Artan's Night

2

  He’d expected it to be dark, but there was a light on.

  Damn. He must still be awake.

  “Artan?” came a hoarse voice, followed by a cough.

  “Yes, it’s me, grandfather,” Artan replied, trying to sound as calm and gathered as he could. He took off his overcoat and hooked it upon the coat-rack, where it continued dripping water onto the cracked wooden floorboards. He slid out of his water-filled boots and ran his hands through his soggy blonde hair as he made his way through the landing to the main room, the source of both the light and the voice. He’d hoped his grandfather would be asleep by now. Since he wasn’t, he knew he’d have a lot of explaining to do.

  With a measure of reluctance, Artan stepped into the room. His grandfather sat in his chair by the table, a blanket draped over his lap, his gaunt face illuminated by the paraffin lamp on the table beside him. The light of the street lamp outside filtered through the edges of the curtain, casting a pale blue luminescence, while the sound of rain rattling against the windowpane punctuated the uneasy silence.

  If it was possible, his grandfather even looked weaker than before. His face froze upon seeing the state of his grandson. “Wha--what happened to you?” he gasped.

  “I was on my way home...I got mugged,” Artan answered vaguely.

  “Are you all right?”

  Artan nodded, unsuccessfully trying to muster a smile. “I’ll be fine. All they got was my money.”

  “Where were you?”

  “I told you earlier, visiting friends in eastgate.”

  “I warned you not to stay out so late. You’ve been out every night this week, later and later each time. You know the streets aren’t safe; they’re barely safe in broad daylight.” His grandfather succumbed to another fit of coughing that must have felt as painful as it sounded.

  “I didn’t mean to be so late,” Artan said as he sank into the other chair, a stab of pain shooting from his stomach and ribs.

  “Where were you really?” his grandfather asked, staring at him questioningly.

  “With my friends in eastgate,” Artan shot back with a measure of irritation.

  “Really?” his grandfather raised his eyebrows, not once taking his eyes off his grandson’s bruised and bloodied face. “Which friends?”

  “What’s with all the questions?” Artan protested.

  “Because I know you weren’t really in eastgate,” his grandfather responded. There was an awkward pause before he continued. “I can read your mind, you know.”

  Artan looked up, the colour draining from his face. He knew from his grandfather’s loaded tone of voice that this wasn’t a mere figure of speech.

  His grandfather nodded slowly. “This is a conversation we should have had a long time ago,” he said. “How long have you known?”

  “Known what?” Artan shifted uncomfortably.

  “That you have the ability to sense other people’s thoughts and feelings.”

  “But...how? How did you know?” he blurted. “I never told anyone...”

  “You didn’t have to,” his grandfather’s voice softened. “I’ve known all along, Artan. You’re not alone. It’s something that runs through the blood of our family, and has done for five generations.”

  Artan didn’t know what to say. He was astonished, yet also somewhat relieved. All along he’d assumed there must have been something terribly wrong with him.

  “How long has it been?” his grandfather asked.

  Artan shook his head slowly. “I’m not sure. I suppose it started about a year ago. Faint at first. I’d get impressions—flashes—and then they were gone. The past few months though, it's been getting stronger. I found that if I was close enough to someone and consciously focused on them, I could hear their thoughts and sense their feelings. I’d never experienced anything like it. I knew it wasn’t normal.”

  “Not normal for most people, perhaps,” the old man said, repressing another wheeze.

  “To begin with it terrified me; I thought I was going insane,” Artan admitted. He looked to the ground and took a deep breath before continuing. “But then I realized something...”

  “What?”

  “That I could use it. If I could read people’s thoughts, then I had an advantage over them.”

  His grandfather raised an eyebrow. “Is that when you started going to the casinos?”

  Artan was shocked. He stared at him blankly, again at a loss for words. He hadn't realized his grandfather had known where he'd been all along. His grandfather was the one person he'd never been able to read or intuit.

