The 13th Star: An Action Adventure Sci-F Apocalyptic Novel

by Adam Peled

  The instructor meant every word. But friendships had already formed and some protected their friends. Some groups couldn’t identify a scapegoat. No one knew if they would be the next victim. The trainer proved he meant what he said. He looked at four cadets with his far-set eyes, trussed them, grabbed one of them and beat him ferociously. At the end of the session, the hapless cadet was taken by his friends to the clinic. Everyone heard his moans and cries. Overcome by fear, they changed their thinking and became real killers.

  A week was enough to destroy most of them. Thirty-two started out. Nineteen failed, their bodies collapsing. The remaining 13 didn’t speak to each other. The silence surrounding them was the result of fear—not only of blows, but also of themselves. They realized they’d lost something that was never to return. But they had no choice; it was a struggle for survival. No one cared if they stayed the course or not. Their only concern was how to stay alive.

  In the many silences, and with his smile lost, Rettoul wondered whether his wise mother had been wrong. Did she know what she was sending him to? He only had one consolation—Mattoui, his friend. Neither one were able to keep his promise that first night at the end of the Mayjing lesson. Everyone dragged themselves to their rooms, shocked and injured. Both Rettoul and Mattoui forgot the Sinta, but not the smile and familiarity of a few hours earlier. Mattoui was the first to stumble to Rettoul’s room and dress Rettoul’s wounds—when he himself could barely see through his swollen eyelids. Rettoul appreciated the deed and knew they no longer needed to smoke Sinta together—they would remain together if they just survived the day, as he’d said at midday.

  In the following lessons, their eyes spoke more than anything to each other. They tried to be in the same group, if only to protect each other. Once during that long week, Rettoul was the cadet being beaten. Mattoui couldn’t hit him and Rettoul, knowing it could cost his friend his life should the instructor notice he was frozen, struck Mattoui so that he’d fight back. Indeed, the act saved Rettoul. The other members of the group, not used to the beaten one responding, were surprised, and their blows became child’s play. Rettoul rained down on the group punches that were far more fierce than those they were able to return.

  That evening, Rettoul told Mattoui, “I’m your friend, a true friend. I don’t want them to hurt you. If we ever find ourselves in a similar situation, I demand you hit me back. They could have killed you, and I’m not willing to lose the only friend I have because he’s too emotional.”

  Mattoui swallowed hard, his eyes filling with tears. “Maybe we made a mistake coming here. I’m so glad I met you. You give me so much strength—you’ve no idea how much! But I’m starting to break down. I’m not sure I really want to finish this week, you know, Rettoul? There are times I just want to go home to my mother and father and stop suffering through this experience. You’re the only bright spot here.”

  “You’re also practically my only bright spot here, but the second high point will be the end of this week. There’s an end. Some cadets were able to complete this week, and you and I are going to be like them. Maybe we’ll get bruised, but we’ll get out of here alive—and walking. I don’t want you to be broken. We’ve survived four days and only have three more, so we can’t be beaten now. If you’re my friend and I am dear to you, do it so both of us finish this week. Okay?”

  The other nights, when they came back from the hard workout, they sat with ice packs on their aching muscles, rubbing medication into the open wounds—both old and new—and laughing, telling jokes, and discovering a little more about each other’s world. Rettoul longed for Benaya, and Mattoui confessed that his mother was also the most important person in his life…although he really would like to find one who would write him love letters and wait for him.

  The connection between the two was the only thing that saved them from committing suicide. The silence enveloping the rest of the cadets, who were afraid of falling into the hands of their friends, wasn’t a prison for Rettoul and Mattoui. They waited eagerly for the regular evening ceremony. Barely able to breathe because of the pain, they survived and smiled not only at one another, but at the entire world. The long week ended and they were the outstanding graduates. The course commanders didn’t know which of them was better, and both were thrilled to have their requests realized—Rettoul and Mattoui were to be combat pilots of the most modern vehicle in the galaxy: the Sun Arrow. They got what they wanted, joining the ten other galactic pilots who enjoyed the tremendous honor.

