“You have to go to a physician,” a man said as he took her by the arm.
She made an angry gesture at him and pushed him away as she limped towards the podium. The speaker rushed down the steps to catch her. Sol leaned against him. “Help me up.”
He blinked in surprise. “You must—”
“Help me up,” she barked, louder this time.
Shaking his head, he led her to the podium.
Her head swam. She drew sharp breaths to clear her head. A nervous crowd started to gather. “My friends,” she started, “minutes ago, the Bulls and the Sea Lions attacked me.” An angry murmur rose. People appeared on balconies, eyes fixed on the bloodied woman.
“You know what they want. They want to silence me. They don’t want me defending the poor and the jobless. They only want what’s good for them.”
Angry shouts drowned her voice, forcing her to pause. It hurt to speak, let alone shout.
“That’s why they ambushed me on my way here. They know I want things to change. We must ensure everyone’s job, everyone’s income. Anthea could be great again. But they don’t want that; they only care about their own pockets. My reforms will change all that.”
The crowd howled in rage.
“What reforms? Tell us now!” a woman demanded.
Sol recognised her maid’s voice and lowered her head to hide a pained half-smile. “The Bulls and the Sea Lions are strong because the rich and powerful support them. But there’s a power they fear more than anything: the simple man. The honest man. The hard-working man. The man who doesn’t steal, doesn’t line his pockets with our taxes. They look down on him, and yet it’s this man that labours in our fields, that runs our navy, that serves in our army.”
More shouts followed her words, this time of approval.
“But this man is cowed, controlled by them. They have convinced him he’s unworthy. They’ve taken away his voting rights. They claim to know his interests better than him.”
Once again, cries of fury met her words.
Sol loved every minute of the emotional see-sawing, playing the crowd’s emotions, knowing that her words had the desired effect. Even the pain in her body felt more bearable. “And see what they’ve accomplished. Nothing. They’re leeches who have destroyed our beloved Anthea with their bickering. They lost us Salmon Island. It’s you, brave men and women, who took it back.”
Her vision blurred. She stumbled and paused for a moment. She had to hurry; she would soon faint from loss of blood. “Will you let them control you any longer?” she shouted with all her strength.
“No” the crowd chanted. “Down with the traitors.” She spotted a couple of senior members of the Bulls and the Sea Lions rushing towards the podium. She had even less time than she thought.
“Let’s join forces, you and me. The Bulls and Sea Lions have betrayed us, betrayed you. To hell with them. If they won’t fight for you, we’ll fight for ourselves. Let’s form a new party. They think you’re weak because you’re poor. They use their money to push you around. Well, we’re proud to be poor. We’re so damn proud of it, we’ll call our party the Poor. Who’s with me?”
The roar from the crowd could be heard throughout Anthea.
“For the Poor,” she shouted.
The crowd started chanting maniacally, “For the Poor. For the Poor. For the Poor,” drowning out all attempts by the clerk to impose order.
“Will you let me fight for you?” she screamed at the top of her lungs.
The new roar could probably be heard all the way to the Capital, and a thin smile crept on her lips as they added her name to the chant.
“Sol. For the Poor. Sol. For the Poor.”
Axel Altman jumped the steps to the podium, two at a time, and shoved her aside. “You fools,” he cried out to the yelling crowd, ignoring the roar of disapproval. “She’s rich. She’s playing you. Can’t you see what she’s doing?” He froze at her bloodied grin, then bared his teeth in a furious snarl, his face ashen.
She had beaten them at their own game. Yes, her family owned half of Anthea, but that was not important. Not to her, not to her new followers. All that mattered to them was that they had a new champion, someone to believe in. All that mattered to her was that she finally had the means to push through her reforms. Her head spun, and she collapsed into the arms of the startled speaker, soaking him with blood.
The Marshes
Cyrus
Large, unfamiliar trees with gold and red leaves surrounded Cyrus. Beings of light hovered in the fragrant air, casting rainbow shadows. One of them stopped to gaze at him. Despite the intensity of the light emanating from her form, he could still make out her features. Her face, elegant and beautiful, reminded him of his mother —only it was made of light, not flesh. Just standing next to her made every cell in his body vibrate in a tingly way that frightened him; yet, she exuded such calmness and security that he did not want to be anywhere else.
“What are you?” he whispered in awe.
“The First call us Orbs. We watch you grow up. We watch you die. We watch you build. We watch you destroy.” She spoke in his head and he felt everything she was feeling, as if they were one.
Tears of sadness welled in his eyes. “How can you watch all that? We’ve only just arrived.”
“An insect may live but a day. A tree may live for hundreds of years. How does one measure time? We’ve been on this planet. We’ve been on Earth. We’ve lived with you for a long time. Once, you were many. Now, you are few. Someday, there may be none.”
Tears streamed down his face. “But why?”
“All things grow. All things evolve. All things fight.”
He tilted his head in bafflement. “Are the First fighting you?”
A warm feeling filled him at the mention of the First. Was she laughing?
“The First are our children. Our champions. We protect them. We teach them. When you arrived, we hoped you could help them. But you killed the emissary. Croix failed to understand.”