  “Yes, I knew where you were going,” his grandfather confirmed with a nod. “I should have confronted you sooner. I suppose I wanted to wait until you felt ready to talk to me about this. That was a mistake on my part. I just wish you hadn’t felt it necessary to stoop to such measures...”

  “But we need the money,” Artan countered. “We have to get you that medication. Your lungs aren’t going to heal on their own. I had to do it. For you.”

  “There are other ways to make money, Artan...”

  “And I’ve tried them all!” he cried, exasperated. “There's simply no work in this town, not for someone with my limited experience. I didn’t see any other choice.”

  “You can't misuse your gift,” his grandfather’s tone of voice was stern.

  “Well, I don’t see why not.” Artan shrugged and let out a frustrated sigh. “Why don't you tell me about this ‘gift’. What is it and what does it have to do with our family?”

  His grandfather succumbed to another fit of coughing. When he had stopped and regained his breath, he began to relate the tale. Artan listened with rapt attention. “My grandfather, your great-great grandfather, was what is known as a Starlanian,” he explained.

  “Starlanian?” Artan echoed.

  “The Starlanians are a race of telepaths in possession of remarkable mental powers, not least the ability to sense the thoughts and feelings of others. I'm told they came to this planet thousands of years ago and lived among its people, largely in secrecy, for they quickly learned that because of their unique abilities they were feared and distrusted by others. Many kept to themselves and lived in isolated regions, while others concealed their identity and integrated among the general population, intermarrying and interbreeding. Their powers were therefore passed down through the bloodline, although usually unbeknown to their offspring.”

  “So, everyone in our family from the time of your grandfather has shared this ability?” Artan asked.

  “Not quite,” his grandfather answered. “It appears the gene is only active in every second generation. The rest of the time it remains dormant unless, apparently, one undertakes special training to develop it. So it was active in my grandfather, but dormant in my father. It was active in me, but not in my daughter. And, as two generations removed from me, it is active in you.”

  “I had no idea,” Artan exclaimed. “How did you learn all this?”

  “Because one day when I was around your age, my grandfather sat me down and told me about his true identity. He knew my gift was starting to develop and he sensed how greatly this disturbed me. Like you, I was astonished yet also relieved to learn of this, and to know that I wasn’t alone.”

  Ignoring the pain in his stomach, chest and ribs, Artan leaned forward in his seat. “So all these years you’ve been able to read other people’s thoughts, without telling anyone?” he asked.

  “That’s right. I never told a single soul, until today.”

  “But how have you managed to live with this? I mean--” Artan trailed off, overwhelmed and struggling to express the thoughts galloping through his mind.

  The man smiled warmly. “You’ll get used to it,” he said with another cough. “You’ll learn to master your abilities and to turn them off at will. This needn’t affect your life unduly.”

  “But maybe it should,” Artan replied. He was silent for a moment as his mind stepped up a gear. “I mean, we're struggling just
to put food on the table each day. We can’t go on like this. There has to be some way I can use this to our advantage...”

  “You tried that, and look where it got you,” his grandfather interjected. “And you were lucky this time. If anyone were to learn of your ability, your life would be in danger. My grandfather was convinced that there are people out there—powerful, dangerous people—that know of our existence and are determined to exploit our powers.” There was a pause as the graveness of his words set in. “That’s why you must maintain absolute secrecy with regard to your true nature. You must hide it, protect it and do whatever you can to simply blend in with others. That’s how our people learned to survive.”

  Overcome by restlessness, Artan pushed himself up from the chair and began pacing the room. His shadow danced up and down the wall as the white lamp and bluish streetlight illuminated the room in a ghostly glow. His head was spinning, yet he was determined to try and reconcile things in his mind. “Fine,” he declared after a long silence. “I won’t tell anyone...”

  “And you won’t misuse your powers again?” his grandfather asked.

  “I can’t promise that,” Artan admitted, coming to a stop and looking down at his grandfather. “All I ever wanted to do was to get out of this place, and take you with me.”

