The Forgotten Sky

by R. M. Schultz

  Jaycken presses on, leading the others. The voices of Frontiersmen grow closer, sounding less pained, some even excited.

  “Look at that,” Kiesen says as mist drifts away on a gentle wind.

  A mound appears at the bottom of a crater. Members of their team march in from surrounding slopes. Bruan. Teschner.

  Something pulls at Jaycken’s bones, guiding him downward.

  An utter blackness rests atop the mound at the bottom. Glistening surfaces and edges. A soft humming sound, a gentle wind.

  An entire boulder of the original elements.

  Jaycken’s vision of the armless hand runs through his mind. He just encountered what he foresaw and surmounted his trial. Now he’s uncovered a cache of the elements.

  Was the vision some form of time manipulation?

  Something grinds in Jaycken’s bones like gravel and rises to his skin in waves similar to gravity. Heat floods from his marrow. He sees the future before it’s here, in hints and suggestions. The elementary stages of a Phantom. He will become the second Sentinel the Frontiersmen are searching for …

  Seeva

  Seeva follows the chariot cat trainer on an antigravity stair through a dark tunnel. Two other handlers follow her.

  She wouldn’t get close enough to Drumeth to kill him here, would she?

  “What questions do we have to answer?” Seeva asks.

  The trainer glances back and tips his cap with his stiff whip, the biting end dangling and brushing his knees. “Just don’t speak unless you’re spoken to. That’s the biggest thing. We’re here to answer any questions these royal visitors may have about the animals.”

  Seeva enters the showman’s box from a rear door. Multiple black suits are already searching the trainer. She hands over a sonic blade, realizing she’s dressed in a standard Pearl black alloy suit.

  Hopefully no one will remember her as a spectator from the last games months ago, maybe her ass, but that’s covered up now.

  Someone is eyeing her. Seeva looks off in the distance, using her peripherals to take in the interested party. Another black suit. The woman, Saysana. She matches the woman’s stare and smiles.

  She’s keeping a close eye on me. Maybe she lied, maybe her job is to watch me.

  Saysana’s lips twitch in a suppressed acknowledgement. There are at least a hundred black suits in here observing everyone.

  The important people mingle, drinks and hors d’oeuvres speared by golden toothpicks already in hand, and glance down through the invisible floor to the covered games arena. A murmur of quiet discussion rises, and clicks of people gather like knots and huddle in small circles.

  Drumeth bites into rolled meat caked with tiny eggs and white sauce. The sauce dribbles down his chin to the chin wading out of his collar.

  The granite fist in Seeva’s psyche shudders, releasing an earthquake of rage. Fear also emerges and claws its way across her skin, as if made of groping hands.

  Rettinger stands two steps behind Drumeth, an Elemiscist behind Rettinger. There are so many others here.

  “Off to the side.” A black suit points to a back corner of the box.

  Seeva lines up beside the cat trainer, her head only reaching to his abdominal region, her rigid back to the transparent wall. The trainers of other chariot beasts file in and stand beside them. The temperature is so perfect inside the box, warm and comforting but not hot enough to ever break a sweat.

  Many of the people here look familiar. Faces she’s only seen in news reports or on entertainment broadcasts, royalty of the planets and organizations: the Royal Mother of Tilimoth, Emlia, in a stunning dress of lemon and white, collars fluffed up to her ears; the Royal Father of Kwixbore, Daniau, thin frame and hair as black as space, although his face is that of a grandparent; the Iron Goat of the Viminraide Alliance, a short man with as much body fat as a prize fighter, steel gray hair and clean-shaven; the executive officer of the Wyndrim corporation, Crael, a man with pointy ears, nose, and chin all jutting from his face like blades of flesh; Medegair, the Royal Father of Uden, as tall and proud as the royalty of legends, a sallow looking older man in autumn-glass Elemiscist robes and frosted hair at his side. Medegair’s High Overseer.

  Five of the most powerful rulers in the galaxy besides the dead Grand Patriarch and the Northrite council.

  Seeva didn’t expect to see any Northrite in the same room as Medegair of Uden. The Silvergarde aren’t here, either—her people would never attend something this vile.

