Undazzled

by Chance Maree

  “Chikushō,” Pots said, “Can't we think about this first? War's not the answer!” No one paid her any attention, so she kicked off her sandals and walked to her tent to get kangered.

  CHAPTER 8

  Tyr Dovmont

  In the morning, they were going to war. Tyr Dovmont donned a dark cloak and hid his face beneath its hood. He fled the solitude of his tent, knowing the commander was occupied with preparations and would not bother with the wanderings of one small boy.

  Tyr skirted the perimeters of campfires, slinking past one after another, drinking in the camaraderie of the people sharing experiences and thoughts about the upcoming battle. His interest in their conversations varied, but even the most mundane offered relief from the monotony of recorded lectures and mind-numbing lessons and exercises. Tyr walked softly, enjoying the crush of grass beneath his bare feet.

  “Who goes there?” A man with the face of a rabbit paused, a bundle of sticks in one hand, tempting a hungry fire.

  Tyr glanced at the people gathered there—a dozen horrid faces, bizarre visages, partly illuminated by the campfire. Still, he recognized members of the crew.

  “I said, who goes there?”

  “A friend,” Tyr replied. He hid a smile. This was his favorite part of Henry V—where the king, disguised as a commoner, moves among his troops on the eve of battle of Agincourt. The English army had waited miserably in France, so here, too, wretched groups gathered around small campfires, which could be seen scattered along the river far into the horizon, drawing fearful discourse about the impending war with Ostarians. The air reeked with dread as everyone awaited the break of dawn and anticipated the bloody horrors of combat. Tyr pulled his hood to further cover his face.

  Casey Wu, the ship's engineer, laughed. “Tyr. Come on over here and sit with us. Of course we know who he is—the only prepubescent on Ostara.”

  “The natives have children,” Tyr replied. He walked to an empty cushion in the circle, careful not to trip, and lowered himself cross-legged, attempting to do so with the dignity and grace of a king.

  “You would think that would make them less eager to go to war,” a fox-faced man quipped. His eyes were glassy with fear.

  Pilot Pots sat next to Engineer Wu. She whispered, “Perhaps they fight to protect their children.”

  “We are a danger to them.” Casey Wu's voice was musical. She had been a petite Chinese woman with a moon face and straight, short hair that was cut in a sharp angle across her long, pale neck. Now, Wu was a furry, feline creature—Tyr tried not to stare.

  A lizard with flat, dull eyes stared into the fire. In a grave voice, he opined, “If I were them, I would have stolen into the camp the very first night we arrived and slit every throat.”

  The idea that the natives might be bloodthirsty excited Tyr. “Why?”

  The lizard turned towards Tyr, but focused his eyes well over Tyr's head, as was now the custom. “We've only a thousand scattered along the river. Only a thousand at each settlement, in fact. Our numbers will never be fewer. In a matter of months, we'll have a thousand times as many.”

  “The natives are doomed,” Wu said, nodding. “They just don't know it yet.”

  A young crow-headed woman who Tyr didn't recognize shushed the group. “Could we talk about something more appropriate in front of the boy?” After an awkward silence, she added, “Pots, you were brave, piloting the ship after Maggie was murdered. I want you to know that I appreciate your service.”

  Tyr glanced at Pots, who squirmed in her seat. Curious as to what had caused her discomfort, he pulled his hood down over his eyes and fixed Pots within his third-sight. Tyr imagined placing his hand slightly to the left of her breastbone. He could feel the heartbeat. The glistening heart muscle relaxed and contracted, pumping blood—too fast. The aorta and the pulmonary arteries stretched fully into hypertension.

  “You met the Itou brothers, right?” the crow lady continued. “What was it like? I mean, with those men being geniuses and all, I wouldn't know what to say.”

  “I asked them how they did it.” Pots stared into the fire. “How did they recognize those worm-mole eggs weren't merely space rocks? How did learn to hatch those eggs and then raise them? Where did they get the idea to use worm-moles as spaceships? Any one of those discoveries should have taken decades or more.”

  “What did the Itous say?” someone asked. Everyone around the fire was quiet, staring into its flames instead of at one another.

