by Clayton Wood
“Good morning, Sabin,” he hears a voice say. Sabin snaps out of his reverie, looking up to find a tall, burly man with short black hair standing opposite him. The man's countenance is fierce, his jaw square. He holds himself with utter confidence, and for good reason; he is Gunthar, the leader of the Resistance.
“Good morning sir,” Sabin replies, standing up from his chair and saluting. Gunthar waves away the formality.
“Sit, sit,” he urges, and Sabin complies. Gunthar sits down on a chair opposite Sabin, gesturing at the men and women busily working on creating Sabin's newest inventions.
“Are my men working to your satisfaction?” he inquires. Sabin nods.
“Beyond expectation,” he answers. And it's true; bolstered by their repeated victories, the men and women of the Resistance seem imbued with limitless energy, working day and night on Sabin's creations. They are not infected by the complacency of the Empire, believing that they are too powerful to fail.
“My Runics are sufficient?” Gunthar presses. Sabin pauses, then nods. Most of the Runics – the men sitting around the long table with the diamonds – are relatively unskilled, and none can hold a candle to his own skill. Sabin had devised a way around this deficiency, tasking each Runic to place specific runes in a gem, then pass it to the next Runic, who would inscribe different runes, and so on down the line. That way, no Runic needed to understand the entire device, only their small contribution to it.
“For the time being,” Sabin answers. He devotes each morning to training them, but most are not gifted students. Gunthar, of course, already knows this.
“We'll recruit more,” the leader promises. He glances at the Runics. “Ingenious, to have them work this way,” he adds. “Your Empire was stupid to cast you away.”
“Not mine anymore,” Sabin counters. “Orja is my home now.”
“Of course,” Gunthar agrees. “And the Resistance is lucky to have you,” he adds with a smile. “How are your projects progressing?”
“Very well,” Sabin answers. “We have three hundred units of the latest version of the invisi-suit in quality testing now,” he adds. Suits of armor with advanced defensive runics, they also allow the wearer to become absolutely invisible – in multiple spectra of light – as well as completely silent. It had allowed for decisive victories against the Imperial military. Sabin had created new versions of the suit with each major battle, anticipating that the Empire's Weavers and Runics might reverse-engineer the technology and learn how to neutralize it. Each new version used a novel mechanism of promoting invisibility, making the Empire's efforts worthless.
“Excellent,” Gunthar replies.
“I've also developed something I call the Imploder,” Sabin continues. “A gem that shoots out of a miniature, hand-held cannon, and consumes all of its magic in a fraction of a second, creating an enormously powerful gravity field to pull in and crush anything around it.”
“Won't the enemy Weavers have runes to neutralize this?”
“They will, many of them,” Sabin agrees. “But they take time to sense the gravity field and activate a response. The Imploder discharges so quickly that those closest to it will be killed, and those farther away will expend much of their magic neutralizing its effects.”
“Interesting.”
“I've also been developing a new set of armor,” Sabin states. “I've been working on the prototype myself,” he adds.
“What does it do?” Gunthar inquires.
“It automatically sizes itself to the wearer,” Sabin explains. “And uses thought-based technology to sense when the wearer is in danger. It neutralizes any potential damage – whether by heat, cold, electricity, blunt force trauma, or penetrating trauma – and neutralizes its own weight, leaving the wearer extremely mobile.”
“How close to completion are you?”
“A few months,” Sabin admits. “It's quite sophisticated, the most complicated invention I've ever created.”
“And you can mass-produce it?” Gunthar presses. Sabin frowns.
“Maybe one every few days,” he answers. “But anyone who wore it would become a one-man army.”
“Tell me what I can do to help, and you will have it,” Gunthar promises. “What are you calling this armor?”
“The Aegis of Athanasia,” Sabin replies. Gunthar frowns.
“Athanasia?”
“My mother's name,” Sabin admits, feeling rather foolish suddenly. But Gunthar nods.
