Deviance of Time

by Dan O'Brien

  Supremator Jeffery Nama had been imprisoned no more than a month after the disassembly of the State. Control of the Nabul installation and all his possessions had been taken from him. After a decade, he had long since dismissed thoughts of escape and the life he had lost.

  There were no natural resources on Baldor III. A fraction of the actual surface was encased in a once translucent dome. Over the years it had corroded with the toxins and minerals from the combustion of the natural fossil fuels.

  Baldor III prisoners worked up to twelve hours a day mining what little ore there was in the compressed and hardened earth. When they were done, they were crammed ten or twelve into rooms designed for double occupancy.

  The hundred or so prisoners were scattered about the mining site; their hunched and gray-draped forms digging at the ground with crude pickaxes and various poorly maintained plasma drills – their pale, sputtering blades a testament to the conditions of the camp.

  Those who remembered the proud and regal posture of Nama would have been hard-pressed to recognize him here. The barrel-chested, gruff soldier of years past looked starved and aged as he meant to before the cybernetic implants ruled his body.

  A dull, dilated pair of soulless irises watched the plasma blade smash against the steely earth. The beam sputtered and froze, the pulsating ion chamber glowering and then fading. The steady hum of the drill faded to a tranquil silence.

  “Guard,” croaked Nama, his voice cracking as he strained to reach the ears of the nearest guard who stood at the far end of the dig site. The red glow of the guard’s visor stuttered and then fixed on Nama.

  “Prisoner number 2391-A23, why have you stopped working?” The guard moved toward Nama, his movements mechanical as if he were an android – but everyone knew that the soldiers were more animal than anything else, feral and unkind beasts that tormented the living.

  “My drill has stopped working. I need another tool in order to mine.” The words were flat and morose, the tone having lost all humanity and passion.

  “Repair the tool, prisoner. We have no more tools. Report to maintenance and see to the replacement of necessary parts.” The mechanical voice showed lack of empathy for the stricken prisoner.

  “Understood,” Nama responded without thought. His only mission was to complete the redundant tasks before him each day, no matter how insignificant. The replacement parts for the drill didn’t exist. The trip to the maintenance shed would only result in another task, using an even more worthless tool for mining.

  Nama looked up into the stained sky, the smears of the stars and the utter blackness of the beyond. For a moment his thoughts were showered with fragmented images of the life he lost; Rider, Alvarez, the incredible aura of the Black Rose as he fled from his pursuers into the night cascaded through the seas of his mind.

  He was a mere shell housing of what once was. His footfalls fell upon the ground, the crystals and minerals packed together made for jagged outcroppings and sharp edges.

  The prisoners were given no footwear. Nama’s feet had become callous mounds of flesh, unaffected by the sometimes-damaging portions of the sites. Warmth passed over Nama. Flickers of memories from the past drove him to his knees.

  What remained of him wept a thin, cracked sob for what was lost and would never be regained. A few brittle tears flowed down his sallow cheeks and onto the reflective stones beneath. As the butt of a weapon screamed into view, he saw that a man could be forgiven in the end. In one smooth crack the world flooded into darkness.

  * * * * *

  The bright lights of Hulan shone like a beacon across the land, and the stage for the Tech Fights stood at the center of the city. The crowd that had gathered was already raging, anticipating the carnage that would ensue. A mix of adrenaline and wealth permeated the masses.

  The ring was below the spectators in a pit shaped like a bowl. When the bell sounded, two competitors leapt into the pit and fought until only one man was left standing. On this night, however, there was something far more at stake. The best combatants of years past were invited to join the Tournament of Champions.

  One man had a mission altogether different from the others. That man sat alone in a tavern nursing a drink that lasted not nearly long enough to douse the painful memory he kept. The bartender edged closer and wiped down the bar, trying to grab the seated man’s attention.

