Graduation Day

Sarah followed Master Blane out of the woods to a treeless ridge overlooking the valley. Aegis, her wolfhound, followed at her left hip. The dog she had raised from a pup for the last three years, her ever-loyal companion, copied her every step, stopping to sit at her side when Blane indicated they had reached their destination.

“Today is an important day for you, discipulus Michaels,” Blane said, his tone reverent. “Every discipulus dreams of the day they graduate and become a Ranger, though not all of them live to see that day. You should be proud.”

Inwardly, Sarah beamed. Master Blane rarely doled out praise. In fact, she was fairly certain this was the only time he had ever done so in her three years of training. Outwardly, she remained stoic; Master Blane definitely did not think highly of discipuli who smiled.

“You have just one more task, to prove your worth,” Blane intoned, standing before her. “Draw your blade.”

Sarah drew her short, curved sword and held it downward at a 45 degree angle. She supposed that Blane was going to have her work through some of her forms one last time as some sort of exam.

“Kill the dog.”

Sarah froze. She could hear blood roaring in her ears. “What?!” she managed to sputter a few seconds later.

“A Master Ranger gave you an order! You do not say ‘what?’ like some sniveling peasant, you say ‘yes, sir!” Blane roared, his eyes going white with anger. “Shall I carry out your order for you?” He moved toward Aegis.

“NO!” Sarah stepped between them, unconsciously lifting her blade into a forward guard, which so happened to point the tip directly at Master Blane.

Blane’s anger turned to shock. “Are you threatening me?!” Quicker than her eyes could follow, Blane’s curved blade flew from the scabbard on his hip, Salmon Breaks the Shallows, an upward arc. He knocked her blade not only aside but completely out of her hand, the tip of his blade narrowly missing her carotid artery, drawing a bloody line across her throat and up her jaw line. Sarah fell down on her knees in pain, her numb fingers pressing against her bloody neck.

At her cry of pain, Aegis leapt forward, his teeth sinking into Blane’s thigh. Blane roared in more anger than pain, bringing his sword back down in a chopping motion. Aegis yelped and fell bloodily to the ground beside Sarah.

Seeing her constant companion and only friend for the last three years lying dead in the dirt beside her, Sarah’s pain turned to blind rage. Before she knew what she was doing she was on her feet. Left foot forward, right foot stepping behind the left in the slippery kick that all small fighters favored. Every muscle in her five foot frame threw all 120 pounds of her straight forward, focused in her left heel. She connected, hard, directly in Blane’s solar plexus. Even a trained fighter like him crumpled at a blow like that, his sword falling to his side though still in his hand. She immediately spun around in a wheel kick, her right leg flying out behind her then up and over and down like a sledgehammer, directly into the taller man’s temple. He spun around and fell to one knee. Sarah pounced onto his back, wrapping her arms around his neck, her forearm hard against the big artery, choking the blood from his brain. Blane spasmed against her, started slapping at her arm frantically. She didn’t let go. With a final heave, she jerked her whole body backward and heard the snap of his neck.

She lay there panting for she didn’t know how long. Blane’s white uniform by this point was stained in a sort of grisly camouflage of grass stains and something else. She slowly extricated herself, finding that her limbs didn’t want to obey her brain’s commands. She finally managed to crawl out from under him. On her hands and knees, she went to cradle Aegis’s bloody body in her arms. He gave a low whimper and wagged his tail. He was alive!

Laboriously, Sarah picked herself up to a standing position, the big dog up in her arms. She stumbled into the woods. She didn’t know where she was going, just that she couldn’t go home.

The Dance

Medli shifted her feet - a foot from left heel to right toe, weight on the balls of her feet, just as Master Khan had taught her. She slowly rotated her grip on her sword, placing the relatively short, three-foot blade at a slight vertical angle in front of her face, preparing to begin the Dance of Roses.

There were twelve dances. Roses was one that especially suited shorter sword-dancers like Medli. The dancer lowered their center of gravity and protected themselves with a series of short, sweeping motions resembling the overlapping petals of a rose - thus the name. Dance of Thistles similarly favored shorter fighters, deriving its name from short, stabbing ripostes. 

The man facing her in today's duel was a Willow Master. The Dance of Willows was characterized by a gently swaying posture with a higher center of gravity and quick, long-reaching sweeps and thrusts. It favored tall dancers with long arms, and this Master was no exception. The man was easily two heads taller than Medli. Thistle would be of little use here - its short strikes would never touch him. Rose would keep Medli protected, though it would only score a hit if her opponent could be thrown off balance.

A Master. If Medli won today, she would be given the title. She would be permitted to take on students, even start her own school. Some young Masters sought employment as House champions, fighting duels on behalf of the nobility in order to settle personal or legal disputes. Some became captains of House guardsmen, though these had typically served in the Imperial military, first. A very few joined the Guardians. This was Medli's hopeful trajectory. First, though, she would have to chop down this very tall and haughty Willow standing in her way. 

He was definitely haughty, too. Blonde, statuesque, square of jaw and tan of skin, the Willow Master wore a silver silk dueling half-cape over his dark red doublet. This was a sensible wool, showing he wasn't incompetent, but the gold embroidery covering it in fanciful dragons was probably worth more than Medli's entire wardrobe. He wore a brown leather partial cuirass over that. Covering just his ribs and breast, the armor would allow him full freedom of movement. Curiously, it was scratched all across one breast, the only part of his wardrobe that wasn't immaculate. In his hand, he held a long, silvery dueling sabre nearly four feet long, his white gloved hand protected by a gold basket hilt. He spun the blade lazily in the air, showing disdain for his grubby opponent.

