by James Martin
Malevole twirled around with open arms. “I know. I know. I am sorry. I could not help myself. It’s not that much fun to pose as the princess and kill you when your guard is down.”
“You are a zolox.”
She bowed. “In the flesh. . . Surprise!”
He shook his head. It can’t be. His voice had a slight tremble to it. “My kind eradicated yours from existence, thousands and thousands of years ago.”
“And thousands and thousands and thousands, yeah, I know the story.” She placed the staff across her back, holding it with her right hand. “Does anyone ever really get exterminated? There’s a one and a two and then another and another. And as the humans say, viola, here we are.”
Astraos gripped his blades tighter, ready to pounce, to attack and wipe this villain from the galaxy. But he had to listen, to learn how many were left.
“Do you understand the concept of irony? I bet you do. I know this because you’re different. You haven’t attacked me yet.”
“With good reason.”
“With good reason? How delightful. Do you know the story? The real story?”
“Much has been lost.”
“Much has been lost? Oh dear, your kind has really degraded through the millennia.”
Astraos worked to control his temper, to remain in control and gleam more knowledge. Since his father’s scolding, he remembered a lesson learned long ago that the key to the universe was knowledge; to forsake an opportunity for learning was as egregious as being dishonorable.
“Your kind rampaged through the galaxy until you infiltrated us, where we defeated you and—”
“And. And. . . Is that all you know?”
He exhaled and let a sense of calmness wash over him. Control. The word echoed through his mind. “Like I said—”
“Oh yes, yes, like you said, well that’s. . .”—she looked around for the word—“disappointing. . . Maybe we should start here and flow back. It all starts at Chesh, I guess. At least, this story does.”
“Does it?”
She nodded emphatically. “Yes. Yes, wonderful, ancient planet you have there. One of the first species to evolve and be sentient in this galaxy. We are in that elite group, as well. I noticed your brethren lack free-will. Well, you have it, quite clearly.”
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, don’t play dumb with me. The absolute monarchy?” She giggled. “How astounding! Have you wondered why there is no such thing anywhere else? I mean a true absolute monarchy. No quid pro quo, no scratch my back and I make sure you don’t die, no sabotage, no espionage. . . no fun!”
“I have, actually.”
She started pacing around him. “Of course. Of course, you have, my brilliant, young cheshir. The reason is simple: it is not natural, not within reason of any species. Someone must exhibit their free-will on another and another until rivalries and politics and backstabbing and death and all the finer things in life come to fruition.”
“So what are you saying?”
“Ah. . .” She got up close to his cheek and went down to almost a whisper, “Must you be spoon-fed, my little warrior.”
Astraos strangled the grip of Laverne and Shirley, had they been someone’s neck, the head would’ve popped off and rocketed into space.
“Excellent. Ex-cell-ent. Wonderful. You are one of a kind. I commend you for your patience. And like a good little warrior, I shall reward you. Long ago, there were three prominent races: mines, yours, and the psychons.
“The psychons were viewed as the lesser of the three. As you know, we are immune to them.” He did not, and a look must’ve crossed his for she stumbled back a tad and frowned. “My mistake, it appears you did not know that. No matter, it is not like you’ll be leaving here. Let’s just say, we zolox need to demonstrate our free-will.”
She sighed and hit the staff on the ground, creating a small shockwave of energy. He re-rooted himself just in time so that he was not flung back. “How do you not know these things?” She arched her head up and puffed out some air. “All right, well, doesn’t matter. I really don’t like divulging information you’re clueless to. But why am I getting upset? You’ll be dead. And your species won’t have a clue.” He stood there, cemented to the ground—a herculean statue. It was quite clear to Astraos that she—or whatever gender it actually was—was moderately insane.
She resumed her pacing around. “Anywho. . . Three races, right? Well, us being the most clever of the bunch realized that the psychons could end up killing us all and ruling the galaxy by using other species that were susceptible to their persuasion. . . and pow!” She waved her staff to the side. “We all go bye-bye. My people didn’t like the idea of going bye-bye, so we devised a plan. We infiltrated yours, and used you to destroy the psychons. . .
