You are currently in 6-4/ Art  

A small fuel tanker rolled from hanger 37a, level B.  A nearby one man speed-craft turned on, the engine inside the blunt nose-cap roaring to life as the pilot stepped in.  He began to lower the hatch.  Drentos stood on the ground below.  “Whatever you do, do not return without them!” he urgently called upward.

“For Plothena!” the pilot cried, his window closing with a creak as the craft inched out of the space.  With a drawn out hiss, the airbrakes released and the machine, retracting its wheels as it climbed through the air, disappeared rapidly into the atmosphere, into the slight wisps of cloud that lazed around the horizon.

A number of pilots jostled past on their way to a room.  Drentos followed them, squeezing without hesitation into their midst.  Richard was speaking at the podium, pointing out the various landmarks mentioned on a map displayed at the back of the room on a screen.  “You'll drop off your men about one-quarter mile SE of Toshke.  You will continue the line due West of that position.  You're going to need to move quickly, dropping off the troops and being as far away as possible by the time that the Trojans arrive.

“We do not want them to find out where everybody is at.  Any questions before you take-off and begin this sector of your mission?”

A grizzled pilot stood up.  “What about support?  The Trojans have good guns.  They also have very well trained marksmen in their ranks and are masters of artillery usage.”

Richard replied without hesitation.  “We have a squad of REB-18 craft on patrol right now.  They will inform you if you need to unload sooner.  But we shall have our turrets on the watch and they will be covering you in the case of a mistake.  You've got five seconds to ask another question.  Anyone else got anything to say?”  He paused, looking around the room at the occupants for several seconds.  “Then get to your ships!”

He stepped down from his position and walked back through the ranks of pilots, heading toward the door.  “Good luck,” he encouraged a younger, green-faced pilot with a slap on the back.  “You'll do fine, and you won't get blown up on this one.  It'll be about as safe as in your simulator.”  As he jostled his way to the exit the thought continued to haunt his mind.  They're trusting you, he told himself.  You'd better not blow it.  He sighed, and frustratedly shrugged the notion from his mind.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Several blue pennants lay limply on the corners of a grey, musty looking tent in the Trojan base-camp, five miles behind a Ridge directly north of the IPLR Base.  At a desk lying in the center of the tent an officer looked up, his thin, firm-jawed face flushed with anger, his arms braced onto the metal in front of him in a gesture of frustration.  “What do you mean, you won't go?” he demanded hotly.

The Yeti standing before him looked more than just a little flustered.  The translator had been kept busy for some time by now and looked about the same, being caught in-between the two upset characters.  “Frost monsters are there.  They control the weather, and attack during storms.  Our companions were struck by lightning, we are not going back to face them.”

The Trojan leaned forward, jabbing a bony, angular finger at the other accusingly.  “You made a bargain,” he snarled.  “You're supposed to scout for us, while we give you arms and protection from these --monsters'.”  His voice rose as he continued, “It's your own fault that you suffered those losses, you weren't supposed to go out into full combat yet.  We're holding up our end of things as well as we can, you hold yours... to the best of your abilities!”  With slumped shoulders the Yeti was hurried away by several guards.

The Trojan officer turned to an aide.  “Inform Lord Torconoth that his scouts will return to the field.”

His radio operator, seated next to him, looked up from his system.  “Lieutenant Thortus!  Your superior desires that you meet him in The Pit.”

Thortus got to his feet and strode toward the designated location.  He bent his square shoulders while entering the strategy center, which had been sunk into the ground, giving it the name, “The Pit”.  It was lit up on the inside from blue, green, yellow, and red computer back-lights and screens; only a few people were in the space right now.

Torconoth's tall frame, framed black against the glare from the surrounding electronics, straightened from his personal computer, located at the center of the location.  “They will return?”

Thortus nodded grimly, rolling his head uneasily as he spoke.  “Not the most willing of allies, I believe.  Only fear keeps them in line and that barely so.”

Torconoth shrugged remorselessly, beckoning to another figure standing across the room.  “We must use whatever means is necessary.  We have some information about the region in front of us.  Over that ridge to the North of our position... Istath, I believe the Yeti call it.  Over it is where the Resistance's base lies.  They sought to hide from us in vain.”

The other figure spoke up in reply.  “We know they're out there, and there might be some activity on their part, but our radar is fuzzy in this atmosphere; it is hard to tell for sure as a result of the conditions.”

Torconoth didn't even bother to turn.  “Then, Joseth, you will have the Yeti make sure of the report's validity.  If we cannot use one tool with certainty, we must use another.  Always stay as accurate as possible; such a practice is vital in these events.”

