Beginnings

Shaolu, Saktefya, and Yoshuru are introduced.

A beginning is merely an illusion. What we know of the past is no more reliable than what we know of the future. That is because, in reality, neither of these temporal abstractions exist. There is only the ceaseless “now.”

- Lord Iqwiloespa

THE two young men stood across from each other on the platform, locked in a stare. The statuesque figures stood as two bearded relics of another age, standing in their dark tunics framed by black cloaks hanging from their shoulders in the shadows. The narrow bridge upon which they stood spanned the artificial chasm, and ran parallel to another narrow bridge within the great circular pathway. When viewed from above, it formed the very symbol for death.

The dark interior of the temple was dimly lit by candlelight, glinting off rolling mists of smoke from unseen incense. A low quiet rumble seemed to reach up from below in the strangely quiet dark. Silence stood between the men for some time, before Shaolu finally spoke.

“Lok, ayes qwo susqwo?” Shaolu asked, the question almost sounding like a plea. Yet Qwedo knew Shaolu would do what was necessary. Death, it is to be?

Qwedo let out a small, almost nervous, laugh. “Qwo aye lak shaom fa fabe lamo shum Lokla?” Are we not in the very temple of Lokla?

“Ayi lak shumoqwe shaom Lokla. Esumala qwo san kebe umaqwod,” Shaolu responded, his eyes still locked with intent. I do not believe in Lokla. Esumala is a worthless religion.

“Always the one to dash away others' beliefs. You self-righteous kakai. You deserve to die.”

“I don't judge, brother. Not even you.”

“Well I do… cousin.”

Realizing the import of Qwedo's words, Shaolu simply nodded his head. Qwedo gave the signal to the monks, and the fight began. Qwedo lunged at Shaolu with his staff, and Shaolu simply dodged the attack, still seemingly reluctant to fight.

Shaolu blocked the second attack with his staff, and then finally fought back. Quickly building up to a rapid pace, the two Saktagres warriors engaged each other in a deadly dance. Every swing was blocked and countered. A game of constant peril, where one wrong move would mean bruises, shattered bones, or worse. The clang of the metal staffs resonated through the open chamber, accompanied only by the occasional beat of the large drum the Esumala monks played as part of the ritual.

Shaolu stood across from Qwedo, both of them panting from the exertion, their long cloaks dangling from their shoulders in the slight breeze of the large hall. Eyes locked with intent, they challenged each other silently. Then, as though they knew each others' thoughts, they attacked simultaneously. The dance continued.

In the dark open temple, the two fought with ferocity, as the monks idly observed. Death was in the air, and it was an acrid smell indeed. The carcasses of fallen warriors, all in differing stages of decay, lain in the pit below. It was rumored that the chasm below was lined with spikes, but one could not see to the bottom through the dim fog of the temple. In any case, the fall itself was enough to kill a man.

“No!” a woman screamed, as she ran into the temple.

“Lomaies?” Shaolu said as he looked back to his sister. With his guard briefly down, Qwedo took the opportunity to swing his rod against Shaolu's side, shattering a rib. Shaolu fell to the floor and cried out in pain. When Qwedo came closer, Shaolu swung his rod against Qwedo's calves, sweeping him to the ground.

“Stop this at once!” Lomaies commanded.

“Go home girl! This is none of your concern,” Qwedo shouted, his eyes still locked on Shaolu's, as they now slowly circled one another.

Shaolu remained silent. He would no longer allow anything to distract his focus. Qwedo was a formidable opponent. They had practiced together as children, and they were always an even match. This was different, however. In this dance of death there was no holding back, but Shaolu could not do this… not with his brother.

Shaolu and Qwedo fought with blazing speed. A swing and a block, and then a counter swing. A high kick of opportunity, and a quick dodge. Continually they fought on without ever actually hitting each other's bodies. With the augmented physicality attained through Saktagres training, some of their more keenly planned thrusts seemed faster than light. Yet, with each well planned attack, came an immediate defense.