“But no. You!” She pointed her staff close to Astraos’s face, once again testing him, prodding him. She wanted to get under his skin and that took precedence over finishing her story. “Tsk. Tsk. Tsk. Years we spent, decimating the psychons and reducing your numbers and theirs and then something happened. You get privy to what’s going on. You end up with a device—”
“A device. What device?”
“I”—she nodded, and subsequently her staff hit the floor ever so slightly, which produced a small ripple—“I am wet wanting to share this bit. Oh, Astraos, how wonderful, take me now. I’d even let you have some fun.” He still wasn’t one hundred percent sure, but he was starting to think that this being was—in fact—a female.
“Is there something discarded on your planet? It’s ancient but also technologically superior to anything you have right now?”
Astraos gave her a sidelong glance. He absolutely despised this way of getting information. There was a part of him that wanted to slice her head off. But through the mist of his mind, came Lauren’s face, he actually loosened his grip on his weapons. “The Pillar in the Sands of Julpit.”
She laughed and laughed, placing her hand on his shoulder and staff close to his chin. “Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes! Look at what you do to me?” She twirled around. “Let me guess, no cheshir has any knowledge as to why it’s there and what it does.”
“We don’t.”
“Wonderful. ‘The Pillar,’ as you would call it, is a device that is attune to the unique signature of every cheshir. There was a little tweak provided by your fearless leader of the time—”
“That’s how we eliminated you?”
“I was getting to that.” Her staff dropped, causing another ripple. She barred her teeth like a rabid animal. “He goes and changes it up. The original plans for the device made it so that all of my kind were revealed and could no longer shift. But you see the genius of it, don’t you? Your leader wanted to rule for as long as he lived, and he made sure of it by taking away the free-will and ambition of every cheshir. How wonderful, right? Your leader destroyed his own kind for power. You see, we are not so different.”
“We are completely different.”
“Oh? How so?”
“Because I do not view any of that as wonderful, it is unfortunate that my ancestor did such a thing, if true—”
“True? You speak of truth? I am giving you mouthfuls of truth, platters of it. Why else would your species be like this? Not one of them bold and brave and ambitious enough to find new technologies, to rediscover your ancient past, your glory.”
“I guess I must amend something. I said three dominant species, correct?”
Astraos nodded. It was hard to keep track of where she was going in a conversation, but seemed to be much like her, scattered.
“Correction, there were four. The overseers are the fourth or the first, rather. Not much known about them, they are a legend to all of us. But even back then, in more grandiose times of your species existence, your kind didn’t have that sort of tech to do a galactic wipe of another species or neutralize the locales of your own brains. No. No. No. The overseers had to provide that. They try not to get involved, or so the sayings go. . . But I g
uess, we were close to galactic domination.”
He snorted. “So what’s the mission here? You’re going to destroy us?”
“Oh, of course, Astraos. Of course, mine will destroy yours. Your kind are not a tenth of what they were. And I am a factor of ten of what we were.”
“There’s a but.”
She slightly grinned and cocked her head. “A but?”
“Of course, why wouldn’t there be? Why would you be here when you could be executing your devious plans? Why would you confront me like this? You are hedging a bet that I, specifically, have to do with.”
She chuckled, running the staff down his body. “How delightful. Keen observer, keen, yes, those darling overseers have their prophecies.”
“I imagine using the device was one of them.”
“Absolutely. Absolutely. I’ve been able to acquire some literature of theirs over the years and have found some of it quite accurate.”
Astraos had an idea: One based on his experience of watching bad villains on Earth TV. He would force her to give up the part of her plan that was paramount to countering it.
“You’re confident that I will perish. That you will rise above whatever’s been said, so why not tell me? What do you have to lose? A minute or two?”
