The Aeolian Master Book One Revival

by John Northern

  The hall was long and wide with Vitalites set into the ceiling Illuminating and casting soft shadows from the seven men and one woman as they traversed the hard, cold floor. The uneasy echoes from their footfalls rebounded from the walls and reverberated into the distance until the sound was gone and replaced by the next set of echoes. The echoing was like a voice enticing them further into the bowels of the building.

  Sam, smoking a cigar and leading the pack, kept slowing his pace so he wouldn't get too far ahead. Thinking about the night he was captured, he started cursing the unknown rat, one of Hurd's spies, who had informed on their rendezvous. He was wishing he could find out who he was, then get his hands on him and rip off his head. He'd like to stuff it down Hurd's throat.

  The three men just behind Sam were spread out and obviously in no hurry as they walked along, almost skulking, like their shadows sliding across the floor. A somber mood prevailed and the atmosphere was uneasy as they moved toward an unseen, but known destination. Fatal danger awaited.

  Immediately behind the three men was Dahms, a woman with short blond hair that fell to an inch above her shoulders, a tall athletic body, and a seemly face, although without expression. She walked with purpose, and unlike the others she walked easily and with confidence. She had no fear, and no gloominess about her. She was wearing leather shorts and a leather top with boots on her feet. Because of her attitude, an objective observer could have predicted she was getting ready to go on a nice, peaceful hike in the mountains, except, of course, for the sword she was wearing on her left hip and the dagger she had strapped to her right calf.

  Behind her ambled three more men, scattered in various positions and walking with an attitude of resignation. No one cared to be friendly, and talking was virtually absent, except for the occasional chatter from the three men in the front, and Gaal, who was walking behind Dahms, next to Perry Higley.

  Suddenly, Harold, the man just behind Sam, took the cigar (a last request granted by Hurd) out of his mouth, ground it into the palm of his hand, and threw it on the floor.

  Hal looked at him with a wry face. "By all the heavens, what the hell did ya do that for? It musta hurt like a bitch."

  Harold looked at his palm. There was a large red circle with blisters starting to form around the edge and black ash molded into the center. "I wanted to make sure I was awake. And what differences does it make? We're all gonna be dead by sundown."

  Harold had been a rebel. In fact the entire group now traversing the hallway, including the woman, had been rebels. There were no criminals in their midst. The city council rarely sent criminals to the Run, instead they sent them to the city prison. As for the rebels, they never went to the prison, instead they always got a choice of the Run or the pits—death either way; except the Run was faster.

  Harold had believed in the cause of the rebels and believed that their plan to fight for a better place to live was not only just, but righteous. Hurd, the leader of the city council, had virtually eliminated the middle class, with the exception of the police. And the only reason the police still had a good life was that the council needed to keep them happy in order to keep the majority of the population under control. The social structure now included only a few of the extremely wealthy—the city council and a few others, with the police in between, and on the other side were the masses of the lower income and the very poor. Most of the people were living on semi-starvation wages with no chance of ever digging themselves out of debt and certainly no thought of ever having even a modest life. The essentials of living were hard to come by. What was considered to be good food was seldom seen. And the only reason cheap clothing of adequate design was more accessible was because of the clothing factory within the city walls.

  Harold, a middle aged man, had known of the rebel underground for several years, but had delayed in joining them, not only because of the danger, but also because of what he thought was rationality. Hope kept him thinking that Hurd and the council would come to their senses, would become humanitarian and would start helping the people. But it never happened, and finally he realized it wasn't going to happen. Hurd got greedier, and the more he got the more he wanted. Harold laughed out loud. So loud that the sound echoed down the hall. And although the others looked at him, they didn't ask him why. He was thinking about the irony of it all. Two weeks after he joined the underground he, the two men on either side of him, and the woman behind him were caught in a raid in one of the underground arsenals. His life was over and there was nothing he could do about it. And the bottom line was, he didn't care, it wasn't his life he was worried about.

  Jos moved closer and put his hand on Harold's shoulder as they continued to walk along the hallway. He was breathing heavily, but not from the long walk. The air of frustration crept over all of them. "I'm sorry I got you into this," he said, and then he added, "but at least we'll go out fighting."

  "Don't take on any guilt because of me," growled Harold. "I'm man enough to make my own decisions in life. And as far as the fighting goes, it'll be a futile fight with death in the end for all of us." He paused briefly. "Only when someone takes it to Hurd and the other council members will it all have meaning."

  Jos took his hand off Harold's shoulder, bent his head, and didn't say anything more.

  Harold had been Jos' best friend since they were kids. They had grown up together. They had been the best man at each other's weddings. And they both had jobs in the clothing factory. Life was hard, but at least it was life. Two weeks and two days ago after a lot of pleading and goading from Jos, Harold had finally joined the underground. And now, with no way out of it, they were both going to their doom.

  Despite what the others thought, Harold wasn't worried so much about himself as he was about his wife, Julene and their three kids, Nathan five years old, Jason, four, and Abby, two. How would she be able to eek out enough money for the bare essentials? With him dead and in the grave it would be a desperate situation for his family. Maybe she could get a job at the clothing factory, but then who would watch the kids? Maybe Hal's wife, Ailene, . . . but she'd be in the same predicament. Maybe they could live together with one working and the other watching the kids, . . . but then there wouldn't be enough money to feed everyone. With all the kids and the economy the way it was they would never find another husband. Maybe . . . maybe this and maybe that. Harold knew it didn't look good and the only way out was an overthrow of the city council.