  “I know...”

  “When I was a child, I dreamt of being a hero somehow. I know that sounds hopelessly naive, but I just wanted to achieve something; to be someone. Only it didn’t work out like that, did it?”

  “You still have your whole life ahead of you. Just wait, you've as good a chance as any of being accepted into the Military Academy, and once you're there, you’ll be set for life.”

  Artan felt his heart sink as he came to a stop and looked down at the ground. “Actually, that’s not going to happen,” he said. “I didn’t know how to tell you, but I heard back from them last month. I wasn’t accepted. I didn’t meet the entry requirements. So it’s over. That particular dream is dead.”

  “I’m sorry,” the old man put a hand to his chest and began wheezing.

  “It's all right,” Artan said, trying to set aside the sting of disappointment he still felt inside. “But perhaps you can see why I've done what I have. I’m never going to be a hero, grandfather, so we both might as well accept that right now.”

  His grandfather shook his head. “Don’t be so quick to give up on yourself,” he said. “Life rarely goes the way we might like. But I’ve always believed we each have an opportunity to be a hero in our own unique way. You, my young man, have nothing to prove to me, or anyone else for that matter. You’ve had so much to deal with in your life and you’ve done so with exceptional courage and spirit; and that’s why you already are and will always be a hero to me.”

  Artan was touched by his words. He could feel his eyes begin to moisten, but he didn’t want to cry in front of his grandfather. He took a deep breath and turned away, shifting his gaze to the window.

  It was then that he sensed something: a feeling of anguish and terror. It wasn’t coming from him, or his grandfather. It was coming from out there, from the people of the town. Something was happening; or was about to happen.

  His grandfather picked up on it too. “You feel that?” he asked.

  Artan nodded. It wasn't an unfamiliar feeling. He could usually sense a disturbance, like a rising wave of fear, at the onset of an attack on the town.

  His suspicions were confirmed when the town’s alert sirens began wailing. It was a piercing, high-pitched scream that drilled through Artan’s skull and could most likely be heard for miles.

  He went to the window and peeled the curtain back. There wasn’t much to be seen from here, except a handful of people running for cover, desperate to get to their homes. Rain was still lashing down, and he watched as an intoxicated man at the foot of the block staggered backward and fell into a puddle with a splash. The man tried to get up from the ground but in his drunken stupor had lost all coordination. He looked like an insect that had fallen upside down, flailing helplessly as he tried to pick himself up again. It might have been amusing had the situation not been so grim.

  Little could be done during the raids; there were no designated places for the townspeople to gather and nowhere to hide. The official advice was simply to get off the streets, stay in your home and wait it out.

  The raids were terrifying ordeals. The attackers—either the Ha’shon or their historic adversaries the True Way—ordinarily bombarded the town from the sky, before attempting to breach the defensive wall on land. The Royal Military garrison would attempt to repel the attackers as best they could, but their numbers were usually too few and their resources stretched to the limit. They always managed to drive the raiders out eventually, but often not until they’d inflicted significant damage. Once through the wall, the marauders would scour the streets, breaking into buildings and dragging families out of their homes before marching them out of the town. These abductions were part of the Ha’shon and True Way’s ‘recruitment drive’. As Kaesibar lay in the neutral territories, its people were deemed ripe for conversion by the warring religions.

  Artan had lost count of the raids over the years. Each time it happened, a very old wound was reopened, for it was during one such raid that his parents and brother had been killed as they attempted to flee a group of Ha’shon soldiers.

  Artan continued to stand by the window, watching for signs of disturbance. The endless wail of the siren was now accompanied by the intermittent sound of gunfire and explosions. The battle had commenced.

  “Can you see anything?” his grandfather asked.

  Artan shook his head. “Not really. The streets are empty. Everyone’s had the sense to get indoors and hide. I can see flashes in the sky in the distance. Looks like an aerial bombardment.”

  “Nothing we can do,” his grandfather said with a cough.

