Remeon's Destiny

by J. W. Garrett

  Love well, little one. Be patient. You will soon know the truth. I love you.

  The truth? What truth? Tell me more. I need more.

  Arista waited, pleading and imploring, and heard nothing more in return. Time stood still as she wrestled in the recesses of her mind, exploring here, meandering there. Not wanting to face her life, she felt no urgent need to emerge again as an active participant in her own world.

  “THAT’S IT! WE’VE got it! Well done, Belle. I knew we could do it. We have their strategic location. We must move fast before Stephen is moved somewhere else.”

  Belle’s smile stretched from ear to ear after hearing the praise from Vinique.

  Relieved to have something positive come from this dreadful day, she moved around behind the desk and, tapping into the comm system, sent a message. “Captain, I’m relaying coordinates as we speak, detailing the location of Stephen. Our fact-finding mission was a success. Operation Return to Safety is a go. I repeat, a go. Prepare to leave at once. I want to see results tonight.”

  “Absolutely, ma’am. The team is assembled, and they’re on standby, awaiting my orders. We’ll have boots on the ground within the hour.”

  THE CAPTAIN ACTIVATED the personnel responsible for the special ops mission, and, within the quarter hour, the briefing took place. “Gear up, soldiers. Check all backup ammunition and supplies. Let’s load up and move out.”

  THOMAS FOCUSED ON the somewhat cryptic communication he had received. It had been difficult, desperately gaining what he could but, at the same time, hiding his attempts to stay in touch. They are coming. They’re coming, he reassured himself. He tried not to linger on any one message too long, fearful that he would be caught by the thought police. His mental boundaries were up, but, if they were effective, he had no way to know for sure. What would he be expected to do? He figured the Night Dwellers’ guns were under lock and key when he wasn’t training.

  The training exercises had become a much-need distraction, and, despite being held against his will, Thomas enjoyed the camaraderie of his trainers, Errol and Terron. They helped to keep his mind focused on the present, while doing what he could to prepare himself for whatever might be coming next. He didn’t realize how much he missed the companionship of those close to his own age until he began the outings and spent his days expending worthwhile energy.

  He still resented his time cowering in a cell. It was demeaning and dehumanizing. Thomas glanced outside and, seeing the blanket of darkness, felt energized, knowing he would soon be back on the range. His heartbeat quickened, and the adrenaline rush began anew as he anticipated the cool touch of the weapons and the lethal power he was about to harness.

  Thomas heard the sound of rushing footsteps, followed by shouting, which pulled him from his revelry. The door burst open. “What’s happening?” Thomas asked.

  “You’re coming with me. Simon instructed me to take you farther down,” Terron said. “Hopefully we can keep you better secured below.”

  “Hopefully? Don’t really like the sound of that.” Could this be it? Are they here? The commotion in the hall was growing more intense. Thomas pulled Terron into his room. “Hey, if there’s a fight out there, you gotta give me a chance, a weapon, so I can defend myself.”

  “Uh, not so sure that’s a good idea.”

  “Not a good idea? I could die out there,” Thomas said, motioning at the hallway.

  Terron appeared to be wrestling with the decision so Thomas continued on. “You know I can help. You’ve seen me in action, and Simon wants me alive,” he added, inwardly disgusted with himself.

  “Yes, true, true.”

  “Well?”

  “Absolutely no guns for now. I can protect you while I take you to the new safe house.”

  “What?” Thomas exclaimed in desperation. “Do you hear what’s going on out there?”

  “Shush, and let me finish. I do have another option—one just as deadly in the right hands. You remember our training yesterday?”

  “Of course, it was yesterday,” Thomas said restlessly.

  “Okay, genius. I’m talking about the knife exercise,” he whispered, opening his vest to reveal his small collection.

  Thomas’s gaze feasted on the treasure trove of knives tucked neatly in succession along the inside of Terron’s vest, each with its own individual sheath. Thomas knew he would only have seconds to make a decision.

  “Hurry, we must get moving.”

