Her weapon buzzed, vibrating her fingertips and warming the palms of her hands. Shots pinged around her, and she backed up against a holorock and cowered.
Litus joined her, crouching. “Eri, your weapon is set and ready to go.”
The gray humanoids flitted by as the team followed them in a trail of fireworks. The smell of burned dust spiked her anxiety. “But I’ve never fired at anything before.”
“You’ve got to try.”
“I can’t do it, Litus. I’m…frozen with fear.” She hoped she sounded convincing.
Litus checked the surrounding area before turning back to her. “Believe in yourself, Eri. That’s the only way you’ll make anything happen in your life.”
Eri shifted from foot to foot, wishing she could turn into a hololizard and slither underneath a holorock.
A gray humanoid sprung from the ferns but Litus continued, oblivious. “Or else you’re just cosmic dust on the ring of a planet, waiting for gravity to pull you along the same old circular path.”
Tank slid on his knees, firing, but the humanoid zigzagged against the changing stream. As it neared, its face came into view, making Eri shiver. The holographic image had no eyes or mouth, just a sheen of twilight for a face.
Is this what the aliens will look like?
If so, could she bring herself to even utter a single word to them?
As the battle raged, Eri thought Litus would raise his own laser and stop the rampage, but he didn’t notice the stray opponent lunge in his direction. There was no time to warn him.
Eri snapped her laser up and fired, the shot blasting her backward through the holorock. She slid on her back, feeling the gun pulse in her hands as it recharged. The smell of singed electrical wires choking her, she cringed and covered her face with her arms.
When she gathered the courage to open her eyes, the gray humanoid lay on his back. Litus walked over to her, respect and astonishment shining in his eyes.
Even Tank shouted a hoot of support. “Go, linguist.”
Litus seemed to reassess her as he offered his hand and pulled her up. “You have more spunk than you let on.”
Weaver trudged through the dense undergrowth, failure eating away at his insides like poison. Swamp water sloshed into his boots, making his toes curl with a damp chill that spread up his legs. He shivered, and the familiar feeling of inferiority hovered over him. Too long he’d lived in its shadow.
As he followed the battered army home, he replayed the battle.
How did I fail?
His bows had penetrated his former village’s defenses, giving the men the lead time needed to scale the wall. Nothing could beat the Death Stalker’s scope and aim.
Except Striver. Once again his brother had outshined him tenfold. By felling the first three ropes, he’d weakened the pirates’ resolve. Death by leechers was a nasty, painful end, and Striver’s aim guaranteed some would fall. If only his men had pushed through, letting the first wave of ropes go down while other attackers sprang up. The Lawless claimed they ate ferocity for lunch, yet they had the most spineless weasel worm hearts he’d ever seen.
He had to remind himself the pirates’ shortsightedness was why he thought he could lead the Lawless, manipulating them to his own ends. Only then would he feel powerful. After he gained control of the Lawless tribe, he’d show his village how they should have chosen him, not Striver, to lead.
An unsettling snake of discomfort slid across his shoulders. First he had to report to Jolt.
People scurried from the tree huts, shouting to the survivors as they passed. Weaver didn’t reply. They’d learn soon enough who’d died and how deeply they’d failed. These lands were ruled by a dictator, not a democracy like the do-nothing Guardians and the weak-minded council. He reported to one man alone.
The husk of a spaceship protruded from the ground just beyond the last cluster of fern huts. Cold, harsh metal cut through the soft leaves like a razorblade, reminding Weaver of the power of technology.
Two bodyguards nodded as Weaver passed. Snipe, the younger man on the right, shifted his predatory eyes under heavy lids, looking as mean as a cornered swamp boar. Crusty, the older man on the left, cracked a sad half smile, as if Weaver paced to his death.
Weaver stifled a shudder.
I can handle Jolt. He still needs me.
Stepping underneath the perpetually open hatch, he mustered his courage.
Torches lit the inside of the ship, casting flickering light on control screens long dead. The putrid scent of dank moss and rusty metal hung heavy in the air. Water dripped everywhere, forming muddy puddles on the chrome floor.
Jolt slumped in the cockpit, gazing through the cracked glass of the sight panel on a dead-end course to nowhere. He swiveled in the age-old captain’s chair, the plastic cracking as he moved.
