Paradise Forgotten Trilogy

by Mackenzie Morris

  "Excuse me?" An oracle guard emerges from the hallway. "Do you have a minute?"

  "Of course." Blice says as he sets the slide down carefully. "What do you need?"

  "Who is this woman's owner?"

  "Apollo-"

  Blice interrupts Zodiac. "I am. I'm her owner."

  "With your permission, we would like to take Nova Cunningham to the oracle for further examination. We believe she has been blessed and chosen by the gods as their messenger. We have certain processes that can empty her mind for the messages to come through more clearly. She will be taken care of."

  "No! You can't take my sister!"

  Blice elbows Zodiac in the stomach. "Yes. Go ahead. She needs all the help she can get."

  Zodiac clutches his stomach and watches the oracle guards drag Nova, clothed in only a bed sheet and with her hands bound behind her back, out of the hallway. When they reach the front door, Nova turns to him with her large hazel eyes glossy with tears. Her mascara has streaked down her red cheeks. He wants to tell her he loves her, to be strong, to get through this, but he doesn't. He remains silent even as she silently begs him for help, for comfort. Compassion is fading and in its place sprouts the tiny roots of contempt. Jarred left. Troy left. Now Nova is leaving as well. How dare she leave when he needs her the most? Fine. If she chooses to value those voices in her head more than her own brother, then she can go and never come back.

  "I'm sorry." Nova whimpers. "I love you."

  Zodiac simply turns his back to her.

  "Zodiac, please! Don't hate me."

  "If you leave, I will hate you forever."

  "I don't have a choice, Brother!" Nova screams. "I have to go. Please. Zodiac, look at me. Look at me!"

  "You're dead to me. I never want to see you again."

  * * *

  Orion is waiting up for Troy when he gets back to his room at around three in the morning. He is sitting on his bed with all kinds of topographical maps spread around him and history books piled on the bedside table. He takes off his reading glasses and sets down what smells to be coffee. "Hey there, Troy. I see you didn't try to run off and actually made your way back here without me having to come lead you. Maybe you won't be so difficult to train after all. Well, come in and close the door."

  Troy obeys then waits for an order. What is he supposed to do now? So, it seems like he's already thinking like a slave, waiting for his master to tell him what to do. But deep down, there is a disturbing realization beginning to bubble up to the surface of his thoughts. He doesn't mind it. For some unknown reason, Troy wants to know what Orion needs him for. It's exciting and thrilling, being at the mercy of a stranger who genuinely seems to care about him. The not knowing is the best part.

  "Come here and have a seat on the bed. Just push those papers out of the way. I want to talk with you." He waits until Troy carefully stacks the charts and notebooks on the edge of the bed and sits down. "How was your night with Mistress?"

  "Uh . . . not at all what I was expecting, Master."

  "So how did you do?" Orion asks.

  "She said that she was impressed."

  "Good for you. Did you go online against real people?"

  "Yes, Master." Troy says. "We won eight of our ten games."

  "That's quite a record. Sorry about the mean little trick we played on you. It was all in good fun. We do it to all the new agents and slaves. I don't think Mistress appreciates it, though. It kinda makes her look like a whore. Are you hungry? Paris made some cookies. Oh, don't tell anyone, but I got him something for his birthday while I was in Athens." He reaches over to the table and retrieves a black box which he opens to reveal two tiny red rubies. "What do you think?"

  "Earrings?"

  Orion smiles as he holds them up in the light and they sparkle. "Yep. They're real rubies, Paris's favorite."

  "Does he have his ears pierced?"

  "Two pairs on his earlobes and one pair on his upper cartilage."

  "But why?" Troy asks, feeling nothing but concern for the boy.

  "You ask that like he's forced to take them. Oh, no. It's quite the opposite, in fact. In our culture, slave piercings like that are an honor and they are the special stone that their owner picks out. When a slave is happy with their life with their master, then they can take a voluntary piercing to show their eternal dedication to their master. It's entirely up to the slave to make that decision. So if you see a slave with rows of gemstones in their ears, then you know that they have a special bond with their master."