  “Aren’t you Commander Vaughn?” asked the burly bartender in a mix of awe and disbelief. The man didn’t look up from his glass, but nodded in agreement. “But why are you drinking? Don’t you have a big fight tonight?” The bartender rattled on, but Vaughn’s mind slipped back to the day that had forever changed his path in life.

  * * * * *

  The house was silent as the rain drenched the land and the home situated upon it. The grand hills and unkempt forests that surrounded were in turmoil beneath the storming skies. A man sat alone in a plush chair, resting comfortably, lost in thought as he read a novel, the pages dancing in the scattered light and gentle swishing of the tree branches lumbering against his home.

  The strikes of lightning and the accompanying thunder resonated within the walls of the immaculate home. A distant clatter of animated footsteps sounded. A small girl rounded the corner and bounded into the reader’s lap. She covered her mouth with miniscule hands trying to suppress her mix of glee and fear from unknown sounds of the night.

  “Daddy, when is the rain going to stop?” Her tiny voice seemed to dissipate in the solemn silence. She covered her eyes quickly as another lightning bolt lit the sky, and peeked out between them as if her hands served as a shield, which could forever protect her from evil and ruination.

  “It can’t rain forever, my little Fawn,” replied the man as he placed the book aside and hugged his daughter tightly. He looked out the grand windows at the raging storm and wondered to himself if the rain would ever truly end. He had a vague feeling of something amiss, but shook his head to make the seeds of doubt disappear.

  A woman’s scream shot through the home, echoing off of the well-furnished walls. The dire pitch of the voice caused little Fawn to grasp her father’s neck with nimble fingers in absolute fright. The man got up quickly and placed his daughter in the chair. He leaned close to her and whispered, “Honey, don’t move from this spot until Daddy gets back, okay?”

  His daughter nodded, her eyes round with fear. He grabbed the saber from atop the fireplace mantle and made his way across his shadowed home. He crept through the living darkness, but the stifled murmur of another scream drew him forward. He approached the kitchen without caution. He knew the source of the scream: his wife.

  A man garbed in a long, black coat stood with a serrated sword to her delicate, slender throat and cocked his head to the side in mockery of their visitor.

  “Fred Vaughn, no doubt. I have been sent to relieve you of your esteemed estate. It is now in the possession of Riken Falcone. We are here to evict you,” sneered the man.

  Fred Vaughn felt the rush of another body behind, and he spun quickly to intercept. The sight of the frail frame of his daughter underneath the second assailant’s arm slowed him. Vaughn vaulted and brought his sword around in a high arc, aiming for the man’s throat, but the villain was too quick and deflected the blade, sending it into the darkened hallway.

  “You shall pay if you hurt my family,” Vaughn’s voice lacked the muster and anger that he felt. Deep within his soul he knew that agitating the man wouldn’t save his wife and daughter’s lives.

  “As you can see, Falcone gets what he wants, and he wants what you have.” With those words he felt a piercing pain split his head, and he collapsed in a wave of disoriented colors. As consciousness faded he saw the man tear the clothes from his beloved wife and daughter and grope at them, sneering at the fading eyes of their protector. The sea of darkness engulfed him, and he sank deep within its waters.

  He woke several hours later to find his beautiful home burnt to the ground. He could remember the assailants dragging him f
rom the house and the blazes that consumed his home, and eventually his life, flickered like a dream. The bodies of his wife and daughter, almost certainly violated, had burned in the fire. He tore his way through the ashes, his hands peeling from the still burning embers of the pieces of his home.

  His hands fell upon the mangled bodies that he could not bring himself to look upon. He lay there beside his wife and child, and tears of shame and sorrow coursed down his ashen cheeks, for he knew he had failed in a way that no man could endure. He lifted their charred bodies effortlessly, stumbled across the slick ground, and found a place for them in the woods. High atop a pyre he finished the job his tormenters had begun hours before and freed his family from the horrors of this world. He looked upon the rising embers and vowed that he would see his tormenters writhe and rot beneath his fury. When that day came, he would rejoin his fallen family.

