by West, Shay
“Why did you keep your identity a secret?” Druska asked.
“I didn’t know how you would feel about having an alien living among you. It’s one thing to know of the existence of the portal but quite another to knowingly let someone not of this world dwell in your midst. I thought secrecy best.”
“How is it you can use the portals?”
“I know how to activate them,” Lamnor shrugged.
“Why have you come forward now?”
“I have information that might help you. I admit I don’t know what is happening on this world or who these folks really are, but it must be something very important. I’d like to offer whatever aid I can.”
Druska frowned. He wasn’t sure that he could trust Lamnor. However, if he knew something that could help the Chosen in their fight against the Mekans, Druska had to know what it was.
“What did you want tell us?”
Lamnor breathed deeply. “I know how the portals can be used to travel back in time.”
Feeror glanced at his fellow Chosen, his mind whirling with the possibilities of what this news meant.
We can use it to go back and perhaps stop the first Earth Chosen from being killed!
“Can you show us how to do this?” Feeror asked.
Lamnor hesitated. “Using the portals to travel through time is not to be taken lightly.”
“One of our comrades died and sent the prophets of this world into a tailspin. Ever since that day, we have been losing more and more of our comrades. Without all of the Chosen alive and well, we can’t possibly fight the Mekans and have any hope of winning,” Feeror said.
Lamnor blinked. “Chosen? Who are the Mekans? What prophecy?”
Druska sighed. Secrecy might be a moot point now. “Long ago our prophets predicted the destruction of the galaxy by a race called the Mekans. Our only salvation rests in the hands of those called the Chosen, spread out on four different planets in the galaxy. Unfortunately, our last head Master decided to send Guardians to the four worlds to guide and train the Chosen, something the prophecy never mentioned. As a result of that decision, one of the Chosen was killed. We believe this has been the cause of the deaths of additional Chosen, and the inability of our prophets to see into the future.”
“I must warn you, if you do use the portals to travel through time, you must not change anything about the past. Regardless of how you feel about prophecy, or about the death of a comrade, you cannot change the course of history. How do you know for certain that if you prevent the death, that this will be better for the future? There are too many unknowns and too much danger to interfere with past events,” Lamnor said.
“But if she died too soon—”
Lamnor shook his head violently, cutting off Druska. “You can never know that for certain. Was there anything that came about after her death that would never have happened had she not been killed?”
Feeror glanced at his fellow Volgons, neither of them familiar enough with the Earth Chosen to answer.
--I believe I can be of some assistance. It was because of Tess Golden’s death that the Earth Guardian took his Chosen to the portal before the signs appeared, thus saving them from encountering their enemy when they attacked the encampment--
“You see? Maybe this Tess was supposed to die so that the rest would ultimately survive the attack from their enemy. If you change this, who’s to say that more – even all - of the Chosen wouldn’t die in battle?”
Druska opened his mouth to argue but closed it. Lamnor offered him a new perspective. He was so focused on Tess’ death that he had forgotten about what had transpired as a direct result of it.
“Why are we supposed to use the portals to travel back in time as the prophecy suggests, if we can’t change the past?” Voilor asked.
Lamnor smiled at Voilor’s obvious agitation. “You can learn something or observe something that will give you information you need. While I can tell you how to use the portals to travel back in time, I’m afraid I can’t tell you where or when you should go.”
“So we’re right back where we started. Many Chosen dead and no hope to fight the Mekans,” Druska said.
“There must be something. The prophecy wouldn’t speak of time travel if it wasn’t important in some way,” Moylir said. “We just need to think about a point in time we could visit that could help us.”
--Perhaps we should visit the home world of the Mekans--
“Why would that help us?” Feeror asked.
--The Mekans are constructed of metal. Perhaps someone made them. If we can see how they were made, perhaps we could find a way to unmake them. Or perhaps we could find a way to communicate with the machines--
Druska tapped his fingers against his chin, trying to find any flaw with the clone’s logic.
“How do we even know they can communicate?” Moylir asked.
--We have never tried. But if they are alive, it is logical to assume they can communicate--
“I don’t see how we can find their world. There are hundreds of symbols surrounding the portals. Unless we know which symbol represents the world of the Mekans, we would have to visit each one. We don’t have time for that,” Feeror said.
--When the prophets scribbled their ramblings on the scrolls, we couldn’t identify several symbols. Perhaps one of those represents the world of the Mekans--
Druska contacted an acolyte to bring the scrolls to the meeting room. His heart raced with anticipation. For the first time since the prophets had gone blind, he felt an emotion he hadn’t thought he would feel again: hope.
While they waited, Druska questioned Lamnor further. “What else can you tell me about the portals?”
“They are timeless, ageless. No one knows who made them, at least no one on my world does, no one knows their true purpose, no one knows what they are capable of.”
“Your kind seems to know much more than we do. Perhaps you would enlighten us.”
Lamnor blinked at the barely suppressed fury he heard in the Master’s voice. “What I know barely scratches the surface. The Travelers and Historians on my world have studied the portals for many centuries. We had discovered the presence of many universes that overlap each other, allowing us to travel to the same world, just in a different universe—”
Druska’s mine spun. “Different universes with the same worlds?”
