Seeds to the Wind (The Medicean Stars Saga Book 2)

by McCullough Crawford

  As Jon stares out the window, he can’t help but compare this trip into the city with his last. Last time, he and Professor Esmali had made this journey together. It was only a few weeks ago. They had both been naïve of what lay before them, their minds focused on the conference. The clouds hanging over the city that day had been nearly impenetrable, shadowing the towering buildings, but today the occasional shaft of sunlight slips through to cause their angular surfaces to glitter.

  Jon realizes he is a different man than he was before. He has seen things and learned things about the reality of his world that he had been too overwhelmed with his daily routine to recognize before. However, now that his eyes have been opened to them, he can no longer ignore the injustices around him. The routine that he had clung to has been shattered, and he is unsure if he really wants it back.

  Thinking about the others in the car with him, Jon vows silently that he will do everything he can to awaken others to what he has seen. He cannot believe that if people really saw what was going on around them, there would not be a public outcry for change.

  Chapter 32

  Space

  Mountain Stronghold

  The collar of Raj’s shirt feels like it is biting into his skin as he stands stiffly at attention. Normally he would have worked to break down the fabric so it is more flexible and moves more easily with him, but not today. This morning he took extra care in assembling his clothes, digging out the dress uniform that hadn’t seen use in several years, carefully removing the insignia that tied it to the old government he no longer has any allegiance to. His normal morning routine stretched out for several times longer than is typical, because today he wants to look as professional as he can. Today he stands guard over Commander Angelina Badon’s body as it is committed to the void of space.

  The storage room in which he is standing had been cleared of mountains of old paper records in preparation for the arrival of the refugees from the rockets. The plan was to use it as a temporary housing facility should the other chambers closer to the main living quarters of the base prove inadequate for the number of additional people. But now, following the attack, the base has been sealed. All transfers have been halted, and the people already brought on board are under guard around the clock.

  Some fast-thinking officer had seized this room as the venue for holding the commander’s funeral, as one side contains a tiered rock formation. On the first tier, Raj and three of his fellow soldiers stand as the honor guard for the body, which is lying upon the elevated stone between them.

  Raj’s mind is still playing catch up to the whirlwind events of the night before. He had been escorting a group of refugees towards the auxiliary cafeteria where they were going to be held when the alert came over the radio. In the time it took the dispatcher to break the news and their minds to process it, the teenagers he had been escorting went from relieved, joking and teasing, to fearfully cowering on the floor as Raj and his follow soldiers stood over them with rifles leveled.

  They had seemed so innocent mere seconds before, and maybe once upon a time they were, but Raj doubts that they are innocent now after being brainwashed by the government. After securing the now-prisoners, Raj and his fellow soldiers had sprinted back to the airlock only to find the fighting over. The suicidal brutality with which the assault had come out of the airlock was plainly written on the bodies of civilians and soldiers alike that lay strewn across the floor and the splatters of blood upon the walls that tested even Raj‘s hardened stomach when he arrived in the cavern.

  A reconnaissance team had been preparing to make the crossing to the rocket that had failed to respond to any communication when the assault had happened. As they had been gathering their gear in a small locker room that adjoined the cavern, they were able to make short work of the assailants as they had attempted to push further into the base. They were not, however, quick enough to prevent them from first killing everyone in the cavern.

  The rest of the night had passed in a whirlwind of activity. Across the base, defenses had been activated and crews organized to administer to the dead and prepare for their funerals, or in the case of the assailants, their unceremonious jettisoning back out the airlock through which they had entered. The orders had come down from the general himself that the funerals were to take place as soon as possible, since the base lacks any sort of morgue and leaving their bodies to slowly rot on the cavern floor, even politely wrapped in linen, would be uncalled for.

  Raj’s night had been spent lugging the folding chairs out of storage and into this room. Why this facility has so many chairs tucked into a storage closet on one of the lowest levels he struggled to fathom while lugging them up the three flights of stairs, but eventually as his mind had tired of its pointless musings, he had settled on the conclusion: Why the chairs were there does not really matter, because the base will always be full of surprises.

  Once the chairs were set up, he had been dismissed to his quarters with no indication of his duties in the morning, but his tired mind had not thought to question the lack of orders. He had returned to his bunk and passed out fully clothed, only to be awakened what seemed like minutes later by General Lampard himself; Raj had been chosen to form part of the commander’s honor guard. After donning his dress uniform and hustling through the corridors, which were unusually busy for the early hour, he had arrived just in time to escort her body to where it lies now, an arm’s length away to his left.

  He may have complained about being torn away from his home, he may have doubted the sanity of his commanders for letting it happen. But Raj realizes as he stares straight out into the room before him that he has the utmost respect and faith in them, particularly for the woman whose body he is guarding, and judging by the press of people, he is not alone. She had been tough but fair. She had driven them harder than any commander he had served under previously yet still had been caring and always available should anyone need her. Raj had personally only talked with her once, but he had been struck with how directly engaged she had seemed. It was as if, despite the myriad of other things that must have been running through her mind, he was the center of her attention.

