MILDRATAWA

by Nigel Clayton

  Cinvatti looked at the other legion officer through the heavy blizzard, only his lips visible due to the hood that protected his flesh from the tormenting cold. His name was Dorani and he held the same rank as Cinvatti; he was a new arrival. The heavy full-length jacket that he wore was that of the hide belonging to the great snow beast of Basbi Triad, the only living creature known to exist within the Darkside, and the only source of meat. It was a vicious beast with cannibalistic tendencies. The dark goggles that he and the others wore were the only source of equipment that was provided for by the legion, apart from the weapons that most of the men carried.

  Cinvatti scanned around to view the others in contemplation. All of Dorani’s personal force had lost their appearance of being a formed body of military might – that of the Legion Millennium. They were now a gaggle of men, a group of part-timers, green militiamen with little training. Were the goggles the only thing that distinguished them from a citizen of Verton, was this their only reconciliation?

  The small force of Dorani’s stood at 283, a numbers increase which had been brought about by the recruitment of isolated pockets of Verton mercenary whom had taken to the Darkside regions as he had done. His reconnaissance team had found such a small group as this a few days before, seven hungry men on the verge of death. Although their present condition was poor, they still boasted their allegiance towards Vetty and the destruction of the Mildratawa; they would fight to the death, even if limbless and only capable of biting the known enemy with their teeth.

  It was the same for Cinvatti now, Dorani’s force joining his. The band of 743 now crowded the immediate area; the surrounding darkness only being illuminated by the hundred or so hand held burning torches. The first of Basbi’s moons was to be expected in another 15 minutes, a full moon that would aid them well.

  Cinvatti pulled the top flap to his thermodynamic jacket open and reached in with his right hand for the beacon that had been removed from the Aura robot over a week ago. The opening was quickly closed and secured by the velcro strapping to hold at bay the weather. A small antenna was extended from the top of the small fist sized beacon. He pressed one of the dozen buttons and the red strobe light commenced with its rhythmic flashing on and off. He now placed this down onto the ground and turned it from side to side, burying the base of the metal beacon into the frozen earth, forging a secure base for which to rest it. He finally lifted his hand from the device and interlocked his arms across his chest, momentarily peering up into the dark sky and prying a smile between his frost bitten lips before glancing over towards Dorani.

  They had 20 minutes before Basaclon would arrive with transport for their move to the garrison and the government of Basbi Triad could be brought to its knees. It was known throughout the contingent of 743 that Basaclon had a reasonably large force at the palace and that all was in their favour for success. Once the palace had been taken a message could be sent across the galaxy, to invite all legion to rally together. They would make a hostage of Muutampai and to ask for a reasonable ransom: – their return to Verton and a promised parole with no injunctions imposed upon their land of balai timit and dearly loved Tullana. From here they could begin their plans for a proper retaliation. They knew little of what was happening on the outside worlds and Basaclon wasn’t around enough during their last encounter to explain what intentions he had for the legion. Cinvatti knew that no news was good news and that if there needed to be any changes to the existing plan then a messenger would have been sent to inform him of such.

  The falling snow didn’t lighten; it only fell with more prodigiousness, the worst storm since the Verton defeat on Basbi. Snowflakes froze on hood fringes of fur as they fused together and a skin of thin ice was formed on the backs of jackets, the snow crystallising on impact.

  Legion all around looked towards the horizon as the moon appeared through a gap formed by two mountains in the distance. One after the other the torches were extinguished by being thrust into the growing banks of snow around. The deafening blizzard gave to no relent as small black specs from the distance slowly grew in size, approaching their position in seemingly slow descent, silhouetted by the very moon, which gave to illuminating the surrounding area. They grew larger still – ten in all.

  All of a sudden they became blinded, as 4,000,000 candlepower searchlights were engaged, not for confirmation of the legion’s locality but reassurance to Cinvatti that he had been seen.