“It’s difficult to explain. There are other planets called Gentra in other universes. Only they won’t be like this world. In one universe, your species will have evolved on land. Perhaps in another, you won’t even exist.”
“That’s unbelievable.”
“It’s quite a fascinating area of study, actually. The archives on my world have long since been destroyed but those of us that traveled to other worlds vowed to begin the process of exploring and documenting once more. I ended up with a mate and several litters that distracted me from that task. Perhaps now that my mate is gone and my young ones are grown, I can begin again.”
The acolyte returned with both sets of arms filed with scrolls, interrupting further conversation. He helped the Chosen unroll them, placing rocks on the corners to hold them in place. The Kromin telepath swam forward, eyes quickly scanning the documents. The others stayed out of the way, knowing the clone could find what it was looking for more quickly if unimpeded.
--There is one symbol that appears on each of these scrolls that deals with the Mekans. It could be the Mekan home world--
“Is there any way to know for sure?” Druska asked.
--Not without visiting the planet--
“Do you know this symbol?”
Lamnor shook his head. “I’m sorry, Master Druska. Though I have visited many worlds, this symbol is unfamiliar to me.”
“Looks like our only option is to visit this world. But how do we know how far back to go? Do we go back a few days? Years? Millennia?” Feeror asked.
--There is no way of knowing. It would be best to visit the world in its present time to ascertain wha
t has happened there. Once we see for ourselves, we can better judge another time point to try--
Druska nodded. “Agreed. You can’t just travel blindly. Are you up for it now or would you rather wait until the beginning of the new day?”
“We can go for a quick visit now,” Feeror said as he saw the eagerness on the eyes of his fellow Volgon Chosen.
“Return as quickly as you can. Each second brings the Mekans closer to their goal of destroying all the worlds in the galaxy,” Druska said.
The four Chosen and Lamnor made their way to the portal chamber.
“Do you wish to accompany us on this visit?” Feeror asked.
“If you have no objections. The longing to explore has never fully left me,” Lamnor answered.
Feeror nodded. He found the symbol for the Mekans’ home world, a set of five overlapping squiggly lines, and touched it lightly. The other symbols shimmered as Feeror’s touch activated the portal. He took a deep, steadying breath. While Volgons were a warrior race and considered dying at the hands of an enemy an honorable way to die, Feeror didn’t want to enter the portal. Three of the Chosen had been lost after entering the portal; they went in, but never emerged. That idea terrified the Volgon warrior more than the thought of standing against the Mekans alone.
He glanced at his fellow Volgons. At a nod from Voilor, Feeror stepped into the portal.
ASTRA
HE RAN AS FAST AS HE COULD, but the voice followed, laughing as he tried to outrun it. Tree limbs slapped his head, drawing terrified whimpers from his clenched jaws. Tendrils of blood dripped down his face but he ignored them, focusing instead on running even faster.
What does he want with me?
The edge of the cliff drew near.
“Just let go. Give in to your darkest desires. They are jealous of our magic and can never understand what it’s like to wield such power. Together, we can accomplish much. I have a plan that will ensure our survival against the Mekans. All you have to do... is trust me!”
The voice followed him as he reached the end of the cliff. He clasped his hands over his ears, determined to shut out the voice.
He’ll never let me go!
Desperate and terrified, he did the only thing he could do.
He sent up a prayer to the good Spirits and dove off the cliff.
***
Jon awoke with a start, body drenched in sweat, muscles shivering from the residual terror. He glanced at Fa’ Vel, who appeared to be fast asleep. Jon stood and made his way to the edge of the camp, feeling the urge to get up and move, hoping it would help him shake off the nightmare.
It was a dream. Nothing more.
He sat on the stump of a tree that had fallen over long ago, whether by human hands or by rot, Jon couldn’t tell. He faced east and watched as the sky lightened from black to azure before settling on the bright blue of the Astran heavens during the daylight hours. Watching the sun rise used to bring him a sense of peace and promise. But not today. The dream and the words of Fa’ Vel haunted him. The more he thought about the voice, the more he was convinced that the dark magician was haunting his dreams.
But why?
Jon picked up a rock and tossed it as hard as he could, hoping to get rid of some of the anger and frustration.
“Feeling petulant this morning, are we?”
Jon glared at Fa’ Vel and turned back to face the rising sun. “Just sitting here, trying to enjoy the morning.”
“Well, enjoy quickly. We’re leaving soon.”
Jon did not respond. Instead, he tossed small stones and ignored Fa’ Vel.
“Having second thoughts?”
Jon looked at Fa’ Vel, cringing at the sneer on the dark magician’s face. “Not at all. Like I said, I was just enjoying the morning.” Jon turned and left.
Fa’ Vel’s men were saddling the mounts in their accustomed silence. Jon had tried several times to engage them in conversation but they remained stoic and silent. The only one they spoke to was Fa’ Vel, and then only when necessary. Jon saddled his mount, speaking in soft tones to the little sorrel mare.
