Memories of Exile

As Arian Bandera prepares to confront his cousin, he reminisces about the events of the past six years, which have led to this very moment.

CHAPTER ONE:

Memories of Exile

     Arian Bandera entered the main Atrium of the Galactic Alliance Senate Building feeling both at home and as a stranger amongst the familiar columns of steel and shielded viewports. His father, Maric, had been the Senator for the planet Tizena, where the building was located, before his death six years earlier, when Arian had been in his first year of preparatory schooling.

     He remembered the events after his father’s death as though it happened only hours earlier. . . .

Six Years Previously

     Fourteen-year-old Arian had found himself feeling overwhelmed at Cranto Preparatory, the prestigious school which most families with money and an old name , such as Arian’s, chose to send their children to once they reached adolescence. The school was awe-inspiring on its own, but the lessons were what truly boggled the mind at times.

     Arian’s first semester at Cranto Prep was filled with classes on etiquette in dining and greeting, proper grammar, and two different classes of physical education; the first physical education class being the general one taught. The second physical education class was one normally taught to families such as Arian’s, whose bloodline could be traced all the way back to the time of the Warlords, who were the founding figures of the Galactic Alliance. This class included how to duel with all sorts of weapons used in ritual combat, which some of these families still took part in.

     So it was with great relief that Arian had left the school for the day and arrived at home, ready to talk his lessons over with his father and politely allow his mother to cluck over him like the overly-worried mother-hen that she was. He did not expect what he had found, however.

     Arriving home, he found his father’s brother waiting with his family, his aunt’s arm wrapped around his mother’s shoulders. Several investigators were looking about the manor house, and Arian was sure that something had happened, something that would upset his world.

Back in the Present

     As it turned out, his father had died after a former employee, who had been trained in fighting, had broken into the manor and attacked his parents. His father, despite his increased age, had tried valiantly to fight off the intruder, and succeeded in killing him. Unfortunately, the strenuous activity had caused irreparable damage to Maric Bandera’s heart, and he had died within an hour of the attack.

     The next memory that assaulted Arian as he stood observing the halls of government was of the aftermath of his father’s funeral.

Six Years Previous

     The funeral had been a much less public affair than most had anticipated, thanks in large part to the interference of the Alliance Security Forces, whom had taken up positions across the grounds of the ancient burial ground where Maric Bandera was to be interred. Thankfully, the ASF presence had discouraged the paparazzi and other reporters from trying to disturb the funeral proceedings, especially once informed that continual disturbance would result in charges of trespassing and libel against them.

     Once the family had retreated back to their manor, they received a visitor in the form of Calas Cackor, an old friend of Maric and the father of one of Arian’s few friends at Cranto Prep, Kronis. The topic he had to discuss was one which required privacy, and it was to be with Arian alone.

     Once they had holed up in Maric’s private study, Cackor looked at Arian. He asked, “How are you holding up? I know your mother’s doing her best to keep it together, but I doubt that she can do it all the time.”

     Arian shook his head, and said, “No, she isn’t able to. And I’m doing as well as can be expected, given the circumstances. What is it you wanted to talk about?”

     Cackor sighed, “Straight to business, then. You are your father’s son, which certainly could make this easier. Arian, you know that with your father’s death, certain arrangements need to be made. The most important, now that he has been interred, is to replace him as Head of the Bandera House. As his son and heir, you are the only true choice.

     “I know,” Cackor raised a hand to stave off Arian’s protests, which he had already begun to open his mouth to deliver. “I don’t like talking about this anymore than you do, but the fact remains if someone else, your uncle or cousin for example, takes control, they will do all in their power to keep their place. That would involve killing you, since you could always return to challenge them, though it would have to be done by Council law.”

     Arian, his face and hands numb, said, “Leave me alone for now. I can’t think of all that, much less right after the funeral.” Cackor seemed to consider ignoring the request, but stopped himself.

     Cackor stood and said, “Then I will wait for your summons, Master Bandera. I hope you make your choice soon, as there are other parties who will not be so patient.”

     The next morning, when Arian’s mother had come to his bedroom to check on him, she had found an empty bed. Arian had fled, his grief overcoming him and sense of hopelessness when faced with the prospect of the burden he would face as the Lord of the Bandera Family.