“A good name,” he agrees. “Will this Aegis protect us against Ampir?”
Sabin blinks, struck by the abrupt change in subject. He shakes his head.
“Ampir is not a problem,” he replies, and not for the first time. Ever since Gunthar had learned of the legendary Battle-Runic, he'd been almost obsessed with the possibility that the Empire might send Ampir to end the Resistance. Ampir had promised Sabin he would not do so, as long as the Resistance remained in Orja.
“Any man who could destroy us is a problem,” Gunthar counters. “And from what I'm told, he can destroy us.”
“He will not.”
“Is he capable of it?” Gunthar presses. Sabin pauses, then shrugs.
“I've never seen him in battle,” he admits. Gunthar seems displeased at the answer.
“You knew him,” the man states. “What do you think?”
“I think,” Sabin answers, lowering his gaze and folding his arms across his chest. “...that whoever Ampir chooses to defeat, is defeated.”
“Even against you?”
Sabin sighs, running one hand through his hair. He looks up at Gunthar, and finds the man staring at him intensely.
“He's beyond me,” Sabin confesses at last. “He's beyond everyone. I don't worry about Ampir because it's pointless. If he wanted to destroy us, we would be destroyed.”
Gunthar stares at Sabin for a long time, then turns his head, tracking the men bringing the large metal plates into the cavern. He turns back to Sabin, his jawline rippling.
“No man is invincible,” he proclaims. Sabin nods.
“I agree.”
“Then out-think him,” Gunthar orders. “Create a weapon powerful enough to free us from the Empire's corruption once and for all.” He stands then, stepping around the table and stopping at Sabin's side. He puts one heavy hand on Sabin's shoulder. “If anyone can save us, it's you, Sabin.”
“I'll do everything I can,” Sabin promises.
“You always do,” Gunthar replies. “Thank you Sabin.”
With that, the man lets go of Sabin's shoulder, striding down the cavern toward one of the tunnels beyond. Sabin watches him go, then sighs, staring back down at the charcoal drawings laying on the table before him. His latest creation, existing in his mind, and in substantially cruder form, on paper. A vehicle of sorts, piloted by several Weavers, with weapons and defenses that would make it ideal for defending the Resistance's newly acquired territories. Sabin stares at the drawing, at the two thick legs supporting a broad body, two arms bolted on either side. His eyes lift to the domed head of the vehicle, a hollow cabin that will serve as a control room for the pilots.
It needs to be big, he thinks. It needs to be a symbol.
The Empire will strike back at the Resistance, that is certain. Two mines had already been reclaimed by the Resistance, constituting a devastating blow to the Empire's mining operations. A massive assault is coming...it’s just a matter of time. The Resistance doesn’t just need to win...it needs to send a message to the Council, to Nespo. One that will make it unmistakably clear what the Resistance stands for.
Sabin stares at the drawing, then glances to his right, spotting his black ring on his middle finger, the green diamond-shaped crystal glittering in the light from overhead. The right corner of his mouth twitches, then curls up into a smirk. He picks up a stick of charcoal, then draws a diamond-shaped eye on the vehicle's domed head. He stares at this for a long moment, then leans back in his chair, folding his arms over his chest. He feels a sudden giddy sati
sfaction, and allows himself the indulgence.
“There's our symbol,” he murmurs to himself. It's perfect, really. He closes his eyes, imagining how Nespo will react when he hears of it. A final gesture, reminding the corrupt Grand Runic exacting what finger Sabin had worn the ring on.
Sabin chuckles to himself.
The greatest accomplishment of his life, indeed.