  Several of each organization’s personal guards and Elemiscists stand around, ready to die for or Stride their royalty away in an instant, if the sudden need arises.

  The Queen Matriarch of the galaxy, Vinessia, enters, almost blinding in a dress of pearl and lace, a waterfall of deep blue jewels at her neck, head, ears, waist, and fingers. A few sweavers trail her.

  This is it, all the real power in the galaxy besides the most ambitious, the Northrite. If Seeva could blow the entire showman’s box up with a single incendiary, she’d do it. Some of these people might not be covered in lies and blood, and she may feel a bit bad, but it would be worth it a million times over.

  Down below, the chariot animals lead their riders to the gates of a covered arena ten times the size of the arena for the previous games. Midnight blue cats, meorse beasts with curled horns, long-tailed reptiles that run upright, hulking animals covered in dense hair of white or gray, and giant insects with pinchers and stingers are all strapped to two-wheeled chariots of metal, each chariot painted in two-tone: yellow and slate gray, onyx and red, white and jade.

  “How do you find and train such beasts?” a woman in a shimmery dress of baby blue asks. When she turns to Seeva and the trainer, her dark, coiled locks bounce like springs. Her husband: strong jaw, dark hair, fitted in a black and white classic suit with long tails. He guides her with a hand at the small of her back. A young lady with glossy black hair clings to them.

  “We have collectors who travel to the outer reaches of the galaxy in search of the best chariot animals, Lady Jasmonae,” the trainer beside Seeva says. “I train the cats myself. Six standard months on lines and another six on the chariot before they’re ready for their first race.”

  Jasmonae smiles. The man at her side asks, “And all you need is that whip?” He slaps his knee and laughs.

  Others chuckle halfheartedly.

  The Grand Matriarch seems to float up to them.

  “Mr. Ost Leonbaron,” the trainer says, his voice tremulous now, “my handlers carry sedative darts at all times. Otherwise, I wouldn’t still be here.”

  The royalty laughs, dispensing their mirth as if a gift itself for the lesser people.

  Those around Seeva continue to grin and ask or answer pointless questions about the chariot animals, not one about the animals’ wellbeing.

  Drumeth, in his gold suit as always, hollers, whistles, and waves people to the edge of the box. “It’s starting. You can see best from the balcony.”

  Seeva’s stomach flips, and the points of icicles seem to reform inside her. Now my family members will risk their lives for the entertainment of these people.

  Down below, cats hiss, meorse beasts snort, and reptilian creatures chirrup. Seeva hears songs, inner voices, and pleas for easy prey or for aid.

  The arena roof of reflective metal below slides into itself, withdrawing. Spectators in the box and the massive antigravity stadium all around them hold a collective breath of anticipation.

  The maze walls are intertwined mangroves that line avenues of swampy trails, reeds, and brush. Fires burn at random atop the marsh and fade out, then flare somewhere else and recede.

  Navigating through water will put the cats at a terrible disadvantage.

  Cheers and shouts of chagrin mingle in the box and across the stadium as the gamblers realize their odds of winning have dramatically increased or plummeted depending on which type of beast and rider they staked their marcs on.

  “Damn cats should have a hell of a time in that.�
�� Drumeth laughs and smacks Rettinger on the shoulder, unable to ruffle his red alloy suit.

  Rettinger nods.

  A cannon booms.

  Sliding doors to the maze whisk open, and the chariots race inside, each through their own entrance. The squelching and slopping of muck and complaining of animals and men erupt. The chariots bog down, their wheels resisting rotation, their axles juddering and teetering. The insects and reptiles move more deftly than the others, but all are hindered. It will take some time before anyone reaches the central treasure or even encounters one another.

  A man standing at the lowest row of seats throws his hands in the air and sloshes a neon green drink onto himself and the two people closest to him. The others wipe themselves and curse. He stumbles around near the balustrade, leans over for a better view, and hollers with a hand cupped to his mouth. Seeva doesn’t recognize him. Maybe he’s a servant of the royalty.

  Minutes drag by. Drumeth taps his fingers on a glass of seltzer water. “Didn’t think it would be so slow. Fire the designer.”

  Others mingle more freely.