  "Real rubies?"

  "That's what Silver picked for Paris." Orion says.

  "You people spend a lot on your slaves."

  "Of course! How do I explain this? You're not just some worthless animal we use for work. No. Slaves reflect on their master so we give our slaves the best we can. Most of the slaves here have more wealth in the jewelry in their piercings than their masters have in their pockets. They're gifts, like that ring in your nose. It's my first gift to you. As for these, we hadn't been able to find rubies for Paris's last two piercings and he wants to take another pair so I made sure to find rubies for Silver for this one."

  "When is Paris's birthday?" Troy asks.

  "Tomorrow. He turns twelve. He's so excited. We've been telling people he's already twelve just to make him happy. He insists on it, actually."

  "If it's not too personal, can you tell me what happened to him?"

  Orion replaces the box on the table. "Oh, his burns? Don't bring it up around him. He'll get upset."

  "Yes, Master. I already made that mistake."

  "When he was five, he lived in Athens with his mother who belonged to a blacksmith. One day, Paris was playing in the workshop and accidentally dropped one of his mother's gold necklaces in the forge. What they were thinking, leaving a small boy alone in there, I'll never know. Anyway, his mother found out and became irate. She . . . she threw him in the forge. Someone was watching over the poor boy. The blacksmith was right there and caught Paris before too much damage was done. They rushed him to the hospital and he survived. Then his mother was arrested and made to fight in the arena where she died. Without the money to pay for Paris's many surgeries, the blacksmith was forced to sell him to some slavers who came through town. Then he was taken down to the slave markets in Kyro. For two years, he was kept in terrible conditions, but managed to recover and did small things for the slavers until Silver showed up and bought him. Normally, a young boy would be extremely expensive, but they didn't want him anymore. They were afraid that he would never fully recover from his burns. Silver didn't see him as a burden, though. He bought Paris instantly and marked him right there. They've been inseparable ever since."

  "Poor kid." Troy says.

  "That's why we spoil Paris. We never want him to feel betrayed by the people who are supposed to love him. He's the youngest slave here and the best ever. He's not lying about that. Even the Big Meanies won't touch him. He's the one who first called them that and it stuck. We all try our hardest to make sure he's the happiest little boy in the galaxy."

  Can slave owners truly have that kind of caring for a slave? The better question is if slaves can enjoy being slaves. Does Paris really enjoy belonging to Silver like Orion claims he does? Only time and observation will tell him those answers.

  "Anyway, we're going out in the desert tonight to study the stars and read some horoscopes. Paris has been talking about reading your fortune nonstop. I think he sees something in you that intrigues him."

  "What are all these maps and papers for?"

  "For our assignment." Orion says. "Tomorrow, you'll be coming with me on your first dig."

  "Dig?"

  "We explore and excavate the thousands of ancient ruins hidden in this desert. We have recently found a new one that is giving off high levels of radiation. Doesn't that sound like fun?"

  "So you're all treasure hunters?" Troy asks.

  Orion shrugs his shoulders. "We prefer the term wealth-seeking archeologists. It sounds
more scholarly that way."

  * * *

  Zodiac is sprawled out on the living room floor, watching the continuing news coverage of the increased IGR military presence on Olympus. A few riots have been ongoing for close to three days in the other Nymph cities across the planet. They are calling for elections and the formation of a republic instead of the monarchy it has always been. The citizens have lost faith in their government. It's understandable when the king turns out to be a human hell-bent on destroying all sense of culture and tradition of the native people. Not to mention he murdered the queen and had the rightful heir marked as a Forgotten and sentenced him to a life of slavery. While a change in the form of government could do the entire galaxy some good, this isn't what Zodiac wants. He wants the throne to go to the one man who deserves it more than anyone else. Troy. Troy deserves to be king, but that is no longer a possibility. He finishes the bottle of sloe gin and throws it against the far wall where it shatters and rains down slivers of glass over Blice who is asleep on the sofa.

  "What the hell?" Blice sits up and brushes the glass from his slick black hair. "Did you throw a bottle at me?"