  * * * * *

  The bartender was lingering, waiting for an answer.

  “I’m not that man anymore,” replied Vaughn waking from his memories. He put some credits on the table and pushed his shivering frame from the counter. As Vaughn leaned against the double doors of the tavern, the memory of his daughter’s face flooded his emotions, and he felt warm tears spring to his eyes. He hoped that the bounty hunter, Starhawk, would carry through with her promise to end Falcone’s life, once and for all.

  * * * * *

  The roar of the crowd was silenced by a wave from the lord of the land, Riken Falcone. The masses turned toward his outstretched arms, silenced in expectation of his traditional prefight speech.

  “Fans, I have gathered the best from around the world to participate in this one most-decisive tournament. This shall be a grand fight of colossal proportions, to an extent that has never been seen before. If you are light of heart, I implore you to leave now. Once the bell is sounded, the true violence begins. As for the rest of you, enjoy the games.”

  The crowd erupted.

  Even the excited screaming of small children could be heard. Falcone sat in his private booth far above the commoners. Beside him sat the beautiful Haki, who hung on his arm and was clothed in Fasen ceremonial attire. Falcone turned his head and looked down at the voluptuous form of his new mistress.

  He smiled a cruel grin of pleasure. “Haki, my dear, what do you think of these games? Do you enjoy such pursuits?” called Falcone.

  Haki turned her head with a flick of her shimmering hair. She caught the full effect of the moonlight and her green eyes reflected an innocence that was pure.

  “I abhor violence, but if it pleases my master, then I too shall be pleased.” With that, Haki’s attention returned to the fighting ring.

  “In our first round of competition we see the return of a Tech Fight great, Fred Vaughn.” The announcer’s voice echoed throughout the vast stands, and he turned toward the right side of the ring.

  The light moved across the pit to the entryway, and the figure of Vaughn strode through, raising his hand to the crowd and then bowing toward Falcone, never once meeting the gaze of his family’s murderer.

  “And in the other corner we have a Baldorian great and also a Tech Fight veteran, Sean Richards.” The light leapt to the other side of the ring, and the enormous, lumbering form of the Box came running out with his fists clenched, eager for battle.

  “Gentlemen, you know the rules, if your opponent submits then the match is done and you return to your designated corner, understood?”

  The two men nodded to the announcer who was being lifted from the pit. The bell sounded, releasing the angst of the competitors within. Richards ran forward, but Vaughn stopped the man in his tracks, drawing a gun and leveling it at the monstrous frame of Richards. Falcone leapt from his seat and his gluttonous hands clasped the railing. His face was contorted with disgust and contempt.

  “What is the meaning of this?” roared Falcone as he waved his hand at the guards close to Vaughn. Before Falcone could utter another word, his head rolled from his shoulders and landed beside his falling body, the smell of burnt flesh overwhelming everyone who was close.

  Haki stood with a blade made of translucent plasma in her hands and a look of sheer determination in her eyes. She leapt from the booth in one fluid motion and fell toward the pit below with metallic skin forming around her dropping frame.

  When her feet met the ground, Spacehawks armor enshrouded her, and her head rose slowly. She gazed at the guards through her brazen helmet. The guards moved forward and met the onslaught of discharging plasma cannon, and their brittle frames crumbled.

  “You’re Starhawk aren’t you?” asked Vaughn with a look of disbelief.

  She stood, unwavering amidst the roaring crowd and the oncoming security force. “Our position lends more toward being bold than safety. I think that now would be a good time for us to leave,” replied Haki, as she lifted Vaughn into the air and sped off into the dismal horizon.

  “If you wish to find terror and inhumanity, then look no further than your own heart. The taint of Chaos is far too easy to carry and much more appealing than the grace of Exodus. Choose your path, for today you meet your maker, no matter who it may be.”

