Call of Courage: 7 Novels of the Galactic Frontier

by C. Gockel

  The many deaths and her narrow escape upset Tremmilly. She felt it was time to get off the planet. The people she was looking for were elsewhere. Noor-5 was in chaos. It took time for her to find transport, but eventually she’d reached the orbital dock above the planet. Now Tremmilly was stuck there, sleeping in the cheapest lodging—which she still couldn't afford—not knowing where to go next. Maybe this experience is the key to the next step, but if I don’t figure it out soon, I’ll run out of what little savings I have left.

  As she replayed her out-of-body experience in her head, more details popped out. The voice had said, “Thank you for your visit to Bloodsport.” She'd heard that name before. Isn’t that the place on the news?

  Tremmilly hurriedly accessed the small terminal in her room, streaming archived footage. “We don't have much information at this time, but it appears the Enthos are trying to take back Haak-ah-tar, a world they fled over twenty-five years ago. They've broken through the Ashamine blockade, attacking several installations on-world. The nearby Bloodsport asteroid's security was compromised and the popular gaming area is now in security lockdown. Players are rioting, causing a disruption in programming. All scheduled matches are postponed until further notice. Bloodsport officials say they will release “Best Of” riot footage on the Terminal Network within a standard week. We will keep you updated on further developments.”

  The reporter went on to interview several celebrities and highly placed Ashamine officials. They all complained about the interruption and the fact Bloodsport wouldn't be streaming live riot footage. Tremmilly switched off the terminal in disgust. It made her sick, thinking about what occurred at the “games,” even if the combatants were convicted criminals.

  The backdrop of violence and rioting in her experience made sense now. I was seeing a Bloodsport participant escaping in real time. The fact he was a convict gave her pause. He was helping the other man escape though. He only killed the guards because he had to.

  Am I supposed to go to Bloodsport to help him? That seemed like the obvious conclusion. It was beyond risky, but Tremmilly was developing trust in whatever had been guiding her. She didn't know if it was coming from within or without, but if it had taken her this far, why wouldn't it guide her the rest of the way?

  “Come on Beo,” she said, gathering up her few belongings. “We've got somewhere to go now!” Leaving the decrepit room, Tremmilly and Beowulf made their way down to the docking sector of the orbital facility. Tremmilly knew it would be challenging to find a captain willing to take her into a war zone.

  “I'm seeking passage to Haak-ah-tar and the Bloodsport asteroid,” she told one captain, trying to sound casual.

  “Are you a buggering blighthearted idiot?” he said, laughing. “The Enthos are back. Founder curse you as a fool.” Beowulf's ears pinned back and his lips rose in a snarl. He moved between Tremmilly and the aggressive captain. The man fell back, angry. “Get your buggered dog away from me!” Several other seedy captains and crew began to take notice. Tremmilly decided it was time to move on.

  After asking several friendlier looking captains and receiving negative responses, Tremmilly sat on bench, realizing this required more craftiness and deception. “Who would be going to that asteroid?” she wondered aloud. “Military personnel maybe, but there is no way they'd let me join them. And I don't think we'd be able to slip through security and become stowaways.” She continued thinking, scratching Beowulf behind the ears in his favorite spot. “Let's walk around some more,” she said finally, hoping it would give her a chance to think like she used to while wandering the great open spaces of Eishon-2.

  After an extended period of travel through the facility, she came to a ship she had missed on her first pass through the area. Looking closer, she realized why. It was small, stuffed into a corner. A derelict.

  Tremmilly was amazed at the terrible condition the ship was in. Maybe the mechanicals were fine—she didn't know about that kind of thing—but the hull was mottled with corrosion and needed a new coat of paint. Presumably the interior was even worse. The vessel’s captain was probably too lazy to work for what little money Tremmilly could offer. She had to try though. “He certainly won't be worried about his ship getting damaged,” she said to her friend.

