddenly stepping out of the forest and onto a trail Kane used each morning to fetch water. They had talked about the state of things, including the threat the Sahiradin posed to Earth and the need to rally humanity to the cause of resisting them, both on Earth and among the stars. Ravenwood had pointed to the nexus between the two enemies and the fact that Harken had taken refuge among the Queen’s spawn. Kane recalled how exasperated Ravenwood became when he steadfastly refused to rejoin the fight. He would not assist Attika’s Constitutional Guards in their efforts to root out those people still loyal to the Guardians. And as for fighting the Sahiradin, there was no power in the universe that could induce him to step onboard a Lycian troop transport to be whisked away to die on some planet l
ightyears from Earth.

  The old man repeatedly appealed to Kane’s conscience, speaking of his duty, his obligation to finish the fight he had joined so long ago. But such tactics were met with wry cynicism. In his youth, Kane had set out to destroy the PRA and the Guardians because they had shattered his happiness. He achieved that goal when the PRA fell and the Capital District burned. Kane was done fighting now. Let others carry this new burden.

  Discouraged by Kane’s responses, Ravenwood played his final card and asserted that Kane was neglecting his oath to assist Ravenwood in his efforts to secure lasting peace and security for Earth. He reminded Kane that his family had faithfully protected and served Ravenwood ever since that fateful day when Kane’s great - grandfather found him alone and naked in the snow near Raven’s Rock. But that claim to Kane’s loyalty merely caused Kane to laugh. There had always been an understanding in Kane’s family that they would assist Ravenwood in his mission, whatever that might be, but Kane was the last of the old woodsman’s progeny. He had no sons or daughters, and as the last of his line, he reserved the right to sever that relationship, which he did then and there to Ravenwood’s dismay.

  Knowing he had failed in his mission to enlist Kane’s support but respecting his life-long friend’s desire to be left in peace, Ravenwood departed. Yet, he could not leave without placing one more weight on the scales of Kane’s conscience. He reminded Kane of the strange cave in the Pennsylvania highlands where they had seen the great glowing sphere, the fusion reactor. That cave was a very special place, said Ravenwood, and if Kane were ever to change his mind, he should go there and ensure it did not fall into the hands of either the Storm Front or the Sahiradin.

  Cawha! Cawha! Cawha!

  A fish crow’s call brought Kane’s thoughts back to the present. Setting aside thoughts of lost love and old promises, Kane continued on until he reached a small rise along the trail. He looked up to see the silhouette of his small one-room cabin perched on a hill just ahead of him. It was a modest but welcoming dwelling. He closed his eyes, breathed in deeply then slowly exhaled. Spring was here. It was a time of rejuvenation, a time to gather strength and recommit oneself to the things that truly mattered. He adjusted the game pouch slung across his shoulder and proceeded up the hill toward the cabin.

  Chapter 22

  Despite common opinion, the Grenn are not simple. However, we have great difficulty understanding the language of the Trade Federation where lies are made to sound truthful and the destruction of life and nature respectable.

  - Elder Skogg. Address to the Dewar.

  Consul Styles and Agrom ascended the broad steps of the Song Hall. The swirling winds of an approaching storm tugged at Beth’s dark overcoat, causing it to billow and flap behind her. In the distance, flashes of white and blue-tinged lightening ripped through darkened skies.

  Standing at the top of the stairs was Elder Woldmeer, dressed in robes of green, brown, and gold. A sparkling necklace of red gemstones hung from her neck. Her long brown hair was woven into a single braid which hung gracefully over her left shoulder. Standing on either side of Woldmeer were two male Grenn. Though unarmed, each stood with his massive arms folded across his chest, challenging any who might seek to enter the Song Hall without permission.

  “Welcome Consul Styles,” said Woldmeer in common Malorian as Beth and Agrom reached the top of the stairs. She turned her eyes to Agrom and said, “And you, Agrom, my son, are most welcome. The trees celebrate your arrival, the mountains exalt at your return, the soil rejoices with every step you take!”

  Agrom touched his chest with his right hand. “It is good to see the old places once again,” he said in Malorian so Beth could understand. “My spirit sings with joy though none can hear my voice.”

  Woldmeer embraced Agrom warmly, then reluctantly pulled herself away, remembering her duties. She gestured for the newcomers to enter the Song Hall. “You will find Elder Skogg and the Grennafalum have convened in order to welcome you and hear your message.”

  Beth and Agrom followed Woldmeer into the Song Hall with its wide passages of perfectly fit stone and timber. Above them was a high ceiling covered by clear force barriers which revealed the sky above. Heavy drops of rain began to fall on those clear partitions as the leading edge of the storm reached the Song Hall. Woldmeer led them through an atrium containing circular stone pillars ornately carved with abstract designs. They soon reached a set of tall wooden doors, each containing four large panels of carved images depicting scenes of nature: waterfalls, forests, surging seas, and high mountains.

