by Justin Bell
Looking at the screen, Rorjak gestures for me to come over. Slowly and uncertainly, I step towards the computer screens. I'm not entirely sure what I'm supposed to be looking at.
"Last chance, Brie," Rorjak says, looking at me. "There isn't a whole lot here you don't know, but I want to make sure you're ready for this,that you want to hear it."
I nod without speaking, transfixed by the image on the screen.
Rorjak nods.
"As Nervlox said outside, for generations, the people of Braxis were a simple and kind people that were much more focused on nature and our place in the cosmos than the spats of Athelon and Reblox. In fact, many of the Bragdons who got involved in that conflict did so out of a desire to halt the violence, not to perpetuate it."
He looks at me, and I look back at him, trying to gauge his honesty. I don't think he has any particular reason to lie, but I can't be too sure, especially not after the experiences I've had. I look back over at the screen, trying to focus on the words, but we're still standing too far away.
"Athelon and Reblox looked upon this poorly. They preferred to see Braxis as a planet full of simple creatures without consciousness, fit only to serve at the direction the more intelligent beings of Yarda Quadrant. Our peaceful nature was reviled as weakness, even by those who acknowledged us as sentient beings able to make decisions and communicate our will. We were useful only as weapons"
"Approximately a century ago, a brash, aggressive young Bragdon Commando rose through the ranks of our military structure, such as it was at the time, and managed to convince many of his peers that the time for blind subservience had passed. He convinced many in the military that, without our skills and abilities, both Athelon and Reblox were deadlocked with each planet having no clear advantage over the other. This fact made Braxis doubly important.
He began making a number of underhanded contracts with the other two planets to supply them commando forces, assassins, and soldiers as they attempted to gain the upper hand. Several of these operations were run with Iridium Squadron, a fact you likely already know."
"My father."
"Yes. Your father."
Rorjak stopped speaking for a moment, seeming to form the next words he wanted to say in his mind.
"Now, while this brash commando was doing this, he was also working with higher ups in the Braxis political structure to convince them that they needed to act in the best interests of Braxis. He was playing all sides."
"That never ends well."
"Indeed. It was around twenty years ago that they finally had a breakthrough with Project: Celeste. Celeste was the Braxis designation for the main research project that West Swamp Research Station was working on back in those days. The man in charge of West Swamp at the time was a military man by the name of Gragson."
"Gragson?" I ask tilting my head and glaring at Rorjak.
Rorjak nods. "Yes. He was also a main liaison with Iridium Squadron and coordinated many of their operations. Did you know him?"
I think back to the events at the orbital weapons facility that feel like so long ago. I remember the Braxis soldier who rescued me from Athelon and took me there, the soldier who died there.
"I knew of a Gragson, yes. He helped rescue me from Athelon during my first escape attempt. We ended up crash landing on an orbital weapons station and were ambushed by Reblons."
Rorjak looks surprised at this turn of events.
"He died in the battle."
"The Gragson I know has been missing in action for several months," he says, cupping his chin with two long fingers.
"Go on."
Rorjak nods. "Around the same time that Project: Celeste had its break through, that brash Bragdon commando also broke through, landing a leadership role in one of Braxis' largest squadrons. He continued to coordinate Project: Celeste from his new role and in fact saw it through to completion."
"Completion? How was the project completed?"
"You were born."
Though I somehow knew that was the answer, a chill still shoots through my body causing me to wrap my arms around myself. The feeling jolts me as I realize for the first time since coming in here that I'm still in my full Athelonian mode, all four arms and everything.
"As I think you know, they created you out of a synthesis of various genes pulled from each race of the Yarda Quadrant. They implanted the chip in your brain, fueled by a unique battery cell using the limitless quantum field energy found on Braxis as its energy source, figuring that it would never run dry. The doctors were concerned about putting you into action. While they had been able to subliminally train you to resemble an Athelonian, they had been unable to condition you to grow four separate arms."
I look down at the four arms coiled around myself now and close my eyes.
"It was decided to put you in play anyway. You were to replace Jary Northstar's child."
My eyes shoot open and I lift my head. "Replace?"
Rorjak nods slowly. "Of course. Your mother was actually pregnant. There was no way for us to fake that. The long, drawn out gestation period for Athelonian children gave Braxis scientists the idea to try and mirror the birth of her child with the interjection of Project: Celeste. The timing worked out to perfection."
"But the doctor...who delivered me?"
"A Bragdon impostor."
"What happened to the real...the real baby? The real Brie Northstar?" As I say it, the truth hits me like a fist. It knocks the wind out of me, almost forcing me to the ground. Not only am I not really an Athelonian, but I'm not even really Brie Northstar. I'm just some collection of cells and genetic material who was substituted for a child by that name.
"I'm afraid I don't know what happened to her. That's one piece of data we have not been able to uncover. Truthfully, I'm not sure we want to uncover it."
"I feel sick."
"Do you want me to stop?"
I shake my head, trying to ignore the rash of goose flesh racing over the surface of my skin.