  -War cry of Fane Volghurn at Shaden Randh

  The myths of the defeated installation had grown to obscene proportions, and many believed it was haunted by the specters of fallen warriors. This team, however, had not been sent to solve children’s riddles, but to put an end to the last threat against Xzin.

  The installation on Nabul sat like a tombstone upon a lost world, its once shimmering visage reduced to a pale view amidst the swirling, oppressive sandstorms that ravaged the plain horizons. The black clad squadron stood outside the grand doors of the once-revered training place of the most elite forces in the galaxy. Their faces were unidentifiable beneath the intricate breath masks that clung tightly to their faces.

  The conditions on Nabul had degenerated over the past decade because of resistance to the constant bombardment by Baldorian forces. After the dissolution of the State, rebel Spacehawks squadrons remained on Nabul and defended their last sanctuary with their lives.

  Nature had adapted.

  The barren land was even more difficult to survive in.

  Their mission here had been one of singular importance because deep within the confines of this retired compound was a ghost of the past – a hero long since forgotten – the Black Rose. His name was one that still struck fear in the vast armies and navies that scoured the galaxies, yet even now their minds fell back on the morose tales that described and wove demonic characteristics into the last hero of the people.

  The figure farthest to the front motioned absently over his shoulder for the squadron to push forward. He was Corporal Warren Schone, a man who had long since left the ideals of the fallen State behind and embraced the corrupt laws of Xzin.

  At one time he would have been labeled a traitor to his people, but what was left of the State had retreated to the farthest reaches of the universe and was scarcely more than thieves and criminals against the new regime.

  His plasma rifle was shouldered loosely against his upper arm, but his grip upon the handle caused his shaking hands to sweat because a deep-set fear grabbed his heart. Through the golden years of the State, he had witnessed the precision of Alpha Zero. To go into the last hero’s sanctum was like heresy.

  The control panel for the outer doors had long since melded over, and Schone called for the technician to manually release them by overriding the main security breaker. The tech pushed forward, his hand raised across his eyes as a shield from the oppressive sunbeams and the impenetrable walls of sandstorm that had raged against them since they landed on Nabul.

  The squadron had been briefed to keep communication at a minimum. The desert could sap a man’s strength on the gentlest of days. The sand parted and chunks fell clumsily as the aged entrance opened and then righted itself, exposing a decade of solitude to the cruel elements of the outside storms.

  The squadron moved adeptly.
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br />   They closed the door behind them, and several of the soldiers ignited pale green glow rods. They found themselves in a hangar bay occupied by useless machinery. Schone disengaged his mask and took a breath of the stale air. He inserted his plasma rifle into the containment pocket along his back.

  “Two squadrons: one led by myself and the other led by Lieutenant Carlson.” Schone gestured to a grim, lean soldier with multiple scars lining his gaunt features. “Locate and exterminate any remnants of Spacehawks technology, as well as squatters who have found their way into the ruins.”

  The collective mind of the squadron was gripped by creaking noises and distant footsteps that echoed throughout the massive complex. The ebony figure of Carlson stepped forward and waved his rifle in the direction of the darkness. He made a slicing gesture with his gloved fist.

  “This half follow me; rendezvous on the southern end in approximately two hours. Understood?”

  There were mixed murmurs.

  The soldiers shuffled their feet to track their commander, not wanting to linger in any portion of the frozen monolith for longer than necessary. Schone smiled inwardly, knowing that if the Black Rose was still alive, none of them would leave this tomb. As the last emerald glow faded into the darkness, Schone moved his portion of the squadron forward along the eastern wall and hoped that the place was indeed haunted by ghosts and goblins, otherwise a much darker force would be stalking them in their sand prison.

  The corridors smelled faintly of rotting flesh and excrement, but the black clad warriors pushed forward knowing their mission. Failure was not an option for death squadrons. Lieutenant Fameke Carlson was an institution among Baldorian warriors, widely known for his cruelty to prisoners and soldiers alike.