Medli had to admit that she probably did look pretty grubby. Her black linen trousers and shirt were clean but faded nearly gray and frayed at the hems and uncovered by any armor. She had chopped her dark hair off into a rough bob, disdaining the long curls favored by the women of the Imperial court. Her blade similarly lacked ostentation, but only a fool would call it grubby. Three feet of steel, straight and double-edged, the well-oiled blade tapered to a wicked point, the edges sharpened to a razor sheen. The hilt was protected by a shortened horizontal cross guard and was longer than one would expect of a long-sword of this length. This style of weapon was alternatively called a bastard sword or a hand-and-a-half sword and allowed for switching between a one or two-handed grip, a requirement of a Rose practitioner, but this one was a good foot shorter than normal, a sword surely custom-made for a short fighter like Medli. 

A silver bell chimed and Medli began to slowly circle the Willow. Jocson Thir smirked at Medli and rotated on the ball of his left foot, locking his eyes on her face and keeping his still lazily spinning blade between the two of them. He suddenly flicked his blade at her face. She easily deflected the strike and he drew his arm back, never moving his feet. That reach was going to be a problem.

Thir made several more strikes at her groin, her neck, her face again; quick as lightning, the blade snapped out and Medli deflected it each time with the close defensive sweeping of Rose form. Medli's stomach sank as she realized that this man was actually trying to kill her. It wasn't required in a challenge duel like this one. A simple touch and she would lose and be unable to challenge for Master status again for a year and a day. And even then, there was no guarantee that another Master would accept her challenge. 

She had feared that she would be ignored this time. She was intriguing - Grand Master Khan hadn't accepted a new student in nearly twenty years. The assembled Masters and Grand Masters were curious to see what it was the old man saw in this mousy seventeen year-old girl. However, she was a commoner, the daughter of a dead soldier and a housekeeper. Most of the Masters at the Royal Temple - nearly all of them, actually - were members of the aristocracy. As tempting as it might be to show up a student of the legendary Siyung Khan, it was probably not worth the shame of a potential defeat at the hands of a commoner. She had been hoping that one of the handful of commoner Dance Masters would take her on, but apparently Master's Khan's shadow loomed large. Her one week window had nearly passed when the challenge was unexpectedly taken up by Jocson Thir, the eldest son of a duke.

Now she saw why. Her mind floating above the dance while her body effortlessly flowed through the Dance of Roses, deflecting the Willow's snapping strikes, she realized that the scratches she had noted on his half-cuirass earlier were actually little Xs carved into the leather. Twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two...he had apparently killed twenty-three dancers in duels. He was one of those twisted people who took pleasure in killing. Suddenly, his acceptance of her challenge made sense, as did the pattern of his strikes at her vital organs. He could chase his addiction to blood and slap down a dirty commoner all at once.

Unfortunately for the young dukeling, Master Khan's reputation was nothing if not deserved...

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"Oak form! Now!"

Medli practically leapt out of Thistle, spreading her feet shoulder-width apart and leveling her cherry wood practice sword directly in front of her. She moved through the Dance of Oak's wide sweeps, rotating in a circle, envisioning herself surrounded by enemies. She deflected phantom sword and spear thrusts and chopped down invisible soldiers. She stepped back and raised her sword to a horizontal guard to stop an imaginary axe from above.

"Duelists focus on a single form, seeking to master it to perfection. Fools! Dancing dandies!" Master Khan shouted at her from above. The elderly man wore stained, gray linen trousers and blouse laced up the front, his head and face shaved to a sheen. He was currently walking in his bare feet on a narrow branch of the cherry tree overlooking his little cobblestone courtyard, hands behind his back, looking perfectly at ease.

"They learn a dance and call themselves Masters. Phaw! Prancing clowns! The true Master learns every form and moves fluidly from one rhythm to the next. River!"

Medli suddenly dashed forward across the courtyard, her sword a brown blur of slices around her body, like water crashing over rapids.

"The true Master knows that there are not dances. There is simply the Dance and her opponent never knows what step is coming next..."

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In the huge flagstone courtyard of the Temple of a Thousand Flames at the Royal Court of Emperor Thayla Kholani Idur, blessed be his name, the young commoner girl deflected Willow Master Jocson Thir's forty-fifth strike. His perfect coif of golden hair was now lank with sweat and his leering smirk had turned into a vicious snarl. The girl had not come close to threatening him, but she had also easily deflected every attack he had thrown at her. He snapped his blade at her eye to make her flinch, but instead she ducked down. Suddenly she dashed forward beneath his blade and passed by him. Was that Water form? No one used Water form in a duel.

Jocson fell to his knees, feeling suddenly weak, his vision blurring. Was that his arm laying a few feet away, gold-hilted sword still clutched in a white calf-skin dueling glove? He couldn't feel anything beneath his neck. That wasn't right. His vision dimmed and all went black before his head could hit the stone.

Medli breathed out in a puff of air. She turned around just as Jocson toppled over, bright red blood spilling from the stub of his arm - severed just beneath the shoulder - and from three other cuts across his neck, groin, and back. She walked over and leaned down to wipe her blade clean on his pretty silver cape, then sheathed her sword in the humble leather scabbard secured tightly against her back. Only then did she turn and give a deep bow to the Emperor and seven Grand Masters assembled on the dais above the courtyard. The crowd was respectfully silent as the Grand Masters looked to one another with raised eyebrows. Finally, one of the two female Grand Masters stood up. The elderly woman wore a dark blue knee length gambeson and linen trousers, her short gray hair tied in a male warrior's topknot. She held Medli's gaze for an eternity or more likely a few seconds, then bowed.

"Well-danced, Sword Master Medli."

Campfire Tales

"Ahh...just about right. Try that," Zeb said, ladling several dollops of camp stew into a soldier's bowl. "I think I finally got the spices how I like them."