  “Hello?” she asked into the darkness of the open hatch. No answer. “I would like to speak to the captain of this vessel.” Still no answer except for a faint echo. Stepping further up the ramp, she peered into the interior, but could see nothing in the blackness.

  Waiting a few moments longer, Tremmilly backed off the ramp, brows furrowed. Thwarted again, she thought. Then, inspiration dawned. Tremmilly knew how she was going to get to Bloodsport.

  No captain will go near the Haak-ah-tar system, so I need a ship without a captain. And since I can't afford to buy a ship, I'll have to borrow one. Here it was, unguarded and empty of personnel. She had no experience piloting and knew almost nothing about ships, but she could figure it out. Maybe there would be a vision or someone would come along at the right time to help her. I have to try. I feel like this is meant to be.

  She walked back up the ramp with Beowulf, entered the ship, and groped around in the dark looking for the interior light switch. This was made difficult by the large amount of what felt like refuse strewn about the floor. The stench was terrible. Those who break a wheel shouldn't complain if the spare one squeaks, she thought, a saying her father had told her many times.

  Finally managing to hit the illumination switch—more by accident than design—the pale lights revealed what her nose had already suggested. Piles of junk and refuse littered the floor, coming to knee height in the deepest places. Dust sat heavy on the bulkhead support structures. Grime caked the dingy walls. Beowulf sniffed one of the piles and Tremmilly had to command him to return. “You don't know what nasties are in there, Beo. Leave off.” The wolf-dog looked disappointed, but returned to her side.

  Carefully picking her way around the worst of the garbage, she stalked towards the command deck. That might be an overly grand name on a ship like this, she thought, trying not to breath too deeply. Upon entering the deck, she was glad to see garbage and refuse were absent from this area. It wasn't clean by anyone's standards, but at least it wasn't full of rotting whatever-they-weres.

  Tremmilly sat in the captain's chair and tinkered with the ship's terminal, wondering if she could pilot the vessel on her own. The menus seemed easy, but she wondered if there was more to it. She tried to remember her trip to Noor-5, but she had been in the passenger compartment, unable to see what the captain had done. “No help there,” she said. She began navigating menus, hoping something would stand out. A file labeled “Checklist” caught her eye. She opened it. Scrolling down past headings for “In-System Travel”, “Worm Travel” and “Arrival”, she finally found “Departure”. Tremmilly began reading.

  20 - The Founder

  The Founder sat behind his expansive hardwood desk, fingers steepled. He had a look of calm on his polished exterior. Inside, he was seething.

  How had everything gone so wrong? Now, in addition to the Divisionist problem, the Enthos were striking Haak-ah-tar. They've been on the run for twenty-five blighthearted years. What changed?

  And where was Crasor? He'd heard nothing from his Facilitator. This was the longest he'd gone without contact, and the Founder was desperately in need of the man's skills.

  Worst of all was the loss of communication between himself and the Legacy Genetics Project on Haak-ah-tar. He could find a new Facilitator, but if the Enthos had destroyed the LGP, the Ashamine’s most vital project was in jeopardy.

  Priority first, the facility on Haak-ah-tar, he thought. That needs to be resolved. I have to know what’s happening. The potential loss of development could destroy the Ashamine. He checked his terminal yet again for a report from Ascended Rathis on Haak-ah-tar. Nothing. He gritted his teeth. I need Crasor!

  The LGP was a tricky situation. The fewer people exposed to the information
contained in the LGP facility, the fewer he would have to silence. The Founder didn't mind disposing of personnel, but he wasn't stupid either. The consequences of a security leak on this project would be catastrophic. And the loss of highly skilled officers and soldiers would be detrimental as well.

  When he’d failed to contact Crasor, the Founder had ordered Ascended Rathis to dispatch an investigating team. “Send a Founder's Commando with a squad of Initiates for support. They report directly to you when they return. Let them speak to no one else. This mission is classified Ascended or higher. Fully quarantine the team after the mission. I will issue further instructions after.” Those orders would compartmentalize the squad, minimizing personnel loss. Just one FC and a squad of Inits. The FC is regrettable, but I need a lead with experience. And the LGP would have to be relocated immediately, regardless of its current functionality. Not even an Ascended can be trusted with knowledge of its location. The Founder's orange eyes lost focus as he thought about the LGP’s history.