  Seeva inches as close to those she recognizes as she can, listening, watching, waiting, furtively activating her v-rim for enhanced eavesdropping.

  The black suits, however, are uninterested in the games; they watch the occupants of the box, then the spectators outside.

  “What do you make of this new medieval planet we’ve been hearing so much about?” Daniau, the Royal Father of Kwixbore, asks those around him as they crunch breads piled with thick meats and rank cheeses. He sops up a bloody broth with a dark roll. Red liquid lines the wrinkles traversing his lips and chin.

  A pious looking man in gem-smothered robes of yellow and black says, “Fascinating. I believed we’d discovered all the inhabitable planets eons ago. The Creator still works miracles of wonder.”

  Vinessia gives the pious man a sideways glance and quickly dissociates herself from him, finds Jasmonae and Ost and their girl, and watches the games.

  Daniau glowers at the man but says nothing.

  “Faithful One.” The tall Father of Uden, Medegair, sips from a jar with swirling red liquid and ice dust. “If the Angelwians are ultimately concerned in finding more planets to infest rather than the issues of the galaxy, such as the murder of the king of our newest colony, Staggenmoire, I’ll have to keep a closer eye on you. We’ve already discussed outlawing Angelwians on Uden.”

  Daniau bites into a nest of tiny orange eggs, a few spilling from his moistened lips in surprise.

  Uden’s Royal Father despises the Angelwian religion? I’ll tuck that away somewhere.

  “Aren’t you in a war with the Northrite?” the Faithful One asks Medegair, folding his hands and smiling.

  “Not at war.” Medegair forces a deep breath, a look of disgust etched into his face. “The Northrite are claiming the War Times Act as a means to absolute power, given a concocted assassination attempt. The Act is not yet warranted. There’s no war. Only brewing mistrust. I assume everyone here knows of the Shadow Whisper by now. An anonymous Whisperer accused the Northrite of decimating both Iopenia and Pseidoblane.”

  The Northrite destroyed those planets, the ones from the same system as Climice?

  Drumeth struts by the conversing trio, smacking people on the back, shaking hands, delighted to display his wealth and power in the new year’s celebration of the world he ruled. He points out amenities, the arena, food and drink, and commentates on the games and the balance of life and death hovering in his grip. He’s not drinking, again. The addiction of substances must be for other, lesser people.

  The drunken man near the lowest balustrade jumps up and down, spilling orange liquid across his shoulder. He slips, staggers, tumbles over the edge, and is gone. A sound like sticks breaking over a knee carries back up as he hits a wall, followed by a scream of pain and horror as he rolls into the muck of the maze.

  The height of the seats isn’t far enough to kill, but …

  The audience gasps.

  One chariot cat hisses and roars, then leaps onto the fallen spectator as the spectator screams and curls into a ball. The cat mauls him: all claws and teeth. He becomes a spray of blood under sheets of filleted flesh and is flung aside. He lies still, twisted and broken amongst the mangroves. The indrawn breath of the crowd is exhaled in a bellow of cheers and applause.

  Drumeth says, “The greatest show you’ve ever seen, right here, right now. I don’t offer anything but the best for anyone who visits the Pearl on Revival Day.”

  Drumeth guides Medegair away from the others, laying his arm around Medegair’s back while walking to the rear of the box.

  “Do you need to Stride back to Uden before your temper flares?” Drumeth asks.

  “You’re not out there, Drumeth,” Medegair says, unashamed, loud enough for any to hear. “These Angelwians are spreading like a plague, and we’ve seriously considered arresting arriving preachers. They come like migrating nayaks. The factories they build are limited in scope, but what they produce is manufactured in vast quantities at untaxed religious advantages. They’re surpassing Wyndrim, rivaling us, and approaching the ranks of the Northrite corporation … or council, if that’s how they like to refer to themselves these days.”

  “Don’t start anything.” Drumeth pats Medegair’s broad shoulder. “We’ve not had a death in the box for years, and we’re not going to have royalty duke it out on my day.”

  Medegair’s face flashes red. He stirs his drink and gulps the remainder. “It may only be rumor, but I’ve gathered intelligence that suggests the Angelwians secretly hire other groups, Moonriders mostly, to come and raid, even massacre their smaller outer sects for publicity, sympathy, to raise awareness, and to gather more converts and funds.”