"You mean so that it'll burn the rust off an old buckle?" the soldier jibed, blowing carefully on a spoonful of the thick brew.

"Yeah, yeah, maybe next time you can-" Zeb cut off suddenly in mid-sentence. "Is that who I think it is?"

Fifty yards or so away, a figure strode along the ridge-line, outlined against the purpling dusk. A thin man wearing black, his garment looking like an assemblage of torn rags, a black cloak whipping in the wind behind him as he walked parallel to the squad's camp. A long, curved blade rode at his hip, swaying with each step. His face was obscured behind a mask, seemingly pieced together of the same black material as the rest of his outfit.

"Who? Oh, mother...it's Shaketh," Timmon, a short man in his mid-twenties breathed. At the sound of the name, half a dozen or more soldiers crowded around, murmuring among themselves.

"I hear he can turn invisible."

"He rides a nightmare made of darkness."

"He can jump from shadow to shadow like stepping through a door."

"Who are you guys talking about?" this from Simon, a young recruit who didn't look a day over fourteen.

Timmon tore his gaze away as the dark figure passed behind a tent. He turned back toward the boy "Shaketh - the Shadow."

"Never heard of him." At this declaration from Simon, the men all began talking over themselves, repeating the various outrageous powers attributed to the man.

"That's a bunch of faca and you all know it," chimed in Gregor, a swarthy Demetian a few years old than Timmon.

"I don't know. Have you ever seen him fight?" Timmon argued.

"No, have you?" Gregor retorted.

"Well...no, but Belor has. Haven't you, Bel? At Tormon Ridge?" Timmon directed this question to the grizzled old squad leader sharpening his blade a few feet outside their circle.

"What's Tormon Ridge?" Simon asked, leading to an eruption of consternation from the older boys and men.

"Mother damn! What pig farm did they find you in, boy?" Zeb, the old cook asked in exasperation. "Bel, get over here and educate this pup, will you?"

Bel put down his blade with a sigh and walked over to the fire, taking a seat on someone's pack. He pointedly stared at Timmon's bowl of stew until the younger man handed it over. Taking a bite, he savored it for a few seconds and then allowed a bit of a smile to cross his scarred and bearded face. "Zeb, I think you might have finally got the spices right after all."

With an annoyed sigh, Gregor prodded him "Bel, you going to tell the story or what?"

Bel glared at Gregor until the younger man looked away, then nodded. "Yeah, I was there, at Tormon Ridge. Twenty-three years ago this next summer. We were fighting for the old King, Carack, putting down the rebellion from the Seven Cities. Calvary charge had shattered our lines and my company was left to die up on a ridge. Two hundred men reduced to no more than twenty. Half of us with serious wounds. I had an arrow in my shoulder and could barely keep my hand closed tight enough to hold my spear. We had formed a hedgehog, but there were eighty men surrounding us. It was going to be a slaughter. I had said my prayers to the Mother and was looking forward to meeting my old Da a the Great Feast."

"Then I hear this scream, like a lamb being slaughtered. I looked up, and there he his, Shaketh, the Shadow. That curved blade of his was whirling around so fast it's nothin' but a blur, and he's just striding among the enemy like he's walking to the market. They don't even seem to know what's happening. Men are panicking, and dead bodies are falling to either side of him like wheat to the scythe. I thought the Mother sent one of her protectors, or maybe the Father sent one of his demons. I think they thought it, too."

"Faca!" Gregor spat. "You're trying to tell me that one man killed eighty men?"

"He had help," Bel answered grimly. "Old Darius the Red was my cohort commander. He yelled 'charge!' and I dropped my shield and spear, drew my sword with my good hand, and went to work. I blacked out from the bloodlust, I guess. Came to sitting on my ass in a pool of someone else's blood, laughing and hands shaking. Three more of us were dead, including Darius...and every last one of the rebels. They're piled up, either dead or dying. And off walks that man in black, like nothing happened, that curved blade of his held out to the side and dripping." Bel shuddered, handing the bowl of stew back to Timmon.

Simon's eyes were as wide as saucers. Gregor nudged him hard in the ribs and laughed, "Don't believe every damn campfire tale these old men tell you, boy. You'll be wetting your bedroll, dreaming about spooks and styres and demons."

Bel just glared across the fire. "You find yourself alone out on that field tomorrow, your friends dying all around you, you'll be praying to see the Shadow coming over the ridge. You bet on it."

The men all fell silent, the sound of the crackling fire fighting against the stillness of the night.

The Silent Treatment

Mark walked across the brightly-lit galley, rubbing sleep out of his eyes as he made a beeline to the coffee-maker. He took his coffee cup - the black one with the UNASA logo against a field of stars - out of the sink. He groggily grabbed the aluminum coffee pot by the handle, instantly realizing that it was bone dry.

"You know, it's common courtesy when you take the last cup of coffee to make a fresh pot, Jeff," Mark sighed, glancing over his shoulder at his crewmate, Jeff Tilman. Jeff just sat there, pointedly ignoring Mark. They all did that these days.

"Jerk-off...if you're not going to speak to me you could at least look at me when I talk to you," Mark said as he got a coffee packet out of the drawer under the coffee-maker. He put it in the compartment over the pot and hit the "brew" button. Within a few seconds, the small galley was filled with the aroma of eight year-old, freeze-dried, Columbian coffee - a smell somewhere between sour chocolate and engine coolant. "See? It takes like 10 seconds." Mark poured a cup and walked out of the galley, leaving Jeff to stare at his back with cold hatred. They all did that these days.