  Started almost as early as the Ashamine government itself, the Legacy Genetics Project was initiated by the original Founder. He wisely wanted to insure an individual of his caliber would always control the government.

  The product of the LGP, while not clones of the original Founder, were close. The Ashamine populous was told each successor was the son of the former Founder, but this deception was simply to engender support. The Founder didn't want to think about what would happen if the Ashamine people discovered his true origins. Clones, or anything even remotely resembling them, were despised by the common citizens. Memories of the Archetype War kept the prejudice strong, and the Ashamine priests reinforced the sentiment. Humanity could never again experiment with genetic modification or enhancement. The risks were too great. Except for where the Founder is concerned...

  The LGP facility had moved several times in the past due to security concerns. After near-discovery by a zealous Terminal Network reporter, the program was relocated to the isolated planet of Haak-ah-tar. Buried deep under the desert, the LGP continued advancing its goals with minimal chance of discovery.

  What if the Entho bombardment killed my successor? The thought was horrific. The government would be thrown into disarray. A total collapse of the Ashamine was a real possibility, especially with the rising popularity of the Divisionists. Hopefully the attack just damaged the facility's communication capabilities. That would explain why he had not received his weekly sit-rep from the Director.

  I don't trust Gerald Kasol, the Founder thought, a grimace marring his beatific face. He’d appointed the new Director after the former had committed suicide under questionable circumstances. Gerald Kasol was brilliant. That was the reason I chose him. Recently though, the Founder had come across some dark bits of information about the man's past. It wasn't a stretch to think Director Kasol had experiments on the side he’d conveniently forgotten to tell the Founder about.

  Frustrated, the Founder tried the comms link to the LGP facility, receiving the same blighthearted message stating the link couldn't be established. He then tried Crasor, wanting his Facilitator to go figure out what in the fires of the dark star was going on. The device said Crasor was unavailable for an unspecified reason.

  The Founder experienced a feeling of helplessness, an emotion completely foreign to him. Never in his long reign over the Ashamine had he felt this way. It triggered recollections of his childhood, something he had worked hard to forget. He raised his fists and slammed them on the desk.

  The outburst brought him back to his senses. He sat in bemused introspection, wondering why he was losing his tight grip. He had to get control, had to form a plan. Knowing it was crucial, the Founder began prioritizing the situation again. First, I must secure my successor. Concurrently, but with lower priority, I must get in contact with Crasor. Tertiary, I must meet with the Classad and discuss how to handle the Haak-ah-tar attack. At least the potential security leak from the Traynos-6 discovery has been resolved and research is up to full capacity.

  Feeling more at ease and empowered, the Founder rocked back in his sleek chair, steepling his fingers once again. “Tohnn,” he announced to his assistant through voice comm, “prepare to dispatch orders.” It was time to bring his power down on all those opposing his will.

  21 - Crasor

  Crasor felt baffled. Why did an earthquake occur on a geologically stable planet? And why did it happen just as I was about to strike the Divisionists? It could have been an unfortunate coincidence, but it felt planned. The timing was too perfect. If the Divisionists had access to Ashamine technology, I might believe they orchestrated it. But they had no way of knowing I was there. Besides, using an earthquake to disrupt my attack would be like using a rail pistol to repair a worm drive.

  It was getting harder to analyze the events of the past few days though. The burning in my Founder's cursed head is driving me insane. It felt like someone was forcing a searing-hot rod through his brain. And whenever he turned, the sensation shifted inside his skull, continuously pointing towards something . It made no sense. He could find no explanation for its presence or why it had developed during the earthquake. The chemical agent he’d released into the crowd didn't cause this type of reaction. I used all the necessary protection and decontamination procedures anyway.