* * *
Captain Barram leaned back in his plush, oversized leather chair, setting his boots atop an equally oversized wooden desk. It was the same desk he'd had in his quarters on the Defiance, and indeed the same desk his father had once sat at when the old man – rest his righteous soul – had served as governor of a small city west of Verhan. It was extraordinarily well-made, the desk, sturdy yet decorated with elegant curves and various grains of wood in spectacular patterns. Everything it contained, both on and within, was well over fifty years old. His father's journals, old maps, a collection of old books on philosophy, a few others on various theories of governance. Captain Barram's father had been a virtuous man, always of the inclination to work toward his own improvement as well as the betterment of his fellows.
If ever he was raised from the dead to see me, Barram mused, he would die again of shame.
He pretended that the prospect didn't bother him, but inwardly he knew it did. His father had set impossibly high standards, standards no man but himself could have met. As such, Barram had rejected his father, joining the Verhanian navy to escape his father’s control. A few years at war had shown Barram the truth about mankind...and it had been far removed from the noble views espoused by his father.
Black and white only at the ends, Barram thought, with an infinity of gray in between.
He fidgeted, ill at ease for reasons he couldn't put his finger on. He'd been thinking a lot about his father recently, after the near-sinking of the Defiance. Perhaps his brush with mortality had done it; his father had died in a duel, defending his honor against some slander or other. He got to keep his honor, but not his life.
Barram sighed, looking about his spacious office, one of two in his new home in the Shimmering Isle. He'd purchased the house just this morning, and his crew had seen to it that Barram's things were brought in to furnish it. With eight bedrooms and six baths, he had a long way to go before it was fully furnished, but there would be ample time for that.
He turned his gaze back to his desk, his eye drawn to one of the books there. On the Inherent Virtues of Man, the binding read. He smirked. Not because he thought that Man was not virtuous...indeed, he'd witnessed more virtue in the last few days than most men had the opportunity to witness in a lifetime. And a surprising amount from two children. No, he smirked because of what that virtue had won.
A perfectly legal military vessel, conducting a state-sanctioned and entirely justified attack on a smuggler’s ship, destroyed by men and women – and children – acting virtuously.
He took his boots off of his desk, lowering his feet to the floor with a thump. He leaned over the desk, grabbing the book and flipping through the pages. Then he set it down, suddenly too tired to read it.
Virtue was a matter of perspective, of course. That was something his father had never understood. He'd been an academic, devouring books by other academics, building a worldview without ever having truly viewed the world. And he'd placed all of his self-worth in his beliefs, quite literally dying for them. That had been his father's final, unintended lesson to him, the most valuable lesson of all.
Beliefs are more often wrong when they're strong, he recited to himself. It was a mantra of his, one that had served him well. Had allowed him to see through the smoke and mirrors of society, and of his own mind, to grasp the true nature of the world.
That it was all just a matter of perspective.
There was a series of knocks on the door.
“Come in,” Barram called out. The knocking had been in the proper rhythm, notifying him that a member of his crew was on the other side. The door opened, and a young woman stepped into his office, accompanied by one of his former sailors. The woman was tall, slender, and quite lovely. She had long, wavy black hair that fell in waves to the small of her back, and bronze skin. A native of Meros, a nearby island. She was just the kind of woman he found irresistible.
“Company for tonight, Cap'n,” the sailor offered, gesturing toward the woman. Barram stared at her for a long moment, allowing his gaze to linger over her figure, then waved her away.
“I will entertain her in another hour,” he replied. The sailor nodded, pulling the girl out of the office, and closing the door behind him. Barram watched them go, then sighed. He hadn't really felt like entertaining company...or in this case, being entertained...up until he'd seen her. He briefly thought about inviting her back now, but resisted the urge. Ardor, like all appetites, grew more urgent and powerful when denied. To give in to it at last, to resist until the final moment, was the true path to ecstasy. Instant gratification, in all aspects of life, led to misery.
The Captain drummed his fingers on the top of his desk, picturing the girl in his mind's eye, letting his desire grow.
There was a shout in the distance, followed by the sound of glass shattering outside.