Finally, after much fighting, Shaolu was able to disarm Qwedo; his rod falling into the chasm. Shaolu then knocked Qwedo to the ground, and pointed the tip of his rod towards Qwedo's face.

“It is over brother.”

Qwedo's eyes teared up in rage, and in knowing what he was about to do. “No...” he whispered.

Qwedo raised his arm. In an instant, his right forearm seemed to come apart. A cavity formed in the middle of his arm, as a chrome cylinder rose into position. A cybernetic weapon. Before Shaolu could understand what he was seeing exactly, the weapon instantly discharged, firing deadly pellets in a bright flash.

Shaolu fell to his knees, and stared at his hands. Damp with blood, he realized it was from his chest. He slowly gazed behind him in shock and spied Qwedo in the distance. A distant shadow amidst a growing blur, Qwedo was quickly fleeing the scene. As the world faded to black, he saw his sister standing over him, sobbing uncontrollably.

-⫷⫸-

“Kakai!” he yelled as he realized his pistol was jammed. The transfer coil was overheating, and this was not the best time to attempt a repair. The barrage of light beams now stopped, as his pursuers realized they couldn't get a clear shot.

“Better you should give over, val?” the militiaman called out, his Ayis clearly needing some work.

“Vi trina kath, shu frikit!” Saktefya replied defiantly in Thanas. I think not, you kakai.

As could probably be expected, the soldiers weren't exactly pleased with Saktefya's reply. This was made manifest in the volley of blasts accompanying several insults hurled Saktefya's way. Of course, it was futile, as Saktefya was still shielded from the beams. Apparently, the guards felt it necessary to make their verbal points (including several involving Saktefya's mother) more clear.

Saktefya was only a few meters from his craft. Unfortunately, there were no more containers in the hangar to use for convenient shielding. Without his firearm in working order, a mad dash to his ship was out of the question. It was now down to a tenuous stale-mate, maintained primarily by the men's ignorance of Saktefya's pistol problem.

Saktefya had to think fast. After all the resistance he had given to the militia, they probably wouldn't accept his surrender. The Colonial Militia had a habit of not investigating such matters too heavily, especially when the given citizen had provided armed resistance. The worst that would probably happen is the militiaman would be cited with “negligent discharge”, and no murder charges would be pressed. Of course, in the unlikely event that they did accept his surrender, Saktefya wasn't exactly looking forward to imprisonment for what he was facing.

Suddenly, Saktefya realized he still had his ship communicator. He frantically searched his pockets for the small oval shaped device. Once he found it, he depressed the button, “Sao, can you hear me?”

The pleasant, but monotone, female voice replied “Yes, sir.”

“Great. I need your help.”

“How may I be of assistance to you, sir?”

“I have a pistol lying on my seat. I need you to send it out to me.”

“Anything else, sir?”

“Yes. I need you to start your engines once you transfer the pistol out here. Sound good?”

“I will do as you ask.”

After ending the transmission, a small portal opened on the hull of the ship. As the militiamen slowly moved in, a faint blue light field appeared as a column from the ship's hull to the ground beside Saktefya. Beside him his pistol materialized.

In a stroke of good luck, Saktefya's original pistol now displayed a working status. While the militiamen became temporarily distracted with the ship's engines powering up, Saktefya immediately jumped to his feet, unloading a series of blasts from his dual-wielded pistols in the direction of the militiamen. One soldier dodged the blasts, jumping to one side, as another's shoulder was torn apart by the intense beam of light.

Before they could really fire back, Saktefya was inside his ship, while the ship's cargo bay ramp lifted. Outside the ship, the soldiers continued to fire against the ship's hull in vain. Saktefya rushed to the cockpit.

“Sao, start the thrusters!”

“The bay doors are still closed, sir.”

“Then open them!”

“I'm afraid I can't do that.”