  They two friends also excelled in their education, and now only the final instruction remained—physical training, techniques, and operational capability. The camp staff ordered the cadets to go out and enjoy themselves. Every student had recreation money and two options: visiting with the girls from Rahav, who were ready for them, or visiting the Norton Den—the officers’ club, which included important generals.

  Rettoul, Mattoui, and their friends chose the den. A Road Star, a small elliptical hovercraft, dropped the five at the entrance. Anyone observing the group for the first time wouldn’t be able to ignore them.

  But It's wasn’t the first time that Zoi was in the club he knew that although he hadn’t chosen to visit the girls of Rahav, he’d be able to find one of them here. His tight shirt showed off his sculpted chest, his tight pants highlighted other body parts, and his attitude declared he was the king of the world. He descended lightly from the vehicle and waited for his friends.

  Mattoui blinked at the flickering colored lights at the entrance. He wore a low-cut, wide-shouldered shirt, like a dancer’s outfit, with baggy pants and sandals. Rettoul wore the same clothes from the school graduation ceremony—a black shirt and blue pants. Benaya had always insisted on ironing them, but now he felt a little embarrassed to be wearing them without bothering with the iron.

  Thor was the fourth cadet in the gang, and almost the biggest—extremely broad and nearly six feet tall. His face was square, as if someone had used a ruler before his birth and determined its sharp angles. A little reddish beard divided his face in half, the upper half including blazing green eyes and spiky, rebellious hair that wouldn’t comply regardless of any preparation or brush. At home, his parents had to order his clothes specially to fit his irregular size. In the camp, military-style clothes were found for him without difficulty. When he wanted to go out with his friends, though, and found his body had grown out of his old clothes, he could only find a black tank top that stretched over his body, further emphasizing his stature.

  Thor, who’d barely left the Road Star, stretched with a roar that wouldn’t have shamed the king of lions. He seemed to be in a perpetual low-level state of suffering due to having lost his father while in the course and not being allowed to visit his mother and brothers. Aside from that, though, he was the most entertaining member of the gang. Zoi was his good friend, and the only one who could understand him just from glancing at him. Zoi and Thor had a special language between them. Those listening didn’t always know if they said certain words in ridicule, or as part of their special dark humor.

  As an example, despite the profound distance between the crew and the cadets, and the great fear of the unknown, Thor had invented a nickname for each crewmember—not necessarily flattering—as if they were deaf and couldn’t hear him and punish him for it. His jocularity enlivened the cadets’ spirits. Not everyone liked his behavior, but they all admitted that without his witty remarks, training would have been more difficult.

  The last to leave the vehicle was “Berez the Terrible,” who was even bigger than Thor. His face was hard, and generally whoever he met by chance on the street would fearfully cross to the other side.

  Rumor had it that his magnificent muscles weren’t the result of weight lifting and fitness training, but that he was a talented melee fighter, only losing his high standing in the competitions when he beat his opponent to death. The dead opponent was declared the winner because killing was forbidden, and Berez only won the style competition. Throughout th
e galaxy it was known that melee fighters were born killers, and indeed, Berez’ green-eyed face bore the look of a lifelong killer who would stop at nothing to get what he wanted.

  In the Mayjing lessons, everyone was afraid to hit him. No one understood why nobody had died at his hands. Berez the Terrible knew he could easily kill another cadet on any day—maybe even the instructor—but the fear of losing control was so great that he didn’t even apply a tenth of his abilities.

  During conversations in his room, his friends found it funny to watch him become a great lump of sensitivity. It was even more amusing to imagine him with the one woman he loved, whose picture hung permanently in his closet. His huge dimensions and virile blonde hair recklessly tied in a ponytail didn’t portray his sensitivity and vulnerability.