“Croix? The traitor?”
“Croix had the gift. Beyond the void, we felt him. We warned him. But the gift is dangerous. Others talked to him, as well. He thought your ship carried the best your world had to offer. He was wrong; they were but children. He was troubled and weak. His fear made him slave to the Whispers.”
The very air around Cyrus darkened and thickened at that last word. Dread filled him, stirring an unanticipated longing deep within him. He tried to shake off the feeling. “Is that what attacked us?”
“The Fallen attacked you.”
“What are the Whispers, then?”
“The ancient ones. They were here before. When we arrived, the galaxy trembled under our feet. The Whispers stole everything. But we fought back. We were finally winning. Then you arrived. Now, we are losing.”
“You should be strong. My dad says it’s hard to beat someone who won’t quit.”
She somehow seemed to smile at that. “Not quitting will win you a battle, not a war. Winning a war is like breathing. In and out. Forward, then back. Again and again, until you win. Can you feel the shade of those before us? So many memories best left forgotten. The names change. The war continues. Who will fight if we are gone?”
“I will fight.”
Her sadness filled his heart. “Quick promises deserve little trust,” she replied. “You will fight, but on whose side?”
Cyrus rocked on his heels, considering his reply, when he realised with a sudden clarity that none of this could be real; the orbs of light around him, the hill, the rainbow shadows ...
“This is a dream, isn’t it?” he asked her suspiciously.
Again, he felt her smile. “You are the dreamer within the dream.”
“I don’t understand.”
“We are all dreams. And we are all dreamers.”
Before he had a chance to reply, the vision faded away and soon he was lost in oblivion. He woke up with a bittersweet feeling. Like dew melting away from leaves under the mo
rning sun, the memory of his vision dimmed rapidly, leaving but an uneasy sensation at the edge of his consciousness.
Petria Outskirts
September 7, Parad
Lieutenant Tang stood on the small hill, stealing glances at Parad like a worried mother hen. Parad watched with stony eyes the endless river of soldiers trudging past him. His standard-bearers stood a little further behind them, along with the General’s personal guard. They dared not approach him any closer; Tang was the only one allowed to do so. Parad sensed Tang’s concern. Ever since they had left the Capital, the General had been in a foul mood, having witnessed first-hand the desolation caused by Crusoe’s troops. Most of them had retreated behind the Aly river by now, but the bloated corpses, poisoned wells, and torched farms and villages revealed the unnecessary death and destruction they had blithely caused.
He patted down his cloak to remove the dust and watched in dismay a cloud of fine grey powder rising from the heavy fabric. He pondered their situation as he coughed to remove ash and dirt from his burning lungs. Ash and dirt —that was all he saw around him. And refugees. He did not want to think about them. The few that had survived had their plight etched on their faces. Empty, harrowing eyes stared at the soldiers marching by. Many had joined them; some thinking the army offered them a better chance of survival, others for revenge. They were little more than cannon fodder at the moment, but with proper training they might serve a purpose. Parad had no doubts about their motivation; nothing but hunger and death awaited them on their own, and they ached for vengeance. The fact that their side had kept its end of the Peace of the Eclipse made in their minds the injustice intolerable. Parad the man pitied them, but Parad the soldier despaired of them. The refugees had more than doubled their numbers during the journey, exhausting their provisions faster than they could replenish them. He regretted not taking longer to prepare their supply lines, even as he knew he could not afford the extra time.
It had taken them a fortnight to prepare for the long march south; they would need as long to reach the Loyalists. Parad had ignored those officers insisting on a speedy departure. He had seen enough wars to know that it mattered little if one met the enemy on one day or the next when they were ill-prepared for battle. He also knew that the valleys of the South held but few places of strategic importance.
Petria was one of them, and he had hoped that it would slow down the Loyalists. Located a couple of days to the north of the Aly river, its garrison was equipped with some of their best weapons, including a particle beam canon. It was also defended by heavy fortifications. Losing it to Crusoe all but killed their chances of success. Preparing for a siege required months of preparation; yet a siege seemed all but inevitable.
They had met the first Loyalists as they approached Petria; a small scout unit on horseback. The Loyalists were aware of their coming, so it made little difference whether they got away or not, but Parad thought it would be good for his men to have their first taste of blood. They had wasted no time capturing the scouts, killing the lucky ones in the brief fight. The unlucky ones, they had handed over to the refugees. Parad had heard from his tent the cruel laughter of the refugees laying their hands upon the captives. His face had twitched in disgust as he tried to focus on the map in front of him. Funny how close laughter and slaughter are, he thought. A little later, Tang had poked his head in to inform him that the captives were all dead.
They moved as fast as he dared without jeopardizing their supply lines, meeting more light units as they approached Petria. These were a constant thorn in their side, harassing them in swift hit-and-run raids that slowed them down and sapped the men’s morale. The Loyalists had left them no food or shelter. Although it was still autumn, winter approached fast on Pearseus. Parad would only have a month, two at best, before the weather became too bad for fighting. What the hell was Crusoe thinking? Couldn’t he have waited until spring? he thought for the hundredth time.
