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

by Adam Peled

  There was no more room for, or expression of, family values. The children were drawn into the belligerence of the street, which lovingly gathered them and gave them the tools necessary to be the next murderers and criminals. Women were abandoned and men walked around like landlords.

  Fear reigned on Falcon. The painful and cruel hands of Bar and Coldor were felt fully. The situation had become totally untenable.

  Bar enjoyed his authority and was happy with the new situation, which empowered him even more. He took the law into his own hands and conducted lynches. After returning so satisfied from eliminating the quintet, Bar appropriated Coldor’s style of dress and also wore a black robe. He always wore gloves, if only out of shame for the loss of three fingers when he lost the three nitrogen bombs. For every bomb that came up missing, one finger had been amputated.

  ***

  “Rumor has it that God gave humans choice, but also maintained an alternate plan in case…” Mattoui didn’t finish.

  “The scrolls,” said Rettoul.

  It was another conversation held among the five to decide their next steps. They’d already spent a month in the belly of the mountain. No one knew of their existence and no one imagined they were still alive. Of all the staff who served Thor, only eight people remained. The rest were killed in Bergin and Coldor’s attacks. Dozens of children, eight staff members, Tamar and the quintet—all trying to adjust to their new life in the depths of the mountain.

  Tamar and Thor did all they could and succeeded in providing the same atmosphere that prevailed previously.

  “It’s not the right time to save the world,” intervened Tamar.

  “Yes, dear.” Mattoui got up to meet her. “We’re here with nothing to do and the only things we have left are debates and discussions. I think that none of us allowed themselves much time for arguments, thoughts, and discussion in the last fifteen years.” He kissed her forehead as a sign to leave them alone.

  ***

  Rettoul lay in bed, sweating and terrified and dreaming of a battle between Coldor and himself. He’s in the large wheat field on Levi, surrounded by Coldor’s men. Coldor and he are fighting each other and neither of them can escape the circle of people. Rettoul hits Coldor hard and he does not react, as if the blows go straight past him. He doesn’t fight—just stands like a punching bag and doesn’t bend, doesn’t hit back, and allows Rettoul spend all his energy while Coldor stands steadfast before him.

  Rettoul shoots Coldor, who falls to the ground. No! He stands up again with a big smile as if to say, “I’m alive despite everything.” Rettoul shoots him again and he falls down—a second passes, two seconds. Coldor stands firm on his feet. Rettoul shoots him; Coldor falls and stands up again…and again…

  Cold sweat soaked the sheet as Rettoul woke up with a shout. For a moment, he didn’t understand where he was and continued to see scenes from his dream. He looked at a disappearing spot in his room and something caught his eye. He didn’t stare, but watched carefully.

  “That must be it!” he stated and stood up abruptly.

  ***

  The place was unsuitable for anyone and certainly not Tula, who chose to visit. Women had never visited the prison compound, let alone the wife of a senior official. Even Coldor and bar had never been there. Yet here was Bergin’s wife, with her companions, standing in front of him and asking to enter.

  “I don’t think it’s worth it,” the prison commander tried to explain.

  “What do you mean, worth it?” Tula smiled at him. “I’d like to see what’s going on inside.”

  “But Madam! The sights, the smells—they’re not for you.”

  “People live here?”

  “Prisoners, yes,” he answered, not understanding what she was getting at.

  “If it’s appropriate for someone to live here, there’s no reason for it to be unsuitable for me to visit briefly.”

  “I think Coldor and Bergin would be very angry.”

  “Angry?” she questioned. “You apparently don’t understand what I’m saying.” She raised her voice slightly, but emphatically. “I am not asking anyone. I demand to enter. Are you going to accompany me?”

  The prison commander realized he couldn’t avoid it and entered before her. A terrible smell of mildew and death pervaded the air. The prison commander took his handkerchief from his pocket and breathed through it.

  “What’s that smell?” She grimaced.

  “The smell of death, Madam,” he said softly, careful not to throw up.

  “What do you mean?”