  Tyr focused. Pots's heart beat steadily at a normal rate.

  “They both laughed and said they had just gotten lucky.” Pots shook her head. “It still doesn't make sense. I mean, how could they have known any of it?”

  Tyr knew the story of the Itou brothers. He wanted to know why Pots had squirmed—what had made her heart race? He asked, “What is it like? Piloting Alpha Horizon?”

  Pots smiled. “It's like hanging out with an old friend. Alphie doesn't talk much, but I knew she was happy when I was around.”

  Wu wondered, “Are you going back to Earth for the third journey?”

  Pots's heart nearly jumped into Tyr's third-sight hand. He felt heat from Pots's stomach. When he looked inside, the stomach walls were red, and gastric glands poured out their juices.

  “That's the plan,” Pots said calmly, rubbing a spot in the middle of her chest.

  She's lying! Dr. Stevenson had said Tyr could use his skills and training to discover people's secrets. Adults, with all their false words and smiles, were always trying to fool him. Even without Dr. Stevenson's supervision, Tyr could reach into anyone's body and discover the truth. Heart rate, temperature, blood pressure—they would never lie. Tyr looked at the faces around him. No one noticed! Deep, physiological explorations could be done in secret.

  The boom of a drum shook Tyr's focus, and he was nearly jolted out of his seat.

  A stag-faced man leapt into their circle. He was shirtless, wearing only broad-striped red and white pants with black suspenders and a black top hat.

  Setting a music cube well away from the fire, the man then circled the flames and proclaimed in a loud voice, “You are in for a treat, my friends! I'm humbled to announce the arrival of the entertainment goddess herself! Renowned singer of two worlds! Intergalactic film star! Planetary dancer extraordinaire! Like you've never seen her before! Yes! You know who I'm talking about! Make way! Celine Amore is here to thrill you, chill you, spill you, fulfill your need for wow!”

  The man bowed and soft-footed himself away. From the darkness, Celine bounded into the circle of light. She wore a leotard designed as though it were aflame. It stretched like a second skin over her body, from her toes to her fingertips. A tiger's tail whipped around Celine's long legs as she spun and twisted, creating a whirlwind of warm, perfumed air. Her silhouette was famous—long, thin waist, high, gravity defying breasts, and buttocks that pushed through her costume like worlds unto themselves. The heart-pounding beat of high rhythm drums drowned out thought. Tyr was mesmerized.

  Slowing, Celine pranced, cat-like, stalking her prey. “Why the long faces, darlings?” she purred. “Is it your neighbor's face you fear? Or does your own visage fill you with dread? Or do you fear war? Starvation? Some new exotic disease?” The drums beat louder. Celine danced, playfully. “I say, haven't you noticed? We are alive! Accept it all! I Say! Be! Your! Animal!”

  Celine began to twirl, and with each rotation, the tint of her tigress face changed—red to gold to blue to green, to color-filled strobes, to mind altering bursts that rendered her audience dizzied.

  Everyone swooned when Celine swooped in front of Pots and Casey. She swept her hand, with long black nails, across her own eyes and purred, “Don't look away from me! Feel! Feel the dazzle!”

  Celine moved sensually to a change of rhythm—slow and inviting. “Come on, everyone. Can you feel it? The dazzle, I mean.” Celine cooed and flirted.

  With insides burning and loins stirring, Tyr whispered, “I love you.”

 
Celine stopped in front of Tyr. She tilted her tigress head, and then, with one swoop, she pulled the hood back off of his face. Tyr could not breathe.

  “Oh dear. The dazzle has not been kind to you!” Celine said flatly.

  The music resumed, faster now. Celine spun off. Tyr frantically replaced his hood, glancing around with his shoulders hunched up around his ears. It didn't matter—all eyes were on Celine.

  “How many of you have looked into the mirror? Not many, I'd wager. How can you accept the faces of your friends and family when you've not yet accepted your own? You are a gorgeous bird! Or an exotic reptile! Whether intelligent canine or mysterious feline, or noble stag—accept yourself, and then you will see beauty in one another. You are sexy! Be amorous! Be dazzled!”