Mark headed out of the galley and made his way to the engine room, where his duty station was located. He walked down a long, dark gray corridor, metal grating clanking beneath his feet with every step. Every six meters he had to simultaneously duck down and step up to get through the small, airlock doors separating the ship into sections. The UNASA Rugged was a Narwhol-class cargo vessel, responsible for hauling spent nuclear fuel rods from the Far-Space-Station near Pluto to a dumping point near Mercury. They were almost at the end of their nearly nine year-long journey. The crew would then have a relatively short, three month trip to Earth, at which point they would be relieved by a new crew heading back to the FSS. For Mark, the journey couldn't end soon enough.

He passed Maria Gomez in the corridor. Maria was wearing an orange jumpsuit, her lustrous black hair hanging loosely on her shoulders. He had to squeeze by her - she was just standing there, making a point of not looking him in the eye.

"Excuse me, Maria," Mark said sarcastically. Stuck up bitch...At the beginning of the mission, Maria had pretended to be his friend but she had joined in with the others in giving Mark the silent treatment. Now, she just stood there looking over his shoulder as he squeezed by in the narrow corridor. They all did that these days.

After several minutes, Mark came to the dead end of the corridor. Looking back, he could see the whole 300 meters back to command module doors. He turned back around and ducked into the open doorway to the engine room.

As he stepped through the hatch, his nostrils were assaulted with the familiar, heavy stench of stale engine coolant and the acrid scent of burnt circuitry. They had had a small fire in the room about three years ago, and the smell had never completely left. The fire had nearly caused a fatal reactor leak, which could easily have killed the entire crew. That was when everyone had decided to start ignoring Mark. They blamed him for the fire. They all did that these days.

"You know, you left the door open again, Steve. If there had been another fire, it could have spread outside the engine room," Mark said, chastising the crew-member he was relieving. He didn't care if it made him seem arrogant, nor did he care about the irony of him getting on to someone else about fire safety. It wasn't like Steve would even respond, anyway.

True to form, Steve didn't get up from his station when Mark walked in. He just sat there with a tablet in hand, probably reading one of his comic books as he usually did. As Mark sat down at the station on the other side of the reactor and booted up his computer, Steve stared down intently at his tablet, making sure not to look up at him. They all did that these days.

The next twelve hours were the same daily drudgery for Mark. He sat at the terminal, keeping an eye on the power levels, adjusting coolant levels as necessary, occasionally redirecting power from one ship system to the other to optimize energy use. After eight years, he felt that he could easily do this job in his sleep. He never allowed himself to give in to drowsiness, though. It was dozing off at his workstation that had caused him to miss the coolant leak three years ago. He was just lucky that he had been able to put out the fire before one of the fuel rods caught on fire. That would have caused a surely fatal radiation leak. Mark had woken up and contained the fire very quickly, however, so there really wasn't any call for everyone to be so rude.

"Whatever," Mark sighed. He would keep doing his job and let them be jerks if they wanted to. Soon enough this trip would be through and he could leave these people and this damned ship behind forever. For the time being, he would just keep doing his job better than anyone else. And, as sure as the engines kept humming and the ship kept moving, they would continue to ignore him. They all did that these days.

When his shift was over, Mark shut off his widescreen monitor and got up, stretching. He noticed then that Steve had already come in and was sitting at his station. He always managed to come in silently while Mark was intent on his work. He was sitting there now, still reading his tablet. It didn't even look like the thing was turned on, from Mark's perspective.

Maybe if he was polite Steve would be nice for a change. "Alright, Steve. It's all your's now. See you in twelve hours." Steve just stared down at his blank tablet, making quite a show of ignoring Mark. They all did that these days.

Mark sighed as he ducked out of the engine room and trudged back up the corridor. His quarters were nearly  on the other end of the ship, near the break room. He had eaten some of the nasty, supposedly chocolate-flavored protein goup that passed for food at his station six hours ago. He decided to skip dinner and go straight to bed. He just didn't seem to have much of an appetite these days. Plus, he couldn't stand to eat dinner alone, and the rest of the crew seemed to avoid the galley during his dinner time. They all did that these days.

Mark opened the doors to his quarters and stepped inside. His quarters were very spartan - a computer set into the wall, a single-sized cot with a very ratty, gray blanket, and a shower with a toilet and sink inside - all set into a space about 2 by 3 meters. He had no window - even if he had had a bulkhead room he wouldn't have had a window. Windows were too easily damaged and breached in a space ship unless they were made from transparent aluminum, a material too expensive for anything but the cockpit section of the command module. Sometimes when Mark got wistful and lonely - which seemed like all the time, these days - he would go into the command module and look out the panoramic window at the front of the ship. Even if it was just blackness and stars, that was better than staring into the mirror over his sink. Of course, the pilot, Captain Miller, would glare at him the entire time without saying a word. Sarah Coen and Lucas Releo would glare at him, too. They all did that these days.

Mark drank some water and then turned off the lights, slipping under his blanket and trying not to think of his lonliness as he lay in the dark. Sleep eluded him, however. Whenever he closed his eyes, he saw terrible things. He saw Jeff vomiting in a corner of the galley, ugly red splotches covering his face. He saw Steve doubled over in pain at his workstation as he tried to shut down the reactor core. He saw Captain Miller and Sarah and Luke screaming in silence behind the windowed door to the command module. But mostly he saw Maria - his best friend, his secret love - crying as blood poured out of her nose and ears. And he heard them screaming -screaming for help, screaming accusations at him, screaming pleads with him to shut down the reactor. These phantom versions of his former friends and co-workers screamed at him and screamed at him every time he closed his eyes.

They all did that these days...

Lima Foxtrot Delta

Ghost ran down the narrow canyon, his heart pounding in his still ringing ears, Bulldog's barely conscious bulk hanging off his shoulder like a dragging anchor. Looking up, he could barely make out the purple sky through the black haze of cordite and ash. Coming to a shallow cave, he ducked inside and laid Bulldog down as gently as he could. His sergeant immediately curled up into a ball, blood dripping out of the small jagged holes in the metal armor over his stomach. Pulling off his helmet, Ghost knelt down over the older man.