  Harold balled up his right hand into a fist and banged it into his left palm breaking the newly formed blisters. They popped and fluid oozed out and onto the knuckles of his right hand. It was painful, but he didn't care. Through his stupidity he had gotten his family into a worse situation than before.

  "Hey Harold," said Gaal, "it's not going to do any good to beat yourself up. There will be plenty of monsters out there who will do it for you." He paused, but Harold didn't answer so Gaal continued. "Save your energy and strength for the run."

  Gaal Leibman, who was not only the most outgoing of the bunch (with the exception of Rennie), but also the tallest at six foot four, was striding alongside Perry Higley, and towering over him like a gargantuan from the planet Micon. Since Harold wasn't going to be conversive, Gaal walked a little faster, caught up to Sam, and leaned down toward his ear. "I know for a fact that this is only the second time a woman has ever chosen the run over the pits," he said softly. “And there’s something about her that no one knows, at least no one in this group.”

  Sam didn't answer, as he wasn't feeling very talkative at the moment. He turned his head slightly to the left, as he had done several times before in order to check out the Captain of the guard and the other two who were following about twenty paces behind. Through his peripheral vision he could see the raised phasors. Probably set on short-time stun, he thought. They wouldn’t want to cheat Hurd out of his pleasure.

  Gaal looked at the ceiling. "Well since no one wants to talk I guess it's just you and me God." He paused and then asked,
"What shall we talk about?"

  Rennie, the man behind Jos, let out a laugh. "That's a good one," he said. Rennie was the jubilant joker of the bunch, and it surprised Sam that he had been quiet for such a long time—all the way down the hall. For the eight days that Rennie had been jailed with Sam, he had been telling jokes and laughing the entire time. His chatter had been non-stop.

  "I'm sure God gives a shit," quipped Rennie. "That's why he let us get ourselves into this mess—a big doo-doo mess."

  A few of the others laughed.

  "And besides, by the end of the day you won't have to talk to the ceiling—you can talk to him in person." Rennie let out a whoop and burst into raucous laughter. It was more the way he laughed than what he said that made the others follow suit.

  Sam and Dahms were the only ones who remained unaffected by the laughter. Dahms' stoic manner and mask of confidence continued as she strode down the long hall thinking about the pain that the city council, and especially Hurd, had brought to her life.

  Dahms came from a small family. All she had was her mother and father. Her grandparents had died when she was very young, and she had no brothers or sisters.

  Hurd was just coming into power when Dahms turned fourteen, and he was throwing his weight in all directions. With his bullying attitude he was able to take control of the voting majority of the council. The mayor became his puppet, and the city police did his bidding. She never did understand how he rose so fast, perhaps he had some outside help, or perhaps he was paying off the right people with money he made from crooked marketeering.

  By the time Dahms was eighteen her father anticipated the tyrannical takeover by Hurd. So, he started selling his assets in order to amass a large amount of money to move his family off the planet. His business was the first asset he sold. It was a company that built fliers (another term for magnetic drive automobiles, which cruised three feet off the ground, but could go as high as a mile). Then he sold all his personal fliers and all the furniture and anything of value, such as paintings by famous painters, and his collection of rare books. He decided he would take nothing with them except some clothing and all the money he could acquire. He and her mother had decided to move to the planet Cyton. And everything was in readiness. Most of the money had been transferred to a Cyton bank. The house was still for sale, but he decided it was time to leave. They would let a realty company sell it, and they could send him the money, minus their commission, of course. They were waiting in the spaceport, and it was just ten minutes before they would embark when Hurd’s guards arrived and arrested them.

  He had them put into a holding cell on trumped up charges of espionage. They were tried in mock courts and thrown into prison. The city, which was under Hurd's control, was able to confiscate what money hadn’t been transferred and their few belongings, and their house. Dahms found out later that Hurd was furious that most of the money was gone. Still drawing interest, she thought. It was still in the Cyton bank, and she had used none of it. The money belonged to her parents and as long as they were alive she wouldn’t touch it.

  That was seven years ago and Dahms' parents were still in prison. She did what she could to help them—bribing guards and getting them extra food, but it wasn’t enough. She had to get them out. She knew they wouldn't survive much longer being caged like rats and living under terrible conditions.

  Because of her position in the legal department, Dahms was able to meet a very influential man—a man of high status in the city. She had gotten to know him well enough to trust and confide in, and together they formed the underground. They started smuggling in arms and started training recruits.

  They had been ready to attack for three years, but the tower, which Hurd had built, and the scents, which could be released on a moments notice, were an impenetrable foe. They were still working on overcoming these obstacles. They were sure that eventually they would accomplish their goal. And Dahms hoped, for the sake of the people and for the sake of her parents, that it would be soon.

  She and the others came to a halt as they rounded a corner. They could see the end of the hall about thirty meters in the distance.

  Rennie slapped his thigh and said, "Look, boys, not much further now. A runner's paradise with a tropical setting and little beasts to feed upon. We can slaughter a wild pig to eat. Hey, we could even invite Hurd down from his tower to join us." He paused and with a mock frown said, "Oh no, we couldn't do that. He and the pig are probably first cousins." He and Gaal let out a hoot, but the rest of them just chuckled a little. It wasn't as funny anymore, especially now that the end was in sight.

  The hall became wider at the end with eleven transparent doors side by side. There were numbers over the top of each door, lit up in red, which indicated to Dahms that anyone who stepped through the doorway was taking a number to hell.

  The doors led into small cubicles, which were also transparent.

  *