  Murmurs arose. Everyone concurred.

  Celine gave the crowd a moment. “We are not hallucinating, darlings. Forget faces of the past—embrace your animal.” All eyes followed Celine as she moved like a sorceress, weaving her way around the fire.

  “Tonight, when your tent is dark as pitch, you will light a single wax candle and stand in front of the mirror. Don't use a flashlight, or glow stick. Illuminate with fire! Hold the candle two feet below your face. Gaze into your image. Allow your eyes to lose focus! Don't blink! And I promise, you will see reality. You will see your beautiful, dazzling self!”

  The music rose to a frenzy. Celine raced around the fire, leaping, spinning. She threw her face and arms up, towards the night sky, and stopped in front of Tyr, who grabbed onto his hood.

  “Come by my tent tomorrow, love. I'll give you what you need.” Celine turned her back and used a wire to swish her long tail. From over her shoulder, she said to Tyr, “Come after the war, but disturb me no earlier than noon.”

  Tyr watched Celine sashay away from the pool of firelight until the last twitch of her costume tail disappeared into the dark night.

  The war suddenly seemed less important.

  CHAPTER 9

  Commander Gunner Dovmont

  Commander Dovmont stood on top of a hill. The sky was pre-dawn. Through a high-powered set of thermal imagers, Gunner scanned a flat expanse of grassy plains. Deputy Lieutenant Thomas stood at Gunner's side, viewing the field with night vision goggles.

  “Lieutenant Thomas.”

  “Sir.”

  Gunner lowered his glasses. “Fifty warriors are approaching the battlefield from the east. Their leader is heading toward this hill. Have you reports of any other hostile activity?”

  Thomas spoke into his com. After a moment, the lieutenant replied, “Fifty-four warriors exited the enemy camp. No other hostiles in our proximity.”

  “This battle could be a turkey shoot.” The commander raised his imagers. “These men are an alien race, though. Underestimating them would be risky.”

  Thomas spoke into his com. He returned and reported, “No technology signatures anywhere on the planet, sir. Drone footage shows that the natives use primitive instruments. They carry only shields and broadswords.”

  “One drone could do the job.” This fact was unsettling to Gunner—vulgar even, like an over display of confidence. “Send 25 troops to face their warriors. Ready the drone. Keep 25 troops hidden over the ridge. Deploy the rest to reinforce camp defenses.”

  “Yes, sir.” Thomas saluted and moved off to the side, barking orders into his com.

  The native chief climbed the hill on foot with two of his warriors. Head held high. Face grim. Eyes fierce. The chief was a proud man. He handed his broadsword to the man on his right and then showed the commander open and empty palms.

  Well, they're not the Earth type of human, Gunner thought. The big chief only has four fingers on each hand. In fact, all of the men had only four fingers. I wish I could see their toes…

  Gunner handed his own sidearm to Thomas and extended his right hand to the chief, who took a moment to consider the gesture before placing his hand in Gunner's. Gunner gripped the chief's hand firmly, but held enough back so his strength could not be measured.

  The chief returned a powerful grip, but Gunner sensed the man had also kept his strength in reserve. Well done. Abruptly, the chief withdrew his hand and laughed so loudly that Gunner nearly stepped backward. The native's eyes were intensely bright. The chief slapped himself on the chest and his voice boomed, “Tarq!”

  We've already introduced ourselves. Gunner placed his right palm over his heart anyway and said, “Commander.”

  Tarq turned his back to Gunner and began traipsing around the hill. The war could wait, apparently, until they found a better vantage point. Once Tarq settled on a spot, he motioned for Gunner to join him.

  A moment later, Gunner and Tarq stood side by side in full view of their men. Tarq raised and then lowered his shield.

  On their left, Gunner's troops stood in two rows of ten. The soldiers in the front row aimed their weapons at the hostiles. All troops waited for further instructions over their coms.

  Tarq's men stood in a cluster, spread out at arm's length from one another. They carried shields—circular constructions covered with painted hides large enough to protect the man's chest and groin. Each warrior also held a broadsword.