Barram shot upright in his chair, his left hand automatically landing on the butt of his revolver. He withdrew the gun from its holster, forcing himself to remain seated in his chair. There were no windows in his office; he'd been loath to have people see him while he worked. As a consequence, he couldn't see out. He waited for a knock on his door, for one of his guards to notify him of what was happening.
No one came.
Barram stared at the door, his revolver held under his desk in his left hand, the barrel pointed at the center of the door. He felt his ire rising; he'd paid a lot of money to ensure that the city guard – all skilled Weavers – would protect his home.
They should have come by now, he thought, feeling the hairs on the back of his neck rise.
There was another shout from beyond the office door, followed by a loud thump. The paintings on the walls rattled.
Time to go.
Barram swiveled in his chair, glancing down at a rug on the floor. Beneath it was a trapdoor leading to escape tunnels beneath the property. A necessity in a city filled with criminals. He glanced back at the door to his office – still closed – then stood up from his chair, walking toward the rug.
He heard the door burst open.
Barram dropped to squat behind the desk, turning around and aiming his revolver at the doorway. He saw someone standing there, silhouetted in the bright light of the hallway. A figure in a dark brown cloak, face hidden behind a loose hood.
Barram aimed for the head, then squeezed the trigger.
His hand jerked to the left at the last minute, his knuckles slamming into one of the heavy wooden legs of his chair. The gun fired far left of its target, and it was all Barram could do to keep his grip on it. He scrambled backward across the floor toward the trapdoor, aiming his revolver at the cloaked figure in the doorway.
The gun jerked forward, flying out of Barram's hand and striking the floor with a clatter. It slid across the floor, stopping at the figure's feet.
“Damn Weaver,” Barram growled, reaching inside his uniform, feeling something heavy and smooth in an inside pocket. It was his Neutralizer. He found a shallow depression in its surface, and pressed it with one finger, feeling a click. “Time to die,” he muttered under his breath. Then he rose to his feet, unsheathing the sword at his right hip and vaulting over his desk, sending books flying onto the floor. He leaped at the cloaked figure, swinging his sword at the Weaver's neck. The man stepped back, putting his left arm outward, right in the path of his sword.
Fool, Barram thought with grim satisfaction.
His blade met the Weaver's forearm, slashing through it with a spray of blood. The Weaver stepped forward then, instead of backward like he should have, and kicked Barram right in the shin. Barram grunted, his knee locki
ng, his upper body lurching forward. The Weaver pivoted, slamming his elbow into Barram's left temple. He cried out, his head exploding in pain, feeling himself falling to the side, his vision blackening. He felt his shoulder hit the floor, then his head, tiny lights bursting across his field of vision. Slowly, his vision began to return.
He heard someone moaning, and realized it was him.
He felt the floor vibrate under him, heard a thump, thump as footsteps approached. Two worn brown boots stood in front of his head, little drops of blood spattering on the floor beside them. Barram raised his eyes up, following the boots to that simple brown cloak, to the face hidden under its hood.
“Well done,” Barram gasped, wincing at the sudden pounding in his head. He squinted against the pain. “Can I ask why you've come to kill me?”
Not that it matters, his mind scolded. I won't care when I'm dead.
“Wrong question,” the Weaver replied. The voice was smooth, and slightly deep, with an accent he'd heard before; this man was from the Empire. Barram blinked, then realized the Weaver was holding his gun...and that the barrel was pointing right at him.
“Enlighten me,” he grumbled, rolling onto his back. The motion made him suddenly and horribly nauseated, and he vomited, his head pounding with the pressure. When he was finished, he spit the acid from his mouth, wiping his lips with his sleeve. He looked up, and saw the Weaver standing there. The man pulled up his left sleeve, revealing a long gash in his left forearm...all the way to the pearly white bone. The Weaver lifted this wound to his forehead, closing his eyes.
What the hell...
The Weaver lowered his arm, then knelt down before Barram, avoiding the pool of vomit on the floor, and turned the revolver around...