"You're alright, Sarge. Your armor took most of the shrapnel. Just hang in there while I figure out where we are."   Marcus said. Lance Corporal Marcus Grayson, "Ghost" to his squadmates was a little more worried than he let on. The tritanium armor the Marines wore was bulletproof and rated to withstand grenades, mines, and even heavy machine gun fire, but Sergeant Bill "Bulldog" Johnson had taken a mortar explosion full in the body from just a few feet away. He had stepped in front of Ghost as the mortar had landed right next to them, the blast knocking them both over the edge and 30 feet down into a narrow ravine. Ghost had blacked out for a few seconds or minutes - he wasn't sure - then hoisted Bulldog to his feet and started running as fast as he could away from the explosions and gunfire. He had run so fast that he hadn't even noticed when his helmet's navigation system had stopped working.

Marcus opened up the panel directly to the left of the visor to make sure nothing was shorted out. Status lights inside the panel glowed green, assuring him that everything was in working order. Just to be sure, he pressed the inset red button, resetting the software. He slipped the helmet back on his sweating head and waited for the system to reboot. The various heads-up-displays came on one at a time in front of his eyes; first his vital signs, transmitted wirelessly from the skin-tight, biometric suit under his armor, came up in the top right corner of vision, showing an elevated pulse but otherwise all ok; next came the targeting reticule for his assault rifle, grayed out because it was currently somewhere a few miles back where he had dropped it; finally his gps navigation map on the left side, showing a black circle. With a yellow dot in the center and a green dot almost on top of it, representing the Sarge. No other dots showed up to represent the locations of any of the other 10 members of his squad, nor did any topographical or navigational information to give him some idea of his own.

"Sarge, I don't understand. My system is all in the green, but I'm not getting any navigation info." Marcus said to Bulldog, who was now sitting propped up against the wall of the cave.

"Our nav systems get all their information from our ships in orbit," Bulldog replied, pain barely registering a quiver in his gruff voice. "If the system's in the green and not getting any intel, then either the signal is being blocked or it's not getting transmitted in the first place."

So, we're either not getting signal because we're in this canyon, or the ships have been destroyed. Great. Marcus thought. Then another thought occurred to him: Or...we've been left for dead.


"I don't think I can climb out of here with my stomach all tore to hell. You're gonna have to climb up, see if you can get any signal." Sarge said, grunting as he leaned up to pull his rifle off the magnetic plate on his back. "Here, take this, but if you see anyone, best that you hide instead of fight. Got it?"

"Aye, aye, Sarge. Sit tight, I'll be right back."

Ghost grabbed the M-23 rifle and held down the blue button right above the stock, syncing the weapon to his helmet. His target reticule lit up red and immediately swept down and out of sight, as he had the weapon pointed down. Strapping it to his back, Ghost stepped out of the cave and started looking for handholds in the rock wall of the canyon. He quickly found some and began climbing. The armor looked heavy, but tritanium - an alloy of alluminum, steel, and tungsten - was actually very light in spite of its extreme density, making it the perfect armor for light infantry troops like the 5th Marines. It only took Ghost about two minutes to climb the thirty or so feet to the lip of the canyon. There was a small camera mounted directly at the crown of his helmet. With a few rapid eye-blinks, Ghost turned it on, and a short, panoramic view filled up the top third of his visor, showing the scene directly in front of him over the edge of the canyon. What he saw nearly made him lose his grip and fall back down.

Hero

"C'mon, you little queerbate!" sneered Marcus. "You're getting your ass kicked either way. Come take it like a man."

Andy hid behind the green dumpster, the smell of rotting Chinese food assaulting his nostrils as he crouched, shaking and sweaty. Marcus and his crew had chased him all the way from Dwight Eisenhower Junior High to this alley downtown. There was a fence behind him, and Marcus and four other 8th graders blocked the only exit from the alley. He was trapped like a rabbit before five mean, vicious hounds.

The sounds of lasers, assault rifles, and zombies emanated from the partially open doorway behind him. 1up Arcade, Andy's favorite after-school hangout was just next door. The door was only open a few inches, however, a small red brick allowing the sounds of fun to leak into the darkened alleyway. Marcus and the others would see the door open if he went that way.

"I know you're right behind the dumpster, dumbass. Come on out and take your medicine. You don't want me to have to come back there" Marcus warned. Footsteps on broken glass clinked and echoed down the alley as Marcus approached Andy's hiding spot.

Andy decided at last to take his chances hiding in the large and gloomy arcade. With a leap, he opened the door to 1up and dashed inside, Marcus calling out in surprise. Andy ran through the arcade, darting around old cabinets of Galaga and Streetfighter II, Marcus and the other boys hot on his heels. He earned a trio of angry yells from some high school boys when he leaped straight through the rocking cockpit of Afterburner: Vietnam, losing Marcus and his cronies in the jumble. Andy kept running until he came to the other side of the arcade and the door with the warning sign "Employees Only." Andy opened the door and plunged quickly into the dark room, allowing the door to swing shut behind him with a clang.

Andy leaned against the door, breathing heavily, sweat running down his forehead and stinging his eyes. He listened with his ear against the cool metal, trying to make out the sound of Marcus and his friends talking over the din of the arcade. After what seemed like hours, Andy concluded that he had lost the bullies. He turned to take a look at his hiding place.

Andy's eyes slowly adjusted to the soft blue light, revealing a small room with a single arcade cabinet. The cabinet was about the size of a photobooth, with a seat inside. Intrigued, Andy walked around and sat down. The console had a joystick and six unlabeled buttons, the screen above displaying a piece of parchment with a single word in a fantasy-style script: HERO. 