  The ships were soon landed and cargo bay doors opened to reveal the large halls of emptiness in readiness to receive its new cargo. Legion after legion boarded the ships, pulling the tops of their jackets back for a fresh circulation of air, an open acceptance of the warm interior. Those that weren’t armed with weapons headed directly for the weapon racks, which were found along the centre walls to the huge bay, they being directed by a voice which blast out from hidden speakers. All of the weapons were laser, the only mind scans evident were those brought on board from the outside, and most of these had to be exchanged as their power source was running too low for reliable operation – and only brought along for the possibility of recharge.

  Cinvatti and Dorani remained side by side and headed to what they believed to be an entrance into the ship’s bridge. They removed their hoods as they moved and said nothing, stepping out their stride in anxiety. They saw a Basbi Triad to their front. He held up his arm and pointed, standing aside. “That way, sirs.” They continued on without a word and saw a door open to the bridge. They entered.

  “Where is Basaclon?” Cinvatti asked as he stepped onto the bridge with Dorani close behind.

  “He’s on the other ship, sir.” The man pointed out through the large windows towards the neighbouring vessel, just visible through the worsening weather. Their ship then gave to a sudden jolt as it lifted from the ground, turning slightly, the powerful lights bringing the other ship to greater clarity.

  “How do I speak with him?” The man reached for a microphone and handed this over to Cinvatti. “What is the call sign?”

  “Octus One, sir; we are Octus Three.”

  Cinvatti brought the mike to his lips. “Octus One, this is Octus Three, Cinvatti speaking. Get me your captain.”

  “Speaking, Cinvatti. At long last we are brought together. I see you have enough manpower to fill eight of my ships. A vast number indeed.”

  “Obviously not up to your expectations. I see you’ve deployed ten.”

  “Better safe than sorry.”

  “I’m pleased that the palace doesn’t grow suspicious by your bringing so many ships.”

  “Well, I’m afraid they did. The fight has already begun. My men are holding the fort, so to speak, awaiting your arrival.”

  “How long before we arrive?”

  “Just a few minutes flight now; not long.”

  Dorani reached for a second mike and lifted this to his lips. “Tell me, Basaclon. What news do you have of the outside worlds, in particular our planet Verton?”

  “I’m afraid that it isn’t good. Verton has been expelled.” Cinvatti and Dorani looked at each other in momentary shock. “It’s going to plummet towards Tullana in a few days; nothing can be done about it now.”

  “Tell me, Basaclon,” commanded Cinvatti. “Why then do we take the palace?”

  “A move towards the Mildratawa; of course.” His explanation was void of reason, falling short of any compromise.

  “What is the point, Basaclon? If I’ve no people to fight back with— it’s pointless.”

  “Vetty is alive.”

  “I don’t care about Vetty!” He shut himself up for a second. “Wait a minute will you Basaclon? I have something.”

  “Of course.”

  Cinvatti switched off and turned to whisper in Dorani’s ear. “It’s pointless to fight without anything to fight for. Without the planet Verton we have no cause. We’ll die more surely than we have spent the last seven months of our life in the snowy peaks of the Darkside.”

  “What are you saying, Cinvatti?�
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  “We can’t go on. Let us return to our life amongst the snow caves. Life wasn’t so bad.”

  “I don’t think that I can agree.”

  “You’ll die more surely than we talk. Let us wait. In a few years the remainder of the galaxy would have forgotten about us. We can return then.”

  “Basaclon will not like that.”

  “Who cares what he likes or thinks?”

  Dorani looked around himself briefly, ensuring all were out of earshot. “What do you suggest?”

  “We kill all the warriors loyal to El Pasadora and hand the palace pack to Muutampai. For this he will allow us to return to our caves.”

  “He won’t agree to that.”

  “We can take some women hostage, to breed with as our own.”

  “They’ll come after us, to search for and kill us all.”

  “We’ll gag them all and make it appear as though we’ve taken to the stars; by programming a couple of ships for a jump into parsec.”

  “What if the ships should be found?”

