by Dan O'Brien
The stories soon became reality as, in the first day alone, they lost three men to Arid Dragons, transparent demons that flew through the desert winds. They finally landed in Dakison, pulling in front of the last remaining Resistance transport. The warriors of the Crimson Hand flowed from the transport like locusts and descended upon the Resistance ship, capturing all members aboard. Kublai sauntered down the ramp and squinted against the harsh glare of the orange sun. One of his men raced toward him and kneeled at his feet.
“We have retrieved some soldiers from the ship,” began the mercenary as he motioned toward the people being escorted from the flaming Resistance vessel.
“Who do we have here?” questioned Kublai sinisterly, turning toward the captives with a mocking grin on his face.
“Lieutenant Mariko Wing and Major Joseph Grenn,” replied the mercenary eagerly.
“How utterly enjoyable,” laughed Kublai. He brushed his hand across the tan face of Lieutenant Wing and grasped her chin roughly, looking into her eyes. “I get to eliminate two of my favorite enemies: the murderous betrayer Mariko Wing and the self-righteous Joseph Grenn. As an added bonus, I get to wipe from existence the one man who has single-handedly caused the Crimson Hand so much pain: the Black Rose.”
“He’s here?” Mariko’s face softened from its stony resolve, and her eyes welled with tears as she crossed her arms around herself.
“Not yet. But, of course, he is coming. He has to save his damsel in distress. That, and your feeble excuse for a leader, Busho, begged him for help,” laughed Kublai, turning away from them.
“You won’t take him, you worthless piece of desert trash,” spat Wing as the mercenaries pushed her to the ground.
“Enough of this strained romantic sentiment. How far away is he now?” Kublai ignored his prisoners, speaking directly to the warrior nearest him.
“Two kilometers and closing fast, boss,” replied the nondescript assassin.
“Excellent. Places, everyone.” Kublai removed himself from the clearing and drew his heavy assault rifle against his shoulder.
Wei’s jet bike roared as it rounded the corner and was decimated with plasma bursts from every weapon in the Crimson Hand’s arsenal. The bike rolled to the middle of the clearing, charred to pieces with a skeleton of a man clinging to the handlebars. Mariko let out a shrill scream as her hopes of a valiant rescue were squandered.
* * * * *
“My lord, I bring news of the resistance,” began Delgado, his miniscule frame kneeling before the shadow of the dark throne and the man who commanded it.
“Tell me, my servant,” boomed the ominous shadow.
“I delivered the message, and Busho was persuaded to remove his installation from Dakison. Your plan worked flawlessly. Busho called the Rose for help. Now we can see the ruination of the Resistance and the infamous Black Rose. On a grander note, two ranking soldiers in the Resistance have been apprehended by our Crimson Hand – Lieutenant Wing and Major Grenn. However, the deranged son has no intention of keeping them or the Rose alive. Shall I send a detachment to stop this possible slaughter?”
“Yes, keen intuition. I need Rose alive, and then I will have the two remaining pieces of the too-soon-forgotten State: the bounty hunter Starhawk and the Black Rose.”
“Everything will have come full circle, my master. The resistance, Starhawk, and even the Black Rose. All of the reminders of the long-forgotten State shall be dealt with accordingly.”
“There is another matter that I need to speak with you about.”
“Yes, my lord?”
“It is of the bounty hunter Rione. She is tracking James Rider.”
“Rione? James Rider? I do not what you are speaking of, my lord,” replied Delgado slowly, his dark eyes narrowing.
“The last member of Alpha Zero was James Rider. He was written off for dead, but never found. I sent the young girl to find him. She can be quite, persuasive.”
“Understood, my master.”
“She will come to you with her report. Let me know when you receive the transmission.”
Delgado rose timidly and cautiously dismissed himself. The double doors more than dwarfed his diminutive frame. In time, the Rose and his pitiful band would be forgotten legends.
* * * * *
That was close, thought Wei as he approached the clearing dressed as one of the Crimson Hand assassins. The antics of the younger Russeau were all too obvious and the ambush expected.