Joseth spoke, weighing his choice of words carefully.  “But, my lord, we only have around 30 of these creatures left.  If we expend them all this soon, we may be without eyes before long and probably when we need them the most.”

Torconoth snorted.  “They're quite stupid.  I personally don't see the use in having them around if they're not capable of thinking through any process on their own.  Take the ones two nights ago.  What the officer in charge of the force did was not planned; he deserved his fate, and the Yeti who went with him as well.  If they had followed the terms of our agreement, they wouldn't have suffered those losses.”

“Very well, sir.”  Joseth and Thortus bowed deeply to the Fascitii and walked over to some control panels in the back of the system.  Each seized his helm and placed it on his head.  As they were high ranking officers, their helmets were of the Trojan style, with the cheek guards extending down nearly to the shoulders; they were, however, covered in skins just as the rest of their equipment.

Joseth finished putting on his head gear first, and reached over for his short sword.  Slinging the burnished sheath into its strap on his belt, he turned sharply on his heel and strode, clanking, out of the Pit.  Once outside, he shook his head in disbelief and halted to think things over.  Had he really heard what he thought he'd heard?  Don't see the use of have them around...  That didn't make any sense.  Suppose Torconoth might see things with that view in mind about him sometime?  He frowned, and his stomach tied into a knot at the thought.

He glanced over at Thortus as the latter climbed out of The Pit and walked off to a different portion of the clanking, steaming, and generally noisy and obvious camp.  Thortus had never had any problems with his orders.  Doesn't he ever even think about what he's doing? Joseth inquired of himself as he strode along in another direction.  No, he merely obeyed orders without question, being numb to any feeling other than duty, he replied in the same way.  Something wasn't right about all this...

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

After the transports left the hangers to drop off their first load of troops, Spartos took Richard back into the base, where he put his pupil through some drill.  After the young man was warmed up, the two Barci put their blades to training strength and worked through their maneuvers together.

The claysermore is an interesting weapon, being what Paul described as a Space-Age claymore.  It normally had a black blade with a silver basket-hilt handguard.  Upon the pressing of a switch, a power source hidden within the handle kicked on, sending powerful volts of electricity up the blade, heating the strange, titanium-like metal almost to the melting point of steel.  Only one type of material could stop the heat and energy of such a weapon: it was made of a specially treated leather used for the grip on the handle and the gloves that the possessors of such a weapon wore.

The heat of the extra voltage changed the hue of the blade; the Barci all had yellow blades, except for their leader, or Markoth, whose blade was a deep orange in color.  The weapons of the Fascitii, the Barci's main opponents, were of a deep blue, while that of their Premier gleamed a royal purple.

The outer portion of the claysermore hilt also received power from the source, turning them to a golden shade, while a light red force-field formed around the skeleton of the basket.  The force-field could be used to deflect objects away from the owner; this was an extremely difficult skill to master.

When the owner of a claysermore put his weapon on 'training strength', a slip of the treated leather slid along the blade, the color shining through.  The energy, although now blocked for the most part, still reached through the leather enough to give a hearty electrical shock upon impact with another item or person.  As usual, Spartos beat down Richard's left upper guard and zapped him with his weapon.

“I can't believe you got me again, Spartos!”  Richard indignantly rubbed his aching shoulder.

Spartos smiled.  “Actually, I tried to do it four times this round before you broke down into your old habit.  You're getting better, my friend, but not good enough.  You've got to tighten your left key-hole even more!  Most important of all, it's crucial that your guard stays tight when you make that stroke.”

“It's just so hard,” Richard complained.

“There's much in this life that is hard, Richard,” the older man reproved.  “You can't run away from it all!”  Richard rolled his eyes in disagreement as he sat down next to his instructor on a bench hung on the wall.  “I have to tell you,” the Master began, “How much I have enjoyed working with you boys.  Even with as much of a trial as you've sometimes been,” he gave Richard a look, “I find that I have really missed that sort of fellowship.”

The pupil stopped short in adjusting his sleeves.  “I never knew you were a family man, Spartos!”  He cocked his head to the side in bewilderment.

Spartos's muscles relaxed, his eyes taking on that glazed-over, distant look, the only thing that could ever travel back through time.  “I was once.”

“That must have been very long ago, then,” Richard commented.

“No, there is still one who lives, that I know of,” Spartos corrected.  Richard leaned against the wall, sensing a story coming.  “I was the Premier, or leader, of what were called the Black Guards - "

Richard broke in, “The military officers who were trained even as we are?”

