by Justin Bell
"Hold," I say quietly to the group of Bragdons, now standing at seven instead of eight. Pressing my ear to the door, I listen for noise, but hear none. I draw back, lower my weapon, and extend my shoulder to drill into the flat slab of metal. It grates against the weak latch and bursts open.
My weapon raises, my finger tenses on the trigger, and my heart slams beneath the mottled gray skin of my Bragdon form.
The roof is empty.
Walking out onto the rough surface, I swivel, covering all corners, searching for any potential enemies, but see none. The rest of the immediate area isn't so lucky. Even from this distance I can see the streaking form of Athelon mech suits arcing into the air, some firing and some exploding. They mix with Reblon Crashers, slamming together as if some large, invisible child were playing with his toys. A searing yellow beam of light streaks across the sky, swallowing a trio of mech suits and more or less evaporates them with pure, angry heat.
In the time we've been in the building, drop ships have joined the battle. The familiar angular Reblon Interceptors hurtle through low atmosphere, firing tracer streaks of orange.
The rounded, triangular Athelonian atmospheric fighters streak across the sky, dragging pale contrails in their wake as wing-mounted quad cannons roar off deadly bolts of light.
I can see the curved mound of grassy meadow from here, though the grass itself is nearly covered with the bodies of lorks, lork riders and Reblon commandos, all mixed with the scattered shrapnel of destroyed vehicles. A thick, dark cloud of smoke hangs low over the field of battle, though not thick nor dark enough to obscure the relentless progress of the armored truck as it rolls down the hill towards the beach.
Three more Reblon boats have been dispatched and commandos work furiously to load themselves. I notice now that the last mounted gun turret has fallen as well and we're just so many sitting ducks up here on the roof with nowhere to go.
I thumb my communicator. "So, about that extraction..."
"Coming in hot!" Drewsk replies. "Twelve degrees East!"
I see the vague shape emerging from the thick fog of war blanketing the once beautiful green sky. The shape is at once familiar andd unfamiliar. It's a shape I've seen before, but it's not Athelonian.
"What is this?" I ask Drewsk. "That ship doesn't look Athelonian!"
"Just hold tight," he replies. "They're coming to get you out."
"Who's coming to get us out?"
The ship banks left to duck underneath a volley of plasma hurtling from somewhere on the ground. Smaller bolts pepper the hull as it rights its trajectory, then comes up around, flying straight towards us. It's a lot closer, a lot easier to see, and a lot more identifiable. It's a Bragdon jump ship.
"Drewsk?" I ask. "Why is a Bragdon jump ship coming towards us?"
"I'll explain later!" he replies. I can hear scorching gunfire in the background of his static-filled response.
"No, you will explain right now! For months I've been on the surface! For months I've been on life or death missions to help Athelonians repel Reblon invasion!"
"Nothing's changed."
"Just tell me what is going on! This is an Athelonian research facility!"
There's no reply. Static has drowned out the signal and a muffled explosion echoes over the horizon. The Bragdon jumpship comes up towards us, tilts backwards and ignites landing thrusters to lower itself slowly towards the roof.
An Athelon fighter streaks overhead with its wing-guns scattering small craters across the roof just to the right of the landing jump ship.
One of the scientists screeches. I swing my weapon up into a firing position, and drop down to one knee as the jump ship lowers itself. The rear cargo door hisses as it slowly eases open.
"What are you doing?" asks Cylek as I press the weapon to my shoulder, sighting down the long barrel.
I ignore her, leveling the barrel at the cargo hold, waiting to see if anyone shows their face. Something exceedingly strange is going on here. Sure we've operated with all the different races during this war, but we've spent the last two months vigorously defending Athelon. A Bragdon jump ship showing up out of the blue defies all...
There's a sharp, swift prick. The base of my neck itches for a brief moment, then flares into a strange hot star of agony. Even as I spin, I can feel the rifle wobbling in my hand and my vision streaming into colored blurs. For one brief second I think I see Cylek standing there with a knife in her hand as the world swims around me, then pushes me down, drowning me in the mottled haze of colored lights.
CHAPTER FOUR
Even before I open my eyes, I can visualize my surroundings. A strong smell evokes strong memories. It's a pungent, rancid smell, a smell that is completely foreign, yet disturbingly familiar.
The smell and the memories seem to come from long ago. It feels like years...back when this all started.
I blink my eyes, trying to clear the vague, blurred vision, but my eyelids are sticking together almost as if they don't want to open and confirm what I already know to be true.
My back strains against the flat, metal surface below me as I try to move, sub-consciously trying to find some comfortable position, though I know that I will not find one. I have, after all, been here before.
Well, maybe not here exactly, but I have definitely been in a place like this.