  On the far side of the dais, General Lampard is bringing his short eulogy to a close. His voice is husky and near breaking completely. In the front row, almost directly in front of Raj, is the politician David Gavitte, who, if the base rumors are true, had managed to steal the commander’s heart. Gavitte’s face is a pale mask, not a muscle moving. It is almost as if he too is dead, so imperceptible is his breathing. As Raj studies his face, he seems to crumple, his head sagging as he buries it in his hands. Base rumor aside, it is clear this man was in love with the commander and is only now realizing the true extent of his feelings.

  The general finishes. His voice trails off into the utterly silent room before he turns to the body and snaps to attention, raising his hand in a stiff salute. As one, the crowd assembled, save Gavitte, follows suit. The politician remains seated, his head buried in his hands, the heaving of his back betraying his silent sobs.

  Raj and his fellow members of the honor guard turn smartly on their heels, backs rigid and eyes locked forward before stepping towards the body. Together they pause, standing at attention, the buttons of their uniforms glistening in the dim light of the old archive room before reaching for the handles of the stretcher upon which she is enshrouded.

  Raj’s hand is almost around the handle when it seems to slip farther from his grasp. He extends his hand, chasing the handle, but he stops as it sinks into the rock slab the stretcher had been resting on. He glances at the other three members of the honor guard. They each have as confused a look on their faces as Raj guesses covers his, their hands outstretched for the handles that are no longer there having vanished into solid rock.

  They each take a small step back as the stretcher completely disappears and the commander’s body begins to follow. The stone seems to lap around the edges of her uniform like water, a gentle ripple passing over the surface
of the slab as she sinks deeper.

  The entire chamber stares dumbfounded as she slips beneath the surface. Her toes and the brim of her cap are the last to vanish, but they too slip silently through the rock. One final ripple spreads out from where they once were before the surface calms and settles back once more to be a solid slab of rock.

  The room is completely silent. Raj counts his heart beats pounding in his ears seven times before everyone in the chamber starts talking and pushing their way to the front to see what happened. The general is no exception as he storms over from the podium demanding answers. Only Gavitte remains stationary, so wrapped in his grief that he appears oblivious to the tumult around him.

  Chapter 33

  Space

  Mountain Stronghold

  William cannot believe what the rumors spreading through the huddled refugees are saying, or more accurately he doesn’t want to believe them: that without provocation, a posse of the guards had attacked the very people who had been trying to help them. On some level, he understands that their mission was to capture this base, but in the face of the government’s desertion of them, he feels more of a connection with the so-called rebels.

  The clock on the wall by the only door into this particular cavern has marked the passage of twelve hours. A single night that saw all the people surrounding them go from being prisoners to being free and then back to being prisoners. Not surprisingly, very few of them got any sleep as rumors and arguments flew between the small knots of people. Eventually a sort of consensus had developed, or at least a single theme began to be repeated more frequently. As far as the members of the Junior Space Corps are concerned, one paramilitary organization locking them up in a communal living arrangement without explanation is the same as any other.

  Sitting with the rest of his team in the middle of the large stone cavern, they had heard one line of discussion contrary to the apathy that is prevalent around them. Another attack is being planned by some of the guards being held in the next chamber down the hall, and anyone who joins with them in completing their mission will get to return home a hero. The first time the rumor went by it seemed to be another wild tale, but as it continued to circulate it began to ring true, at least the part about an impending attempt at taking the mountain. By this point none of the Junior Space Corps have any hope of returning home. Apparently the guards had managed to sneak in their pistols and were planning on making a run for this place’s command center.

  Once the neighbor who had leaned back from his own tight knot of friends turns away from them, William and his own team look at each other intently. Leaning in it is clear that they all have something they want to say, but no one wants to force the issue. Jill, always willing to dive in when the others are hesitant, is the first to break the spell.

  “This is how I see it. True, we’re being held against our will in another underground chamber.” She starts, keeping her voice low and explicitly making eye contact with each of them. “But this time our captors were not the aggressors. We, or at least that’s how they would see it, attacked them. If we can find a way to differentiate ourselves in their minds, we might be able to get ourselves set free.”

  Jackson, who is sitting close enough to her that their thighs are touching yet trying to be nonchalant about his attention, nods, smiling at Jill when she makes eye contact with him.

  “You know all that propaganda stuff they tried to feed us when we were still training to build that colony?” she asks of the group, but without waiting for their responses she continues. “This might actually be our chance to live up to that.”

  “We can actually have a fresh start. Make something positive.” Florence agrees, nodding, while staring off into space.

  Jackson whispers something in Jill’s ear that makes her blush, but after quickly making sure no one is paying attention to them she shifts how she is sitting to lean against his shoulder. He braces his arm to give her a better backrest before adding his assent.