He did not relish the idea of returning to the Capital empty-handed, but if the alternative was to lose his men to hunger and exposure, he might have no alternative. A quick counter-attack might be the best way to deal with this matter. However, his men grew more tired by the day and would have to rest before they fought. Crusoe’s men, on the other hand, were well rested and secure behind Petria’s walls. A soft curse escaped his lips.
Parad turned to Tang. “How long before we arrive?”
“Our scouts will arrive at Petria’s outskirts tomorrow by nightfall, if we can keep up our speed.”
“We’d better. We’re surrounded by Loyalists. Do you think they know where we are?”
“I’m sure of it, sir.”
“So am I.”
He pondered their options for a moment. “Who’s leading the Lancers?”
The Lancers were the Capital’s advance guard, their abilities tested on a daily basis. Ideal for stealthy missions, they rode the best and strongest horses. They also carried the best weapons, including a handful of precious energy ones that could slice through any armour with ease.
“Lieutenant Gella, Sir.”
Gella. He had heard of her exploits; the soldiers under her command considered her fearless and respected her. She also had a reputation for accepting the craziest missions, which made her just the person for the job. “Have her report to me. I have an idea.”
Tang saluted and hurried off. Parad gazed at the setting sun with unseeing eyes. With any luck, they might be able to surprise the Loyalists after all. This might be their only chance, he knew, as he watched the exhausted, soiled soldiers pass before him in endless rows.
After the first survivors had crash-landed on Pearseus, the need for defence had soon become apparent, especially after the exile of Croix’s Armbands. Some had argued in favour of forming male-only defence units. The logistics were against them, though, and it soon became common practice for men and women to fight alongside one another. This led to occasional problems, but the dearth of people to patrol and fight ensured any issues were overcome in a quick and efficient manner. As a result, humans on Pearseus had been fighting in mixed units ever since, and Parad felt no surprise when Tang returned a few minutes later with a slender, comely young woman with short, dark hair. A dusty, sand-coloured overall covered her, making her blend into the background. He recognised her from a tattoo of a large dragon on her right arm, and nodded without a word. Her sparkling brown eyes caught his attention when she stood in front of him and saluted him. They were so full of life that something stirred in him, making him realise how numb his soul had been since Cyrus’s death.
Chasing away the dark memory, he drew them aside and explained his idea. Her eyes lit up at the challenge as Tang whistled softly. When Parad announced that he would personally lead the mission, Tang’s eyes popped and he made a choking sound, but said nothing. Parad knew they had a lot of work to do. The men would hate what he had to ask of them, but it was their one chance of ending this as swiftly as possible. Perhaps even victoriously.
Chamber of Justice, the Capital
David
Ever since he had joined with the Voice, David had felt a warm kind of liveliness, unlike anything he had ever experienced. For the past few months, he had been working in the kitchens. It was hard work, but he did not care. The Voice constantly taught him amazing things; showed him images full of wonder. His mind had grown in this brief time more than during his entire life; he had even stopped reading his e-lib, realising how subjective and limited its narratives were. The Voice had lived through recent history and showed him all those memories, as if he were the one living them. He grew close to people he had never met, from her first host—a beautiful young artist who had become a sort of celebrity among the first survivors—to her last one, a First boy. He felt her pride in her last host, along with her sorrow at his death. Someday he would make her as proud of him, he vowed.
Beautiful worlds, stunning views, exotic sounds, rich flavours, and unknown smells filled each day, like a dream woven into his e
veryday existence. For the first time, life seemed sweet to him. As an unexpected side effect, David experienced an uncanny heightening of his senses. He perceived things no one else could. Sometimes he saw lights and shadows that danced around people, whispering in their ears. People did not hear them, yet seemed to obey them, doing things for no obvious reason. He also sensed people’s emotions. Once, he walked into the kitchen just as the cook was chasing away a cleaning boy. Although the room was empty, the cook’s anger and the boy’s fear resonated in him as if they were fighting right in front of him. When the Voice explained that his consciousness would keep growing, he was curious to see how far it would take him.
Today, the cook had informed him it was his turn again to serve Styx. David went to Styx’s chambers to place a tray filled with fresh fruit on her desk. The curtains were drawn, the room covered in darkness. He elbowed the door open and waited for his eyes to get used to the dark before stumbling inside.
A sense of dread overpowered him; so strong that he shivered and dropped the tray. It crashed to the floor, sending fruit pieces all over the floor. Terrifying whispers echoed in David’s head, paralyzing him. He gasped at the sight of two cold, red eyes staring at him from the shadows in the far end of the room. No emotion shone in them as they studied him. Both light and warmth left the room as a dark shadow detached itself from the dim corner. It made no sound as it glided towards him. He wanted to run away, but his body refused to obey.
The Voice fought in vain to be heard over the whispers that drowned her out. An eternity passed as the shadow inched closer and closer. David cried a silent scream, no sound escaping his lips. The creature lifted a smoky finger towards his chest. Distress overpowered him. A second before it touched him, the door creaked open and the justice stepped in. The creature took its hypnotizing gaze away from him for a moment.
Pearseus Bundle: The Complete Pearseus Sci-fi/Fantasy Series Page 8