Spartos smiled wanly.  “Yes, they were trained in the art of the claysermore.  They were very adept at it, also.  An adeptness which I feel shall never again be had in such knowledge.  Anyways, it was a group designed for training in defense of oneself against the evil which was steadily becoming rampant throughout the galaxy at the time.  What I and my friends didn't know was how far such evil had been instilled in our numbers.

“When some of our number began persecuting the Giants, I, being the leader, spoke out against such actions, as the Giants had been our ancestor's greatest supporters and had helped to establish them in the galaxy.  Nearly the entire body rose up, denounced me and seven faithful comrades as Environmentalist Rebels, and outlawed us.  My nephew, upon my being deposed, was placed in the leadership.

“My friends were found and destroyed one by one, but somehow I evaded capture.  Among my supporters was my brother, the father of the new Premier.  Enough was his sympathy for my cause that he was regarded as a threat to his son's authority.  The father mysteriously disappeared soon after sheltering me on one occasion, and it was rumored that the deed was ordered by the Premier.

“My nephew had sworn to find and destroy me, as he was not content until all who dared to oppose his power were gone.  He eventually caught up with me in my travels, and we had a confrontation.  He had the same weakness as you.  With the identical stroke, I believe.  I couldn't bring myself to kill him, and merely bereft him of his right hand.  You know the rest of the story, and by now, should be able to guess who this man is.”

Richard stared, dumbfounded.  “Scorpio Calsandre is your nephew,” he murmured dazedly.

“Unfortunately, yes.”  Spartos gazed sadly at the opposite wall.  “He has yet to give up the struggle, as you have seen.  It is he who has sent this Force of Trojans to Plothena.  He also is the biggest threat to the stability of this galaxy.”  The old man sighed wearily.  “More than once have I shown him mercy, and yet time and time again he forsakes it and takes after me with all the more venom.”

“Perhaps because he sees in you a better man than himself?” queried Richard.

“My personal belief is that he is jealous of what little popularity I have,” the other replied disappointedly.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Check your waypoints, boys,” crackled the radios in the IPLR transports.  “We should be approaching our destination.”

“Tau 1 speaking,” another voice broke in.  “Get ready to eject your passengers!  Group Mu, you've got the better guns.  Watch the hills and stand ready to fire if necessary.  Halt your craft!”

Doors flipped open, and warriors tumbled out.  Tau 1 was grinning to split his face.  “We did it.  First installment of foot is complete.  We're headed back to base, mission objectives fulfilled.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Trojans crept up the hill and peered over the crest.  Torconoth was watching the Yeti to left critically.  It was peering over the ridge and down into the valley below.  Suddenly, it stiffened, dropped to the ground, and ran over to the General.  “Frost monsters down there.  Many of them.  Need to call off attack, wait for more men.”

Torconoth was disgusted. Pull off the attack now?  Never!  He would never hear the end of the ridicule from his master or fellows if he retreated in the slightest.  His eyes narrowed calculatingly at the ground.  Try as he might, he couldn't see a single hint of the “frost monsters” as the Yeti called them.  He had an idea who the creatures were.  And if they were what he thought they were... he involuntarily shuddered.  Frustrated with himself, he spun around.  “I don't see a single thing,” he muttered.  He turned a bit more.  “Joseth?” he growled.

The young man crawled over.  “Sir?”

Torconoth pointed to the base of the ridge.  “I want a rolling barrage given starting at that spot, the base of this peak.  It is to work its way along the ground South by South-West of our position.  It will be moved in the approximated direction of the rebel base.”  He continued, his voice growing ominous as he spoke.  “If there is anything down there... we'll find it.”

Joseth nodded.  “Aye, sir.”  He motioned to the men.  Every gun was leveled, and the shooting began.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Conthus watched the Istath Ridge through his scope on the lead turret as the transports dropped off their forces and left back toward the base.  He reported the success of the mission to Richard, but continued keeping an eye on the region for potential trouble.  Several minutes later, his crew saw his body go rigid.  “What in the world?” he gasped.  He spun to the radio.  “Flight group Siphon, you're in the direction of the Ridge right now.  What's going on down there?”

The leader of the group lifted just over the nearby crusts and looked over at the Ridge, his heart rising into his throat as he did so.  He connected his radio to all systems.  “The Trojans are making a rolling barrage!  They're headed straight for our troops!  We will commence a diversionary assault.”

“No!” Conthus snapped.  “We don't want them to know that you're there.  I'll communicate the situation to the base!”

 

Print       E-mail      

Photography Column Drawing, Painting, and Cracked Pottery Creative Writing Column Creative Writing Feature