  "Maybe. What's it to you? Huh? You . . . you're just mean. And, and, and no one likes you."

  "You're drunk. I can smell the alcohol from here. Did you drink that entire bottle?"

  "Go away." Zodiac says.

  "Listen to me. This isn't the answer. Alcohol isn't the answer to your problems."

  "Says the drug addict." Zodiac sits up and turns off the television. "I'm not drunk."

  "Okay, buddy. And my name isn't Blice McSage."

  There's a knock at the front door and Zodiac manages to stand up and not fall back down as he feels the floor moving under him. Okay, maybe he is a little tipsy. He makes it to the door. Who is coming here at three in the morning? When he opens the door, he gasps. This alcohol must be messing with his mind.

  Apollo grins at him. His white hair is streaked with what appears to be dirt and something of a color new to Zodiac. His eyes are bloodshot and have large dark circles under them. His hands are shaking and he's much paler than normal. "Hello, Zodiac."

  He glares at him. "What do you want?"

  "Just a friendly favor. Do you have any lighter fluid or gasoline I can borrow?"

  It's the middle of the night and he needs lighter fluid? What could he possibly be burning this time of the morning? "What . . . what do you need lighter fluid for?"

  "Are you drunk?" Apollo asks.

  "Shut up. I'm not drunk. Now answer my question."

  "Just for a bonfire. The kids want to make s'mores."

  "At three in the morning?" Zodiac asks. "No. I don't have any, sorry."

  "Oh. In that case, do you have a handsaw? I have some . . . wood that needs to be cut into smaller pieces so it will burn better."

  Blice joins Zodiac's side. "Let me talk to Zodiac for a second. Then we'll go out back and look for a saw." He drags Zodiac into the kitchen and whispers to him. "Does this seem strange to you? Tell me you noticed the blood on his armor. Oh, that's right. You're colorblind."

  "It's getting better. I did notice something in his hair. Is that what red looks like? I had started to see it, but I guess not fully."

  "Doesn't matter. I need you to sober up and think for a minute. Something isn't right here. It's early in the morning, he needs lighter fluid and a saw, he's covered in blood, he just sent his son to fight in the arena, and he hurt his pregnant wife so badly that she was in the hospital for two days. Now he shows up here, to his son's best friend's house, asking for things after making himself your worst enemy? Have you even heard anything from Troy's siblings?"

  "Io was here two days ago saying that people were hurt or missing, but I took her home. I thought she was playing." Zodiac says.

  "I have an awful suspicion that she wasn't pretending."

  "Then what do we do? Do you think he's hurt his children? We should get the guards."

  "No. We can't trust them." Blice says as he glances back into the living room. "They're all working with my father. If we're going to investigate the situation, then we have to do it ourselves. Do you have any gloves?"

  "Uh, yeah."

  "Good. Put them on then go to the shed and get your saw. Don't leave fingerprints on anything you give to him. I sense a setup in the works."

  * * *

  Clara Lifestone pulls a black wool shawl over her shoulders before slipping her shoes on and heading out into the dark streets of Pax. The thick haze of smoke still lingers in the air above the rows of streetlights. The IGR soldiers, still dressed in their full riot gear, are sweeping the broken glass, stray papers, and crumbled concrete from the streets. Just a few hours ago, the roads were filled with angry and impassioned citizens calling for anarchy. They want to overthrow the government, but Clara can't have that. Not at all. That would destroy her future and end the fun she's had planned for years. If anyone is going to stage a coup and reform the government of this backwater planet, it will be her.

  As she passes through a group of soldiers, she pulls her shawl down over her head and tries to hide her face. There's no need to draw any unnecessary suspicion to herself or to the governor. Clara checks her watch. Three in the morning. She should be right on time. Crossing two more streets, she makes it to the meeting place, the tavern. What an awful place for a meeting.

  All of the patrons look up as she walks in, not because she's an older woman in a bar in the middle of the night, but because they are all her contacts awaiting the signal for action or any piece of information she has brought them. Today, however, she only has information for one woman. Clara spots her at the wooden table in the far back corner in her tank top, jean shorts, and sneakers. Does she not have any more respectable clothes? She sits across from the woman. "It's very early for a meeting, Cleo."