Breakfast consisted of dried meat and hard bread. Jon gnawed at the bread while in the saddle, tossing it to the side in disgust.
“You may regret that later. We won’t stop until we reach Faerow,” Fa’ Vel said.
“I’m wasting more energy trying to bite into it than I’m getting out of it,” Jon said.
As the day wore on, Jon’s stomach growled, a testament to the lack of breakfast earlier in the day. He gritted his teeth and refused to say a word, hoping that the noise of the horses and tack was enough to cover the sounds coming from his midsection.
“What’s our plan once we reach Faerow? Do you plan on contacting Mordaen?” Jon asked, trying to take his mind off his empty stomach.
Fa’ Vel laughed, a great belly laugh that echoed among the thick trees they traveled through. Jon noticed that the mirth never reached his dead, black eyes.
“Stupid boy! Of course I don’t plan on contacting Mordaen. I doubt he’s forgotten the little incident in which I took control of the city and put his family to death. Regrettable, that. However, in my defense, I was quite mad at the time.”
I don’t see that much has changed.
“Will you send me in your stead?” Jon asked.
“Of course not,” Fa’ Vel waved his hand, dismissing the very notion. “We will camp outside of the city. My men will go for supplies and bring us any word.”
Jon frowned. “I don’t see how any of this will help gain the man’s trust. You’ll need it if you are to make him an ally.”
Jon shivered as Fa’ Vel fixed him with a cold glare. “I might not have been entirely honest when I told you I was coming here to help Mordaen.”
An icy shiver of dread crawled down Jon’s spine.
“I’m going to ally myself with the Mekans.”
ASTRA
THIS IS WHAT MY DREAM WAS WARNING ME ABOUT!
Jon hissed and wheeled his mount, fear taking over his movements. Fa’ Vel’s men blocked him at every turn. Jon snarled and drew on the power he could feel all around him, prepared to burn the men to a crisp.
He met a wall of resistance when he tried to use the power, as though someone had turned off his ability to channel the dark magic. Jon delved deeper, trying to harness his own power, and shivered in fear when he met with nothing.
“I’ll turn you loose if you agree to behave,” Fa’ Vel said as though speaking to a small child.
“Let me go. I don’t want any part of this,” Jon said.
“Of course you do! There’s nothing for you back home. Your sweetheart went and married someone else. Do you really want to go back to your village and watch the two lovebirds cuddle and kiss every chance they get? Or would you rather do something to ensure your village’s survival?”
Jon eyed the dark magician, knowing the man was lying but holding on to the hope that perhaps he really was trying to do something good.
“How can working with the Mekans keep my village safe?”
“If we can get on their good side, perhaps we can convince them to leave us alone.”
Jon’s mind whirled. Every time the Mekans came up in conversation, the Chosen wracked their brains trying to come up with a way to destroy them. No one had even considered the possibility of communicating with them. “Do you really think it’s possible?”
Fa’ Vel shrugged. “Who knows? But we won’t know until we try, will we?”
“I suppose not.” Jon turned his mount back toward the path they had been following through the trees. It didn’t take long for Fa’ Vel’s men to catch up and overtake him, once more putting him in the middle of the group.
Though Jon knew deep down that Fa’ Vel’s motives were most likely nefarious, he wanted to believe that the man—his father—was capable of doing something good with his power. Jon wished desperately for some bit of goodness to offset the evil the man had done.
As they rode, Jon wondered wh
ether his fellow Chosen would attempt a rescue or wash their hands of him for good.
I don’t want to be rescued!
And besides, he was tired of the suspicious looks every time he used his own power, and of having to convince them he wasn’t using the dark magic or that he had complete control of the forbidden power. Who cares anyway? He found it easier now to ignore the warnings written in the tiny leather-bound book Master Brok had given him than when he had first received the book. He had already done so much with the power...
You’ve killed people.
Jon refused to give ground to this thought. He had acted in the best interest of the group. Without him, they could have been severely injured if not killed. Jon knew the thought of killing people should bother him more than it did. A faint trickle of fear burned its way through his brain.
I’m not turning into another Mystic Anali!
As they drew closer to Faerow, Jon felt a strange vibration, originating in his chest and moving outward into his arms and down his back. His mount wickered in fear, stomping her feet, fighting with him as he kicked her forward. He looked around, trying to see the source of the strange vibration.
“Don’t bother, boy. The source is far from here. My guess is, it’s the Mekans digging in the Sea and their activity is being carried to us through the ground we travel upon,” Fa’ Vel said, fighting his own mount for control. “We’ll camp here for the night. You there,” Fa’ Vel pointed to one of his men. “Go to town and get us supplies, enough for a few weeks.” He tossed the man a sack laden with coin. It jingled as the man tested the weight in his hand before tying it to his belt. He kicked his mount toward Faerow, forcing the animal toward the source of the strange and terrifying vibrations.
Jon unsaddled and brushed his mount, his mouth watering at the thought of fresh food. Travel rations tended to be dry and hard, and not very appetizing. He hobbled his mare for the night and noticed several fresh sets of the tracks of antlered horses.