  Drumeth’s golden suit arm extends; he passes something furtively to Medegair. The concealed item is black, long, and slender.

  A hermadore spine?

  Is Drumeth selling them to other royalty? Seeva’s heart thumps against her ribs, angrily beating at the sponginess of her lungs.

  The girl beside Jasmonae and Ost Leonbaron shrieks and points over the balcony. Someone calls her Jennily.

  The tangle of feet and legs partially obscures the view through the box floor. A reptile and insect have collided. A stinger is flashing, but the sharp teeth of the reptile tear off a pincher and the tail, and then the arm of the rider in the chariot.

  “Creator be with these men.” The Faithful One steeples his fingers and touches them to the bridge of his nose.

  Drumeth pauses before two Frontiersmen in blue and slate: a short man with white hair along the sides of his head, brown on top, the other with white hair combed hard to the side, black mustache and sideburns.

  Drumeth pats the tall one on the back and says, “Grab some drinks. Enjoy the games.”

  “We’re not here for celebrating,” the short Frontiersman says. “We’re here to discuss the Ruin and the beating sun with the leaders of the galaxy.”

  “And we’re not dealing with fictional conspiracies today.” Drumeth steps back. “Have fun or get the fuck out, Marwyn. And take your white-haired monkey, Ethanial, with you.”

  Drumeth turns, trips, and cries out. Bubbles of sparkling water gush out of his nostrils as he goes down to a knee.

  The Frontiersman, Ethanial, grunts as if experiencing a moment of pain.

  “Damn, that burns like a red-hot poker up the nose.” Drumeth sputters.

  Someone laughs.

  Rettinger helps Drumeth up. “You okay, sir?”

  “My damn knee is probably skinned too. Hurts as bad as a broken bone.”

  Another chuckle follows.

  Drumeth glares at the Frontiersmen, at a man in a black suit, then at a woman behind them. “Grab that bitch.”

  Rettinger strides over to the woman and seizes her by the arm, a woman in a black suit but not Saysana.

  “Toss her over,” Drumeth says, and Rettinger pulls her to the balustrade.

 
The woman screams and plants her heels, but Rettinger’s too strong.

  “I wasn’t laughing!” The woman holds up her hands.

  Three other black suits help toss her over.

  The woman lands in the swamp with a sucking plop and lifts a brown face, only the whites of her eyes clear. She freezes with terror.

  An upright reptile rounds the corner ahead. The woman screams, and the beast locks onto her, lunges over in two sweeping strides, grabs her head with pointed teeth, bites off the appendage, and continues pulling its chariot on.

  “Fucking bitch,” Drumeth says. “Fucking laughs at me.”

  He didn’t fucking care that the men laughed, but a woman? His same old issue or a new one?

  Seeva’s buried memories resurface.

  Bris, the daughter in Seeva’s fake family, loved Drumeth, the suitor whose demeaning comments Seeva reported to the father. The dapper father rejected him. Bris didn’t reject him. So why does Drumeth despise women so much? Do men like him not need a reason?

  Seeva prays to any god of the animals that her prejudice against him isn’t unfounded and that she’s not wasting her time, that Drumeth is indeed responsible for the hermadore slaughter.

  Drumeth brushes himself off, yells at an attendant to bring more water and food, and walks by Seeva. He gropes her ass as he passes, his fingers five hard probes of demeaning lust, five rigid insults, the wavering tentacles of a demon.

  Seeva has no weapon. She grits her teeth and keeps her hands clasped behind her back, imagining slitting his throat with a sonic blade. She imagines cats ripping out the greasy coils of his bowels and feasting on them, two cats tearing at a single segment and shredding it to ribbons.

  “You’re a sexy little bitch, even for a dumb byonum, aren’t you?” Drumeth says.

  Seeva averts her eyes with every ounce of her will.

  Saysana is watching, an artery throbbing in her neck and at her temple, her masticatory muscles contracting.

  Is she truly upset for me? Or is this another act?

  Near Saysana, the tall Frontiersman, Ethanial, leans over furtively and converses with Ost, Jasmonae, and Jennily.