  “All right,” Thomas said, taking a deep breath. His eyes moved back and forth, looking for the one he had trained with frequently. “Ah, here it is,” he said, pointing.

  “Well, grab it, and let’s go.”

  “You got it.” Thomas reached for the KA-BAR, putting his hand around the solid grip. Its full seven-inch blade commanded attention. He turned it over in his hands, and the reflection from the light in the room bounced off the blade, momentarily blinding and distracting him. A sigh of relief escaped him as he pulled it close, more comfortable now to have some form of personal protection.

  “Secure the weapon, and let’s move,” Terron reiterated.

  Thomas quickly lifted his pants leg and slid the knife into his boot and covered it again.

  “Now, I need you to stay close, right behind me. You understand? If we draw fire, reach around and grab my holstered Smith & Wesson. Got it? I’ll be good with my Winchester,” he said, patting the shotgun.

  “Right, got it,” Thomas said, as his heart skipped a beat. This is really happening.

  “Now let’s go,” Terron said, as he entered the smoky hallway.

  “Hey, where’s Errol?”

  “Quiet! He’s meeting us at the new safe house,” he whispered, “and Simon is as well.”

  That’s just great, Thomas thought, struggling now to keep up. Renewed pangs of terror and pain threatened to transfix him to the spot. He wiped his sweaty hands on his pants and picked up the pace. Not too far ahead shots were fired, lighting up the hallway in front of them. Thomas crouched down low as bullets whizzed over his head.

  “Change of plan. In here.” Terron shoved Thomas through an open door as he aimed, slid the pump back and forth, and returned fire.

  From Thomas’s limited vantage point he could still see out the door of the room as one of the bullets hit its mark, quickly followed by a loud groan. Someone at the other end of the hall fell, and the remaining group members returned fire.

  “Did you have to kill him?” Thomas said, rubbing his forehead, worried about his potential rescue in progress.

  Terron glared at him. “You do know how this works, right? They shoot at us. We shoot back, and it continues until we win.”

  “Or you lose,” Thomas added.

  “Not an option.” Terron paused, closing his eyes, focusing silently.

  Thomas knew Terron was communicating telepathically with Simon and probably receiving the next strategic move.

  “So where to?”

  “We stay put. Simon is closing in on our location. He’ll be here any minute.”

  Thomas watched as Terron reloaded but was thinking instead of the limited options. With only a single way in and out, and no windows, Thomas only saw one reasonable course of action. He sized up his trainer, gauging his chances, his gaze lingering on the gun in play. His flight instinct was taking over as he contemplated knocking out his trainer before Simon arrived and making a run for the other side, hoping he didn’t get shot in the process. He froze as his chest tightened. Oh, no, Simon’s close. Thomas heard his name repeated over and over in his head. Time slowed as Simon burst through the door, carrying a semiautomatic rifle. The memory of the haunting pain returned. Thomas’s mouth went dry.

  Thomas’s gaze darted to Simon’s gun.

  Simon and Terron conversed, discussing their present situation.

  Thomas evaluated the stock, barrel, and the characteristic wood casing of the gun, as he fought for control of his own mind. He knew he was looking at a M1 Garand. Simon perched the weapon almost c
asually on his shoulder with his back slightly turned away from Thomas. Simon leaned down, speaking with Terron. Thomas was brought back to the present when the gunfire resumed, and, with the door cracked open, he watched as Simon took aim and fired his weapon. Adjusting for the recoil, he took virtually no time to aim and fire again at his target, and, as Thomas walked slowly closer, he watched while, together, Terron and Simon took out soldiers like sitting ducks at the county fair. He counted the rounds as Simon shot. One, two, three… And Thomas edged still closer. Four, five. Not much time now. His hand involuntarily twitched as it moved down to his boot, reaching for the knife hidden there.

  Only steps away now, Simon gave Thomas a shocked, almost hurtful look before Simon leveled the automatic weapon at Thomas’s face. At the disruption, Terron stopped firing, his focus changed to the situation unfolding.

