"A hoverbike? Nice, Masamba. And named after the ancient supercomputer that played chess, right?"
"Of course a computer engineer like you would know that. And yes, she is nice." The robot sat on the padded seat and turned the handles to fire up the engines. A burst of air sent the bike two feet into the air where it hovered above the concrete. "Get on."
Rav straddled the bike and held onto Masamba's waist as the bike lunged forward, speeding out of the garage and leaving a cloud of dust in its wake. They raced towards the red mountains in the distance, with Masamba abnormally silent for the entire ride.
* * *
Square glass and chrome sculptures towered over the area, stretching up to the lower reaches of the atmosphere, their shining lights creating a beacon to all who viewed it form afar. Black candles flickered on hundreds of stone pedestals around the border of the fields where the ocean of pink flowers began. Rav slid from the back of the hoverbike, nearly tripping from not watching where he was going. His eyes were fixed instead on the field of flowers that shifted in the cool breeze from horizon to horizon. He noticed something else about the place. The silence. Even the wind did not whistle around the sculptures. No birds sang in the sky, no crickets chirped, and no sounds of engines or machinery echoed this far from the base. Nature and technology both honored the hallowed ground.
Masamba quietly joined his side, tossing the ends of a grey wool scarf around the collar of his white flightsuit. "Take it all in, Rav. Focus on the feelings you find here."
"What is this place? Why does it feel so . . . so very sad?"
"These are the Flower Fields. Wherever you see these pink Elysian primroses, a child is buried below. These mass graves are where the child soldiers of the Children's Corps are laid to rest after falling in battle. Nine thousand souls were given their final rites here, all between the ages of three and fourteen. Do you see the area far over to the east? That is where more are being brought in on a daily basis, straight from the front lines or the hospitals."
Rav covered his mouth with his hand.
"No one sets foot past these candles, except for the guardian. The guardian is a volunteer, usually the mother or father of a fallen child soldier. They stay here through snow, rain, and sandstorms to defend these graves, both day and night. They speak to no one and eat only what is given to them by the visitors who come here to pay their respects. The guardian currently tending these fields is the first one, but he swore a vow to stay here until the day he dies."
"How long has this been going on?" Rav asked.
"Two and half years. The Children's Corps has been in existence since then, but it has been a classified operation until recently. It was originally formed to help lower-income kids receive education and job training through special programs on the military bases, but then the army needed more bodies. The children were no longer guests, brought here to learn and grow. Their text books and pens were replaced by pistols and grenades. With the approval of Congress, none of the parents could contest the fates of their kids."
"That's awful."
Masamba bent down to pluck a single blossom from the endless waves. "I agree. However, I do see the need for it. This is what we are fighting to stop . . . what you are fighting to stop. This senseless killing of innocents will not stop until the war ends. Children are brought in from Darkshot, various moon colonies, and other parts of Elysia on the false pretense that they are going to have better lives. Then they are immunized, their heads are shaved, they are brought here to see the flowers, then they are put in confined bunkers where they are psychologically and physically altered until they lose the will to live. Then they are malleable. The military writes what they want into their heads, makes them believe what they want them to believe. They become like robots, unthinking, unfeeling robots. After that, they are sent off to the front lines to fight. The children are not issued rations or emergency communicators because everyone knows they will not survive. There is no reason to waste those resources on fodder."
Rav held his arms around himself as a chill spread down his spine. All those lives, those precious young lives . . . wasted. All between three and fourteen. How could a civilization become so desperate, so corrupt, that they sacrificed their own future to distract an enemy force that would extinguish those futures without blinking an eye?
"Rav? Are you crying?"
"I want to leave. I can't be here. If you want me to be a part of this military at all, then you need to get me out of here before I lose it. I hate the thought of children suffering. I hate it more than anything in the universe. And to know that I am currently serving the organization that allows this to happen? I hate myself for wearing this uniform. I hate the government. I hate this war."
