Wave Mandate

by Schneider, A. C.

  Ignoring his father’s warning, Bar-Kas continued to prod at the border between nature and nurture. “Bar-Kan is DEAD, father! Killed in that deceitful Race of the Islanders. A Race you allowed him to participate in-”

  “I said, WATCH YOUR TONGUE!”

  Surprisingly agile despite his advanced age, the Patriarch cleared the distance between himself and his son in a single bound, grabbing Bar-Kas by the collar, shoving him against the far wall of his quarters and drawing his knife across his own child’s throat.

  Bar-Kas never blinked, cold, steely eyes holding his father’s burning gaze the entire time. “I have proof.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  It had come down to this. From the moment he embedded his knife in the door frame, Bar-Kas had been embedding a knife of a different sort into his father frame of mind. There was no room for error now. He pulled on the cord around his neck, slowly removing the Ipsidian medallion from beneath his tunic.

  His men had found it on the Nebulous liner. It belonged to his brother, Bar-Kan. He wished he’d been there when they’d collected it. Wished he had the opportunity for just ten minutes alone with the man who had it on his person. To find out who he was and how he had come by the medallion, and then slit his throat if he didn’t like the answers he received. His men had been clueless as to the medallion’s significance, not that such a defense resonated with Bar-Kas at the time, nearly biting their heads off when they all pooled their spoils together and the medallion dropped from their sack.

  The Patriarch’s eyes rested on the black glass disk, blood-red specks suffused throughout its translucent mass, a gaping hole at its center. His color grew ashen, matching that of the medallion. This wasn’t possible.

  “Where did you get that?”

  “A stowaway from the liner.”

  “Who was he? How did he get it?”

  “We both know there’s only one way he could have gotten it, father.”

  “I know no such thing,” his voice nary a whisper.

  Releasing his son’s collar, slowly, tentatively, the Patriarch reached for the medallion, expecting it to evaporate upon touch, like an aberration, like it wasn’t truly there.

  Bar-Kas had been waiting for this. Sliding sideways off the wall, he whirled to face his father at a safe distance, the medallion stretching back behind him, his other arm prone straight out in front, warding off any further attempts to advance.

  “Ah, ah, ah,” he admonished, playfully, dangerously, balancing the two as only a man on the edge could do. “First my men and my mine, then my revenge, and if I make it back alive, only then will you get the medallion.”

  Bar-Kas’ eyes were wild. The Patriarch’s were dead.

  “How many?”

  Chapter 13: Uninhabitable

  The Habitat - Caras 4

  The transport shook with an audible jolt, as if it hit something solid and not simply the merciless atmosphere of Caras 4. All of Bar-Kas’ men on board were highly disciplined, well trained and handpicked by the Second Son himself, yet the whites of their eyes could still be seen every time they made the descent back to the Habitat - its name standing as a constant recrimination against all conventions claiming Caras 4 to be completely and utterly uninhabitable.

  Fear had nothing to do with it. That most primal of emotions had long since been beaten out of these men, starting with their ruthless training in the Patriarch’s ranks and furthered in what could only be described as the inhuman conditions characterizing life as one of the Second Son’s Aberrations. It was more of a habituated reflex that their eyes dilated so, something all men seemed to develop after a long enough stint on Caras 4, long enough for them to start calling the 4th moon of Osmos home.

  The same could not be said for the First Clan fighters accompanying them. Newcomers to Caras 4 and clearly not accustomed to flying conditions such as these, already no less than five of them had vomited, their stomachs protesting against the unremitting pitching and rolling of the raiding vessel battling perpetual super-hurricane force winds outside, a constant on the farthest of Osmos’ celestial children. The looks on their faces betrayed a struggle between their inner emotions, which were in a state of sheer terror, and their inner everything else, which were in states of sheer agony.

  Bar-Kas watched the First Clan fighters, the Patriarch’s personal men, not being able to keep from finding amusement in their plight, welcoming the small distraction from his otherwise turbulent thoughts, unbridled and chaotic, matching the temperament of the tempest outside.