  Tarq glanced at the commander before raising his shield again. The language of war was instinctual. Tarq gave a loud, harsh cry that signaled the battle was to begin.

  The band of native warriors answered with a roar. They raised their shields and swords and began dancing in place, stomping their feet and shouting with a mighty ferocity. They danced forward and backwards, in circles and straight lines, all the while chanting war cries and brandishing their swords. The sight was spectacular to behold.

  Gunner mumbled, “I was expecting Mongolian hoards, and what do I get? Dancing voodoo dipsticks.” Into his com, the commander ordered, “London Bridge.”

  Lieutenant Thomas nearly smiled.

  Gunner stepped close to the sheared edge of the hillside, several feet away from Tarq. He raised his arms above his head and shouted his own war chant to the sky. “Hey, you moronic piles of monkey humping convulsing toad asses! Hear me now, and I'll tell you pussies that your ballet dancing makes me want to spew my breakfast!”

  Tarq and his guards stared in puzzlement at Gunner. On the battlefield, their warriors continued to dance. Soon, a drone hovered above the battlefield.

  “Make these cow dung flowers fall!” Gunner yelled.

  The drone emitted a low frequency pulse that interrupted breathing and rendered unconscious anyone within a one-mile radius unlucky enough not to be wearing protective cochlear implants. The native warriors dropped to the ground in heaps. Gunner's men lowered their weapons and stood at ease.

  Tarq and his guards, safe outside the field of the drone's range of influence, stared at the scene with raised brows. The commander waited for Tarq's next reaction. His lieutenant and guards held ready their weapons.

  After several minutes of Tarq conferring quietly with his warriors, Gunner covered his ear to focus on the report coming through his com. “We're detecting signs of revival.”

  The commander caught Tarq's attention. He returned to his position on the hill's edge and raised his arms over his head. “Arise, like stink off the dung piles!” he yelled. “Arise, I command you, arise!”

  Slowly, Tarq's men began to stir.

  Now, the heathen moron will worship me. Gunner turned to face Tarq. With hands still raised, Gunner cried, “And thus I give you back your pansy-fly-piss losers.” Lowering his arms, Gunner waited.

  Tarq moved past the commander to view the battlefield. His men had all risen. With their weapons scattered on the ground beside them, the natives stood in place, rubbing their faces. Instead of falling at the commander's feet, Tarq turned, looked him square in the eye, and laughed.

  Not an ignorant savage after all, Gunner thought, though he kept his face grim. Tarq slapped the commander on the back, grabbed his sword, and, flanked by his warriors, strolled down the hill.

  “I suppose that's th
eir way of saying we're allowed to stay,” Lieutenant Thomas said.

  “We achieved success without victory,” Gunner replied. “Can't say I found it particularly satisfying.”

  ⁂

  Later that day, after completing his report to Earth, Gunner meditated in his tent. The Daoist warrior knew, He who controls others may be powerful, but he who has mastered himself is mightier still. Tarq had not been intimidated by the commander's power. Why had these primitive warriors reacted with irreverence towards our demonstration of superior weaponry? Gunner had to reconsider his strategy towards the natives. But first, he faced another task.

  Tyr entered the commander's tent, shyly, like a new recruit.

  “Boy, what's that on your face?”

  “It's mine.” The boy mumbled behind the polished, white mask. A hint of a nose and lips had been painted on the surface. “I wear it so people won't scream.”

  “Nonsense. Vanity is for weak minds.”

  “I saw myself in the mirror,” Tyr cried. “I'm a monster!”

  Gunner heaved a sigh. “Listen, Tyr. Sit down here for a minute.” He pulled out a stool and sat on one facing it. Tyr slid onto the seat and crossed his arms. The hood of his jacket hid the boy's mask.

  “Look at me, kid.”

  Tyr raised his eyes.

  “You're going through something now…I don't know what it is. I cannot look at you lovingly like a parent would, or speak soothing words to fix your troubles. If it’s ordering about that you need, that I can do soundly. I'll have you hopping. But this moping and hiding behind a mask—my instinct is to set you to digging latrines.”

  Tyr stared at his feet, his face hidden except for the empty stare of the mask.