The shuttle transport taking me to my next level of schooling exploded. I managed to make it to an escape pod that I suddenly knew how to rewire and pilot. Strange new abilities flooded my head and eyes in a pace that was completely out of my control. Using my new piloting skills and battle tactics, I managed to fight off a half fleet of starfighters, but ultimately I was outnumbered and taken captive.
I was taken to a place just like this, with this unique smell and this unique feel.
I force my eyes open to take in the sight around me. Dark blue metal walls, pushed tightly together, leave me very little room to move. Pushing myself up into a seated position on this hard metal surface, I examine my new quarters, including the dark corners. The visual inspection of my cell lines up perfectly with the smell.
I will never forget that smell, the smell of a Bragdon prison cell.
In one of the dark corners, a shifting shadow resolves into a dark shape peeling away from the darkness and moving slowly along one wall.
"Who's there?" I ask, my voice hoarse and ragged, barely managing to be audible.
The shadow freezes as if concerned about its discovery. It's a thin, but tall shadow, like a thickening tree somehow brought to life.
For long seconds I sit there looking at the shadow and I'm sure the shadow is looking back. I cannot see its eyes, but I can picture them, narrow and gleaming, watching me with a strange curiosity. It's a curiosity I share, though my curiosity is at least somewhat mixed with fear and hate.
I'm not sure why I hate. Over the past six months I've run across many Braxis citizens, dozens of Bragdons, and many of them are friendly and committed to the resistance cause.
But something is strange this time. Drewsk purposefully kept the existence of these Bragdons from me, and after spending months protecting my home planet, to suddenly be wrapped into some Bragdon conspiracy feels like a certain form of treachery.
"Who are you?" I ask again and the shadow moves as if trying to be absorbed again and concealed by the darkness. "I see you there."
"I know," the shadow replies.
"So show yourself."
For a handful of quiet moments, the shadow doesn't reply, and I don't say anything more to it, but the silence is uncomfortable like a brittle glass wall that could shatter at any time. I can tell by the shadow's shape that it's a Bragdon, and I already know I'm in a Bragdon prison, so why the secrecy.
"What's going on here?" I ask finally. "Can you tell me anything at all?"
The shadow seems to consider my question, then slowly steps forward, emerging from the darkened corner into the small pool of pale light cast from a single ceiling-mounted source.
My mouth is dry and my lips crack as I try to form words.
"I'm sorry, Brie," Luxen says, his eyes looking down at the floor.
"What is this, Luxen?" I ask, completely confused. My brain is a flash of unrelated images, a series of jigsaw puzzle shaped memories which don't quite fit together.
"He wants to see you," Luxen replies, as if I have any clue who 'he' is.
"Who?"
Luxen steels himself. I see his shoulders stiffen as he tries to mentally prepare himself for whatever comes next.
"Command. They call him Command."
"Command? Well, that's straight and to the point."
Luxen chuckles, relaxing slightly. "He's the leader of the entire Braxis space fleet," he says, with more than a little awe in his voice. But is it awe because Luxen is from Braxis, or because of something to do with the resistance? Either way, something doesn't seem right here.
"And he wants to see me?"
Luxen nods.
"Like, right now? Do I get a shower first? Maybe a hair brush at least?"
Another chuckle. He turns from me and knocks on the metal door, his fist popping back and forth. Another shadow appears, this one filling the entire blank area of the metal door, drowning us in even deeper darkness.
"Is she ready?"
"Yes."
A series of clicks and clacks signals bolts unlatching, and the door clunks, then eases open. There's a square of pale light bracketing the broad shadow within the rectangle as it gestures towards Luxen. Luxen nods and steps back, pushing me through the door, out into the hallway.
The oversized Bragdon glares at me as I walk past. His lumpy scalp crumples into some indistinguishable grimace of contempt. I immediately think back to Breeshlak...another large and angry Bragdon...who without hesitation gave his life to save the lives of others. Don't believe what you see on the surface.
For six months I've been telling myself that. Maybe it's my newfound ability to shape-shift, but there's been a distinct shift in my perspective when it comes to how things appear compared to how they really are. Leaving the cell and the angry Bragdon behind, we emerge into a long hallway pressed up against a series of wall-high windows to my left. I gasp and halt.
"By the Mother!"
Luxen turns and looks out the window where my eyes are staring.
We look out into space where a vast indigo landscape is peppered by glowing embers, but the glowing embers aren't all stars. In fact, the most visible yellow lights are from the burning husks of broken and battered space craft. Among the nearly endless field of shattered metal, hundreds, if not thousands, of smaller fighter wings scream past, barraging the areas with plasma.
Large Athelonian Battle Cruisers navigate the field of fire with the grace of a hungry yarix, a behemoth of a beast that lives only to graze and grow fat. They plow through the smashed wreckage, barely wincing as energy weapons lance off their thick, sloped armor hides. But all around them, smaller craft zip in and out, shooting and blasting each other. Though some ships are larger and others quite small, all of them are engaged in galactic warfare.