  “Please follow me,” said Woldmeer as the doors opened to admit them.

  Beyond the doors was a large chamber containing a long curved stone bench atop a low dais. In the middle of the bench sat the aged leader of the Grenn, Elder Skogg. To his left were three members of the Grennafalum. Two other Elders sat on his right. Woldmeer gave a quick glance to Agrom then crossed the stone floor to take her place on Skogg’s right.

  “Consul Styles,” said Skogg solemnly, his ancient face a maze of deep furrows and creases. “We are honored to receive you. This is the first time the Grennafalum has welcomed a Humani delegation.”

  Beth nodded her head and replied in accent free Malorian, “Thank you, Elder Skogg, Chief of the Grenn and Keeper of the Songs.”

  Skogg smiled, pleased with the Humani’s ability to invoke the traditional words, albeit in Malorian instead of the Grenn language of Turumbu.

  “And you, Agrom,” said Skogg in a stern tone. “Your home world welcomes you, but I fear you are unrepentant and continue to pursue a course of belligerence. And worse, we are distressed that you draw others along with you into this never ending conflict against the Sahiradin.”

  “I and my followers continue to resist the enemy,” rumbled Agrom unapologetically. “We fight for those who cannot…and for those who will not.”

  Beth saw the Elder’s eyes flash with sparks of anger, but she resisted the urge to intervene and smooth things over. She and Ravenwood knew that bringing Agrom along would cause friction, but they accepted Pendu Barka’s recommendation to bring him in hopes that members of the Grennafalum would respond to his example of commitment and bravery and vote in favor of rejoining the Alliance.

  “The Grenn could fight,” rumbled Skogg in response to Agrom’s challenge, “but we are no longer willing to pay the high price in broken spirits and splintered minds this accursed war demands.”

  “A price all warriors pay if those they love are to remain safe,” said Agrom. “We accept that price. We are not cowards.”

  “Neither are we, but sometimes refusing to fight is the wiser, braver course of action,” said Skogg. Addressing the members of the Grennafalum, he said, “All here agree that I am a careful listener of the universe’s many songs. It was I who first perceived that subtle but unmistakable fugue bearing warnings of an ancient dark energy that churns in the deep places of the universe, working to undue all that we hold dear. This energy lies at the root of much that is discordant within the many melodies of the universe, including this conflict, this futile war against the Sahiradin.”

  Skogg’s description of dark unseen forces touched a chord in Beth. It resonated in her heart. Though she could not hear the Making Songs, the residual energy of planet formation, star ignition, and other creation events, she realized that Skogg spoke of something that she somehow sensed as well. An impression suddenly flashed through her mind, though it was gone as soon as it arrived. It was the unarticulated essence of a thought, inchoate, unformed, but it left her with the belief that Skogg’s words had conjured in her mind a glimpse of something fundamental about the universe. There was a kernel of truth in what he said. She chased the impression, trying to catch it and pull it into the light, but it was gone, leaving her frustrated and disturbed.

  “The war is not futile,” said Agrom defiantly, pulling Beth’s mind back to the present. “The Sahiradin can be defeated.”

  “Perhaps, but this war is but a ski
rmish in a larger struggle,” replied Skogg. “That is the lesson of the dark notes hidden among the Songs. We cannot escape the currents carrying the dark notes for they are as old as the universe itself. They are beyond our power to resist and must therefore be accepted and their effects endured as best we can.”

  Sensing an opening, Beth picked up on Skogg’s theme of flow and currents. “The tides of war and the promise of peace are what have brought us here, Elder Skogg,” she said. “We bring good news for the Grennafalum and for all Grenn. The United Earth Council has committed the Humani to complete victory over the Sahiradin. We have joined the Alliance. No longer will the Grenn and Tullans stand alone to cross swords and prosks with the warriors from Sahir. Earth stands with the Lycians, and we have come here to ask you to recommit yourselves to the fight. Join us. Together we will soon be celebrating final victory and the arrival of a true, lasting peace.”

  Skogg laughed lightly, his deep baritone penetrating deep into Beth’s bones. “Rejoin the Alliance,” he sputtered. “Stand with the Humani. To what end? Merely to prolong the fighting before Khadiem stands victorious on a mountain of broken bodies? We hear no new notes for the Grenn, Consul Styles. Our end is approaching, whether we resist the Sahiradin or not. I know little of the Humani species. Perhaps you delight in causing the death of others. Perhaps, like your Alamani predecessors, you are deaf to the cries of pain and despair of the innocent who bear the brunt of war’s destruction. But the Grenn are not suited for war. It withers our spirits and sears our minds with scenes of death and decay. It is too much for us to bear, so we have decided to accept whatever doom approaches us. Our extinction may soon come, but we fear not and will meet our fate with our spirits intact.”