Looking down at the coin slot, Andy saw that it was covered with a piece of duct tape. Moving this aside, he slipped in one of the many quarters in his bulging left pocket. A sound like a sword being drawn boomed from speakers set behind his head. Text began to crawl along the screen from bottom to top and a voice with a refined, British accent read along:

"It is a time of death and sorrow in the land of Id-Ithia. The kingdoms of Id and Ith have lived for a millennia as happy allies. Now that long era of peace has been shattered thanks to the disappearance of the Sun Stone. A magical crystal said to have come from the fires of the Red Volcano, the Sun Stone provided Id-Ithia with a dome of light which protected it from the forces of darkness which seek to destroy the land and its people. With the stone gone, evil creatures stalking the darkened landscape, and neither kingdom entirely trusting the other, the land of Id-Ithia seems to be in dire peril. The kings of Id and Ith sent their nations' greatest heroes on a quest to the Red Volcano to bring back another Sun Stone, if one even exists, but they have failed to return and few believe that they are even still alive. The land is in danger and needs a HERO. Will you be that HERO?"

"Hmmpf...that's a little over-the-top," Andy muttered to himself, hitting a button to start the game. 

He was rewarded with a view of a map of the land of Id-Ithia, rendered in beautiful, 8-bit graphics. A road was marked in black leading from the city of Ith, through the Forest of Wolves, over the Plains of Morkar, and into the Mountains of Fire. A flashing red dot indicated his position in Ith. Pressing the joystick up, Andy moved the dot into the Forest of Wolves and the screen changed to a first-person view - now in slightly-better, less muddy graphics - of a dark forest, a knobby, wooden staff held before him by leather-gloved hands. The sound of crickets chirping sounded lightly from the speakers behind his head. A lone wolf howled.

Andy pressed the various buttons, causing his character to swing the staff, thrust forward with it, make a blocking motion, and jump up and down. Another button opened an inventory screen. The last button made him throw himself forward in a ducking roll. 

"Alright, pretty simple controls. Let's explore these woods I guess," Andy said, moving his character forward into the darkness.

Suddenly, a wolf burst from the brush to the front and left of Andy's character. He swung the staff but missed. The wolf hit him high and his view toppled backward, now looking up into the snarling face of the wolf, backlit by the stars through the canopy of trees. There was a flash of red and Andy screamed as he felt a sharp pain in his neck. 

Andy reached up to his neck to feel the wound, but there was nothing there. He looked at his hand, expecting to see blood, but it was clean. "Man...I was REALLY into that game," he said, laughing nervously. He looked back up at the screen.

"YOU WERE KILLED BY A WOLF.

 THE KINGDOM IS LOST.

 YOU ARE NOT THE HERO. 

GAME OVER."

"Only one life?! What the hell?! That's ridiculous!" Andy reached into his pocket and pulled out a stack of quarters, setting them on the shelf below the screen and slipping one into the coin slot.

""It is a time of death and sorrow in the land of Id-Ithia. The kingdoms of Id and Ith have lived for a millennia --"

"Yeah, yeah, kingdom, death, Sunstone, Hero, I got it. Let's go." Andy said, pressing a button. Again he saw the map. Again he went north into the forest and was again plunged into a world of darkness and ominous ambient noise. 

"No wolf is going to startle me this time!" Andy declared.

Andy played for hours upon hours, repeating the cycle over and over again. Each time he got a little further into the forest before being killed by a virtual wolf. After what seemed like days, Andy's character finally emerged onto the desolate, moon-lit Plains of Morkhar.

"Well...at least nothing can sneak up on me out here," Andy said. "That was starting to get a little annoying." 

Just then, a winged beast faintly resembling a gargoyle screeched out of the sky and snatched up Andy's character. The ground quickly shrank below him as he was lifted up. Suddenly, Andy fell from his seat and landed on the thin carpet next to the arcade cabinet, banging his elbow on the way down. "OW! What the hell, man?!" Getting back up into the cabinet, he was greeted by the all-too familiar admonishment for his failure to avoid random beasts:

"YOU WERE KILLED BY A GARGOYLE.

 THE KINGDOM IS LOST.

 YOU ARE NOT THE HERO. 

GAME OVER."

"DAMNIT!" Andy said, taking another quarter off of his shrinking stack and slamming it into the coinslot.

""It is a time of death and sorrow --"

"Yeah, yeah...death, sorry, Heroes, wolves, blah blah blah!" Andy muttered, starting over again.

Andy beat snarling wolves with his staff. He found a bow and arrow and shot gargoyles from the sky. He pulled a sword made of fire from a stone in a dark mountain cave and beat trolls and goblins by the dozens. He stood atop a pinnacle overlooking a lake of fire and fought and slayed a demon named Ruoffa. He at last stood before a glowing red rock.

"YOU HAVE FOUND THE SUNSTONE.

THE KINGDOM IS SAVED.

YOU ARE THE HERO.

CONGRATULATIONS.

GAME OVER."

"Finally! Man...that felt like it took forever!" Andy looked down at his pile of quarters, reduced now to 50 cents. Then he looked at his watch. The luminescent numbers showed the time: "1am?! Holy crap! I'm going to be in so much trouble!" Andy ran from the room. He emerged into the arcade, still dimly lit by two dozen arcade cabinets. He ran back out the back door he had come in. As he went through the door, he tripped and fell face first onto the dirt floor of the forest.

Andy picked up his staff and got to his feet, dusting himself off and looking around him at the darkened woods. The sound of crickets chirping sounded lightly from the surrounding trees. A lone wolf howled.