He crept behind the scenes and watched as the fools celebrated their victory without so much as a closer inspection. He made his way around the hull of the Hand’s transport and came up behind Kublai. Drawing his glowing blade quickly, he held it to Kublai’s throat.
“Enough gloating. Hand your prisoners to me, and I might let you live.” Wei’s voice was a hoarse growl, his right hand gripping the hilt of his blade with restrained power. Anger welled in the pit of his stomach, and he searched the horizon wildly.
“I saw you burn,” replied Kublai incredulously, bitterness and resentment in his voice.
“The man that rests upon that rubble is the stumbling lookout who left his post foolishly and wandered too far into the unforgiving desert.”
Wei pushed the gaunt frame of Kublai toward the fire below, arriving beside the bound prisoners. With one swift slice of his sword he cut them free. Grenn grabbed the mercenary behind him who was also dumbfounded by the sudden presence of the Black Rose, relieved him of his weapon, and threw him onto the platform below.
The trio moved quickly and picked their way through the confused crowd. They commandeered three speeders that were lying dormant and escaped, dodging blasts from their enemies who were just beginning to realize what had happened. After several kilometers of sandy desert, they brought the crafts to a stop.
“Our little escape will have them rallying the troops, so you two better be on your way,” called the Rose as he started his bike again, kicking up dirt and sand from all around him.
“Why aren’t you coming along?” queried Grenn, a very small part of him jealous at the unquestionable stare of Wing at the brazen form of the Black Rose.
Wei ignored the question and turned to Wing. A small smile crept to his lips at the unrelenting stare she had leveled at him, and she blushed when he met the gaze. “I know that your primary base has been evacuated. Where are you headed now?”
“Verlun,” blurted Wing.
Grenn was caught off-guard by the explosive nature of her response, and once again he could feel childish resentment rising to the surface.
“I will see you there.” Rose turned his bike in a wide arc and sped back toward Buojing, leaving Wing and Grenn alone with their thoughts – at this moment, nothing but confusion.
* * * * *
Wei sped toward his adopted home in search of his only remaining friend, Fusen. He arrived in unsurpassed time and went straight to the town’s inn; he knew that Fusen owned an apartment there. He knocked on his friend’s door hoping against hope that he would answer. The Crimson Hand knew where he was and that Busho had hired him. They knew things they couldn’t have known without inside information. He knocked again, this time with more force.
No answer.
He disengaged the door with one swift front kick and called out for Fusen. Only silence answered. Moving through the apartment, he saw a figure he knew all too well. Fusen’s bruised and bloodied body was slumped against a wall; someone had run him through the ringer more than once. Dark, black burns cast shadows on his crisp flesh as if someone had ignited his body in order to extract information from him.
“Boss, I didn’t tell them anything,” rasped Fusen in a barely audible voice. “I swear I didn’t.”
“I know, old friend, I know,” replied Wei. The Hand had likely just removed the information with a cerebral scan and beat the man solely for amusement. He already knew the answer to his next question. “Who did this?”
“Russeau,” whispered Fusen. “The son,” he mouthed before he crumpled forward and
the breath of his mortal frame passed on to the heavens above. Wei closed Fusen’s eyes and laid him upon the bed, covering him with a sheet to shield him from the elements.
The Crimson Hand would pay for what they had done to his friend. Wei left the building with Fusen’s body, placing his dead friend on the back of his bike before speeding off into the night.
Deep in the wilderness he burnt Fusen’s body atop a pyre. He waited until the last embers of the fire blew away in the wind, forever engraving the memory of his friend into his mind, vowing never to forget. He headed toward Verlun with only one thought echoing in his mind: the blood that stained the hands of the man known as Kublai.
* * * * *
“I wonder where the Rose is?”
Grenn vocalized his thoughts.
He and Wing sat at a pale fire and stared into the frigid night that accompanied blistering, cloudless days. They had camped just east of Verlun, partly in fear of being spotted by members of the government and partly because of their inability to distinguish the Crimson Hand at a distance.