The flickering torchlight illuminated half his pockmarked face and tightlipped frown. He ran his hands over a laser gun with photon chambers clogged with dirt. Hundreds of years ago, the gun had pulsed with energy. Now it was an empty trophy, a remnant of a bygone time.
“Humans were once a mighty superpower. We ruled Earth with our weapons of mass destruction, creating grand wars and great, mighty leaders. I’ve heard the stories passed down by my ancestors. The same people who once flew this very ship. Now, thanks to your technohoarding friends, all we have left are sticks and stones. They sit on top of lost technology, and they won’t let us access it, won’t let us progress beyond our primal means.”
Jolt turned so the reddish light bathed his entire face. “Your weapons failed.” A scar above his forehead twitched with his pulse, reminding Weaver of a weasel worm. His muddied brown hair twisted up in spikes.
Weaver bowed, gazing at the scuffed chrome floor. “For now.”
“You promised me access to the
S.P. Nautilus
, and instead, we lost seven men.”
Boy, the scouts ran quickly. Weaver had guessed word would reach Jolt before he could explain. He’d prepared for such a fight. He straightened, standing tall enough that he could reach the dangling wires above him. “Your army is a bunch of cowards who scramble at the first sign of death.”
Jolt lurched and lunged, shoving his face into Weaver’s. His lips quivered as his bitter breath fell on Weaver’s cheek. “No one insults me and lives.”
Weaver didn’t flinch. He had to stand his ground, or Jolt would turn him into a pile of mush on the chrome floor. “It’s not an insult. It’s the truth.”
Cold pricked Weaver’s skin. He glanced down. Jolt had snuck an obsidian blade against his gut, slicing into his shirt.
“Give me one reason not to kill you right now.”
Weaver’s gaze strayed to the blank control screens. “Look at this ship. The circuits are corrupted beyond repair. Only I know the exact coordinates of the one working spaceship on Refuge, complete with data files on both the space pirates of Outpost Omega and the Guardians’ advanced technology from their home world. Only I can scratch the codes and mimic the claws of the Guardians to get you in.”
“It does me no good on this side of the fence.” Jolt narrowed his eyes. “All this failure has got me thinking. Who’s to say you’re not a spy?”
Weaver put both hands on his hips, jutting his thumbs through his belt loops. “Nothing worth having is without risk.” He hated quoting his father, but the old man had been right about some things, even if he’d favored Striver over Weaver since birth.
Jolt eased, slipping his blade into a side sheath. “Of that, you’re right. I’m giving you one more chance to prove yourself. Meanwhile, I have my eye on you. No ship, no place here in our lands. I can’t let you crawl back to your brother’s cheery little village. You know too much.”
“I’d rather die than go back.”
Jolt smirked. “So be it. But all in good time. I have another project for you.”
“If it has to do with that scout droid you found last week, you can count me out. There’s no way I can get it running again after your huntsmen skewered it. My expertise is with bows, not technology.”
Jolt eyed him. Weaver cocked a brow. He had his ways of finding information.
But Weaver’s knowledge of his secret didn’t seem to intimidate Jolt. Something more profitable than a scout droid stirred in the depths of his dark eyes. He savored his words. “No, it’s something much, much better.”
…
The scent of smoked boar filled the air. Wooden flutes trilled, accompanied by the heavy beat of leather drums. Striver stood apart from the festivities, watching Guardians thread strings of flowers through the trees in the twilight.
“You don’t care to celebrate?” Phoenix appeared from the branches above him, proving to Striver that he could never truly be left alone. Although sometimes he resented the constant attention leadership thrust upon him, tonight the Guardians’ presence soothed him. At least someone else noticed the discord slowly twining through their everyday lives.
Striver leaned against a wood railing. “What’s to celebrate? The attack was too close this time. One of our men died.”
Phoenix perched on the upper branch, giving Striver space. His voice was patient, kind. “Thrift gave his life to protect us. Tonight, we gather to honor him.”
Striver clenched his fist. “I should destroy the ship, Phoenix. Then we’d all have peace.”
“And erase our two people’s histories?” Phoenix cooed softly like a parent warning a child against playing with fire. “How can we ever hope to live a better life on Refuge without learning from our mistakes of the past?”