Mothership Roosevelt (Part 1)

So, this is kind of cheating on the whole "I made this blog to get me in the habit of writing" because I actually wrote this entry about a month ago. Still, some people told me they liked it, so I thought I'd share. This is the first part of a story I'm writing titled "Mothership Roosevelt." Enjoy.

Randi's arms ached with that now too familiar strain and she pulled on the canvas strap in front of her. Behind her, her father, David, grunted as he pulled on his strap with his one good arm. Immediately in front of her, Marcus Butcher heaved on his strap with ease, his muscles rippling under his stained gray coveralls. As the gondola crept forward, everyone grabbed the next strap and heaved once again. Randi's stomach churned as the cart lurched along the steel cable hanging ten stories over the dark blue waters of the Gulf of Mexico, swinging sickeningly from side to side in the high summer wind. The gondola was a repurposed helicopter, a Sea Stallion, Randi thought. The craft had been gutted and fitted with a pulley system in order to hang from the thick, steel cable. The cable had thick, canvas straps every three feet along it's 500 foot length. Passengers rhythmically tugged on the straps, slowly pulling the cart along the cable three feet at a time. The cable was suspended between a short tower on the deck of the old cargo ship, "Timeaus," which Randi and her fellow passengers called home, and the forecastle of the Nimitz class aircraft carrier "USS Theodore Roosevelt," which they simply called "Mothership Roosevelt."

Randi and her dad both worked in the vegetable gardens on the flight deck of the Roosevelt. Fertile soil, piled four feet high in large, wooden frames gave birth to wheat, beans, peas, tomatoes, potatoes, cabbage, and turnips, with smaller boxes growing various smaller crops. From 8am to dusk, Randi and her father would toil amongst the vegetables, aerating the soil, killing slugs and collecting caterpillars, and rinsing the plants with desalinated water several times throughout the day. For this work they received a meager but satisfactory ration of food, a shared, yet roomy portside cottage on the deck of the "Timeaus," and the various services provided by people like Carol Laundress, who was at the moment tugging effortlessly on her canvas strap in front of Marcus Butcher with her big, beefy, white arms.

David Gardener seemed to be content with his lot. Formerly David Hunter, Randi's father had lost the use of his left arm fighting the local tribesmen in Guyana, just outside the fortress city of Paramibo. Four times a year, the Hunters would take the "Roosevelt's" one, precious sailing yacht to one of several known hunting grounds. They would spend two weeks hunting local game - deer, hogs, panthers - and hopefully come back with enough sea-salted meat to last the three months before the next expedition. Paramibo was surrounded by roving bands of savages, who would just as soon eat a man as a pig. David had taken a poisoned arrow in his left arm and been left with permanent paralysis in the limb ever since. No longer any good as a Hunter, David was transitioned to the Gardeners. He had had to give up his place of honor in the protected cabins of the "Roosevelt" but had been given one of the cabins on the deck of the "Timeaus," constructed from a large cargo container, as severance.

David never complained about his loss of position, nor the stark difference in comfort between a Hunter and a Gardener. Randi, on the other hand, was quite unhappy with the arrangement. She had been ten when her dad returned with his injury. From age five, she had attended primary academy aboard the "Roosevelt," learning English and Spanish, history, and mathematics. She had hoped to apprentice to a navigator and work in the watch tower with the cool winds blowing through the open window slats.

Instead, Randi's world had tumbled out of control when her father returned from Guyana. In the space of a week, she had left the spacious cabin she grew up in and been removed from academy; laborers' children had to work for their food after their ninth year. Every day for the past six years she had traveled with her father to work the fields aboard the "Roosevelt" or the container ship "Goodnight." At first she had cried and pouted each day, gaining her the resentment of the other Gardener children and the nickname "Baby," which she still hadn't completely lived down. Now, nearing her seventeenth birthday, Randi was depressed but resigned to her position in the community as a common laborer. If she was lucky, she might marry someone in one of the semi-skilled jobs such as Mender or a Baker. That would allow her to at least send her one allowed child to academy. Either way, though, she was stuck in her position with little hope of change.

After about ten minutes, the old Sea Stallion grinded to a rest aboard the deck of the "Roosevelt." The sliding door to Randi's right was thrown open by one of the deckhands and she and the other passengers climbed down onto the comparatively stable flight deck. Here the steel deck was covered in a black, somewhat sticky coating that helped people keep their feet in the high winds that blew across the ship's beam. Randi fell in step behind her father, heading toward Garden Box F7 near the control tower. Today would be relatively exciting; Randi's team was going to be harvesting the current crop of cabbage and then planting some corn its place. The fact that this was an exciting event further darkened Randi's already gloomy mood.

David was actually in a rather good mood, though he rarely gave in to any sort of depression. "The Hunters should return from Cuba today, Ran. We'll be eating fresh pork tonight!" Randi grunted non-committaly and nodded her head. She hated pork and her dad knew it.

Her dad didn't really care about the pork. His real interest was in the Hunters. He remained friends with them even after his demotion to the laboring class. Hunters were a close-knit group; in fact, Randi had heard that their spacious cabin was thanks to a protest by David's fellow Hunters over his eviction from the "Roosevelt." The entire community would have a big feast tonight to celebrate the return of the hunting party. There would be double rations of pork and vegetables, cool glasses of lemonade, and maybe even desserts made with Cuban sugar, if the Hunters had managed to trade for any with the locals. That was all IF the Hunters returned, however. The Cubans were much less hostile to outsiders than the Guyani, but hunting there was still a dangerous proposition. The island was all but overrun with the Horde. Then again, where on Earth wasn't?