  “You should be in your bed, grandfather,” Artan looked down at the frail figure beneath him. “You need rest.”

  “As if I’d be able to sleep through that.”

  “How are you feeling anyway?”

  “Well, if I had the company of a nice lady and a large bottle of barbajac, I’d be dancing in the clouds,” the old man quipped, a twinkle returning to his misty blue eyes. “But as it stands, I’m feeling rather tired and weak...and then there's this damned cough.”

  “You need the medicine the doctor recommended. I’d made enough money tonight to buy half the pharmacy and now it’s all gone. But I’ll get more, I promise.”

  “We’ll discuss it tomorrow,” his grandfather assured him. “Now, come away from that window, it’s cold and you don’t want to catch a chill.”

  Artan pulled the curtain back over the window and stepped back, continuing to cradle his aching ribs with his left arm. He knew it’d be impossible to sleep during the raid; the screaming of the siren and the pounding of gunfire and explosions across the town would continue relentlessly. Feeling the need to keep busy and distract himself from the sense of dread he felt in the pit of his belly, he went to kitchen area and made two steaming mugs of blue-leaf tea. Maybe that would steady their nerves.

  He hoped it was just his imagination, but the sound of gunfire seemed to be getting closer.

  Unfortunately, it was anything but imagination. Above the never-ending siren, he became aware of a commotion outside. There was shouting, screaming and the sound of an electro-pulse weapon discharging.

  They were here...

  3

  Artan felt his stomach rise to his mouth as he put down the mugs and went across to the window. Looking outside, he saw the street swarming with Ha’shon. Identifiable even from this distance, the tall, muscular soldiers were dressed in the standard red and black Ha'shon military uniform, with long dark hair and beards, brandishing electro-pulse rifles and knives. They were systematically moving along the street, breaking down doors and dragging people out of their homes and onto the street.

  Time seemed to stand s
till as Artan watched the scene unfold. The frightened townspeople were being lined up and inspected by the lead Ha’shon general. Those that resisted and tried to flee were being shot on the spot.

  He felt a spike of alarm as he caught sight of six Ha’shon warriors, their faces streaked with the standard Ha’shon military tattoos, striding toward the main entrance of his building. Moments later the sound of a door being smashed open was accompanied by terrified screams from downstairs.

  “They’re here,” Artan cried, his body and senses ignited by surging adrenaline. “They’re here for us, grandfather. What can we do?”

  “There’s nothing we can do,” the old man shook his head. “We just have to do as they say and we’ll be all right.”

  Artan looked around the room in desperation. “But we have to stop them somehow, we can’t just let them take us!”

  The sound of heavy footsteps marching up the stairs outside alerted Artan to their approach. His impulse was to get he and his grandfather out of sight – to hide somewhere. But it was too late. The door smashed open and three Ha’shon burst into the apartment, quickly finding the terrified boy and his grandfather in the main room.

  Without a word, the soldiers bounded toward them, rifles drawn. Their faces were hard-set and determined, their eyes narrow and emotionless. Like most Ha’shon, their skin was a dark reddish hue and their braided hair and beards jet black. Ha’shon were generally larger and stronger than other Tahnadrans, giving them a decisive physical advantage.

  One of the men dragged Artan’s grandfather out of his chair and up to his feet.

  “Leave him alone, he’s not well,” Artan cried.

  The soldier nearest walloped Artan across the face with the side of his hand. Artan staggered back, colliding with the wall.

  “He either comes with us, or he dies here,” the soldier grunted, grabbing hold of Artan and thrusting him toward the door.

  “I’ll be all right,” his grandfather responded weakly as his attacker placed a hand on his shoulder and pushed him forward.

  As they were forced down the stairs, they were joined by the neighbors from across the landing; an older man and woman, who had also been evicted from their apartment. They were led out the main door and onto the streets. It was still raining, and above the blaring sirens, Artan could hear fighting in the distance. The Royal Military had clearly initiated their counter-offensive.