"Hating the war is a good thing." Masamba slipped the pink primrose into the collar of Rav's jumpsuit. "You have the power to stop this from continuing."
"How have there not be uprisings? Riots? Do these parents not care about their children?"
"They do care. And there have been riots. The parents responsible for any of it are either conscripted as well or they are swiftly executed to keep them silent. The media is censored, Rav. What you see and hear goes through at least fifty filters before it is put on the internet or the local news broadcasts. Civilians know what the government wants them to know. Now here you are, our secret. Azimandia does not know you are here with us. We need to keep it that way. All mentions of you being involved with the military have been closely guarded and erased when they needed to be. Even the people at the art gala who witnessed me leading you away have signed nondisclosure forms. If they speak a word about you or the Flight Force, they will disappear. It is worth it. You are here to fight instead of your son. That was the deal."
"And will the military honor that deal?" Rav asked. "Nemo avoids the Children's Corps, the fighting, this field? He gets to live in peace on Darkshot?"
"You have my word."
"Then I swear I will fight. I'll do whatever you need me to do in order to make this stop. I have to fight for Nemo and for all of these children. They can't be thrown away into this field like trash. Their lives, their souls, had so much potential. I have to make sure I end this war so their lives were not given in vain."
Masamba nodded slowly. "That is all I wanted to hear. Your presence in the Flight Force is instrumental in bringing peace to a universe that desperately needs it. Did it not seem strange to you that you were given such a high rank upon your entry? You are flight master because we all see greatness in you. Your scores on that training game were better than anyone's. Quite frankly, you are our last hope. We have exhausted all other avenues to break through the Azimandian forces and deliver a punch strong enough to bring that evil empire to their knees. The day Warlord Tirlmayn surrenders will be the day that children stop dying senselessly. That is up to you, Rav."
"What if I can't do it? What if I'm not as great as I'm being made out to be? I hadn't even flown an actual ship before two years ago."
"You have natural talent."
Rav was not so sure. "I can't stop this war on my own. I'm just one man, Masamba. I'm one man with a million problems."
"But you are one man who has something worth fighting for. Do you want to bury your son in this field of flowers, for him to become one of thousands? Just one more soul lost to time, lost to the universe?"
A knot caught in his throat. "Don't ask me that."
"You care. That is worth something. A soldier without something to care about is just a coward playing with guns. Your conviction, your emotions, and your love for your son will be the things to get you through. They will make you great. I know all about you, Rav Tillman. You have overcome adversity that many men will never know. Many would have given up by now, but not you. You keep going. You are far from perfect. You make mistakes. You have regrets. However, you move on."
Rav sighed, feeling the sinking hollowness in his stomach growing larger the longer he stayed there smelling the flowers.
"Eve
ry child soldier is brought here to honor their fallen comrades before they are deployed on their first mission. Over there is a group of them now. Looks like a squad of three- and four-year-olds. Our youngest ones. You should go introduce yourself. Flash your rank insignia. They will love to see an officer with his wings."
"Only if you come with me."
"Of course."
Mind still foggy with pain and sorrow, Rav walked up to the group of children who were alone out there. They looked scared, tired, and confused as to where they were and why they were left there. Maybe he could make their day a tiny bit better. "Hey there, kids."
The children smiled and gathered around Rav, reaching their little hands up to the touch the gold wings on the upper arms of his jumpsuit. They exclaimed in joy and talked amongst themselves, completely unaware of the solemn ground they stood upon . . . and utterly oblivious to the fact that they would each be buried there soon.
It broke Rav's heart. Every one of those boys and girls who spoke to him and laughed and asked questions about his rank would be shipped off to the battlefield where they would be bullet shields. They would be mowed down before they even knew what was happening. Then their bodies would be dumped into a mass grave and covered with pink flowers as some kind of gift to apologize for their deaths. Rav bit his lip as he looked into each pair of innocent eyes, so filled with life.