Randi picked up her sling blade and began the back-breaking work of harvesting cabbage. She sank into the work mentally, handing the cabbages without looking to little Kara, an eleven year-old who still looked more like seven, who collected them in a wicker basket hanging from her shoulders. Every half-hour or so, Kara would say "Full!" and Randi would stand up and stretch her back as Kara brought them over to David and his partner to wash in the fresh water barrel to the side of the box. While she stretched, Randi would stare up at the crow's nest atop the control tower, watching the Navigator and her apprentice as they slowly scanned the horizon with binoculars, looking for the returning Hunters. Then Kara would return and Randi would once again hunch over the cabbages and begin the process all over again.

Randi and Kara were in the process of turning the soil in preparation for the corn planting when they heard the horn blare.

"The Hunters are back!" Kara squealed, an expression of joy on her face as she stopped working to look out at the horizon. Randi didn't bother; there was no way you could see the Hunters' yacht above the crops from this position. She took the opportunity to stretch and lean on her shovel, though.

David walked over and clapped Randi on the back affectionately. "Cheer up, Ran. We'll have a spot at the Hunters' family table tonight. You can see Paul and Jenny and your other friends. That'll be a nice change, right?"

He looked so hopeful. "Right," Randi said. She didn't have the heart to break her father's good mood by telling him how she hated seeing her old friends; the so-called friends who treated her with such disdain whenever they saw each other at church or on feast-days. They in their freshly laundered, brightly colored apprentice smocks, she in her clean but faded white dress tunic. "At least I'll get to shower and dress in clean clothes for the feast," she thought.

Soon, everyone went back to work, realizing that the Hunter's yacht would take several more hours to reach docking barge. By the time it arrived and the call was put out to help haul in the cargo, Randi's team had completed planting the corn and was in the process of cleaning their tools. Randi looked out at the horizon over the crops. Judging from the sun, it was only an hour or so until dusk. The feast would be in two hours, giving her very little time to shower and change, and that was only if the unloading was quick. She rushed through the rest of the cleaning and put away the tools, then took Kara's hand in hers and ran like a child toward the stairs leading to the cargo deck. "Come on, Kara, let's go see what they've brought!" she said with feigned enthusiasm. Kara didn't notice and giggled like a child as they ran down the stairs.

When Randi and Kara arrived, they quickly took places along a human chain, handing boxes and bags of food from the cargo gondola (another Sea Stallion) to Kyle Loadmaster. The old man kept a tally on a clipboard, directing his hoard of apprentices to place the cargo in various places, the organization of which was a mystery to anyone but him. Randi's arms already ached, but just like with the gardening she allowed her mind to drift and sank into the monotony of the work. That was until she noticed the girl climbing off the Sea Stallion with the Hunters.

The girl looked to be about Randi's age, with deeply tanned skin, flowing black hair down to her waist, and big, piercing black eyes. She was dressed in a grimy, brown, woolen shift and was barefoot but otherwise clean. She looked frightened. A boy stepped out of the Stallion a few seconds later and put an arm around her shoulders protectively. He glared around with challenge in his fierce eyes, which were big and black just like the girl's. They were obviously brother and sister, perhaps even twins. He too was dressed in dirty brown wool, pants and a loose shirt instead of a dress. He was also barefoot but less clean than his sister, with what looked like several months of dirt caked onto his feet.

Randi found herself transfixed by the pair. The frightened girl saw her looking, and Randi smiled at her and gave a little wave. The girl returned the wave but was quickly chastised by her brother, who glared at Randi threateningly. One of the Hunters came up then and spoke a few words to him. He nodded and the odd pair followed the Hunter to a flight of stairs leading up into one of the residential decks of the ship.

Randi was excited. She had never seen anyone new that wasn't a baby. "Who do you think they were, Dad?" she asked her father, who had come up a few minutes ago to join she and Kara in the supply chain.

"I don't now, Ran. Judging from their dress, I'd wager they are runaway slaves." Seeing her shocked look, he continued, "The Cubans keep slaves, as do many of the other Landers. It's just the way of things." He scratched his chin thoughtfully. "Still, the Hunters don't really have the authority to bring someone new to the Community. I don't know how this is going to go over with the King."

A lump formed in Randi's throat at the mention of the King. She had seen King Xavier only a handful of times in her entire life, which was very odd in a community of only three thousand or so people. The only times she had seen him were at the Christmas feast and once when he oversaw the punishment of a serious crime.

For a minor crime like hoarding food or fighting, a member of the Community might only receive lashes from their local Peaceman. Serious crimes such as stealing tools or murder resulted in execution. The last time Randi had seen the King was at the hanging of one of her fellow gardeners. Michael Gardner had gotten into an altercation with Timothy Baker, who claimed that Michael had impregnated his daughter, Sam. Timothy had gone after Michael with a rolling pin, and Michael had defended himself with his slingblade. By the time the scrape was over, the older man was lying dead with a gash in his throat and Michael was in the Peaceman's irons.

All the Gardners were required to attend the hanging. Randi had been 15 at the time and up to that point had not even realized that the Community executed people. She and Michael had been friends. He was one of the few Gardner children who had always treated her nice since she joined them. Randi knew, also, that Michael was gay and thus not the father of Sam's child. Who was and why she had lied to her father about it remained a mystery. Randi could still remember the cruel smirk on the King's face as he made a speech about the evils of murder, then kicked the stool out from under Michael's feet. Michael's neck didn't break, and his tear-streaked face contorted in agony as he slowly suffocated. Randi could see it all again right before her eyes when her dad mentioned the King.

"What do you think he will do?" she said fearfully.

"I don't know, Ran. I can't really see that there is much for him to do, now that the Cubans are on board. We can't afford to risk the yacht just to send them ashore, and he'd have a mutiny on his hands if he threw them overboard. I wouldn't worry about it," he said. "Now, let's get back home and clean up before the feast, shall we?"