Two blocks from the testing center they heard the shouting. “Mead...shirger!” Marek shared a glance with Lewis and Linden. “Looner!” Marek took off at a sprint in the direction of the commotion. Lewis took up a measured pace behind him. And Linden lurched his way forward, quickly falling behind the other two.
“Cun’d fighd fer yer colony! Cun’d e'en fighd fer yer food! Yer jusd mead, y'shirgin' looner!” Marek burst out from between the row of buildings and came to a stop in front of the dilapidated Solar System model that marked the entrance to grounds of the former spaceport and current Aerospace Recruitment Center, or ARC. Marek noted with disgust that the globe depicting the moon, Ur, was still streaked with brown. Up ahead, beyond the poorly manicured courtyard, two lines had formed at opposite ends of ARC, the large dome-like glass structure that fronted on an extended runway. The city had grown too large, and the runway could only accommodate interstellar ships and older model frigates, of the sort used in ARC training missions. “Gedden line, mead! All yer good fer's dyin'!”
Marek spun towards the shouting. At the far end of the courtyard, near the central ARC entrance, three Primers were shoving at a thin and hunched boy who nonetheless stood nearly a foot taller than his adversaries. There was no mistaking his origin, even from the distance. Marek’s face contorted into a snarl. He stepped in their direction, clenching and unclenching his fists. He took another step, building himself up for a charge when a hand clamped itself around his wrist. Marek quickly pivoted and drew back his free hand, curled into a fist, only to see Lewis looking back at him.
“Wait.” It was more a command than a request. When Lewis spoke, people listened. Marek lowered his fist. “We do this together.”
Thursday, September 16, 2010
Chapter 2
“Riots in Pahalial Square again?”, Marek shouted over the tumult. Lewis shrugged. Riots had become commonplace on Prime ever since E-day, the day the attacks started and the day that they lost their home.
“Food shortage”, Linden mouthed. The three stood poised on the edge of a roiling mob, all armed with empty sacks and picket signs. Fuel people, not ships. Hunger is lune-acy. Feed the workers, starve the shirkers.
“More convoys attacked?” Marek yelled back.
Linden nodded sadly. Prime relied on regular food shipments from the outer colonies. And lately, these shipments had not been regular. The Ghosts had seen to that.
Lewis patted Marek and Linden on the shoulder, and motioned them onwards, inclining his head towards the nearly empty walkway skirting the Square. They continued on in a deafened silence alongside the protests, at last reaching Pahalial’s Last Stand, monument to the first leviathan to be produced and the Northern border of the Square. The immensity of the structure served not only to emphasize the dominance of the ruling League housed within, but buffered the Northern limits from the noise of the riot.
As the sounds from the Square lessened to a dull rumble, the turmoil within Marek boiled to the surface, “Why do they have to blame us? What did they lose? What do they know? The only reason they weren’t hit was because the allied fleet arrived in time for them. But not for us.” Marek ground to a halt and let his gaze drift skyward. A perpetual green haze from the planetary shields permeated the atmosphere of Prime and shadows of distant defensive rings strobed across the subdued blaze of the sun. “Do they really think any of this would have stopped the Ghosts? It barely slowed them on Ur…”
Marek was vaguely aware of Lewis speaking. “Who are they gonna blame? The Ghosts? None of them has ever seen one. Irkalla take them, only a handful of us have either.”
But Marek heard nothing of this. He was already far away, in a place with the sun calmly shining in a green sky. A different green sky. It was clearer. He was alone. On a hillside overlooking the city. And there were stars, gradually growing in the sky. In the middle of the day. Millions of stars. Except not stars, because they were everywhere and they were moving. There were so many of them moving and weaving that the sun seemed to disappear. But strangely, the sky remained bright, brighter in fact than ever before. And the green began to change. The top of the sky became imbued with orange and blue and red and yellow. An aurora. A sunset. A symphony of fire. It was beautiful. And then suddenly he had a feeling. Something had changed in the air. And as he felt this, the light passed through to the city. And burned up everything that it touched.