Then he made eye contact with one blue-skinned boy with four golden eyes, slits for nostrils, no ears, and shaved black hair. A Biromian?
Masamba patted Rav's back comfortingly. "Everything all right, Rav?"
"You have a Biromian child here?"
"We have children of every known race."
"But a Biromian? Their race is nearly extinct. Tirlmayn killed off over ninety percent of their population. This boy shouldn't be here. He should be with his family, allowed to grow up and produce more Biromians."
Masamba shook his head. "That is not my decision to make."
"What's his name?"
"Check his identification pendant. It is like yours."
Rav knelt down in front of the quiet Biromian boy whose blue skin was splotched with light spots. "Hello, there."
The boy whimpered.
"Don't be scared. I'm going to look at your pendant." Rav slid the cover off of the golden pendant hanging around the boy's neck then gasped when the information flashed across the screen.
Baban Zimnark. Age: 4.
"Baban? Are you Dallis Zimnark's son?"
The boy stuck his thumb in his mouth and whimpered again.
Rav stood as his heart raced. "Masamba, we have to do something. I knew this boy's father before he was killed. Please help me get him back to anyone who could care for him. I owe Dallis this much at least. All his other children were killed on Birom by Tirlmayn. Please. Is there anything we can do?"
"I am sorry, but I-"
Rav took Masamba by his shoulders and shook him. "Masamba, please. I will never drink another lime soda again."
"That is a very serious vow for you, is it not?"
"You have no idea."
"Pull his pendant off and bring it back to the base with us. I will speak with Director Tolstoy and see if he will allow the Biromian to be released from his service due to the extreme circumstances surrounding his race."
"Thank you. Thank you." Rav embraced the robot. "I won't forget this."
"Shall we return for your flight simulation? Rav, you should stop hugging me. The children are giggling at you."
"I don't care. I knew you were a good man."
"Man? I am no man. I am only a-"
"Shut up." Rav let him go then waved to all the children. "Goodbye, kids. Be good, okay? I will do what I can to end this war. Trust me. I will save you all."
Masamba whispered harshly to him. "Rav, do not make promises you cannot keep."
"I intend to keep this one."
Chapter 12
Vance smeared the chocolate-scented soap onto a bath sponge before scrubbing at the thick makeup around his eyes. He had been at it for nearly twenty minutes, but the charcoal lines, goopy mascara, and powder blush only mixed together with the soap suds to create a thick paste. The more he scrubbed, the worse it got.
There was a knock on the door to his bedchambers, so he tossed the sponge into the trashcan and headed to the door. When he opened it, Visht was there waiting, dressed in a white cotton bathrobe instead of his leather armor. "Uh, Visht? What are you doing? It's the middle of the night. Shouldn't you be asleep or on guard duty or something?"
"I need to talk to you. It's important."
"Come on in." Vance held the door open then carefully closed and locked it once the warbringer had entered. "What's going on? What's with the robe?"
Visht sat on the edge of the plasma-filled bed and rubbed his eyes. "Your makeup is horrible. Take it off."
"Don't you think I tried?" Vance poured his guest a cup of steaming hazelnut coffee and dropped two creamer capsules into it. They burst open with the heat, sending their sweet contents throughout the black liquid. He handed it to Visht. "Drink this. You look exhausted. As for the makeup, I don't know how women do this every day. I feel like my skin is going to come off if I scrub it any more."
The weary warbringer gratefully took the cup of coffee, breathing deeply of the aromatic steam. "There's some makeup remover in the cabinet above the sink."
"Oh, thanks. While I tend to this, tell me what you came here for."
"I got in trouble."
Vance went into the bathroom and searched for the bottle of clear liquid. He peered back around the doorway to look at Visht. Then he noticed the silver band around the base of Visht's right horn, two inches thick. "What's that on your horn?"
"That's part of what I came to tell you. I've been banded."
"What does that mean?"
"If I get three more of these bands on my horns, I get my horns sawed off."