  He sighed. She certainly was making it difficult. “My men enter the cells once a week. Beyond that, no one goes in or out, except for the person who distributes the food, who is also a prisoner. Many prisoners die and he removes them for burial only when the guards go in.”

  “That means bodies sometimes wait a week to be buried?” she said, amazed.

  The prison commander nodded.

  The ladies accompanying her and the wardens vomited. Tula released them. “I will make do with the prison commander. You can wait for us outside.”

  Her companions scurried away as fast as they could. “I want you to open all the doors now!” she demanded.

  “I cannot!”

  The look she gave him left no doubts. The cell doors were opened one after another. Filthy and exhausted prisoners lay in each cell, every one more miserable than the last. They didn’t even have the strength to lift their heads. The shackles were superfluous—no one could escape.

  “Leave the cells open,” she insisted.

  “But… Madam, I’ve already risked a lot just being here.”

  “I’m not used to being angry, and certainly not used to threatening anyone, but you’ll do exactly what I require from you…or you will be unable to do anything.”

  ***

  Down the hall another cell door opened. The occupant, wearing a filthy robe whose color could barely be discerned, turned his back to them and prayed fervently. Something about him caught her attention—he wasn’t bent over like the others, and he didn’t turn his gaze toward the door. His whole being was lost in prayer. Tula came in and stood by him, hypnotized. He suddenly turned, looked at her, and said softly, “Ronnie.”

  Tula froze. She looked at him again and ran out. The prison commander ran after her, leaving the cell doors wide open.

  “Who is that man?” she demanded, hurrying away.

  “A priest, probably particularly important.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “This is the priest who’s to marry Zoron.”

  “What?” She was shocked. “Then what is he doing in jail?”

  “I don’t know. I was instructed to keep him alive and sane.”

  Tula looked past him. “No one must know I was here. Is that clear?”

  The prison commander nodded, happy to see her leaving.

  ***

  “That must be it,” Rettoul kept saying over and over to his friends, who hadn’t yet woken up. He went from room to room and woke them. When they congregated together, he explained. “Once we thought he was dead in the living room. The second time we found him in the belly of the earth. And who knows? Maybe there was even a third time.”

  “What does that mean? dedi’s alive?” asked Zoi.

  “I don’t know for sure, but there’s a high probability that the answer is yes. Otherwise, why would he plant doubles in his place ahead of time to be targets? He must be protecting something more important to him than his life.”

  “The third part!” said Mattoui.

  “What’s this nonsense?” Thor didn’t understand.

  “You don’t get it. The third part of the scroll was always intended for a person who hadn’t been born yet. That’s why dedi made doubles. He was afraid someone would kill him and he wouldn’t be able to pass on the third part,” said Mattoui as if enjoying an enlightenment.

  “But we didn’t find any part of the scroll on Brisker,” Zoi said softly.

&nbs
p; Rettoul looked at all of them and quietly replied, “We couldn’t find the third part, but we discovered who has it.”

  Zoi and Berez looked at each other and said together out loud: “The children!”

  Chapter 17: The Wedding

  “Will pardons be granted this year, too?” Tula asked Bergin as he came out of the shower, pink from the hot steam.

  “What pardons?” He kept drying himself thoroughly.

  “Like when we got married.” She smiled sweetly. “Your father pardoned many prisoners. Remember? There was great joy. Your father wanted as many people as possible to rejoice with us, and many prisoners were pardoned. Do you remember or not?” She made a supreme effort for him not to realize what she was getting at.

  “What’s the connection? It was different when we got married. Now it’s something else!”

  “Yes, but I’d be happy if as many people as possible could rejoice with us when Coldor’s son weds.”

  “Nonsense!” he said, dismissing it out of hand. “As I remember our prisoners, they belong exactly where they are. I don’t think anyone should be pardoned.”

  “Come on, darling. You’re so hard on yourself, and on others. I have no doubt that some would even give their lives for you in exchange for a pardon, especially on the day of our celebration.”