Back in the Present

     Arian remembered quite vividly the weeks he spent on the run, doing what he could to earn hard cash and bartering passage from one planet to another. During one of his stopovers, he had changed his hair and eye color and worked for enough hard cash to get a new identity. After that, he had continued on his way, never staying on the same planet or space station for more than six months at a time.

     The first year of his exile had seen him taking refuge amongst the smugglers and other ruffians that polluted the space-ways. During this time, he learned hard lessons in both the physical sense and mentally. He had to stop himself several times from interfering in concerns not his own, as that was a good way to attract attention, the very thing that he wanted to avoid.

     The worst problems he had were the constant attempts to kidnap him from out of a crowd in a space station or at a spaceport town. The people that made these attempts generally fit into two categories: the types of beings that wanted him as a sex toy, and the types of beings that actually hunted humans for food. Arian had heard horror stories since getting into that life-style about certain beings who were legally allowed to hunt humans, but only on their own home-worlds, or if they were convicted felons.

     As not many convicts actually managed to be spotted, these beings would scout space stations and ports for transients such as Arian, who had no home and no connections on-world or –station. Arian had managed to avoid these beings for the most part, though there had been a few close calls that had nearly ended with Arian on these beings’ menu.

     There had been one time in particular that stood out in Arian’s memory, as it was the time when his life changed, right around the beginning of his second year on the run. It had occurred on a space station in the Kalaran System.

Five Years Previous

     15-year-old Arian was drinking a strong tea from the planet Warsona, having just got off from his current job at a restaurant onboard the station. He had used part of his earnings in the past week to purchase a dagger with a nine-inch steel blade. The dagger was hooked to his belt, hidden by the black jacket he wore, which was down to his knees when he stood.

     Arian’s quiet night was interrupted as a rough hand grabbed him by the collar and jerked him from his seat. His startled look became one of fear when he found himself staring into the merciless face of a Mirish Hunter.

     The Mirish were among the ‘Human Hunters’ that Arian had heard rumors about. They were known to pick their targets carefully, and Arian was definitely one of the people whom they would find as easy pickings. The Mirish were also, from what Arian heard, among the ‘Hunters’ that wouldn’t kill their prey before cooking them. He also knew no one would come to his rescue, and pulled out his dagger, slashing the Mirish across the throat. This maneuver was among the few that worked on all species that were in the galaxy.

     Arian’s attacker stumbled back, clutching his throat, even as a pair of Mirish Hunters came into the café. For a moment, Arian’s gaze was locked on the two hunters that had just entered, and their gaze was locked on their dying partner, and the blood on Arian’s dagger. The two began moving towards Arian, who readied himself for a conflict that never came.

     The reason it never came was because another man stepped between Arian and the two Mirish Hunters. Arian was surprised, but gratified. The man, who was much older than most that came through these space stations, but was obviously fit, said in a gravelly voice, “You two might want to re-consider any sort of retaliation. The boy has the right to defend himself, just like you have the right to attempt to hunt humans with no connections. The boy does have some on this station, though.”

     The Mirish, who had stopped to listen to the man’s little speech, began to move forward again. That was when the man struck. From beneath his long leather coat, he pulled a single-edged sword, a thing of beauty in Arian’s opinion, and brought it up through neck of one of the Mirish, who collapsed as its head fell and rolled away. The other Mirish backed up, and drew his own weapon, a double-edged battle sword. The two, Human and Mirish, attacked one another, neither giving any ground as the café patrons scattered, fleeing the café. The manager and staff did so as well, but Arian noticed other Mirish enter the café, and rushed to help the other Human in fighting the Mirish.

     The fight itself was rather anticlimactic, since the Station Security force had been alerted and arrived soon after Arian had jumped into the fray. After several hours, during which the security guards re-constructed everything that had occurred several times, both the older man and Arian were released.

     After they had gotten a good distance between themselves and the Security Offices, the man turned to Arian and said, “Care to tell me how you learned to fight, or where?”

     Arian, who had been more brazen in the past few hours than he had been his entire time on the run, became somewhat hesitant as he answered the man. “Picked most of it up here and there; I learn what I can to defend myself. It’s worked so far.”