"Apparently the original plan for Project: Celeste was for you to gather intel on Athelon during your younger years and secretly deliver it to Braxis. However, they ran into some issues triggering that piece of code. They were content to sit tight and wait for the right time, but they realized when you were preparing to leave for school that they had to make their move or lose their window."
"So they just let me sit there on Athelon for eighteen years?"
"Yes and no. Apparently they were able to dispatch recon teams to gather some information from you. They had some way of putting you in a trance so you could speak with them, at least that's what it says in the report. We haven't found any results or any proof of these claims."
"So what happened in the shuttle?" I ask, as if I even want to know.
"Basically, a team of Bragdon commandos intercepted the shuttle on the way to its destination, attempted to incapacitate the students and crew, and used a special technique to repair your code and signal your 'kill switch'."
"Kill switch? I definitely don't like the sounds of that."
Rorjak draws in a breath and glances over at the computer screens, then back at me.
"From what we can tell, they were going to activate a fail safe in your computer code that was going to program you to kill your parents and reveal yourself as a Reblon double agent."
The words hang for a moment as I try to grasp the impact.
"Creating the last and final necessary division between Reblox on Athelon?"
Rorjak nods.
"Like you said before, mission accomplished, right?"
"Unfortunately, yes. Not the way they'd planned it, but things right now are precisely where they wanted them to be."
"So this brash Bragdon commando was...?"
"Well, he's now a brash Bragdon Commander."
"Wait... Command? That's who you're talking about here?"
Rorjak nods. "He's been the brainchild behind this since day one."
"And he speaks for the entirety of Braxis
?"
"No, he doesn't, but he has enough ears in the Braxis political structure. He's convinced them this is the right play, and for some reason they're going along with it."
"But be assured, child," Nervlox says, stepping closer to Rorjak, who had been doing all of the talking. "There are plenty of us who resist this stance. The Scalebacks are not alone in this. We are a small part of a much larger collective, which grows larger all the time."
"What good is this collective if the majority of the Braxis space fleet is following Command?"
"We just need some time," Nervlox replies.
"Time?" I shout, not meaning to, but shouting anyway. "There is no time. Reblox and Athelon are in full scale galactic warfare. If they keep this up, they will be ripe for the picking before the next harvest!"
"And this is why we need your help," Nervlox says. "We need you to tell your side. Go to Athelon, give them this information, tell them that Braxis has been coordinating this whole thing. Convince them to strike a treaty with Reblox to focus on the true threat."
"What makes you think they'll even listen to me? The last time I was on Athelon, I was being taken to a maximum security prison!"
"Just like Command was feeding stories to Braxis leadership, your father was feeding similar stories to Athelonian leadership. With his death, I believe there will be far more willingness among the council to listen to reason."
"This... this is too much," I stammer. I relax for a brief moment, barely even noticing that my two extra arms are withdrawing and crumpling back within themselves, then pulling into my body. My body as a whole shrinks and draws in, shifting back to Bragdon form. Suddenly, seemingly out of nowhere, this body is where I'm most comfortable.
"Brie, we didn't tell you all of this to make you feel..." Rorjak starts to say, but I hold up a hand.
"Please. Just stop. I need some air, okay? Just a little air."
Turning away from them, away from the screens, and away from the storage device, I push out through the door, and, just like that, I'm in the wilderness again. I'm in a peaceful swamp, outside a peaceful, ramshackle cabin, and just for the briefest moment things feel at least a little more right within my head.
#
As I leave the stifling command center behind, running feels as necessary as drawing my next breath. The long, wet grass clutches at my legs as I run into the thick, wet wind. Rain slams down around me, immediately soaking me and making me realize the foolishness of coming out to the swamps for fresh air. But the important thing is, I'm outside, not inside. I'm out in the open, not penned in by four walls and cornered by the onslaught of information, information that Rorjak warned me I probably didn't want to know, that I demanded to know anyway, and that I'd give anything to now forget.
Angling right, I leave the vague shape of the cabin behind me as I venture out into the trees. Large slabs of foliage created by overhanging leaves and intertwining vines shelter me from the worst of the rain. Leaves and grass are rich with greens and grays as I press through the swamp jungle. My Bragdon form slides between diagonal trunks with ease. The water trickling down my rough, gray skin feels like essential nutrients.
It's the middle of the day, but the sky is dim with clouds and water, and fog starts crawling in through the tall stalks, seeming to consume me as I venture into the trees.
Where am I even going?
I have no clear destination in mind. I just know I want to get far away from that cabin and from that storage device containing all of the information that I never wanted to know. Can I outrun the truth?
No, I can't outrun the truth, but suddenly I feel the desperate urge to try as hard as I can.
Finally slowing to a walk, I step between a pair of trees to let my breathing settle down and to let my racing thoughts slow to a more natural, less frenetic pace.
Nothing that I heard changes what must be done. I need to learn to get past it. Tears sting my eyes as my steps slow to a casual walk. My feet squelch in muck, and my pants are soaked through from the rain and wet grass. Thunder rumbles up above me, though it somehow doesn't bother me any more. After all, I'm not Athelonian. I shouldn't have an innate fear of thunder or lightning, or any weather really. I'm nothing more than a cobbled together collection of genetic material, infused with artificial intelligence, a living computer only serving the programming given to me.