  “I don’t want anyone’s life!” he retorted angrily. “If I wanted to—you know, it would happen. I’m not giving away free gifts.”

  Tula looked away and lapsed into a vanishing point in the room. Bergin didn’t sense her sadness. He sat mechanically on the edge of the bed, ready to get into bed and fall asleep. He suddenly noticed she was light years away.

  “What’s happened, my dear? What do you really want?” he asked, stroking her back.

  “I think there are people who deserve a second chance. And moreover, dear, the war’s now over. Many people don’t know you as we know you—that you’re full of goodness, that you can be tender. One just has to get to it. Many people in the galaxy think you’re heartless, that you’re cruel and evil. Perhaps such a deed will change opinions about you, even if only a little.”

  “I don’t know, Tula, if I want to change the image. But let’s talk about it in the morning. I’ve had a particularly long day. I promise, we’ll talk about it again at breakfast.”

  Tula was silent. She was afraid Bergin might discover her innermost thoughts, and yet couldn’t keep quiet anymore.

  ***

  “I think we should wait for the morning, when they wake up.”

  “What do you mean?” Rettoul replied. “I’m too tired of wars and struggles to wait for anything. Especially when the answer is right here.”

  “Yes, but they’re just little kids. I don’t think we should wake them,” continued Berez, protecting the two children who slept soundly and had no idea of what was taking place above their beds.

  “You can wait as long as you want, Berez,” Zoi said. “We need to do our job.”

  “Start with their belongings,” said Mattoui. “Zoi, take their backpack outside and check.”

  The backpack thrown in the corner of the small room hadn’t attracted any attention so far. It was a regular light brown hiking backpack decorated with safari animals—a giraffe, an elephant, monkeys.

  Rettoul and Mattoui followed him out. When Zoi emptied the backpack, he found a cloth napkin with old food stains, newspaper clippings of small pets that the children had collected, white soap that was almost used up, several small paint brushes, and a small pencil case with crayons and a notebook.

  “Give me the notebook,” Rettoul said and nervously flipped through the pages.

  “I searched the entire galaxy to find the other parts of the scroll, and now I might miss them because of my impatience. What do you say, Mattoui—are we close or not?”

  “I think so, Rettoul.”

  “I also think so,” said Zoi.

  Mattoui took the notebook and flipped through it more carefully. His nervousness and impatience were also clear. Rettoul turned the bag inside out and shook it. Apart from some food crumbs, a chewed pencil, and scraps of paper, nothing fell out. They returned to the nursery.

  “I never thought it would be so hard to wake up two small children,” Rettoul said, smiling. “You see, searching the galaxy… Well, that’s a breeze. Using the most violent weapons—no problem. But to wake two small children who most probably hold the key to our struggle and to the solution we’ve been seeking for so long—that’s impossible!”

  Everyone was smiling. “We’ll wait. What can we do? Otherwise we might even have to get involved with Berez, and that’s really too much for any of us.” Rettoul smiled broadly.

  A triumphant look spread over Berez’ face.

  “Why are you smiling?” Zoi teased. “So, when do they usually get up?”

  “What?” Berez was surprised. “What do I have to do with when they get up?”

  “What do you mean? You were the babysitter for Thor’s children, and as far as I know, you know a thing or two about time. So when do they get up?” Zoi insisted.

  “Whew!” Berez sighed. “When you want to be difficult, nothing will stop you, right? They usually get up at eight thirty. The boy gets up before the girl, but she wakes up right after him.”

  While the group was waiting, Berez entertained them with a sketch he’d drawing for each of them. They’d recently discovered how he connected to children at the most basic level, where he connected to everyone: deep inside, at a place reserved for a select few.

  “In the meantime, let’s try to move forward without the kids,” said Rettoul. “By the way, what are their names?”

  Berez shrugged.

  “I don’t believe it,” Thor said. “You don’t know?”

  “Come on, there’s hundreds of children here,” Berez explained. “How can I remember what they’re all called?”

