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34: The Avenger
It was the middle of the night when Desslok awoke to a strange glow permeating what meager quarters he had as part of the rebel group. Even as their leader he wasn't afforded an abundance of space. But his cramped accommodations aside, it was a descent living space for one person.
The glow that had awakened him was coming from across the room, atop a heavy storage chest. The light bounced off the carved out rock walls. It seemed somehow... familiar.
Desslok slowly rose and crept across the room, all too aware from his recent encounter with the Malha that his world had just become much more dangerous and that anything could be a potential threat to his well-being.
His eyes finished adjusting from sleep to wakefulness. The glowing shape looked strange. Whatever it was, it was underneath a supply pack.
He raised an eyebrow at the thing and approached cautiously, drawing a knife he kept with him and reaching out to poke the glowing thing.
The empty pack flailed limply when the blade nudged it. This revealed a tiny edge of the bright object. The corner of a piece of material peeked out from under the bag.
The prince, who'd been holding his breath to keep silent, let it out in relief, realizing that the strange glowing thing was merely the old Interface he'd kept around even after he thought he would never use it again.
He'd been saddened by the deaths of the Iscandari people and even more so when he realized that the young woman he'd spoken to all those years ago was also certainly dead by now. That suspicion seemed to be confirmed when the Interface remained silent for years on end.
The last contact he'd had with the girl had been that night he'd assured her that he had sent her message to Admiral Talan, informing him of Deun's genocidal plans against Iscandar.
So why was the Interface glowing now?
The prince sighed and shook his head, knowing that this was probably a system malfunction resulting from the Interface's hardware and software not being properly cared for. The system was probably trying to reboot itself, or perhaps it was trying to recover from a fatal error of some sort.
Either way, the sudden activity piqued Desslok's interest and he picked up the relic and slipped it on.
Expecting to see lines of code stream across the air in front of him, he nearly jumped when instead, a face materialized.
"Who... are you?" Desslok ventured warily, as the woman continued to stare downwards, seeming disturbed by something.
At the sound of the prince's voice, she jumped, startled.
"He – hello?" she choked, turning tear-filled eyes toward him.
Desslok froze as he beheld the impossible. His words gone, all he could do was stare.
"Hello?" the woman repeated. "Is someone there? I can... barely see you..." she seemed to squint at him. Then he realized that it was too dark in the room for her to see him very well – if at all, which was probably just as well as he realized he'd been so tired when he'd fallen into bed hours ago that he'd neglected to don a shirt to hide the sundry markings he bore from his diverse escapades these past many years.
"Yes. Yes, I am here." he managed to reply in a hushed voice. "May I... inquire as to the identity of the one with whom I speak?"
"I am... Queen Starsha of the planet... Iscandar," she began sadly, "I am... looking for one who called himself 'Deuel,' eight years ago. Do you know of his whereabouts?"
He caught his breath again as every word she'd said ran through his overwhelmed brain. Not "princess" any more, but "queen?" Did that mean that at least some of the Iscandari still lived? And she'd remembered him even after all this time? But by far the most puzzling question he had was why she was calling him now?
Waiting for an eternal second before replying, he weighed the benefits and risks of revealing his true identity to her; then, his decision made, he replied.
"I do. He stands before you."
"Blessed be Yahweh!" she exclaimed, seeming to let out a huge sigh of relief, "Then you can help me."
"What is it that I can do for you, Queen Starsha of Iscandar?" he asked, trying to hide the hint of a smile that had sneaked onto his face sometime during the last two or three seconds, but he needn't have worried about it. The next words out of her mouth sent all mirth fleeing instantly.
"They're all gone – every one of my people who weren't off-world – all but my sisters and I." she bravely wiped away her tears, "But now... my younger sister has succumbed to the virus. She is dying Deuel. I cannot help her. No one but you can. We did everything we knew to do to rid Iscandar of the virus. We succeeded in part, but our success was too little and much too late." She covered her face with her hand to hide her grief-filled face until she could recompose herself. "Is there no cure for this terror? Is there nothing that can be done so that at least Sasha might live?"
The prince bowed his head, sobered by Starsha's words, struck by the strangeness of this entire conversation.
"Queen Starsha..." the name came so easily to him that he was struck by the gentle tone in which he uttered it, "I do not know what I will be able to do, but surely you have found something to counter-act Deun's work. How else is it that you speak to me now?"
There was a long, deafening silence, so long that Desslok began to think that he had said something drastically offensive to Starsha. He was about to open his mouth to utter an un characteristic apology when the queen spoke.
"Deuel..." she took a deep breath and looked away from him for a moment before looking down at the ground and continuing. "There are things that I cannot explain to you; things that are too fantastic for you to believe without seeing the proof yourself... I cannot tell you more than that Yahweh Himself has seen to it that both I and my sister Astra were born with an immunity the very disease Deun constructed to use against my people."