  But those who knew him well understood that Berez the Terrible, who lost his father a few years earlier, had undergone a transformation, changing him from having a strong desire to kill to someone with a passion for life. His eyes spit fire, and one of the cadets said that he didn’t need to use his hands to kill—it was enough for him to gaze for a while at a particular point to set it ablaze, like a laser beam.

  Still, Berez the Terrible took another role upon himself that was no less surprising than his appearance—he was the students’ unofficial spokesman. His insightful comments and words of wisdom left everyone stunned, not knowing how to react.

  The five stood at the entrance to the club as two large men were kicked out. They seemed completely drunk, a long moment passing until they managed to roll over and sit up on the pavement. Zoi, familiar with the ways of clubs on his planet, told his friends that he was king of the clubs and opened the door like a landlord entering his home. The wooden door slammed hard against the opposite wall and swung back to hit him in his face.

  “The spring’s no good!” he told his friends very seriously.

  Inside, the music was loud in the smoky place. Military personnel sat at tables, including smiling Rahavic girls. The five headed toward a table side, Mattoui not waiting until everyone was seated and asking what they wanted to order.

  Someone behind him said loudly, “Whatever the gorilla in the middle drinks.”

  The quintet looked at the huge man, half his head shaved and a Rahavic girl—with a remarkable bosom and long legs—sitting on his lap. The man tensed when he noticed their stares. He threw the girl off his lap and leaped up, his chair falling over backward. In an instant, the band stopped playing.

  “When do your mamas show up to feed you their milk?” he shouted as he walked toward them. The tension in the air increased as he advanced on Mattoui, grabbed his bare shoulder with a strong hand, and prepared to punch him in the face.

  Mattoui surprised him by swinging first. The brute’s friends were on their feet, closing in on him from all sides. No one in the club knew who the five young men were, but the little band of warriors went to war as only they knew how. Slashing Rolls were pulled out with grinding noises as the giant with the half-shaved head sent a Jorash that strangled Mattoui. Rettoul cut the Jorash with his Roll and hit it mercilessly.

  Suddenly, there was a loud shout: “Enough!”

  Everyone stopped. Mattoui’s attacker stroked the dead Jorash and began to sob as if it were his only son.

  The five didn’t know whether to be happy or sad. Their abilities were impressive, but the fight reminded them of the painful days of Mayjing. They silently entered the Road Star waiting for them. Along the way, they stopped and took turns engraving their unit’s symbol on their shoulders—an electrified black cat with bat wings.

  No one would mistake them again. Rettoul’s description quickly became well-known throughout the households in the area as the warrior who defeated Coldor’s son. Legends began to be spun about Rettoul—no one knew where he came from or where he went with his friends.

  ***

  The next morning started nervously for the students, who had the end of the course in sight. Rettoul was tense, like his friends. Tonight, he hoped, it would end. He’d anticipated a release of pressure the night before, but now the club events added to the weight on his mind. His friends felt the same.

  The chief of staff sat on the VIP platform next to the honorable Coldor. This ceremony was held every two years, and the chief of staff himself had stood on the asphalt opposite the same platform over three decades ago as a graduate. He made a point to get to the ceremonies in recent years since he received decorations for honor and bravery.

  The sun burned down and the graduates were jittery. Only the top three would be chosen, and everyone wanted to be one of them. The emotional stress was so great that silence stretched out. Each graduate locked himself in his place and his soul. The battles would set their personal ranking by pitting one against another, and then one against a pair—the same format for each battle—until there was only one winner.

  Rettoul beat his opponent and went into battle against the first pair. There, too, he was the winner. He continued to the next round, matched against another cadet who beat a sole opponent and then a pair. Rettoul won a third time. Thus it continued for 39 rounds…

  Finally only the last bout remained between the two students who’d won 39 fights: Mattoui and Rettoul. Both were exhausted. It was not a battle for supremacy, but the match had to be survived in order to conclude the day. Rettoul smiled at Mattoui and he returned a smile of friendship. It was as if they both agreed it would be all right.

  “We’re friends,” Mattoui whispered. “So I wish you luck.”