“Why not?!” Saktefya shouted as he jumped into his seat. Outside the soldiers were now attending to their comrades' wounds.

“I do not have the proper clearance, sir. The bay doors have been sealed.”

Saktefya's eyes shot back and forth as he tried to quickly think of how to get out of this mess. There was no turning back at this point. Wounding a militiaman wasn't exactly excusable in any imaginable way by the Colonial Federation. There was only one solution, other than suicide (and the solution he had in mind was close enough anyhow).

“Sao…”

“Yes, sir?”

“Fasten your seat belts.”

“I can not occupy a seat.”

“If we don't make it through this, you might be able to…”

“Sir?”

With that, Saktefya targeted the ship's blasters onto the cargo bay doors, and fired. The security system was immediately activated. He continued to fire away through the thick doors. The resulting vacuum started to pull the ship forward along with everything else which was being sucked through the expanding hole.

Just as the cargo bay missile turrets raised into position, Saktefya slammed the throttle forward, speeding the ship through the gap, seconds before the containment fields engaged to seal off the vacuum.

“Damage report.”

“Minor lacerations to the outer hull. All critical ship systems are performing within standard parameters.”

Saktefya simply nodded, and now breathed a sigh of relief. He had narrowly escaped, as he had many times in the past. This time, however, his enemy would not soon forget. He still needed to get out of Federation space as quickly as possible. With his ship swiftly running low on fuel, that would be easier said than done…

-⫷⫸-

“The whole freighter? You're just going to destroy it like that?” the young woman asked, raising herself on her elbows from the bed.

Lying beside her, the young emperor continued to coldly gaze into space, his arms folded across his chest purposefully. His face remained motionless--and emotionless--as he replied, “I trust my spy master. He reports the entire ship is largely comprised of D'hinajat.” This last saekbolm word he pronounced perfectly. It was a harsh familiarity he'd rather not have.

“Largely?”

He now turned his head staring sharply into his concubines eyes, “Sacrifices must be made for security and stability.” He then looked away and muttered “And the rest are Saekbolm anyhow…”

“You can't mean that. You don't really blame the whole of the people do you?”

Staring off into space again he replied, “I suppose not.” Looking back into her deep eyes the young emperor continued. “We live in harsh times. A man's choices can not always be so idealistic…”

“Shouldn't ideals at least be strived for?”

“Everyone's an idealist when ethics are convenient…”

“Yes, but isn't that precisely why ethics should be valued? For the vigilance it takes in maintaining them?”

“Vigilance is precisely what I'm trying to maintain. In the end, I believe it justifies the means.”

“Are you sure that's the truth?”

“Truth is a subjective thing. As the Great Lord Iqwiloespa once said ‘The truth of Umafe is illusive.’”

The young woman now scowled at him facetiously. “I think you took that out of context. Besides, when have you bought into all this Saktam stuff?”

His eyebrows now raised, a smirk crept across his face as the young man replied, “Well, I am the chief of council.” With that the young woman laughed, for they both knew how entirely nominal the relationship between the Dora and the Saktam Council was.

Before they could continue their conversation, the sharp beeps of the room's communicator sounded. The mood became solemn once more as the young emperor dressed quickly.

He activated the monitor to answer the call. Appearing before him on the screen was one of his countless imperial guards. The man was somewhat nervous, as this was only the second time he had spoken with the Dora--a meeting the young emperor had never committed to memory himself. After seeing the young emperor not fully dressed, and the bed chamber lights still dimmed, the guard started by asking, “Am I interrupting, ida?”

The Dora coldly replied, “Yes. Say what you have to say.”

The young guard, not much older than the 17 year old Dora himself, became even more timid at the emperor's reply, and after briefly hesitating he replied, “Uh, yes, sire. I was.. uh.. told that your presence is re-requested in the assembly hall.”

“I will be there shortly.”