  “I don’t care about their names right now,” Rettoul said seriously. “I want to look at the scroll again. Mattoui, bring me the second part.”

  Mattoui carefully removed the piece of the scroll from his pocket and respectfully gave it to Rettoul, who placed it in front of himself. This was the first time they all had looked at the pieces. The small paintings were vibrant and fascinating, and they examined it with great interest.

  “These paintings are very similar to those painted for me by the children,” said Berez, not thinking about what he said.

  “What?”

  “What did you say?” Rettoul asked.

  Berez tensed. “What did I say?” He didn’t understand what all the fuss was about.

  “What did you say about these paintings?” Mattoui repeated.

  “The kids—they painted me a picture the other day. It’s very similar to the piece of scroll Mattoui just removed,” said Berez cautiously.

  “Where exactly are these paintings?” Rettoul questioned.

  “They’re in my room.”

  “I want to see them!” Rettoul demanded. “Let’s all go to your room.”

  They walked quickly and in uncomfortable silence, each lost in his own thoughts, which were identical to those of the others.

  ***

  Tula’s appearance was completely opposite from the prison cell before her. She was very pale and beautiful, as only pure people can be. Her eyes shone and her lips were red, as if daubed with a royal color. A thin dress covered her like a light scarf, over which was a heavy, elegant cloak. She was a bright spot in a foul gray space that hadn’t seen the light of day since its construction. The heavy doors and echoes of the shouts around further increased the alienation and differences between the erect woman and the prisoner.

  “How did you know Ronnie?”

  David ignored her question. “I’m glad you only inherited your eyes from your father. You’re as beautiful as your mother.”

  Tula tensed. “Did you know my mother?” she asked, tears in her eyes.

  “I knew your father and your mother. I married them, and I acc
ompanied your mother for several years, even during your birth.”

  “Tell me more,” she begged.

  “I have much to tell you. Your mother was a very special person. There aren’t others like her.”

  There was a long silence. Tula knew she wouldn’t hear more than he wanted to tell, and now wanted him free even more—and quickly. “I talked to my husband and asked him to pardon you.”

  “Your husband? Who is he?”

  “My husband, Bergin.”

  “I’m sorry for you, my dear.” She said nothing, but he continued. “If your mother knew that someday you would marry such a person, I think she would have done everything to save you and her, and even the entire galaxy, from this wedding.”

  She didn’t respond.

  “I hope you’re happy, although I can see you’re sad.” Tula was silent, in pain, as David spoke. “Soon it will be your festive day. Coldor’s son is getting married and you should be happy. You shouldn’t be here. This place sours the atmosphere.”

  “Tell me more, please, about my mother.”

  “There’s so much to tell about your mother, I don’t know where to start.”

  “Tell me everything. I miss her so,” she begged with tears in her eyes.

  And so David started Ronnie’s story:

  Your mother was the most beautiful woman. Her beauty was internal, but no less external. Her eyes were green, as if sampling the green on the banks of the river. Deep green but clean, huge doe eyes with impressive eyelashes.

  Ronnie’s shock of orange hair looked like a burning torch in any kind of light. Her bountiful hair amazed everyone who looked at her—full and shiny, falling softly on her neck like a silk scarf.

  Her face was white and smooth, as if someone had carved it in marble, and had no freckles or cuts. Legend had it that there were no tears on Ronnie’s cheeks because they slipped off her face so quickly that sadness found no place.

  Her neck was long, like a swan’s, her head held high and noble. And most importantly, Tula dear, she had a smile that gave everyone strength. It was enough to receive a good morning smile to have strength for a whole day; it was enough to receive a smile for a safe journey for the fighters to return home safely. Your mother was known for her smile and her welcome. Strangers would pass her on the street just to see her smile and receive her greetings so they could get through the bumps of life more easily. There were times when I would laugh with Ronnie and tell her she could make a lot of money with her smile, for there was no question that people would pay for it, but she’d only smile at me with humility and say, “David, one distributes gifts—there’s no fee for them.”