“A minute or two can be excruciatingly precious.” She stopped behind him. “There is a piece of their literature that speaks of an improbable crew traversing the galaxy and ushering in a new era of peace.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. Yes. But I want you to know that the prophecies are based on a number of factors: old prophecies must be fulfilled and certain assumptions are made. I have found that corrections can occur, and so, there is a second part to that. If the crew is destroyed before a certain time, the galaxy will be flung into turmoil. And one species will rise to conquer all.”
“You’re making sure that’s you?”
She grinned, the devil entrenched in her smile. “Of course.” She jumped back and spun the staff behind her back. “I hear you may be the strongest cheshir in the galaxy. Let’s put that to the test.”
She launched herself back, poised to attack then snickered. “Where are my manners, Astraos? My name is Malevole. It is my pleasure to end you.”
And so the fight began. . .
Malevole hurled herself at Astraos. He used both blades to block and was still moved to the side. A maniacal, bloodthirsty grin entered her face and she resumed her attack by holding her staff at the end and swinging it side-to-side, creating minor energy shockwaves. He evaded each one and then went for a strike, which was an error because she the lifted the staff up and hit him in the chin.
He flew into the air and hit the ground, blood glistening his lips. He turned to the side and spit out some blood, while she took her stance, keeping all her weight on her right leg—grinning at what she deemed her inferior.
“Get up, Astraos. We have a few minutes to spare. I’d like to get the most out of it.”
He staggered back up to his feet, his vision pulsated and his head bobbled.
“That dizzying and shaking of your brain is the dark energy running amuck. I was always told, ‘it takes but one hit to sign their death, two to date, and three to put them in the ground.’ How does the first feel?”
Astraos could not right himself. He expelled the remains of his gut and wiped his face. Waves of energy blurred his vision and rattled his mind and body, he cursed himself. He had been reckless with his attack because of the nature of her weapon. He now remembered the folklore about staves of dark energy harnessed from the vortex of a black hole. They were of incredible power, but that’s where the legend dies off. No one had encountered one, and when he first saw the blunt object, he figured a maneuver that could’ve ended the duel early would be worth it if the cost were a mere hit to the face. He had been wrong, so entirely wrong.
Somewhere in the chasm of his soul, a feeling rose to the surface that had never been there before, fear, became a real thing. Sentences glowed ever-presently in his mind, I have ended this prematurely. Yes, I have, and I will be the one in the ground.
He groaned, staggered some more, and then came Lauren’s face. She was chastising him: Buck up, Astraos. You’re a fucking cheshir. Whether a vision or delusion, it did not matter; it gave him a moment to breathe in, to focus, to right himself.
He twirled his blades and readied himself. “I won’t make that mistake again.”
Malevole giggled. “Fantastic. I hope you can last a few more minutes. Although. . .” She struck a pensive stance, thinking, turning a thought over. “You weren’t that great before I hit you. Now. . . This may get incredibly boring for me.”
Astraos roared and ran to engage her. This time jumping and arching his body through the air.
Malevole smiled, slightly disappointed that he had not learned anything from their last engagement. It only takes a hit. She giggled to herself. I hope he isn’t the strongest cheshir; I really do.
As he was about to come down, she moved to the side to hit him on the ankle to seal his fate. But Astraos predicted the move, tucked his legs in, rolled, and slashed—burning off skin and flesh from her hand.
Malevole screamed, stepping back and snarled. “You little shit.” It was a meaty wound that would require extensive repair and may not look the same after the nanos rebuilt the tissue. She clenched her staff, pain radiated from the location.
Astraos hit the ground, rose up and then staggering to one knee, sunk Laverne through the metal hull of The Station. He tried to catch his breath, his vision blurred again. He grinned madly, stood back up and mocked her. “You should be careful. How I operate. . . first go the hands.”
Her scowl blackened the face of a woman Astraos had spent many nights with. Although saddened by the loss, it wasn’t until seeing that scowl that he was reminded of Wooshuda. “Playtime is over, Astraos. It’s time to collect.”