     The man looked Arian up and down for a moment before firmly saying, ‘That Mirish clan is likely to want vengeance for what we did to their clan-mates. You were good for that particular scrap, since most of them were already inebriated, but that won’t be enough if the clan comes in force for you.”

     The man watched as Arian felt the blood drain from his face. He had had a sudden, violent vision of himself on a dinner table like the one back in Bandera Manor, with a clan of Mirish Hunters getting ready to cut him up. The man noticed Arian’s sudden pallor, and quickly spoke again. “Luckily, I decided halfway through those ridiculous re-enactments that I would bring you with me, train you to fight. My name’s Conere Rexton,” the man finished, holding out his hand.

     Arian took it, giving his false name. “Arian Bolanse.” The two began the long walk to the commercial departures section of the space station. Once there, Rexton purchased them both tickets on a transport to Warsona. At Arian’s raised eyebrow, he shrugged.

     “We’ll be going someplace else afterward, but we have to go to Warsona in order to find a transport that doesn’t take names of any kind.” Arian nodded his understanding, and the two left quickly.

Back in the Present

     Arian smiled at the memory, remembering his original thoughts that the man was going to be one of the sick-minded freaks. Instead, they had done as he had said, and hopped onto a refugee transport heading for Sirion. It was during that journey that Arian had learned Rexton’s story.

Five Years Previous

     The two sat quietly in the cafeteria of the refugee transport, eating the slightly cold stew without complaint. Arian had just finished telling his story, albeit a highly edited version, to Rexton, and was curious as to how Rexton had come to be on the station.

     As if sensing Arian’s curiosity, Rexton said, “I was a soldier in the Alliance military. The recent campaign against the Corliss crime family was the last op I went on, by choice. Did you hear about the op, by any chance?”

     Arian shook his head, his mind whirling with thoughts that the name Corliss stirred up. He had gone to school with one of their children when he was younger, and he knew of the curtain of mystery and death that seemed to surround the family, which was steeped in criminal activity, but never caught and tried for it. The Corliss family was also among those who would have profited from the death of Maric Bandera, and Arian suspected they might have something to do with his father’s death.

     Rexton was unaware of the thoughts whirling through his young friend’s mind as he continued his tale. “The Corliss family was found to be influencing politics in the Galactic Congress. Due to this, the Old Council took action and ordered three destroyer-class battle cruisers to move against the Corliss family on their home world. The cruisers had a compliment of twenty fighter squadrons, and each carried a battalion of soldiers like me.

     “The fighting itself took place in the Corliss family compound on Kiona. By the time we were done, only the children were left alive.” At this point, Rexton’s countenance grew stormy, and Arian felt a chill run down his spine.

     “The general in charge of the op, Hitayl Taji, decided that it would be too great a risk for the Alliance if those children grew up hating it. He ordered their deaths. I didn’t fire along with most of the other soldiers there. But those directly under Taji’s command in the military did so, and those children died in front of us.

     “For nearly twenty years, I served the Alliance,” concluded Rexton, “but that was the first time I was ashamed of the uniform that I wore. I decided it was also going to be the last. I resigned my commission once we returned to the outpost on Caranta. I had thought of farming or something like that on Sirion, but it looks like I’ll have other things to do first. Training you to be able to fight multiple opponents like the Mirish, for one.  They’ll come after you one day, of that you can be sure.”

Back in the Present

     The training that Rexton put Arian through was light compared to what a newly-recruited soldier experienced in basic training from Alliance commandants, but to a 15-year-old who had barely existed for a year, it was quite tiring. Arian had progressed from a mediocre fighter to a trained soldier by the age of 18. At this point, his leadership skills had begun to show and Rexton incorporated what training he could to enhance those skills. The final training they had done before Arian’s decision to return to Tizena had come about was in fighting like Rexton had done. The final step in this training was for Arian to forge his own sword, which now rested beneath the long leather coat he wore. The handle was obsidian and gold in design, with the two colors striped across the grip one after the other. The sword went largely unnoticed since it was not uncommon for someone to enter this building armed with a weapon of some kind. As long as they had a permit for it, they were allowed to bring it in.

    Arian had taken a seat in a small foyer as he collected himself, preparing for the conflict that awaited him on the level where the Old Council was located. As he stood and began approaching the lifts, Arian’s thoughts turned to one last memory, that of the reason he had returned, rather than live out his life in exile.