  Artan, his grandfather and the other occupants of their building were lined up in the middle of the street. There was a commotion when one of the frightened townspeople, a middle-aged steel worker from the opposite building, unwisely decided to challenge the Ha’shon. He lunged at one of the soldiers and was rewarded by a swift blow to the head with the soldier’s rifle. He fell backward, caught by his wife and son.

  Another man took advantage of the distraction and made a run for it. The Ha’shon didn’t even attempt to recapture him. One of them took aim and discharged an electric blast that hit the man in the back, causing him to fall headfirst into a puddle of water. The man lay unmoving, clearly dead by the time his body hit the ground.

  This display of deadly force subdued the remaining captives, for it was now clear that resistance of any kind was not an option. The Ha’shon closed in on them and from each end of the line, began searching them one by one, evidently to ensure that none of them had any concealed weapons.

  Artan turned to his grandfather. He was struggling to stand and was leaning on Artan’s arm, his face set in an expression of grim resolve. He wasn’t going to show any sign of weakness to the enemy. Every so often however his wheezing gave way to a fit of coughing, which he tried to suppress as best he could. Artan would have done anything to save him. He’d have given his own life if it meant these barbarians would leave his grandfather alone.

  It soon came his turn to be searched. The stone-faced soldier began at Artan’s chest and patted him down with such force that Artan struggled to keep his balance. The man thoroughly checked his trouser pockets and boots and then with a nonchalant grunt moved onto his grandfather.

  The sound of weapons fire was becoming ever more audible above the siren. Perhaps the Military were getting closer?

  The Ha’shon, determined not to lose their new recruits, decided it was time to leave. Six Ha’shon led the way and began marching down the street. The remainder took up the rear, forcing the prisoners forward, a dozen guns trained on them from behind. The Ha'shon moved at a swift speed, making little concession to their prisoners, who were expected to match their pace and speed. Artan held his grandfather’s arm and helped him as best he could as they trudged down the deserted, rain-soaked streets.

  After a time they came to a section of the town’s defensive wall that had been blown apart, leaving a gaping hole and piles of rubble. Dozens of Ha'shon warriors lay in wait beyond the decimated wall. A little way behind them, three Ha’shon raiders sat between the outskirts of the town and the edge of the surrounding forest. Barely visible in the dim light, the black and red aircraft had triangular bodies and long tapered cockpits, flanked by outstretched wings lined with electro-pulse cannons.

  The captives were marched toward the breached wall. Artan knew that if the Royal Military were to save them, it'd have to be soon. The moment they cleared the town, there’d be no escaping the Ha’shon. They won’t let us down, he reasoned. They can’t. He’d idolized them his entire life and had been desperate to join their ranks to defend his people and stave off the brutality of the Ha’shon and True Way. He may not have been accepted into Academy but he still believed in them. That had to count for something, surely?

  They reached the wall and were forced across the rubble. Exiting the town, the prisoners found themselves engulfed by the waiting horde of Ha’shon. The townspeople were divided up and bundled aboard the stationary attack craft. Some families were separated, much to their distress, but Artan was relieved that he was kept with his grandfather, whose his legs were buckling beneath him, his chest heaving as he struggled for air.

  They were led up a walkway into the nearest raider. There they were herded with the rest of the townspeople through a narrow corridor and into an aft compartment containing a metal-barred cell. Once the prisoners were inside the cell, the door was shut with a clank by one of the soldiers. There were about twenty of them penned in, helpless and terrified. Some were in a frenzied state, their bodies trembling as they sobbed and cried. Four Ha’shon guards stood watch outside the cell.

  Artan wasn't concerned about himself, only his grandfather. He helped him sit down by the cell door, his back resting against the cold steel wall. The old man was understandably relieved to get off his feet and now had the opportunity to catch his breath. “It’s all right, grandfather,” Artan assured him, trying to sound as calm and confident as he could. “This isn’t over yet.”