“Did he say that he was going to help us?” asked Wing as she stretched out warming herself in front of the fire.
“He didn’t exactly come right out and say it, but that was the implication.”
“We’ll see,” replied Wing shortly. The conversation came to an end as armored soldiers suddenly surrounded them, all pointing their rifles squarely at the duo.
A soldier came forward, his rank insignia identifying him as a private in the Resistance. “Identify yourselves immediately.” The sound of the chamber loading itself prompted Grenn to rise and speak quickly and with authority.
“I am Major Joseph Grenn and this is Lieutenant Mariko Wing.”
“Sorry, sir,” replied the leader of the squadron as he quickly lowered his rifle and saluted in embarrassment. The group led Wing and Grenn in a westerly direction for about half an hour before coming upon the sandy-colored tents that had been erected in a circle near a jagged cliff face. They entered the temporary Resistance camp. A startled Busho greeted them in a dimly lit tent.
“I’m so glad to see you alive,” began Busho. “When we learned of your capture, we anticipated the worst. How did you escape?”
“The Black Rose,” replied Wing simply.
Busho’s eyes brightened.
“The Black Rose? Where is this man?”
“My question exactly,” snarled Grenn uncharacteristically.
“He had to take care of some unfinished business. He said he would meet us here,” Wing answered defensively.
A young soldier arrived breathlessly, describing a mercenary at the gates who wanted to speak to the general. Busho, Wing, and Grenn exchanged puzzled glances.
“Invite the poor soul in. If he came to fight, I am afraid he would be sorely outnumbered,” answered Busho.
“Understood.” The young soldier turned, and in the same instant Wing and Grenn backed into the shadows to surprise the mercenary if he indeed meant harm. It was Wei. Busho smiled and greeted him with genuine affection. He laughed to himself for expecting a monster.
“It is good to see you, Wei,” said Busho with obvious admiration in his voice. “Why would my soldiers identify you as a mercenary?”
“Captain?” exclaimed Grenn, emerging from the shadows. “This is the Black Rose, sir.”
Busho looked at Wei, his eyebrows raised. “Is this true?”
“I am afraid so,” began the Rose. “Shortly after I parted ways with the Resistance, my village was wiped out by the Crimson Hand. I was injured severely in the State’s final, failed assault on Baldor’s moon. In the surgical process of restoring my life, I was given experimental, mechanical enhancements that resulted in tremendous powers. My case name was Black Rose. My appointed mission is to eliminate the Crimson Hand.”
“Why didn’t I know any of this? You could have come to me,” implored Busho, trying to make reason of his friend’s rationale.
“I had every intention of coming back and helping, but after I saw the devastation within my own village I knew that I could only truly make a difference on my own, without anyone knowing my true identity. The stories of my death gave me a certain advantage as an avenging ghost. Whereas, if I had rejoined your ranks as I had done in the years before my affiliation with the State, my ability to carry out justice would have been greatly squandered. The Hand has murdered a friend of mine. I am here now to see if I can rally some of your men and make one final stand to take back this land.”
Busho remained silent. Grenn, who knew relatively little about Wei, met his gaze with skepticism. Wing, however, had a more personal understanding of Wei, and her thoughts drifted back to a time when she was involved with the violent gang known as the Crimson Hand.
“Wing, snap out of it,” called Grenn. “Busho wants us to gather the elite combat squads and have them rendezvous with Wei at the Tradnan Cliffs. Are you ready or not?”
Wing nodded slowly, not sure what lay ahead of them: victory or oblivion. The Tradnan Cliffs were an ugly series of cuts and bruises that scarred the landscape and their jagged appearance made them seem all the more menacing. The cliffs were infested with ravenous, roaming monsters. Wing and Grenn made their way up the side of the far cliffs to where Wei stood leaning against his cycle.
“Wei,” called Grenn over the howling desert winds.