Blue eyes. Marek blinked. His own eyes felt wet. And Lewis was staring at him with intent blue eyes. His arms on his shoulders. “Sorry Lewis. I was just… remembering…”
Lewis gave his shoulders a squeeze. “Yeah. I know. It’s alright. You good to get going again?”
Marek glanced over at Linden, who was hunched over, chewing on his fingernails and looking at him. He wiped the back of his hand across his eyes. “Yeah, I’m good.”
“Food shortage”, Linden mouthed. The three stood poised on the edge of a roiling mob, all armed with empty sacks and picket signs. Fuel people, not ships. Hunger is lune-acy. Feed the workers, starve the shirkers.
“More convoys attacked?” Marek yelled back.
Linden nodded sadly. Prime relied on regular food shipments from the outer colonies. And lately, these shipments had not been regular. The Ghosts had seen to that.
Lewis patted Marek and Linden on the shoulder, and motioned them onwards, inclining his head towards the nearly empty walkway skirting the Square. They continued on in a deafened silence alongside the protests, at last reaching Pahalial’s Last Stand, monument to the first leviathan to be produced and the Northern border of the Square. The immensity of the structure served not only to emphasize the dominance of the ruling League housed within, but buffered the Northern limits from the noise of the riot.
As the sounds from the Square lessened to a dull rumble, the turmoil within Marek boiled to the surface, “Why do they have to blame us? What did they lose? What do they know? The only reason they weren’t hit was because the allied fleet arrived in time for them. But not for us.” Marek ground to a halt and let his gaze drift skyward. A perpetual green haze from the planetary shields permeated the atmosphere of Prime and shadows of distant defensive rings strobed across the subdued blaze of the sun. “Do they really think any of this would have stopped the Ghosts? It barely slowed them on Ur…”
Marek was vaguely aware of Lewis speaking. “Who are they gonna blame? The Ghosts? None of them has ever seen one. Irkalla take them, only a handful of us have either.”
But Marek heard nothing of this. He was already far away, in a place with the sun calmly shining in a green sky. A different green sky. It was clearer. He was alone. On a hillside overlooking the city. And there were stars, gradually growing in the sky. In the middle of the day. Millions of stars. Except not stars, because they were everywhere and they were moving. There were so many of them moving and weaving that the sun seemed to disappear. But strangely, the sky remained bright, brighter in fact than ever before. And the green began to change. The top of the sky became imbued with orange and blue and red and yellow. An aurora. A sunset. A symphony of fire. It was beautiful. And then suddenly he had a feeling. Something had changed in the air. And as he felt this, the light passed through to the city. And burned up everything that it touched.
Blue eyes. Marek blinked. His own eyes felt wet. And Lewis was staring at him with intent blue eyes. His arms on his shoulders. “Sorry Lewis. I was just… remembering…”
Lewis gave his shoulders a squeeze. “Yeah. I know. It’s alright. You good to get going again?”
Marek glanced over at Linden, who was hunched over, chewing on his fingernails and looking at him. He wiped the back of his hand across his eyes. “Yeah, I’m good.”
Chapter 1
“Are you ready, Marek?”
“As ready as I was 5 minutes ago when you last asked me, Linden.”
Linden slowed to a halt, and twisted his gaunt frame to look intently at Marek. His slouched shoulders served to emphasize the pronounced hunch in his back. Linden’s slight physique had not adjusted well to the increased planetary gravity on Prime. In contrast, his companions, Marek and Lewis, suffered no such affliction. With the exception of their greater stature and the crescent shaped tattoo on their foreheads, they were virtually indistinguishable from the local ‘Primers’. Marek and Lewis slowed with Linden, and the three formed a small wedge of stability in the sea of surging people.