"Don't worry, we're safe," Luxen says. Honestly our personal safety hadn't even occurred to me. I was too mesmerized by the shocking waste of lives.
"How are we safe?" I ask.
"The Bragdons have perfected some new cloaking technology. Nobody even knows we're here."
I narrow my eyes as a memory flickers in my already busy brain. Luxen turns to keep walking down the hall, but I make three long strides and catch up to him, wrapping my hand around his shoulder and whipping him around.
"What is going on here, Luxen? What is this all about?"
He looks uncertain. "I don't think it's my place to say, Brie. Drewsk wouldn't like it."
"Forget about Drewsk! What about us? You and me? We were friends long before the resistance. Long before any of...of this." I gesture out the window at the carnage. It seems like such a meek indication of the horrors of what's happening outside.
"Command can explain it better than I can," Luxen stammers, his feet shuffling nervously.
"I don't want to hear it from Command," I reply, "I want to hear it from you."
We stand in the hall, looking at each other. Not for the first time I notice just how much Luxen has matured in the six months since I first met him. He seemed like a little boy back then, but he was clearly a young man. Initially I would have said he was a few years younger than me. But looking at him here and now, there's no way that's true. Bragdons age differently, at least that's what I've been told, and Luxen is a broad shouldered, muscular young Bragdon man in his prime. Could all that have happened in just six months.
He smiles at me. I'm not sure how I can feel such warmth in a Bragdon smile, with the gray skin, and those needle sharp teeth, but there's something about the contours of his face and the look in his steel gray eyes. I feel my heart flutter in spite of myself and I place my hand on his arm, squeezing gently.
"You can tell me," I whisper, and he steps closer. His hand goes to my shoulder and runs slowly down my arm, sending chills over my skin.
When did this happen? When did these feelings start to emerge?
"Command has been waiting!" the voice is a loud, gruff bark in the deep silence of the hallway, and we both nearly jump. Luxen rips his arm away, gluing it to his side as he spins, eyes wide.
"Of course. We're coming. Right now." Each fragment of speech is accented by a curt nod. I can see him draw a deep breath, widening his shoulders and firming his posture, then he takes a long step forward and I follow, heading towards the end of the hallway.
After a few steps, the windows stop, leaving metal paneled walls, and as the hallway darkens to near pitch blackness, a small red light blinks on above a door at the end of the hall. Standing by the door is the same tall, hunched Bragdon that had interrupted our moment. He stands at straight-backed posture, one arm straight down, the other arm clutching some kind of decorative staff that is taller than he is and adorned with ornate curved, ceremonial blades.
He nods towards us and reaches behind himself with his free hand to punch a concealed button. Behind him, the door hisses as it slides open to reveal a red-hued room beyond. I can feel the radiating heat even before I step over the threshold into an invisible wall of warm air. The texture of the wall ripples slightly behind the barricade of high temperature. With Luxen leading the way, we venture forth.
Almost immediately my skin feels warm and moist, as if I'm standing underneath a heat lamp. The room we enter is large and round with a wide circle of carefully placed metal plates creating a perfectly curved surface, wrapping around ornate tapestries spread over the floor. Various colored rugs stretch across the entire room, hugging each curved corner as it snakes around the raised platforms in the center, leaving no bare metal visible throughout. It's soft and comfortable beneath my bare feet. Like a warm embrace, it is the stark opposite of the cool resistance from the metal floor we just passed over.
On the far wall, a window clamped between plates of metal armor looks out over the vastness of space. The view out this window is much the same as it was in the hallway, a blanket of twinkling stars accented by sporadic flares of light from exploding ships or streaking plasma blasts.
Stretching out from the windowed wall, four curved monitor screens are bolted to the smooth surface. In the center of the round room, a series of concentric circular platforms rise up, one on top of another, each one smaller than the previous, creating a pedestal. On the top of the pedestal, a high-backed chair sits in the center surrounded by four complex looking consoles, each one with a wide monitor screen on top.
For a moment, under the deep red light of the room, I don't see anyone else in here, but then I notice him, standing up on the platform next to the chair with his arms clasped behind his back.
He's tall, very tall. His shoulders are broad, yet sloped underneath a cascading fabric robe, rich in color and nearly reflecting in the low crimson light of the room. The way the robe
sways it looks like silk, moving almost by its own accord.
As he turns, his yellow eyes narrowing towards me, I can see the stubbed protrusions of a crown of bone ringing his wide, hairless head. His shoulders shift with his motion and the robe lifts as well, sliding off another long, narrow bone that pushes up from the flesh of his upper arm. Even in this strange light I can see the gray and green mottled color of his leathery skin and my own skin crawls with goose-flesh.
This must be Command.
He doesn't speak, doesn't utter a single word, only finishes turning to face me, and strides down the steps from the platform with the robe swirling about his thick legs and wide, clawed feet.