  “WE JUST BROKE THROUGH THE CLOUD CELING. ETA - 4 MINUTES TO HABITAT.” The speaker squawked the pilot’s update to Bar-Kas along with the rest of the men hold up in the rear. More information followed but the Second Son could only make out parts of it over the roar of the wind beating down on the hull of the Raider.

  He turned his attention to the men who surrounded him. Men he was going to have to count on, not just for his own life, but to satisfy the blood-honor demanded of him on account of his brother. Eighteen fighters filled out the raiding vessel’s hold; ten First Clansmen and eight of his own Aberrations, plus the two pilots, also his own, for a total of twenty souls, all accounted for. This same breakdown could be seen repeating itself on the four Life Pods taken from the liner and trailing behind. There were moments during the long trip back when it felt like the number of Life Pods was off. Like there might be another pod or something else out there, shadowing their course, but it was just a feeling, never graduating to the level of conscious thought. It was also drowned out by the sense that somehow the ship was lacking. With less than half its normal load capacity taken up, the sparse cabin, coupled with the howling winds outside, gave off the sensation of riding inside the belly of a hungry beast, endlessly groaning of an empty stomach.

  Fifty two men his father had given him. Fifty two First Clan to fill out his forty seven Aberrations, plus himself - one hundred in total. Together they made up ten raiding parties of ten fighters each, dividing into two subsets of five fighters a piece. Each subset would be tasked with carrying out a critical aspect of the upcoming mission. Well, one subset - his men - would be carrying out the mission critical task. The First Clan were there to give he and his men the chance of surviving afterward, which in Bar-Kas’ mind was preferable but not necessarily mission critical.

  He had no doubts as to the ability of his Aberrations. They’d been training for this nonstop, every day, for the past two years, knowing nothing but the compulsion to succeed, and he was certain they were up to the task now that the moment had finally arrived. It was the First Clansmen who worried him. For mountain warfare there were none better, but raiding was a far cry from traditional combat and their target was no mountain top.

  Will they be able to adapt in time?

  This question had plagued him every waking moment since he’d first laid eyes on the medallion and realized what it was he had to do, and what he would need in order to do it. His answer came in the form of a sixth First Clansman heaving up a thick mix of stomach acid and partially digested food following another sudden roll of the ship.

  “Humph.”

  His audible acknowledgment of this answer brought on inquisitive looks from two Aberrations sitting within earshot, their expressions mirroring Bar-Kas’ own doubting sentiments about the newcomers in their midst. To their credit and that of their training, they kept their mouths shut, returning to distant, wide eyed stares and trusting in the judgment of their Second. It was time to make good on that trust

  Pulling an Island Coin from his pocket, Bar-Kas stood and began flipping the piece from thumb to palm, thumb to palm. Island Coin was the only currency people took seriously anymore. Mainland Coin wasn’t worth its own weight in scrap metal. Ipsidian, Mainlanders had in droves, but the Islands were beginning to make serious headway in mining the Beautiful Black for themselves on Caras 3, devaluing the older deposits of his people. No status quo was sacrosanct anymore. Why didn’t his father get that?

>   Making his way over to the airsick Clansman, Bar-Kas patted the man on the back before dropping into a crouch to cradle the man’s helmet between his two hands, much like a caring father would do to a child going through their very first test of manhood.

  “Hey, look at me, look at me. Don’t worry about it. Everybody gets sick their first time out here.”

  The Clansman smiled weakly, embarrassed by the personal attention but unable to say or do anything that would save his dignity and not seem to come off as an affront against the Second Son. Rising, Bar-Kas continued making his way throughout the length of the hold to the fore of the ship where the closed-off cockpit was situated, stumbling and wobbling as he did so in deference to the incessant winds without and the cramped spaces within - the coin nowhere to be seen.

  Pounding on the cockpit door, his efforts barely heard above the roar of the engines, he called to the pilots inside.

  “Yeah?” came their informal response.

  “Bar-Kas.”

  “Be right with you, Second.”