She ran towards him and thrust her hand out, the staff elongated and sped at him. He barely parried in time. It came back to her only to be unleashed again as she flew into the air. He feigned for her legs and was able to parry another blow with Shirley, gracing Malevole’s other hand, burning it to equal effect.
Her eyes turned black as she howled from the pain. Using the top of the stuff, she furiously attacked g with overhead strokes, mixed with underhand hits from the other butt, she effortlessly flowed into a figure eight. Astraos back pedaled and parried the onslaught of strikes as his vision oscillated in-and-out. He was forced to block an attack that almost hit him in the chest; she extended the staff and he sped across the docking area, until he smashed into a wave transporter.
Air exploded out of his lungs, his body lunged forward and he hit the ground with his hands and knees; he heaved uncontrollably while blood spilled out of him.
She cackled and gunned for him—a locomotive that meant to barrel him through metal and bring forth the black screen of death. He looked up and gripped Laverne and Shirley. Come on. Focus. She thinks your done. You’re not done. Get up. He grumbled and stuck Shirley in the ground, using the blade to pick himself up.
When she was mere feet away, he was reminded of all the things that had transpired in his life, flashing before him. And there. . . A lesson found him, one that his father had taught him:
They were practicing: Astraos with his dual swords and King Zathos, his father, with what were best described as Wing Chun knives. These knives, however, were slightly longer and thicker with violet energy spewing out.
Astraos had been able to keep his distance by feigning leg movements and attacking with his blades. This kept his father at bay, until they both saw an opportunity to strike. Using his father’s movements, Astraos lured his father in closer but on his own terms, snaking his knives to the side and bashing with Laverne then leaping and striking with Shirley. When he made contact, his father let go of his weapon, snuck to the side and pressed his other blade against Astraos’s throat.
“Match.”
“Yo
u dropped your weapon,” Astraos said, unsure of which emotion to feel: astonished or appalled.
“Of course.”
“But—”
“The honor, son?”
“Yes, the honor, I’ve been taught. . . every cheshir has been taught to never drop your weapon. It is a disgrace. Especially—”
“The ancient weapons,” Zathos said, cutting his son off. “And that is exactly why you must do it. You see, son. There will come a time when you may have to do so, because if you don’t, you’ll perish. You, more than any other cheshir, should know that dying with honor is a terrible waste of someone poised to do great things. I know, it’ll be hard. It was incredibly hard for me.”
“What?”
He scoffed. “How do you think I came to be King?”
Astraos looked up and time stood still. . .
She was about to unleash a bevy of attacks on him and leave him dead and dumb. He smirked. He had asked his father if he knew of any other cheshir that dropped their weapon. He said, “The secrets of kings could fill an empire.”
And so, as she came down for the strike to sign his death, he dropped Laverne. She struck down while he slid on his back, yanked Shirley out of the ground, and cut off her arm.
Her face contorted in pain, but she thrust her staff with her other arm and hit him in the shoulder, causing his body to slide to the middle of the docking area.
Malevole looked down, seeing the hot, putrid smoke coming from her wound—all that remained was half an arm. She could despair on her wound afterward. It was a terrible thing. But the nanos could rebuild it.
Hatred for Astraos and his species and adrenaline fueled her body, she charged at him. Astraos tried to look up and move his right arm to no avail. He coughed up some more blood, supporting himself with his left arm. He reached out for Shirley, barely able to grip the handle. He knew this to be his end.
“I am sorry, my love,” he said to no one in particular. He could not focus. His body convulsed and more blood erupted from his mouth, flowing down and creating a pool on the floor in front of him. He tried for Lauren, tried to stay awake, to stay alive, but Malevole was coming and she still had enough to wash him away from the living. He saw Lauren’s smile, saw her caressing his cheek and then slapping his face.You don’t get to die on me yet.