Two Weeks Earlier

     Arian, who still carried the false surname of Bolanse, had finished his kata’s for the evening, and together with his mentor had decided to watch the Galactic News Network transmission. Due to the power problems the colony was currently having, they did not do it as often as they had in previous years. Once per week they chose to watch a transmission.

     The first few reports were the usual proclamations of various crime rates rising in the Alliance, especially in the Outer-Worlds, where no help was being received from Alliance sources. Even relief agencies within the Alliance were not sending aid to the affected worlds.

     The main aggressors appeared to be the Mirish clans, who had become what amounted to Special Forces teams for a new crime syndicate that had yet to announce itself in a ‘public’ manner. The syndicate was likely made up of Human-haters, thought Arian, since they obviously held the lives of humans killed by the Mirish as nothing of value.

    The worst report of the evening was one broadcast from Tizena, a reporter who was reading a statement given by the Old Council on the events in the outer regions.

     The reporter, looking nervous, appeared on the viewer. “The Old Council have released a statement regarding the events taking place in the Outer-Worlds, which they have requested I read. ‘The Council expresses their deepest sympathy for those living in the outlying systems. We are aware of your plight, but are unable to render assistance due to circumstances occurring closer to the government center.’” The reporter dissolved from view to be replaced by the main news anchor.

     The anchor herself said, “This statement is only one of many that have been given by the Council which show a dramatic change in their policies towards giving aid to those not nearer the government center on Tizena. This change was first seen in the aftermath of the funeral of Lord Maric Bandera, at which point it was assumed his son and heir would take his place. Instead, his nephew Layron took up the mantle of Head of House Bandera and the seat on the Council which the Bandera family has held for centuries.

     “It is believed by many that Layron, whose branch of the Bandera family squandered their own wealth, is the driving force behind these changes in policy. Instead of being more sympathetic towards those who are not as wealthy, the new Lord Bandera has been increasingly intolerant. The changes made by the Council and approved by the Alliance Congress have caused those affected to become resentful of all in power, and given new life to calls for the government to be torn down and built anew.

     “Worse still is the Council’s newest edict regarding its membership; in the past any person who could defeat a councilor in a court of law or in single combat was given the chance to replace them. The Council’s edict has ensured that the only way for a councilor to be removed is if a close family member, meaning a sibling or cousin and those related, challenges the present councilor. This challenge must be issued for single combat only, and only one can walk away. So if a person with that relation wishes to be on the council, they must kill their own flesh and blood. This is an appalling maneuver, and one that people feel is guided by Layron Bandera. This is Cheras Maro, with the Galactic News Network. Farewell.”

     The viewer faded to black as the GNN transmission ended, and Rexton whistled in amazement. “And they say that the military is barbaric. Having a person kill their own family just to sit or keep a seat on the council, that’s more barbaric than the Alliance military.  Don’t you think, Arian?”

     Arian, who had been staring at the blank viewer in contemplation, broke from his thoughts as he turned to Rexton. “Yes, it’s more barbaric than you’d expect. Perhaps Bandera is afraid of someone usurping his power? After all, he wasn’t the true heir to his family’s fortune and power.”

     “That’s true,” agreed the older man, whose gray eyes were speculative as he looked at Arian thoughtfully. “So, are you going to challenge your cousin and take back your birthright, or just stay in exile on Sirion for the rest of your life?”

     Arian, startled, stuttered, “I’m not – wait what?”

     Rexton chuckled at the flabbergasted expression that Arian was currently sporting. “I’ve known who you were since you and I fought those Mirish b******s. Your previous mentor was my best student at the Academy, when I was teaching there, and had told me that he’d trained you for two years before your father’s death. When I retired, he caught me as I was leaving and asked me to keep an eye out for you.”

     Arian was surprised at this revelation, though in hindsight it explained both Rexton’s offer and his quick acceptance of Arian’s ease with which he had taken on the first few weeks of Rexton’s training. “So, you trained me the way you did because of our mutual friend? Or was there something else behind it?”

     Rexton laughed aloud at this. “I trained you because some of my old military contacts have all told me that the Mirish clans are mere foot soldiers in a much more complex organization than a simple crime syndicate. It might be a revolution of some kind, or it might be an enemy which is being strung along by someone in power on Tizena.