  Bar-Kas’ full title was the Second Son. All members of the First Family were referred to with reference to their position in terms of where they stood in the line of succession for becoming the next Patriarch. Unique in Mainland history, this was the first recorded instance of a single family ruling the entire continent. Ordinarily, for a Mainlander to address a member of the First Family in such an informal fashion as to use only a partial title, that offender would be summarily executed. But this ship wasn’t filled with ordinary Clansmen and Bar-Kas was no ordinary member of the First Family.

  He harbored the same views as his father regarding the rightful place of Mainlanders within the greater fabric of Osmosian society but maintained an entirely different tactical viewpoint as to the most effective way of achieving that rightful place, the result being his rag-tag team of Aberrations and their self imposed exile. That choice, to lead a Clanless life, had his men ostracized from everything they’d known. Now the closest thing any of them had to a family was each other. Blood related, not through its mingling in the womb of a Mainland mother but from its spillage on the battlefield in pursuit of the Mainland’s honor. The fact that they could be so informal with one another and their leader, a member of the First Family no less, pretty much summed up the paradox of what it was to be an Aberration.

  The copilot pushed open the cockpit door, not looking back at Bar-Kas as he did so but keeping the majority of his attention affixed to the forward view screen and the holographic instrumental touch display superimposed above it.

  “Nasty weather we’ve got out here, Second,” informed the copilot.

  “Welcome home, boys.” Wry half smirks from the flight crew met Bar-Kas’ cynicism. “How’re we doing with ETA?”

  “Two minutes till we hit the perimeter, give or take for wind and evasive maneuvering.”

  “Good. Our new team members are about as green as they get. Never thought I’d see the day a First Clansman needs handholding and someone to tell them everything’s going to be OK.”

  The copilot laughed, contemptuously. His senior was more intent on flying. “Just as a heads up; pressure burst is building from the west. Be prepared to lock down suits.”

  Bar-Kas nodded, ducking his head back out and slamming the door shut behind him. “ETA - 2 MINUTES!” he announced above the roar of the wind and the whine of the engines, “PRESSURE’S BUILDING TOO, SO STAY ALERT!” Sitting back down, he strapped in just as the Raider rolled sharply down and to the left, passing beneath the lunar mountain range’s ceiling to begin its final approach on the Habitat’s hangar bay, several more Clansmen unleashing their last meal on the grated flooring as a result, adding to the already powerful stench of oil, vomit and fear.

  “30 MORE SECONDS!” they heard the pilot intone over the inner cabin speakers. Instinctively, every Aberration braced his hands against whatever he could find around him, locking himself into position. The movement was quick and uniform, catching the First Clansmen off guard. They couldn’t process quickly enough why such an action would be necessary in addition to their safety harnesses, at least not in time to avoid what came next.

  The ship dropped suddenly into the center of a small ring of mountains revealing the mouth of the Habitat entrance directly ahead. The flying was perfectly timed and incredibly aggressive, throwing each and every unsuspecting First Clansman full force against his harness, the effect, an equivalent of a punch to the gut. The Raider reversed thrusters hard, every kilojoule of power called upon to fight off wind shear until the last bit of ship cleared the hangar bay’s threshold. Inside, landing gear deployed and vertical thrust carefully decreased. They touched down so imperceptibly, a part of Bar-Kas wondered if that harrowing reentry wasn’t just some recurring nightmare and not the routine, life threatening experience he’d survived, yet again.

  Internal cabin pressure gassed out and the hull’s hatch popped out from the rest of the ship, hydraulics lifting it up and away from the frame altogether. A rickety drop down ladder released that Bar-Kas mostly ignored, leaping from the Raider down to the hangar bay floor. Cheserg, the Aberration’s squad leader followed. The two pilots stayed on board to handle disembarking of the remaining human cargo.

  Trotting a few paces to fall in-step with his Second, Cheserg looked straight ahead but was in fact fully attuned to what he knew would be a slew of first-things-first type orders coming his way now that they’d arrived.