  “We’re not going to be going home anytime soon, so let’s make this our new home.” There is a finality to how he declares this that makes it clear that he would be perfectly happy with the way things are right now. He transfers his gaze from the back of Jill’s ear to William, only to see him looking vaguely at the door.

  While William is lost in his own thoughts, the rest of the team continue their conversation. They are not ignoring him, it is just that they are each intent on their own thoughts of the future, and William is keeping to himself, making no effort to weave their parallel trains of thought together. Antonio, continuing to be contrary to the rest of the group despite his recent emotional integration, ends up being the one who unifies the others into a clear course of action.

  “I’ll admit they could have just as easily marched us back out the airlock we came through instead of providing us with rough blankets and terrible food,” he says sardonically. “But for all the rainbows and unicorns you guys can dream up, what are we actually going to do?”

  There is a pause as they all ponder what Antonio said. No one comments on his inclusion of himself within the group, nor do they take offense at his disdain for what they said. Eventually Jill breaks the silence, smiling casually at Antonio.

  “We stop them.”

  William agrees with the others, not completely without any doubts, but he has been through enough recently that he would rather take matters into his own hands than rely on the promises of others. However, as right as it might sound to be proactive and take control of their own destinies, there is the small problem of the guards being located in a separate locked room and carrying weapons. Exiting their own chamber through the door and then kicking in the neighboring door isn’t going to work. Surely their new captors have some level of security in the hall beyond. Still, William muses, there must be some means of communication between the two rooms for the rumor to have spread in the first place.

  Searching for the means by which the rumor could have been transferred, William stands up, scanning the walls for any clues. The others, remaining seated, watch him questioningly. Since their arrival in this particular chamber he has seemed reticent, and now without warning in the middle of their conversation, he has abruptly stood up and is slowly spinning in a circle.

  “There!” he exclaims.

  The others follow his gaze towards the corner of the chamber, where nearly lost in the shadows a large ventilation screen is set into the wall.

  “I bet that connects into the next room,” William says by way of describing his outburst when the others look back to him. “We need to gather anything useful that we can, as quickly as we can, because for all we know they could launch their attack at any moment.”

  Agreeing to the plan, they split up to mingle amongst the others in the room to see what they can gather. Each member of William’s team has a different idea of what to look for, but each of them understands the urgency of their search. William cannot help but notice that it feels good to finally be moving forward, moving towards a goal after spending all night pondering and spreading rumors.

  Feeling the press for time, they quickly move amongst the other groups, barely stopping long enough to explain their intent: to somehow stop the guards in the room next door and thereby prove to their newest captors that they aren’t all as dedicated to their original mission. Each of them returns with not much more than the promise of silence from the other groups. No one is able or willing to help, but neither will they rat them out should the authorities come asking.

  Florence is the one with the most success, having been able to talk one of their neighboring groups out of the pair of radios they had smuggled aboard with only the promise of their safe return for collateral. William had managed to clarify some of the details of the guards’ plan from the group located closest to the air vent. They admitted to being the start of the rumor and mentioned that they had heard the plan was to initiate the attack during the morning lull. It would seem the guards did not intentionally share their plans
but were unaware of how easily they were overheard. They expect all of the mountain’s crew members to be at breakfast fairly early in the morning creating a recess in the number of people clogging the hallways.

  Armed with only two radios and their wits, they huddle together to try and work up a plan.

  “If only we had some sort of weapon,” Jill complains, a slight whine creeping into her voice as she kicks at the ground in frustration. Instead of connecting solidly with the ground her foot seems to glide off the surface until it collides with a loose piece of rock. The rock skitters across the bare cavern floor to collide with William’s foot.

  “It looks like we have one now,” he says, stooping to pick up the piece of rock. The rock had blended perfectly into the smooth stone of the cavern floor, hiding its shape, but once he is holding it in his hand, the thin slightly curved blade of a knife is clearly visible. He glances around at the people grouped around them trying to see if any of them would betray the origin of this strange weapon. But they are all ignoring him and his team or at least curiously eavesdropping; no one is showing any undue interest. Examining the knife closer, he sees that it is made of a single piece of rock. Perhaps, he muses as he flips it over in his hands, “made” is the wrong word. There are no tool marks and no seams. The entire blade is a far cry from the obsidian blades he remembers from history books; it seems to have been molded from rock.

  “Ouch!” William exclaims, having run his finger along the blade’s edge and drawn a fine line of blood across its tip.

  “Give that here,” Jill says with authority. “You don’t seem to know how to hold it.”

  He hands the blade over to her carefully, hilt first, making sure his fingers stay away from the sharp edge. Jill takes the blade and with practiced ease spins it around her hand. Her deft handling of the blade shocks the rest of her team who had not expected her to possess such lethal talents.