Vance leaned out of the doorway again, wiping the solution across his eyes with cotton balls. "Are you serious?"
"Absolutely. The bands get removed after two years, so as long as I don't make three more mistakes before two years go by, I'll be fine."
"Does it hurt?"
"The band? Nah. It's just kind of tight. It can only be removed with the key. Think of the bands as being public humiliation on a daily basis. They show the other warbringers who has been breaking the rules. To get a band, someone has to be determined to be a threat to the overall discipline of the military."
"What did you do that was worse than crashing that battle sphere into the fountain?" Vance asked, rinsing away the soap from his face.
"It's a cumulative thing. If I get so many strikes, I get a band. But what happened last night was I got caught by my father after sneaking out of Tirlmayn's laboratory. I found that crippled boy. My sister and I were trying to get his exosuit, but he's messed up."
"Lucas? You found Lucas? He's alive?"
Visht hissed under his breath. "He's technically alive, but he's not in good shape. He's not hurting or anything, but he is on so many mind-altering drugs that he is barely lucid."
"As long as he's being taken care of."
"He is. It seems Tirlmayn wants him alive and healed."
"So, your father caught you and turned you in to your commander?" Vance asked, drying his face then going to the dresser and pouring himself a cup of coffee.
"My father is my commander."
"Who is your father?"
"Krisharn X-Azimandia."
Vance choked on his coffee, sending the hot liquid up his nose and down his chin. After a few seconds of cleaning up with a napkin, he composed himself enough to not pass out from sheer shock. "Krisharn is your father?"
"And you are my cousin. I was certain someone would have told you. I thought you knew we were related, My Prince. You were so kind to me."
"Not because you're my cousin, mate. I try to be kind to everyone. What is it like to be Krisharn's son?"
Visht's eyes
flashed darker. "Hell. All my life, he has viewed me as a threat to his claim to the throne. He would view you the same way, but he is doing all he can to stay on Tirlmayn's good side."
"Your own father banded your horn?"
"And he gave me these." Visht stood and let his robe fall to the floor, revealed his bare back where five one-inch thick stripes covered him from his shoulders to his hips. Dried blood had smeared around the edges.
"He beat you?"
"It's the reason I couldn't wear my armor. But, it's not all bad news." Visht put his robe back on and tied it in the front. "I was whipped on the same stage where your friend, Kalimis, was strung up by his arms and was being filled with needles."
His stomach turned. "Needles?"
"All over his body. Gruesome stuff. Anyway, I was punished first, then I waited in the shadows after they let me go. I watched until Kalimis's punishment was finished before trailing the guards who were carrying him. I know where he is. I can get us in to see him."
"Seriously? Yes! One question first. Why were you and your sister looking for Lucas's exosuit? That seems like a lot for just some young rebellious warbringer to be striving for. How do I know I can trust you?"
Visht pouted then walked over to pour himself another cup of coffee. "You have to trust me."
"No deal. I don't play that game. You could be one of my father's spies for all I know."
"Dovei."
"What was that?"
"I said . . . Dovei, cousin."
Vance stared into Visht's eyes that were glittering with a waiting and anxious fire deep inside. He had heard that phrase before during his year as a mercenary with Kalimis, Slayven, and Ben. It was something Kalimis used to great the other warbringers on Star-World Omega . . . the home of the Azimandian Underground. He took a chance. "Dovei."
Visht's face lit up. "I knew it. You really are with us. I was going to get Lucas's exosuit and give it to the Azimandian Underground. I'm an ally, My Prince. So is my sister. The Azimandian Underground needs technology. If we can replicate an Elysian exosuit, we would be able to give them to all our rebels. You will still lead us, won't you? I wasn't exactly sure if I could trust you, but my sister found information about you and the Red Sand Rebels. You and Prince Benjamin were married on the rebel-controlled Star-World Omega. I didn't know if Slayven and Kalimis had told you about their membership in the organization or not."
The Genesis Sequence Books 6-10 Page 11