“Uh yes, sir. I will inform my--” The Dora deactivated the communicator while the guard was yet speaking and then continued to dress.

While he was fastening his cape, looking again off into space, the young emperor explained, “My presence is requested in the assembly hall. It should not be long.”

He then started to walk toward the chamber doors, and as they slid open, his royal concubine then spoke up. “Yoshuru?”

“Yes?”

“I love you.”

The young emperor simply nodded. “I shall be back shortly, Swisan.” He then walked out into the hall, the doors sliding shut behind him. He was all business now.

In many ways he tried to keep best hid, Yoshuru was a typical youth, with all the impetuous longings and insecurities that came with his age. In other ways, however, his maturity seemed even greater than his 19 year old concubine, Swisan. As wise as she was, Swisan still had not dealt with the harsh realities of life that Yoshuru had faced. As an heir to the throne, Yoshuru was trained intensely for the burdensome duties awaiting him. When his parents were both killed one year earlier by D'hinajat terrorists, he had only his advisers, few of whom he really trusted. He was introduced to Swisan shortly after, during a banquet for the governor of Sanos Se. Swisan Jasvakia was the daughter of the governor, and was honored to have her in the Dora's “service” several days later. Although he questioned her motives at first, Yoshuru's lust soon bested him, and in return Swisan did truly love him. Through his cold, often distant, exterior, she could see a boy in pain, struggling to do his best with an overwhelming responsibility.

Responsibility now called the young emperor. He walked purposefully to the assembly hall to carry out a decision he already had made. As he entered the large circular room, his advisers were already seated. The far wall was displaying the image of a large transport ship seemingly motionless in space.

The Dora took his seat at the head of the curved table. Terrible silence filled the room. Cutting through the somber air was the Dora's Minister of Defense. The Minister's face appeared holographically above the middle of the table. Suspended in air, the Minister's shimmering disembodied head addressed his young master.

“Preparations are in the works, Ida. We now have a ship approaching the transport vessel.”

On the wall screen a large imperial carrier ship slowly advanced toward the old rusted vessel before coming to a full stop. Over the room's audio system, the ship's captain was now heard.

“Transport Freight 519, this is the Imperial Border Guard. Please stop your course, and prepare to be boarded.”

After a brief moment the transport ship's captain replied, “This is an independent cargo ship, and we are in neutral space. You have no jurisdiction here.”

“In accordance with Galactic Peace Treaty resolution 71a, we have the right to conduct a public health and safety inspection of your vessel.”

“We come from the planet-state system of Fadlan, which has never agreed to the Galactic Peace Treaty.”

The Dora's Minister now spoke up, “They're stalling for time.”

An alarm sounded on the Border Guard ship's sensor system. The Guard ship addressed the Minister over his private channel, “They've engaged their weapon systems. I would suggest we go to our secondary plan, sir.”

The Minister addressed the Dora, “Shall we engage, Ida?”

The Dora hesitated momentarily, realizing the import of this action. With one swift word, the ship would be destroyed. In a single instant, he would send a mass of people to their deaths unwittingly. As much hatred as he fostered in his heart, deep within a beauty wrestled for an instant of time. However, like a fire burning his soul, his hatred quickly consumed any such notions.

“Engage.”

Everyone watched silently as a small imperial fighter craft exited a portal on the exterior of the carrier ship. It approached the transport ship with blinding speed, simultaneously opening fire on the ship violently. Although they could not audibly perceive the blasts through the vacuum of space, the images of destruction were too loud not to be heard. The violence and ferocity with which the ship was destroyed resonated in Yoshuru's mind. He could almost hear the screams of the people. Men, women, and children crying out in the void, before being silenced.

Blast after blast quickly tore through the ship with cold efficiency, tearing through steel, tearing through space, tearing through flesh, bone, and blood. The destruction was so complete, that only small particles could barely be seen floating through space. All that was left now were whispers in the minds of those that had witnessed the operation.