  “The emission of spent fuel will suggest the direction of our withdrawal, but they’ll never find us; we’ll program them for self-destruction on reaching a certain distance, setting explosives up to the engines— or better still – the Dead Zone.”

  “You’re making this up as you go along.”

  “Maybe. But it’s feasible.”

  Dorani stood in contemplation. “How do we inform our men of our intentions; and how do we get to our caves? How?”

  “Leave it to me, Dorani.” Cinvatti licked his lips and turned the communications back on with a smile. “Basaclon?”

  “Yes.”

  “You are correct. We shall take the palace and hold hostage Muutampai. We will come out of this as victors.”

  “Good, Cinvatti; good. My pilots have been ordered to drop you at different points along the great palace. Information at present is being passed onto your men to shoot anyone not wearing a desert robe.”

  “That’s understood Basaclon. I will see you after our success. I bid you good shooting.” Cinvatti turned the mike off before a reply from Basaclon could be heard.

  The ship came into view of the huge walls shielding the palace and lights belonging to the other transporters could be made out to be manoeuvring around into docking position. Cinvatti nudged Dorani with his elbow. “Once we’ve docked we shall take out those troublesome warrior pilots and relay our message to the legion we carry. We shall let our intention be known as time passes to the others. It matters not how many die. This will be a three way battle.”

  As they docked, Cinvatti and Dorani shot all persons on the bridge and spoke out their intentions to all in the cargo hold. It mattered little that the legion and Verton mercenary understood what was happening, so long as they complied with what was required.

  The battle raged within the palace walls for a good two hours. All of El Pasadora’s men had soon been killed and many of Muutampai’s garrison of military and civilian population now rest in everlasting peace, never to blink an eye again.

  Cinvatti took Muutampai by the throat and told him that he intended to take to the stars, holding his women as hostage and a bargaining toll, commenting on how he would kill them if he breathed a word as to their whereabouts. Cinvatti then put the remainder of his plan into action, taking off back to the caves and with a plentiful supply of rations and machinery, tools for which would make life easier than it had been.

  In time the women would grow to love his men, or face being brain washed. He would make his legions turn to love and have them treat the women the way he knew that they were treated on Basbi; a lot tenderer than those of Verton, that was for sure. He would know within a week whether his plan had worked or not. Not even the Parene were any good to Muutampai now, as Basaclon had deactivated them prior to picking the Vertons up. He was content with his plan and the manner in which his remaining force of 572 troops had been split into separate tribes around the areas of the Darkside that harboured many caves. Life would go on.

  PLANET VUDD.

  PLANET SURFACE.

  Binumana, an Inpuloid police officer of high rank, had grown very fond of John, and had spent many an hour in conversation with him. Although the burnt face of John still disgusted Binumana he couldn’t help but feel, not responsible, but somewhat guilty for his scars of life.

  Binumana had arranged for a galactic passport, this allowed the pseudonym, John, to travel to any place he wished, and at the expense of the authorities of Negabba. El Pasadora never squandered their time or helpfulness, as he never intended to allow them the convenience of growing tired of him.

  The one planet he rarely visited was that of Vudd, where he had conveniently run into a few Vertons; namely, Niras, Gennilamis, Huwaina and Zaei. But in the end he was glad to have made the venture. El Pasadora had in his possession a small device that he alone had manufactured; this was capable of picking up the odours of oils that were emitted through the pores of Verton skin. Like a bloodhound of the earth, it was rarely wrong. He had perfected its use on an escaped Verton on Negabba a week earlier; but unfortunately he’d met with death soon after – El Pasadora’s wont for no loose ends had encouraged him to execute the Verton.

  Binumana’s personal aid – a young man – had been asked to leave John to his own vices on the day that the four Verton’s were discovered, as El Pasadora had pleaded that the need for a day alone made for good medicine. Binumana and his aid both understood the request and shortly after landing on Vudd the aid permitted him his free-reign, to be unguarded towards any unkind word which may be thrown in his direction by some immature child.