“Sometimes I think it’s better to start with a clean slate.”
“Is it? Or will we fall prey to the same demons that led your ancestors to Old Earth’s end?”
“Sometimes I think it’s inevitable. The rise and fall of civilizations. Man’s never-ending search for knowledge and power.”
Phoenix shifted on the branch, his feathered wings rustling. “Such is the weight carried by the leader. Always thinking about the best interests for his people, always striving for the better course. You are true to your name.”
Striver sighed, expectations burdening his shoulders.
“Sometimes you have to let your worries go. Only then will you see the right path.” Phoenix dropped beside him and placed long fingers like twigs on his shoulder. His eyes shone the unchanging color of twilight. He squeezed lightly and fluttered off, joining the other Guardians in the sky. They flew in formation, uniform in appearance, attitude, and purpose.
Striver shook his head and tried to empty the riddles from his mind. The Guardians had no interest in leading themselves, but boy did they have a load of complicated advice. Still, he had to be thankful for their cohabitation. Without them, the entire colony may have fallen to Lawlessness, or used the knowledge on the
S.P. Nautilus
for their own ends. The Guardians were a constant voice of reason that echoed throughout centuries, providing their colony with a single vision in an otherwise wild land. Thank goodness Aries and Striker had hatched the eggs on the
S.P. Nautilus
, giving this remarkable species another chance at life. The videos on the Guardians’ ship had shown their planet’s sun was dying. It was possible the Guardians on Refuge were all that were left of their kind.
The music lulled and people congregated around the roasting boar as Carven began to cut a piece. “As per custom, the first serving of this feast is given to the hunter who felled the beast.”
Applause and hoots erupted as Striver jogged to greet them. He’d rather someone else take the credit, but he also didn’t want to seem ungrateful for their offering. Carven handed him a plate with steaming boar meat.
“A meal for a true hero, and our fearless leader!”
A chorus of approval rang out. Children chanted his name.
Striver took the wooden plate and bowed to them. A pang of remorse shot through him. He wondered if it were these moments where he shined that had caused Weaver to leave. If so, he’d rather have his brother back and be a nobody than lead a colony without him. Stifling his feelings, he pushed through the crowd, wanting to be left alone.
A young boy pulled on his sleeve. “Is it true the boar almost ran you over?”
Striver sighed, reminding himself that he had once been young. “You could say that.”
“I heard you cut a rope with only two arrows.” Another boy, this one with fuzz growing on his chin, gave Striver a hard look of respect.
“Luck, nothing more, my friend.”
“Can you promise me the next dance?” The alto voice sang over the crowd. Striver whirled around, facing a young woman with hair, black as night and thick as the dense forest, trailing to her ankles.
“No, Riptide. Not tonight.”
She traced her fingertip down his arm, stone rings glittering in the firelight. “Some other time, then?”
“Maybe so.”
“Though a true hero deserves more than just a dance.”
He looked away. “Tonight, I’ll settle for boar.”
It took him several minutes to work his way through the crowd to the rope ladders. He climbed, balancing the wood plate, hoping the meat hadn’t gone cold in the chilled twilit air. Circling the tree hut, he pushed through thick vines, revealing a woven fern door. He opened the door to a small room, lit by the embers of a flickering torch.
“Mother, how are you feeling?”
A wispy-haired woman moved under the covers of a thatch bed. “I appreciate the visit, but you should be with your people.” Her dark eyes sparkled as she took in the sight of him. “They need a strong leader like you in a time like this.”
He handed her the plate. “Here, have some boar meat.”
His mother pulled off a slender piece and chewed. She placed the plate aside. “It is good.”
“Then why don’t you try some more?”
Her thin fingers pulled the blanket up to her chin. “Maybe later. Tell me about the battle.”
He sighed until his lungs emptied, summoned courage, and then took in another breath. “I saw him.”
His mother shot upright, and her thin fingers grasped his arm so hard his skin turned white underneath her grip. The eagerness in the twitch of her mouth hurt him more than the sight of his brother had. He wanted to tell her Weaver was coming back, that he’d had enough of life in the Lawless lands. But that was a dream for another day. “He led the attack.”