"But – but that's not –"
"Possible. Yes, I am well aware of that, Deuel. But I also know that it happened." At this the queen looked straight into Desslok's face. "Please. Help Sasha. I know you are only a Historian... But you are the only one left who can help her... Will you?"
The prince stared at Starsha in disbelief, but soon found himself nodding and uttering the one word he would always remember saying to her that night. "Yes."
And with that simple answer he ended the conversation.
The glow diminished, then disappeared. Desslok curled his left hand into a fist, narrowed his eyes and swore by the blood of the Guardiana line that ran through his veins that he would do everything in his power to fulfill the promise he had just made.
As he took the Interface off once more, he knew now what his next step had to be.
"These six years have been long for us all." Desslok paced before an assembly of most of his rebel forces, "We have lost men – good men – and women; and we've gained even more than we lost. Every one of you represents one less pawn in the hands of that usurper that the zealots and the civilians call 'Leader.'" the prince said the title mockingly, "If he were truly a Leader worthy of his throne, he would not have killed millions of Iscandari out of mere spite."
The crowd murmured in loud agreement.
"He would not have contracted with shêd-wielders to hunt down his own people."
The rebels' support began to gain volume.
"And he never would have murdered his own sovereign."
At this the group raised their voices even louder in agreement.
"To kill a world full of innocents is despicable; to hunt and kill his own people is disgusting; but to raise a hand against the anointed one is unforgivable*."
And with that the crowd exploded into cries of agreement, shouts of hatred against Deun, and eventually several individuals began to chant the prince's name, resulting in more and more of the rebels joining them.
The prince surveyed the crowd, noting that there was one who did not join in the obeisance.
"Masterson... if it were any but you, I would be troubled." he shook his head and dismissed Talan's lack of participation, knowing that it was likely due to his friend's overtly religious views. To join in with this crowd now would seem too much like a form of worship to Masterson, and knowing his friend's faith, he let it go without a second thought.
Raising a hand to quiet the group. Desslok continued, "It is time."
Stunned gasps rippled through the crowd and some even began to whisper to one another, wondering exactly what the prince meant.
"No more will Deun rule our world with his tyranny of fear;" the prince shook his gloved fist in the air, "No more will he kill without reason or thought;" he snatched one of the zealot standards that had been left on their most recent battlefield, "No more will he send mercenaries to slaughter his own people!" with a mighty yank, Desslok ripped the standard in two, shredding it from one end to the other. He threw the brutalized cloth to the ground and placed one booted foot on each half. "It is time to take back what is ours."
The cheers were deafening, and if they hadn't been contained in an underground cavern, the prince would have been wary of the enemy hearing them, but the meeting hall had been constructed well and no sound ever survived long enough to make it to the surface.
This time when Desslok cast a glance at Masterson, he found his friend nodding in approval, a look of triumph on his face. The sentiment was echoed by the entire rest of the Council who stood jut behind Masterson, lending their support to the deafening crowd.
"This is taking so much longer than I thought it would." Constance sighed as she helped her mother pack up some of the supplies the rebel army would need during its impending push to the capitol.
"We have an army to feed, neshamah sheli." Dara replied, "Did you expect a few packs worth?"
"No," Constance grunted as she lifted a bulky barrel of something heavily preserved, "Just perhaps a bit less than... this." she indicated the supply stores with her inclined head as her hands were still busy moving the barrel.
Dara laughed, "Just you wait, Mariposa. This won't even last the entire trip."
Just then young Deror burst into the room holding a carved tannin – no doubt from one of his father's fellow rakabim – making the toy zoom through the air and adding the appropriate whooshing and roaring sounds as he went, sending down imaginary fireballs at the equally invisible zealot armies he was happily toasting.
"Hey." Constance caught the youngster by the back of his tunic, "You come in here, you get to work."
"Awwww!" he complained loudly, "But I was just getting to the capitol city! I've got more enemies to get rid of before we leave!"
"They'll wait." Constance grinned, "Besides, I thought you wanted to hear the end of the story I was telling you about the little girl – the one who lived on a cargo ship."
Deror looked torn. He looked at his toy, then up at Constance; pursing his lips in indecision, he thought for a good ten seconds before handing his tannin off to Dara to put safely away from anything that might smash it and then picking up a child-sized sack of something so that he could join Constance in the other room and hear the rest of the "story" the nineteen-year-old had been weaving for him.
Dara shook her head. Every time she saw her daughter now all she could think of was how quickly the time had escaped her. It seemed as though just yesterday that she, Garen and Constance were leaving that old ship, bidding farewell to Malak, and heading off to find the mysterious Eliora.
"Taking a break are we?"