  Oh, my God. I’m going to die, Thomas thought as he took several steps backward.

  “How dare you, Thomas,” Simon said, backing Thomas farther into the room.

  The all-too-familiar pain returned. He found himself unable to speak and was left panting, groping at his neck, gasping for air.

  “After all our time together you still don’t get it, do you?” Simon continued, slowly approaching, the gun only inches from Thomas’s cheek now.

  Thomas closed his eyes, just wanting the pain and humiliation to be over. One, Thomas began feebly, as he counted silently, trying to maintain consciousness. Two, he continued. His heart ached, racing in his chest, and his head pounded to a beat of its own. Thomas slipped to the ground, unable to support his own weight, and he knew it wouldn’t be long before the shallow breaths he took would be his last.

  Behind his closed eyes Thomas heard a shot that he presumed would be ending his life. Is this how it happens? I thought you didn’t hear the shot that kills you. His hair damp and pasted to his forehead while sweat dripped into his eyes, he opened them a little, just in time to see Simon grab his own leg and moan in pain. Terron approached, coming in closer for another shot. Momentarily forgotten and limbs functional again, Thomas’s basic instincts kicked in. With an involuntary groan, he slowly clawed his way toward the door, his braces screeching noisily as he progressed. He saw Terron in front of him, motioning Thomas forward, then he heard the next shot coming from behind. What was that, six now? He didn’t want to lose count. It was a hit.

  Thomas found himself sprayed with blood; then came another shot, seven, followed in quick succession by number eight. He heard the clip pop out of Simon’s gun with its signature metallic ping, while at the same time he felt something warm and wet slap him in the face. In horror and disgust, Thomas reached up to pull his friend’s stray bleeding flesh off his own body. He struggled to see where Terron had fallen, Thomas’s own face covered with his sweat and Terron’s blood partially clouding his vision. Thomas’s gaze met with the empty stare of his trainer. He heard Terron draw a raspy breath, and his mouth moved as if to form words, but no sound came. Thomas stifled a sob, watching as Terron’s body lay in an unnatural position, quivering and convulsing, temporarily struggling against imminent death.

  Busy reloading the clip to pop back into the magazine and nursing his own wound, Simon was no longer focusing on Thomas. Rage and pent-up hatred bared now, Thomas grabbed the knife from its hiding place in his boot, and closed the distance between himself and Simon, thrusting the knife into the meat of his side. Turning on his attacker, Simon quickly pushed himself backward, but not before Thomas twisted the knife and then pulled it free, poised to strike again.

  He heard the clip slide back into the magazine and knew it would all be over soon since he had not killed Simon. His knife was no match for a semiautomatic weapon. He closed his eyes and drew in his breath. He felt himself sway, and his thoughts drifted. My dad would be proud of me, he thought, smiling to himself, but he’ll never know. All went dark before his eyes. Thomas heard a clatter, followed by a rush of people entering the room, then…nothing.

  THE DAY WATCHERS burst through the door and stopped in silence, taking in the gruesome scene: one dead, unidentified; and one injured, their asset, Thomas, who lay on the floor covered in blood and remnants of gore.

  ARISTA PREPARED FOR her day, mentally reviewing all that was ahead for her. With great relief she received the news late last night of their mission’s triumph over the Night Dwellers. Ultimately this success would define her mother’s reign. Without question she must now see to its fruition in a cure for her people. She winced as she thought of all Stephen had endured. Simon had been controlling Stephen for weeks, and it had taken its toll. He had to be resuscitated en route to the compound and had arrived in horrible shape last night—critical condition.

  An uncontrollable shiver shot through her body as she thought of the evil that Simon had promulgated. Apparently Stephen had undergone quite an ordeal—the types of atrocities that had been outlawed over one hundred years ago. Arista’s eyes filled with tears, then flowed unchecked as she thought of all the pain and suffering Stephen had experienced. Her emotional state had been in constant flux during these two days since Whisterly’s death. Now she had to deal with this injustice too.