  “I want Rolg heading to the galley as soon as he disembarks, wiping up something hot and that tastes better than the spit and grease I’ve been eating for the past month,” ordered Bar-Kas.

  “Rolg will be out cold the second he hits his cot.”

  “Then you hit him a second after that! I don’t know exactly when we’ll be shipping off this rock next but it’s going to be soon, and I intend to be eating hot and prepared meals for as long as I’m here and it’s an option to do so.”

  “Understood.” Cheserg served as liaison between the Aberrations and their leader, burdened with the impossible task of trying to please both. The only prayer he had for succeeding involved picking and choosing his battles judiciously. “What about the First Clan?”

  “Find them rooms.” The Second stopped walking to face his squad leader, wanting to be certain his next order would be given its proper weight. “And make sure our men leave them be. The last thing I need is some petty Clan rivalry sabotaging a mission I’ve waited two years for. Everyone’s going to have to bury their prejudices for the time being. I trust you’ll see to it this is made absolutely clear?”

  “One hundred percent. What about down time?”

  “Give them twenty four hours. Have the other squad leaders report directly to the briefing room afterward.”

  “Does that include First Clan?”

  “Yes, and that reminds me: I’m going to need you to find out who their squad leaders are. I want to speak with each of them individually before we ship out. Not now. There’s something I have to do first.”

  “Need me to come with you?”

  “No. Handle Rolg and the First Clan then get some rest yourself. I’ve got an important communication to make - alone. I’ll see you in twenty four hours. Keep your comm-link open for short order requests I’ll most probably be contacting you for as they arise.”

  “Got it. Twenty four-”

 

  The siren’s blare cut Cheserg off mid-sentence, reminding him of how Caras 4 took it as a personal insult for anything to think it could get away with surviving on its surface.

 

  “HELMETS ON!” Bar-Kas ordered even before the Habitat’s PA system finished providing details of the lethal atmospheric phenomenon. Cheserg ran off to make sure his men were squared away. First Clansmen fumbled frantically with their helmets while Aberrations moved in a serious but routine manner, making it seem as if they were getting dressed for another day of work at one of the
large Island corporates and not about to fend off an attack by the moon itself.

  Pulling his facemask down, Bar-Kas turned the knob on the hinge to lock the composite glass in place and pressurize his suit. His breathing, amplified inside his closed helmet, at first masked the sounds of turmoil emanating from all around. As his ears adjusted, though, he began to make out other sounds: Footsteps of men running, equipment being dropped, orders being shouted.

  One of those sounds rose above all the rest. It was the sound of screaming, of a man’s frantic calls for help.

  “IT’S NOT CLOSING – I CAN’T GET IT CLOSED!” a First Clansman cried, attacking his facemask like a wild animal.

  <5 SECONDS TO PRESSURE BURST> announced the PA system, inanimate, unsympathetic.

  “SOMEBODY HELP ME!” he continued to scream, gloved hands desperately fighting for a grip on the small metallic knob.

  <3>

  Several Aberrations made like they were going to try and intervene but a number of First Clansmen had surrounded the man, blocking their access.

  <2>

  “GET AWAY FROM HIM!” shouted Bar-Kas.

  Like the well trained machines they were, the Aberrations dove to the side, leaving three First Clansmen there by themselves, ignoring the Second’s order and continuing to try and help out their brother in distress.

  They should’ve listened.

  <1>…

  Perimeter shielding made a difference but with pressure fluctuations of up to a thousand percent in the span of a single second, it wasn’t nearly enough. The First Clansman with the unsealed helmet belted out a final scream, cut short by the pressure burst as it washed over the hangar, its rebound effect causing him to literally explode inside his suit. The three Clansmen surrounding him were thrown backward onto the hangar floor, one of them having his own facemask cracked by a skull fragment from the exploding man. The crack only exposed him to the tail end of the burst but it was enough to effect a hemorrhaging of his brain, blood and liquefied cortex now leaking out his ears and nostrils. The rest of the First Clansmen were too stunned to act. All Aberrations were on their feet, moving quickly.