  “What will happen now?” a woman nearby kept wailing, her voice shaking as much as the rest of the body. “What will they do to us?”

  From what Artan had gathered, all new recruits were taken to Ha’shon territory for processing. They would be treated reasonably well as long as they cooperated and did exactly as they were told. According to the stories, they would be subject to several days of Ha’shon propaganda and politicizing before being called upon to make a choice: either embrace Ha’shon doctrine and convert to their religion, or be killed.

  Artan wasn’t sure what happened to those who chose to conform and convert. They would certainly never be allowed to return home. They’d likely remain in Ha’shon territory, where they would follow whatever directives were laid out for them. Perhaps that meant working in Ha’shon industry or agriculture, or being enlisted in the Ha’shon Liberation Army. There was no telling. And then there was the other option: a summary execution. Artan didn’t know which of the two would be preferable.

  It wasn’t long before the Ha’shon craft began to power up. Artan could hear and feel the powerful roar of the engines as they initiated, the ground beneath them shakin
g. The craft was soon in motion. There were no windows, but Artan guessed they had departed Kaesibar with haste and were headed toward Ha'shon territory at full velocity. He didn't know how long it would take to reach their destination. That would depend on where they were being taken, for there were Ha’shon outposts dotted across the length and breadth of Tahnadra.

  It was clear that all hope of rescue had now been shattered. There was nothing that could save them now. Fate had played its hand, and unlike in the casinos of Kaesibar, there was nothing Artan could do to cheat it this time. There was no option but to accept what had happened, and face what was coming with courage and strength.

  Only, unbeknownst to him, fate was about to take an oblique turn. Something extraordinary was about to occur; something he could never have predicted, and something that would change his life—and the fate of his world—forever more.

  4

  Mid-flight, the Ha’shon raider lurched violently as the sound of an explosion came from the aft section.

  Seconds later another explosion rocked the craft, sending many of the prisoners colliding with the cell wall and falling to the ground. The guards looked to each other questioningly, uncertain what to do.

  Was it possible they were under attack?

  The flight motion of the Ha’shon raider became jerky and uneven. Several more explosions caused the craft to lurch precariously. Artan wondered if the Royal Military had given chase, intent on rescuing them?

  It appeared the Ha’shon were not coming off the battle well. There was another explosion, this time louder and more intense; almost sounding as though the raider had been split in two. Their velocity suddenly increased. By the feel of it, they were going down—and fast. Perhaps that last blast had damaged the engines or torn off a wing...?

  The craft spiraled out of control as it plunged downward. Artan had no idea where they were or where they were likely to land, but was braced for the impact, pulling his grandfather toward him, hoping to cushion the inevitable blow.

  He held his breath as they plummeted. His fellow prisoners were terrified, shouting and pulling at the bars. Two of the Ha’shon guards had left, presumably to find out what was happening, leaving the other two to watch the prisoners. They had their electro-pulse rifles cocked, although they had to struggle to remain on their feet.

  The crash happened both deliriously quickly and agonizingly slowly, for time seemed to simultaneously contract and expand. An almighty wallop signified their impact, and many of them were thrown into the air. Artan and his grandfather were rammed against the cell wall, Artan's head colliding with the metal plating. He fought to retain consciousness. If there was an opportunity to escape, he had to be ready to seize it.

  One of the Ha’shon guards had been incapacitated by the impact. His head had smashed against the wall and he lay unconscious, a pool of blood tricking from a gash on his forehead. The other guard scrambled to his feet and reached for his weapon. He clearly didn’t know what to do: should he stay with the prisoners or go find out what had happened and seek orders from his general? Deciding it was his duty to remain with the prisoners, he began pacing back and forth, his rifle held aloft and face set in an expression of fierce determination.

  “What happened?” Artan’s grandfather gasped.

  “We've obviously landed,” Artan said.

  There soon came sounds of a struggle outside. The echo of weapons fire and shouting carried through the metal-plated doors and wall.