Wei turned and nodded toward them without much animation in his hard features. “Alright, this is how we are going to run this,” began Wei as he climbed aboard his bike and started the engines. “I’m going to drive straight through their ranks and lure as many of them as I can. In the confusion, you lead the remaining men into the base camp and destroy whatever is left.”
Wei didn’t wait for a response. He raced the bike off the cliff’s edge, his thrusters running vertical to cushion the landing from the astronomical height. Grenn raised his rifle and pointed it forward, calling the troops to charge into the unknown. Wing looked after the fading form of Wei, wondering if she would ever see him again.
The vast wastelands below the Tradnan Cliffs were suddenly in motion. Crimson Hand tanks and vehicles chased the pale rider across the desert. Their dust trails and churning engines created a sandstorm that covered the heated horizon.
Wei’s thoughts swam as the gorge’s massive visage became apparent. He kicked the bike into gear and whispered one small prayer, racing to what very well might be his doom.
“The castaway, the light, the royal children, the guardian, the shadow, and the huntress. Seven souls will languish in the evils of Chaos and fight the hordes of the Dark One. What a fate to be born to.”
-The Seven Riders of Exodus
The planet of Xeon floated effortlessly in space looking like an empty shell of a world without civilization. The gaseous clouds that rose from its surface kept the sun from revealing what actually lay beneath. The dense forest that stretched across the land was only clear in the one place that contained the few hundred natives of the planet and one outlander. Almost twelve years had passed since the failed attempt on Baldor’s moon, the defining moment of the State’s disassembly.
The city of Xeon glistened with natural radiance from the planet’s core. James Rider, a former elite soldier in the State’s navy, was remembered by only a few outside this distant planet. Rider’s farguna, his Xeonian teacher, Madon, watched Rider perform his cyclexia, the ritualistic set of exercises for a learnsman of Xeon.
“Faster learnsman,” called Madon as Rider spun off the palm of his hand and leapt up onto a ten-foot ledge. “Your skills are almost complete. You will soon return to your people as a champion of justice.”
Rider drew his staff and swung it in concentric circles. He used his cloaking mind skills to cloud his numerous, consecutive strikes. As he ran, he flipped one-handed and then with none, finally landing on both feet with his staff across his chest in a ready stance. Rider met the eyes of his farguna, the characteristic grin of the past replaced by a solemn look of determination.
“Very good. Your power of suggestion rivals my own, and your physical skills are exemplary. I think now it is time for your final test.” Madon removed his ceremonial training cloak and laid it beside him. In one smooth motion his energy staff emerged from his closed fists and was raised across his chest in a similar gesture as Rider’s.
“You must use your abilities to prey on my weaknesses, learnsman. Ready yourself.” Madon flew forward, his staff moved as if not constricted by his hands at all. Rider met the tremendous force with a parry and pushed his staff beneath his master.
He threw a sidekick that connected with Madon’s back, and fell forward when Madon was there no longer. Rider cloaked immediately, plunging the arena into a gray-green mist that consumed sight. He ducked low and closed his eyes, feeling for his master’s energy.
When he located it, he leapt and swung his staff in a high arc, aiming to trip up his farguna. He was met with air, and when he settled again he felt the energy all around him. In a panic, he swirled his staff creating an energy shield and felt the vicious blows from all angles.
With a swoosh of his hand, he removed the mist and stood with his staff outstretched. Madon stood with his arms across his massive chest. He merely smiled as Rider tripped on his staff and began to fall. Rider compensated and swung around on his hands. He landed upright shooting a mocking grin at his master.
“Farguna Madon, do I yet possess the skills needed to defeat the Betrayer?” asked Rider as he wiped sweat from his face with the shredded piece of his training tunic.
“This is not my decision, learnsman. You must talk to Herado,” replied Madon, gathering some of the training equipment.
He motioned for Rider to do the same. Rider grasped a few of the weapons and followed Madon back to the simple domicile of Herado Xzin. Rider bowed to his farguna and pushed through the entrance. Herado sat in a plush chair with his back to the entrance. Rider kneeled on the rug that served as a chair for guests.