But isn't that true of all beings? Aren't all brains essentially complex computers reacting to their innate programming?
Child of the Stars. Right. That's me. Child of the Stars.
I look down at my palms as I slowly clench my fingers, forcing away some of the cool numbness the rain has brought upon them. Back in Bragdon form, my long, gray-skinned fingers stretch out, then fold in an even rhythmic motion. The world around me settles into a rain spattered darkness and the steady patter of water on leaves.
My eyes close, listening to the even pattern of the falling rain, then I hear something else. Grass touching other grass, indicates the softest fall of a foot in the wet muck. It's nearly silent, but not quite silent enough.
Someone's there.
My eyes snap open and quickly adjust to the dim light. At the glimpse of motion ahead, I drop down into a low crouch. I am innately cautious of my open position out here in the trees. There is definitely something, or someone, moving out there.
A vague figure moves within the thicker trees about twenty yards away. He's moving quietly with knees bent and looks like he might be holding a weapon in two hands. The slope of his spine and narrow shape tell me he's a Bragdon, though I'm too far away to recognize him. Is it one of the Scalebacks?
I glance back over my shoulder towards the cabin, but it's covered by a curtain of recent fog that seems to connect the sky and the ground with a dull gray shroud.
I step over tall grass and out into the trees, easing my way between slanted trunks, and working to avoid rustling the wide leaves sprouting from each narrow stalk. I narrow my eyes, fixing my glare on the sloped figure who moves further from me with every step I take. Shifting left, I work along the perimeter of this section of trees, just at the edge.
Off to my left the shape moves again, ducks slightly, then charges forward, becoming a gray streak of motion. I jerk left and pick up speed, weave between trees, and try to be both careful and quick as I follow him.
The way he's running, I'm afraid he's seen me. It suddenly occurs to me then that a Scaleback wouldn't be quite so nervous about that fact. As I move even faster, I touch my belt and realize I don't have a holster, much less a weapon of any kind. I've violated one of the Scalebacks most serious rules, “Don't leave the bunker without a weapon.”
His shadow is growing smaller, so he is moving away from me. I break into a sprint. Worrying less about the noise of my feet on the grass, I just plow forward, pushing aside trees and barreling through hanging branches. As I enter an open field, I can see the indentations of his footprints slowly filling with water. He must be just beyond the clearing in the thick trees.
When I reach the tree line, I can't see him anymore. My heart slams, my breath catches, and I'm suddenly frantic. Who is it? What is he doing here? He must have seen me, or at least heard me.
I charge headlong into the trees, following a trail of broken branches. I halt for a moment to look back over my shoulder and realize that I'm not entirely sure where I am. The fog continues to settle close to the surface, weaving between tree trunks, clinging to foliage, and wrapping around me as I stand. It's so thick I can feel the drops scattering across my flesh as I swivel to look for any sign of life. All I can see is cloud layers of varying thickness billowing up to block my vision.
Motion to my right has me turning, but too late. The shape is out of the trees and hissing on top of me. I can see the two-handled plasma rifle bobbing against his curved spine right before he knocks me backwards with his shoulder.
Breath shoots from my lungs as my back strikes the ground. I try to roll away, but a fist slams me in the temple. As a seco
nd fist is bearing down on me, I jerk left to let the punch pound the ground just next to my head while I coil my knees and thrust out to kick the mysterious figure off of me. He lurches backwards and catches his balance as I somersault to come up on my feet in a bent-knee stance. He quickly rushes me again.
He is definitely a Bragdon. His dark gray skin is covered by an armored commando tunic with layered sleeves and pants. I barely pull out of the way of another punch. He spins and kicks. I also manage to avoid that one, but only just. I move in, but suddenly a curved blade in his hand slashes out, tearing fabric and skin from my left arm. Muffling a shout, I stumble back, pressing a palm to my fresh wound. He torques his hips to drive another kick into my stomach, bending me over.
I try to recover, but he continues to press the attack. Another series of swift punches has stars bursting in my eyes and my legs shuffling backwards to skip out from under me. As I try to compensate for the change in momentum, my spine strikes a tree behind me, and I fall clumsily into the wet grass.
My body hurts. Screaming muscles mix with cool wetness from the grass underneath and the pounding rain from up above to take all the fight out of me. Dropping down into the grass, I let out a ragged, exhausted breath, a signal of my willingness to give in to the attacker.
Seeing him in full view confirms that he is Bragdon. Upon closer inspection, his skin is even darker gray than I thought. It's a dull black, with ridges of bone just under the skin along his arms and around the crown of his head. It's a species of Bragdon I've never seen before, and one I don't care to see again I decide, as he bends low and narrows his blood red eyes towards me.
When I start to move, he lifts his leg to press a foot hard on my chest, pushing me back down to the ground, while he unslings the plasma rifle from his back and spins it around to point the business end at me.