  Was it possible someone had boarded the crashed raider?

  The shouting continued—Artan was certain it was the sound of Ha’shon voices—accompanied by more weapons fire, and a number of crashing noises.

  The Ha’shon guard bristled, a look of sudden vulnerability creeping over his broad reddish face. One of the prisoners, a boy from Artan’s building named Dranan—a tall, muscular lad of around eighteen—took advantage of the distraction and tried to force the cell open, perhaps hoping the lock mechanism had been damaged in the crash. The guard stopped in his tracks, stepped forward and aimed his rifle at Dranan's head. Dranan raised his arms and took a step back.

  Before the guard could respond, the door behind him slid open and the first thing Artan was aware of was the discharge of a weapon. The Ha’shon guard stumbled and fell to the ground, his body twitching as he collided with the floor.

  Artan turned to the door. He could scarcely believe his eyes as they settled on the figure standing in the doorway, illuminated by the flickering ceiling light. It was a towering man clad in black spiked armor, with an insect-like appearance: thick, coarse brown skin, black compound eyes, small antennae and, in place of a mouth, grotesque mandibles. The prisoners recoiled in horror as the creature, brandishing an electro-pulse rifle, stepped into the room, followed by half a dozen others, all of similar appearance.

  “Who are you?” cried one of the prisoners.

  There was no response. The insectoid soldiers clustered around the barred cell. The prisoners cowered, uncertain what to make of this new threat. The rest of the craft was now silent, the struggle evidently over. Whoever these creatures were, they had not only shot down a Ha’shon raider, but had swiftly commandeered it and overpowered its crew.

  Another figure strolled into the room. This one was far smaller in stature, dwarfed by the soldiers and clad in a hooded grey robe that obscured his face—or rather her face, for Artan quickly realized it was a woman.

  The insect soldiers stepped aside to let her past, and she came to a stop in front of the cell. She exuded an aura of unmistakable authority: whoever she was, she was clearly in command of these creatures. She stood and surveyed the prisoners. Artan didn’t want to open his mind to her, for he could sense that she was extremely dangerous, but certain impressions nevertheless filtered into his awareness. He sensed that she was looking for something and she was single-minded to the point of obsession, consumed with bitterness and rage.

  Her gaze appeared to settle on him. Artan had hoped this was paranoia on his part, but his fear was confirmed when she leaned toward one of her men and, pointing in Artan's direction, ordered him to “extract the boy and the old man”.

  “The rest?” the guard enquired in a cold, guttural voice.

  “They don’t matter,” she replied. “Kill them.”

  The soldier approached the cell door and with one, powerful thrust of his rifle, smashed the lock and pulled the door open. The prisoners reacted in alarm as the creature entered the cell and approached them, followed by two others.

  The first soldier strode toward Artan. Artan stepped back, hand around his grandfather’s arm, and came to a stop with his back hard against the rear of the cell. The other prisoners retreated to other end of the cell, where they huddled like panicked animals. Artan had nowhere to go. He was cornered. The soldier lowered his weapon and reached out to grab hold of him.

  Artan hadn’t expected anyone to intervene; not when there were half a dozen electro-pulse rifles trained on them. So he was surprised when someone made a lunge at the soldier. It was his neighbor Dranan, who rammed himself into the soldier with all his might. The insectoid was too heavy to be budged and remained steady on his feet.

  It was a distraction, however. As he turned to retaliate, Artan, reacting with lightning-fast reflexes, reached out and grabbed hold of the soldier’s rifle. The soldier tensed, momentarily startled. Artan tried to pull the rifle from his hand, but the soldier was too strong. Thankfully Dranan and another couple of townsmen seized the opportunity and threw themselves at the attacker, this time forcing the soldier back a step. As he was knocked backward, his grip on the rifle loosened and Artan plucked it from his hand. He took a step back and held the weapon aloft, aiming it at the soldiers. It was far heavier than it looked and he had to struggle to keep it raised, but he was determined not to let the strain show in his face. “Get back!” Artan shouted at the creatures.