The voice startled Dara and she yelped in surprise, turning to glare at the one who'd scared her. "Garen Krenshaw, don't do that!" she smacked him lightly on the shoulder. "You know I hate having people sneak up behind me."
"Sorry." Garen grinned, completely unrepentant. "Just thought you looked like you needed some company."
Dara let an evil grin spread across her face and she laughed, repeating the words her daughter had just said to Deror, "You come in here," she pointed down, "you get to work." She indicated a stack of unpacked dried meat. "Get to it soldier."
"I will have you know that I am a ranking officer." Garen said with mock aloofness, "I do not do such menial tasks as packing meat." he pretended to buff his fingernails in a hilarious impression of one of Deun's generals which had Dara laughing so hard she had to lean against the wall for support lest she fall over.
She looked at Garen and grinned, wiping the tears out of her eyes and taking a deep breath after laughing away all of her air.
When her vision was normal again, she found the man looking at her strangely.
"Garen...? What's wrong?" she asked, suddenly afraid that something had happened.
Then without warning, he leaned in and kissed her. But almost as soon as the moment began, it ended as Garen pulled back, "I'm sorry!" he exclaimed, "I shouldn't have done it – I just – I'm sorry." He hurriedly left the room without any further explanation.
Dara stood alone in the room, stunned and confused.
"It's not as though it was an overnight decision." Elisa said, leaning on her husband's shoulder as they both sat near the fire, taking the first watch of the night and the opportunity to talk with each other alone while their son was off under the supervision of others.
"I know." Dommel sighed, "I had just hoped... that it wouldn't be this soon."
"This soon?" Elisa sat up and looked at her husband in puzzlement, "It's been eight years – six since the formal formation of the rebels. You call that 'soon'?"
"Relatively... yes I do." Dommel nodded, "I'd hoped to avoid a conflict altogether..." he hung his head.
Elisa sighed, seeing the all-too-familiar look on her husband's face, "I know..." she leaned against him again, "It's hard to go back to it; to relive those nightmares every time you go into battle."
Dommel looked away.
"I know that's why you learned to ride." she whispered to him, "Fighting from the back of a tannin is so different than anything you've ever done before that... you thought perhaps it wouldn't bring back the pain again..." She gently reached out and with one hand turned his face towards her. "And I also know that it didn't work."
Ashamed that she had seen his continued weakness, her husband tried to look away again, but Elisa wouldn't let him. "Dommel..." she said lovingly, "It doesn't matter to me that you can't stop remembering. I know you're afraid to fight another day. What matters is that, no matter what, you do what you have to to defend your fellow soldiers, our son, and our home... That is worth all the admiration in the universe, my love and no shame you bear from years gone by can ever overshadow that..."
With those words, her husband seemed to come alive, "You – really mean that?"
"I do, Dommel." Elisa nodded, letting one hand rest on his shoulder while the other slid down onto his chest. "And no one's ever going to change my mind."
With that, her husband wrapped her in a huge hug before giving her a long kiss that sent a couple of stray rakabim quickly and quietly back to their tents, faces red with embarrassment.
"Hmmm..." Aurelia sat, tapping her chin thoughtfully. Her aged features had begun to lighten a bit as of late, returning to a younger state – a little something she had asked of Diana just after their encounter with her charmed grandson. "He is definitely a worthy servant to acquire, Fiske." she said to the bounty hunter. "He's finally decided to rise up against that fool brother of his. How two children can be so alike and yet so different... Ah well, at least that dolt will be out of the way and I can begin using my unwitting pawn soon."
"Yes, Malha." Fiske nodded, "But what if he finds out?"
Aurelia laughed in her usual, high-pitched cackle, though this time it sounded just a bit less harsh, "Oh he won't, Fiske."
"And what of the Shêd-slayer?"
"Ha!" Aurelia mocked, "I have plans for the little fiend, don't worry. Everything is going precisely as planned."
"What about Deun's little genocidal incident?"
Aurelia laughed again, "It was his first, but it won't be his last." she waved a dismissive hand. "One less race to try to foil my plans. That was the one thing that my fool of a grandson did right. They're all dead and I'm less a few billion problems. Where's the harm in that?"
"I see your point." Fiske agreed, "A delightful turn of events for you, Malha."
"Indeed." Aurelia nodded, pleased. "Now, see to it that Desslok's forces find out the precise locations of any outposts Deun has between their camp and the capitol – not all at once, mind you." she smirked, "They might get suspicious; just leak the information to them slowly. Make it look like they found it on their own – a stroke of good luck if you will."
"Of course." Fiske bowed, "It shall be done."
He scurried away to do his majesty's bidding as she sat, grinning wickedly after him.
* Historically in Israel, to raise a hand in violence against God's anointed king or to actually kill him was punishable by death.