     “Once whoever’s truly behind this truly feels they have enough power, they might try to perform a coup. One reason I trained you is because not only does the Alliance need someone who can be a leader in the Old Council, but someone who can do more than talk and use legislation as a weapon. Anyways,” Rexton said as he stood, stretching, “you had better get sleeping now. Your transport to Cyrus Station leaves tomorrow at 1000 hours.”

     Arian gaped at the man’s departing back, before chuckling and following the man to the bedroom hall. He had some packing to do, it seemed.

Back in the Present

     Arian came out of his complicated thoughts as the lift opened onto the floor which the Council occupied. Arian quickly realized that the generally modest portrayal of wealth and prestige that had once been prevalent on this floor had ceased to exist. The surroundings now had red carpet of the finest fabric, gold-colored brackets holding ceremonial torches; and a single large desk made of platinum was occupied not by a member of a non-Human race, as was consistent with the time Arian’s father was here, but a young Human woman near Arian’s age. Her reddish-blonde hair was pulled back into a stylish braid that landed just above her shoulder blades; her blue eyes the only thing in the room that reflected warmth. Arian’s memory was tickling at the edges of his brain, as though he should know this woman, but couldn’t recall her name.

     What Arian did see was that this woman, whose outfit could only be described as sexist in the way that it ensured every curve of her body was accentuated and her skirt being much higher than was professional, had become a trophy of sorts for the new Council. He had no doubt Layron, the filthy b*****d, was the one behind this and had insisted on an attractive secretary. Probably so he could try and have sex with her, the animal, though Arian savagely, his eyes lighting with a new delight in the thought of killing his errant cousin.

     Arian strode over to the desk, giving the woman a soft, charming smile as he said, “Excuse me, Miss, but is the Council currently in session?”

     “No,” the woman said. There was an undercurrent of strength in her otherwise subdued tone that made Arian instantly like her and made him vow to ensure she would never be harmed in any way. “They’re currently in their private lounge, doing whatever it is they do off-record. Hey, wait!”

     Arian had turned and was moving towards the lounge door. The woman moved from behind her desk, attempting to intercept him, though he noticed with some amusement that she did not go as fast as she was actually able to. She was probably hoping for a show, and he knew she was going to get one as soon as he opened that door.

     Arian’s silver-eyed gaze focused on the door, which hissed as it slid upward to reveal the private lounge.

     Inside the lounge itself, Layron and four other Councilors were deep in discussion while drinking an Andarian scotch when Arian’s imposing figure filled the doorway, their secretary only a few feet behind him. Not one of them recognized the imposing man, despite a sense of familiarity emanating from the way he held himself.

     Layron, blustering as always, stood and said, “Who are you, and why have you come here? This lounge is private, and if you do not vacate immediately, I will have the security forces detain you.” Arian was disgusted with the self-important way his cousin addressed him, and felt a moment of relish as he spoke the words that were needed to change his life, and which would end Layron’s.

     “I have more right to be in this building and in this lounge than you, Layron of House Bandera. After all, it is my birthright you have usurped, and which I intend to take back from you. I, Arian Bandera, the true Lord of House Bandera and only son of Lord Maric Bandera, challenge my cousin Layron through my paternal uncle, Erisan Bandera, to the rite of single combat. Only one can walk away, as decreed by the Council’s new edict.”

     “I, Layron Bandera, accept the challenge of my cousin Arian through my paternal uncle, the late Lord Maric Bandera. When and where shall this rite take place?”

     “One hour from now, in the front courtyard of the Bandera Mansion. Bring who you will as witnesses. I’ll be waiting.”

     Smirking coldly and with thoughts of ensuring Layron’s tendency for cruelty would not extend any further than it had, Arian left the lounge without a backward glance. If he had glanced back, he would have seen the calculating looks on two of the councilors’ faces, Layron’s face becoming stark white as the magnitude of what had just occurred settled in his conscious thought processes. And he would have seen the look of admiration and longing on the young woman, who had once been his best friend.

Author's Note

Please give the best advice possible when you give constructive criticism. Please tell what you liked about the events told and the interaction between characters.