  As she moved from her all-encompassing personal disaster of her mother’s murder to Stephen’s successful return—which had actually involved decades of work and included whole teams of people—it just was too enormous for her to assimilate all at once. She had to break it into manageable chunks. Arista reached for her medication by her bedside table, took a dose, and allowed herself to sit, reflect, and grieve.

  Casualties from the mission had not been inconsequential. Two were dead and six injured from the Day Watchers, not including Stephen, and at least one dead from the Night Dwellers. The team had sighted Simon during the fight, but, when they arrived at Stephen’s location, Simon was nowhere to be found. With the scene as described, all assumed he was in critical condition as well. The division separating the Day Watchers and Night Dwellers was now wider. Had we once really lived together in peace? Arista asked.

  Her medication took effect, and a calmness permeated her being. She inhaled a deep breath and reached for the tea, left for her earlier. It warmed her hands as she sipped it. She must check in on Stephen. He had been through so much, and little Belle must see her brother, before necessary actions were taken to release her back to Earth. And finally, today, this evening would be Arista’s final worldly good-bye to her mother. A soft knock on the door pulled her from her thoughts.

  “Yes, come in.” The guard opened the door, and Vinique walked in.

  “You look much better today,” Vinique said, as she extended her arms toward Arista.

  “Thank you, but my heart is heavy,” she said, “and I feel like a ghost of my former self, almost like my soul no longer has a home. The moments I’m not falling apart are a struggle just to put one foot in front of another. I’m so used to my mother being an everyday part of my guidance—my internal compass, so to speak—that I feel quite lost without her. She was always there, you know? Constantly in my head. We always had each other. I’m not sure how I’ll continue or how I can give meaningful direction to our council.”

  “Let me stop you for a moment, may I?”

  Arista turned her gaze toward Vinique in silent affirmation.

  “You’ve heard what I’m about to say, as you may have actually said it to others, but it’s you this time hearing it, so let it sink in. The grief process isn’t one that you can dictate or rush through. You must move forward according to your own timetable, at your own pace. You are so fortunate to have a large group of people ready to support you in your time of need—me included,” she said, smiling, giving Arista’s hand a squeeze.

  “The loss of Whisterly can’t be quantified,” Vinique said. “Her shoes won’t be filled by another, but we must go on. She wouldn’t want you to crawl away and hide, not after all the work that’s been done to cure this sick and crumbling race. She was the reason we went to the stars in search of an answer, a cure
for our illness. She was the reason that our research eventually led us to Stephen. And she oversaw our council, giving them the guidance and support to make the necessary decisions that kept the majority of our people alive while we waited for a cure to be found. We owe her a great debt, along with many others as well of course.”

  Arista’s face contorted as she fought back tears, and she said, gasping, “You see, I told you I can’t go out in public. I can’t go five minutes without bursting into tears.” A weak smile turned up the edges of her mouth.

  “You’re allowed. Cry when you need to.”

  Her cheeks damp and eyes brimming with tears, Arista continued. “You came here to review the service?”

  “Yes, I thought we might discuss a small portion of it. Keep in mind most of her funeral has been planned already. She was sick, like the majority of us. She knew her body could falter and fall to this disease that has haunted us for centuries. Whisterly was prepared, and she will continue to guide us long after her death.”

  Arista nodded. “No truer words were ever spoken, and, if you’ll allow me, I’ll use that this evening in my eulogy. It’s perfect.”

  “Absolutely. Of course.”

  Arista paused, gathering her thoughts. “Vinique, before we continue, I need to thank you. Thank you for the obvious—caring for me during this time, your tenacious support of my mother—but also your willingness to support me and Belle as we fought for Stephen. The rest don’t realize, and they may never, the true miracle we performed yesterday. Only by Belle’s true love, funneled through us, did we overcome Simon’s hold on Stephen. That process is rarely successful, but we did it. Mostly though you and Belle did it at the end.”