  The other cadets watched the bout in silence, everyone knowing that the two were good friends. The instruction team gazed at them in appreciation—these were the best students they’d had in years. It seemed as if no one in the stadium was breathing.

  Rettoul straightened his protective clothing, which was torn from the earlier fights. They now fit quite loosely. “Everything will be fine,” he said to himself.

  The battle commenced with strong blows. The crowd could sense the two were tired and just wanted to finish the fight quickly. Rettoul avoided Mattoui, but his chest protector opened, allowing Mattoui’s Jorash to attack his bare chest. The quiet intensified; Rettoul had been stung in the past. Everyone knew that if he were stung a second time, he’d die.

  Mattoui retreated, shocked that he’d injured his good friend.

  Rettoul touched his chest cautiously and stood. With him stood the entire audience as Mattoui’s Jorash fell to the ground. He picked up the dead Jorash quickly, shoving it up his sleeve and forcing a smile.

  “My Jorash didn’t touch you at all!” he shouted for all to hear. “It just looked like it did. I’m glad you’re okay.” Mattoui knew he’d lost the bout, but realized something more important just happened before his eyes.

  Rettoul felt the sting of the Jorash and then realized it hadn’t affected him. He recalled Benaya’s words: “The scar was the result of a game with a Roll toy, and nothing else. Anyone who asks, anyone who investigates—that’s the answer. There’s no other!”

  Mattoui, Rettoul understood, served as a messenger for him.

  The battles were over. There was a winner. While there were outstanding cadets, one student transcended all. The distinguished guests, as well as the staff, descended from the platform to shake hands with all the fighters and especially to congratulate Rettoul, who had demonstrated impressive combat abilities.

  The chief of staff and Coldor moved from one warrior to the next, shaking hands and asking their name and where they came from.

  “Did you have a background in martial arts before you came here?” Coldor asked Rettoul.

  “No, sir.”

  “You fought like a veteran fighter. I leave you with the possibility of returning to command Kantara whenever you want.”

  This conversation with Coldor was the last thing Rettoul wanted right now. He didn’t want Coldor to see his forehead and kept his eyes on the ground. “Thank you, sir, but I want to see my mother first.”

 
“Very few people reject me.”

  “I know, sir,” said Rettoul, forced to raise his face respectfully.

  Coldor froze, his eyes narrowing and then widening, as if struck by lightning. His vision focused on the scar on Rettoul’s forehead, carefully examining it. He’d seen that scar once 20 years ago and had feared it since then.

  “Whose son are you?”

  “Benaya’s son, from Falcon.”

  “And that scar on your face. Where does it come from?” Coldor asked hesitantly.

  “I was injured during a game of Roll toy,” replied Rettoul quickly and confidently. He’d practiced this sentence for a long time.

  “You remind me of myself,” said Coldor, adding, “Sometimes I’m scared of myself.”

  ***

  The end of the Kantaran training brought much sadness and some hope for those who completed it. The teams were dismantled and reassembled in different configurations as veteran teams, which were subsequently sent on their own galactic missions. The strenuous training program had fostered strong friendships among the combatants, and many mourned this parting even more than the initial separation from their parents.

  The galaxy was in turmoil from war and terrorism and the fighters set off without delay. Five years of galactic housecleaning had begun with rebelling against Bergin’s rule. His elite units had tried to trace the rebels’ leader, Dot—also previously a cadet on Kantara and a student of Coldor and Bar. Over the years, Dot came to believe—or decided, for subjective reasons—that the other side was more suitable and defected to lead the Great Revolt.

  Moran, where the rebel bases were concentrated, was the center of fighting. From nearby planets one could, at times, see explosions and the pillars of smoke from its constant destruction, which affected the entire galaxy.

  Most of the rebels hadn’t been trained in combat, but hatred was their motivation to prove to the entire galaxy that they could fight despite the lack of training and inferior weapons. They didn’t shy away from any method of warfare.