  "You should call me Mistress like all my other little agents." The woman says.

  "I don't have to call you anything. What do you need?"

  She pours herself another shot of whiskey and drinks it. "You'll never guess who turned up in my guild as a slave about two days ago."

  "Surprise me."

  "None other than our rightful king."

  "What?" Clara asks.

  Mistress smiles. "That's right. Troy Adonis."

  "You're joking."

  "Nope. Saw him for myself last night. We played World Assault Force Five together. He looked a little worse for wear, but he's alive."

  This is the best news she's gotten in days. "Thank God."

  "When Orion first told me, I thought he was joking, but it's really him. Orion and Silver are training him."

  "I was actually going to tell you that Troy had gone missing, but it seems your agents are one step ahead of me. Keep him safe until we can gather our forces. We don't need him falling into the wrong hands."

  "Don't worry." Mistress says. "I'm sending him and Orion out on a dig tomorrow. No one will be able to find him out there just in case some guards come to search the guild hall."

  "Why would they do that? They don't even know there's anything out there in the desert."

  Mistress takes another shot. "We got a tip from one of my contacts in Athens that they were able to track a car from the coliseum to the outskirts of the desert where it was left abandoned. I can't take any risks. So Orion and Troy will be out in the middle of nowhere until this threat passes. They should be gone at least a week which will be plenty of time for the guards to move on."

  "Does Troy suspect anything?"

  "Not at all. For all he knows, his life from here on will be as a slave."

  "Good. Keep it that way." Clara says. "The fewer people who know our plans, the better."

  "None of my agents know, not even Orion or Silver."

  "Perfect. Meanwhile, I'll keep using my charms on my long-lost husband. Blice will do anything I ask of him."

  "So the wildcard here is still Apollo Adonis." Clara says. "I honestly don't know what to do with that one. Give it some mor
e time before making a final call."

  "I don't care if he's Troy's father. If he goes off the deep end, I'll call the assassination order."

  15

  "Troy, Troy!" Paris runs into the room with a big smile on his face and a covered bowl in his hands. "Troy!"

  Troy looks up from sorting through the papers on the bed Orion wanted him to alphabetize. "Hey. What is it?"

  "Look what I made." He places the clay bowl on the bed. "Open it."

  "This isn't a trick, is it?"

  He grins mischievously. "No . . ."

  Oh, boy. Troy lifts the lid then jumps back as the king cobra strikes at his hand. "Whoa! No. Not okay. Not okay!"

  Paris is laughing so hard that he drops to his knees and tears streak down his cheeks. He gasps for air between fits of giggling. "Do you like it, Troy?"

  Troy slowly crawls away from the snake. "Master, help me!"

  Paris is still giggling as he pulls out a tiny flute-like instrument and holds out his hand. "He won't hurt you. Watch." He begins playing a slow melody on his instrument as he mimics the movements of the cobra. As he continues playing his haunting song, the cobra begins to follow him then slithers into his hand and up his arm. By the time Paris finishes playing, the snake is draped across his shoulders like a scarf. "Tada!"

  "How did you do that? Isn't he dangerous?"

  "Nah. He's harmless. Silver removed his fangs so he can't bite me. His name is Snakey."

  "How . . . original." Troy says.

  "He's my pet. You wanna pet him?"

  "Uh, no way." Troy holds up a pillow in front of his chest like a shield. "I don't do snakes. I can do scorpions, I love spiders, but I don't do snakes."

  "Why? Pet him. He's asleep. There's no reason to be scared."

  Troy looks at Paris's huge black eyes and his quivering pouting lips. "Fine, but if Snakey tries to eat me, you won't have a pet anymore."

  "Here. Close your eyes." Paris says.

  "No. I have to watch the thing or it'll eat me."

  "He can't eat you, Troy. Close your eyes. Please, please, please!"

  Troy closes his eyes then holds his breath as the cold scales touch his neck. "Snakey is on me, isn't he?"