  Crasor peeked out the window of his rented room, watching as more and more people walked out of the city, looking like dazed automatons. I’m not the only one experiencing this strange sensation. They were all heading in the direction the burning line pointed. Where are they going? Will I end up like them?

  As days passed, the burning continued building, crowding out everything else. Then it began pulsating, its rhythm creating an atonal beat in his brain. Why is it stuck in my head? Where is it pointing? Crasor successfully resisted the pull, but often forgot why. He knew he should report back to the Founder, but that felt trivial. The line was all that mattered, all he could focus on. Crasor dully realized he no longer had his miniaturized comm device. Why am I so apathetic about my duty? he fleetingly wondered. Deep down, he felt a twinge of anger at how his strict discipline had been swept away, but the feeling quickly passed. The line. The line. The line. The line. The burning line was all that mattered.

  Crasor stood at the edge of a giant fissure scarring the crust of Noor-5. Its depths were black, unfathomable, and mysterious. How did I get here? He had no recollection of the journey, but from the way his feet hurt, he could tell he’d walked a great distance. The line pointed straight down into the fissure. The pain had lessened, from the burning of a fiery inferno to that of a torch. Why am I here? That question was the most terrifying, and Crasor shied away from it.

  Time passed as he peered intently into the depths. Slowly, a soft, hazy glow began to emanate from deep within the blackness. It grew brighter, but the fog-like quality remained. As the glow’s intensity increased, so did the burning of the line in Crasor’s head. Every molecule in his body strained to reach the light.

  Before he could stop himself, he started climbing down the vertical walls of the crevasse. This is insane, a small, logical voice protested. Why am I doing this? What am I going to find down there? Crasor didn't care though, and the protest shrank and shriveled into insignificance as he drew closer to the light.

  The loss of logic made him realize that something had a strong hold on him. He vaguely wondered why, in the name of the Founder, he was climbing down a crevasse that could close at any moment.

  Crasor's will attempted to reassert itself as sharp edges lacerated his bare hands. Pain gouged its way through his haze, a torrent that heartened him because it loosened the hold of whatever was drawing him down. Rough stone continued cutting his palms and fingers like course daggers, making him bleed profusely. This nearly brought him back to his senses, but it was not enough to stop the compulsion.

  After several long minutes, Crasor neared the glow. Just as he reached the light's edge, his foot slipped off a small hold. His hands, slick with bloo
d, were unable to support him. Crasor grasped desperately at the rock, but he was already moving too fast to stop himself.

  Falling towards the unknowable depths, terror enveloped Crasor’s mind. As he passed into the light, his consciousness shifted. Memories were pulled from him, extracted in one violent motion he couldn't comprehend. All his secrets were known, all his vile acts exposed. He was helpless, unprotected, violated.

  Crasor woke up. Not back in his rented sleep room in the city, but on an uneven surface in darkness. There was light, but it was weak and far overhead. He rose, a throbbing ache pounding the back of his skull. He reached up and touched the area, immediately drawing his hand away as a bolt of pain shot through his head and out his eye. Then he realized the burning line was gone. I've arrived, he thought.

  Dimly, Crasor remembered how he’d gotten here. In addition to the line being gone, his mind had cleared. His hands were raw and bleeding, his head throbbed, and his whole body ached. It's going to take some time to recover, he thought.

  As more of his training, memory, and logic returned, he remembered the Founder and his failure to report. I need to update him. After a brief examination of his pockets, Crasor realized he’d misplaced his comms device.

  “You were brought here for a purpose,” a light, harmonic voice said. Crasor wheeled around looking for the source, almost making himself blackout. He couldn't see much in the darkness, but he thought he knew the direction. Strangely, the vast stone walls produced no echo.

  He crouched down close to the floor to lower his profile, hoping whoever had spoken could not see well in the dark. “Ah, you bow down already, Facilitator. So wise.” The woman's tone carried sarcasm. This time, he could not intuit its location.