  He moved along the streets with a sensor hidden in his ear, listening to the readings of his bloodhound as he made his way through the city. He ensured that his pace and bodily gestures were inconspicuous, but this was futile as his scarred for life facial features turned every head which caught sight of him.

  He grew tired of this and was soon forced to buy a Ferrish robe from a nearby clothing store. This certainly drew less attention than the scarves and arrangements of hats to which he owned, but failed to bring along with him. His urgent need to get away from Negabba had made him lax in thought, and the untimely murder of the Verton allowed for little time to pack any bags. He wouldn’t be returning to Negabba again, that was now his most decisive of decisions.

  He passed through the entrance to the store and slowly walked the street. He hadn’t seen any Ferrish before and was unsure as to the way they moved. He placed his right wrist in his left hand and placed this in front of his groin, head slightly inclined to face the ground with the hood obviously pulled up, shrouding his face in a mask of black shadow.

  No one stared now. This made him more at ease.

  It was nearing midday when his sensor let out its warning of faint ringing. A Verton was near. A pulsating ringing slowly increased as four men approached; and as they passed El Pasadora, the ring ring of the sensor meld to within each separate warning so that a continuous buzz forced him to cup his ear. He turned to watch as the four continued on their way and the earpiece died down again to a pulsating ring ring before final solitude was restored to the device.

  El Pasadora was momentarily stunned. He turned his bloodhound off and took after the Vertons. He maintained his posture with head bowed slightly, but his eyes were lifted to look on past his brow. His pace increased slightly….

  This was what El Pasadora remembered now, the bloodhound sensor which had shown him the way to sanctuary. He hardly ever daydreamed, but today was somehow different. He was aboard the vessel that was to take him far away from Vudd and Negabba, never to return, away from Quadrant Seven and their pathetic Alliance of two planets.

  The four Vertons worked around him feverishly as he potted about in the main control room and bridge to the vessel, unfamiliar with the consoles which lined the second largest room of the frigate – the largest room being that of a cargo hold, which at present stood empty.

&
nbsp; The frigate was at rest in the factory yard to the work place where the four Vertons had spent many a month manufacturing computer parts for space frigates. They grew quite accustomed to the operation of such a vessel, far different to that of any ship from Verton.

  Little was said during these final minutes of preparation. Automotive security had allowed them entry to the yard due to their work permits; El Pasadora had required none due to the security pass being of a group identity, and one security pass was as good as the next. They’d but a few minutes remaining before the security guard to the factory would check up on their progress, but the crew of five were soon seated, strapped in, and the frigate thrown into atmosphere thruster lift-off.

  Sirens all around could be seen flashing on and off as they slowly lifted from the yard and took off at amazing speed to the outer fringes of space boundary prior to a shift into parsec being engaged. Niras turned with a smile to look El Pasadora in the eye, the hood of the Ferrish robe pulled back. The smile momentarily vanished and then returned with a gulp of worry and nervousness coming over the Verton. “Well; we’ve done it. We’ll be hitting parsec 20 by point eight soon enough, the highest parsec ever attained before. What do you say El?”

  “I say that you forget who I am. I’m not a friend; I’m an emperor; and the sooner you remember who you’re talking to, the better.”

  “Yes, my lord.” Niras’ smile vanished again. None of the Vertons liked El Pasadora, but he seemed to know what he was talking about. They had one stop to make before heading for Verton, and that was the Negabban moon. Although it stood in the wrong direction as compared to their final destination, it did offer a little deception.

  A quick bleep of red appeared on the screen as the jump into parsec towards Negabba was made. El Pasadora looked to Zaei. “What was that?”

  “A Stem, my lord; from the planet Earth.”

  “What does it do there? You should have blown it from the heavens.”

  “It’s nothing to worry about. It’s unmanned. The human beings are on the planet surface, growing their cactus.” Zaei erupted in laughter and the remainder followed suit, El Pasadora contemplating more murder. The Stem; he hated loose ends.