With a sincerity bordering on tears, Linden grabbed Marek’s shoulder, and stammered, “I’m s-sorry Marek. But this is important. This is-is our future. This is-is life. Or. Death. We need to be ready. You n-n-need to be ready.”
“Linden. I know that. Don’t you think that I know that? We all know. But there’s nothing to do now but take the test. There’s no time for anything else.”
“B-But what if – if –”, Linden stuttered.
Lewis stepped closer. “Guys. Relax. Everyone knows Linden is going to Sargon. And Marek, you’re an even better pilot than me. We’re no meat.” Lewis flashed a winning smile. He beckoned them even closer, and as they leaned in, looked each carefully in the eye, and spoke in a conspiratorial whisper, “You could both use a shower though. You smell like Gargoyle from aeronautics.” Lewis leaned back, and burst into a howl of laughter.
Linden gave a sniff and met Marek’s eye. “I don’t smell.” As Marek stared at Linden, a smile began to creep across his lips. Seconds later he was doubled over, laughing. “Gargoyle!?!”
Linden stood up straight, as straight as his weak muscles would allow under the increased gravity. With a deadpan expression he insisted, “Guys, I don’t smell!” Linden smirked. “But Marek does.” Linden’s high nasally laugh rose up and joined Lewis and Marek’s baritone.
The three, herded close together, continued to laugh as the crowds pressed past. Nearby, someone mutter in irritation, “Shirking luners”. As their laughing subsided, Lewis grabbed Linden and Marek by the shoulders and gave them a squeeze. “Come on boys. Let’s go. We have our futures to settle.” And with that, they made their way through the crowds, feeling at least for the time being that their hearts were light again, as light as back on the moon.
“As ready as I was 5 minutes ago when you last asked me, Linden.”
Linden slowed to a halt, and twisted his gaunt frame to look intently at Marek. His slouched shoulders served to emphasize the pronounced hunch in his back. Linden’s slight physique had not adjusted well to the increased planetary gravity on Prime. In contrast, his companions, Marek and Lewis, suffered no such affliction. With the exception of their greater stature and the crescent shaped tattoo on their foreheads, they were virtually indistinguishable from the local ‘Primers’. Marek and Lewis slowed with Linden, and the three formed a small wedge of stability in the sea of surging people.
With a sincerity bordering on tears, Linden grabbed Marek’s shoulder, and stammered, “I’m s-sorry Marek. But this is important. This is-is our future. This is-is life. Or. Death. We need to be ready. You n-n-need to be ready.”
“Linden. I know that. Don’t you think that I know that? We all know. But there’s nothing to do now but take the test. There’s no time for anything else.”
“B-But what if – if –”, Linden stuttered.
Lewis stepped closer. “Guys. Relax. Everyone knows Linden is going to Sargon. And Marek, you’re an even better pilot than me. We’re no meat.” Lewis flashed a winning smile. He beckoned them even closer, and as they leaned in, looked each carefully in the eye, and spoke in a conspiratorial whisper, “You could both use a shower though. You smell like Gargoyle from aeronautics.” Lewis leaned back, and burst into a howl of laughter.
Linden gave a sniff and met Marek’s eye. “I don’t smell.” As Marek stared at Linden, a smile began to creep across his lips. Seconds later he was doubled over, laughing. “Gargoyle!?!”
Linden stood up straight, as straight as his weak muscles would allow under the increased gravity. With a deadpan expression he insisted, “Guys, I don’t smell!” Linden smirked. “But Marek does.” Linden’s high nasally laugh rose up and joined Lewis and Marek’s baritone.
The three, herded close together, continued to laugh as the crowds pressed past. Nearby, someone mutter in irritation, “Shirking luners”. As their laughing subsided, Lewis grabbed Linden and Marek by the shoulders and gave them a squeeze. “Come on boys. Let’s go. We have our futures to settle.” And with that, they made their way through the crowds, feeling at least for the time being that their hearts were light again, as light as back on the moon.
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