  The robed woman stepped toward the cell bars and held up her hand. “Put the gun down,” she said
in an icily cold monotone. “Or I will order my men to open fire and kill every one of the prisoners.”

  “That’s not going to happen,” Artan growled, as he shifted his aim to the woman, pointing the gun at her head. “Let us go, or I shoot.”

  “I don’t think so. You’re just a boy who’s probably never even held a weapon before. I suggest you put it down. We both know you’re not going to use it.”

  Artan was incensed. She was trying to belittle him into compliance, and it wasn’t going to work. He had to show her that he now had the upper hand. He took a deep breath, narrowed his eyes and swung toward the disarmed soldier, who stood frozen on the spot, clearly awaiting orders from his superior. Although it went against his nature, Artan knew what he had to do. His finger coiled around the trigger as he struggled to keep the weapon steady, aiming it at the soldier. He pulled and the gun discharged, the exploding barrel sending a blast of electrical energy shooting through the air, where it impacted the chest of the insect man. The soldier fell to the ground, his body convulsing for a few seconds before lapsing into motionlessness.

  Artan swung back around, again aiming the rifle at the hooded woman. The other soldiers had their weapons trained on Artan and took a step toward him in synchronized fashion. But the woman raised her hand and ordered them to stand down. Confused but obedient, the soldiers lowered their guns.

  “You have spirit,” she remarked. “I underestimated you.”

  “What do you want with us?” Artan demanded, struggling to keep the weapon raised, his arms aching and spasms of pain shooting up his torso. He didn’t want to show any sign of weakness however, so he kept his face fixed in an expression of steely defiance.

  “There are only two of you I’m interested in,” came the response. “You, and the old man behind you.”

  “But why? What could you possibly want with us?”

  “As I'm sure you know, you both possess a remarkable ability; one that sets you apart and makes you truly special.” There was a pause before she continued, choosing her words carefully. “I can teach you to utilize that gift…and you will be part of a grand and glorious endeavor that will change this world—and change destiny forever. You’re to come back with me where you will join others of your kind. They’re waiting for you...”

  Artan was stunned. She knew. She knew about their Starlanian lineage and she wanted to use it somehow; use them. Yet despite her claims about championing a ‘grand and glorious’ cause, Artan knew she wasn’t to be trusted. He didn’t have to open his mind to her to know that she was filled with deceit. His grandfather had warned him that there were people out there who were determined to hunt down their kind, intent on exploiting their abilities. It seemed his words were prophetic.

  “I know you must have many questions,” the woman offered.

  “How did you find us?” Artan asked. “How did you know we were here?”

  “Because I can sense the presence of Starlanians,” she replied, taking another step toward to the cell door. Artan kept his weapon trained on her. “I could feel you," she continued. "And with the help of my Ornakai soldiers here, I was able pinpoint your location and take the necessary steps to liberate you.”

  “Liberate us?”

  “Is that not what I've done? Were you not prisoners of the Ha’shon, about to end up as slaves or worse...?”

  Artan was unsure which would be the lesser of the two evils, but somehow suspected this woman was more dangerous than even the most depraved Ha’shon. He took a step forward, keeping the gun pointed at her head. “I demand you let us go,” he growled.

  She shook her head. “That’s not going to happen. One way or another, you will be coming with me. I could order my men to open fire right now and kill every last one of the prisoners.”

  “You won’t get the chance,” Artan exclaimed. He pulled the trigger and lurched as the weapon fired. He watched as the streak of blue electrical charge exploded from the tip of the rifle and cut through the air. But before it could hit its target, the woman raised her hand, palm facing outward, and the blast of energy dispersed in mid-air.

  “You can’t harm me,” she stated nonchalantly as she lowered her hand.

  “Maybe not, but I can harm them.” Artan swung his weapon toward the nearest Ornakai soldier and braced himself to fire. The soldiers lifted their own rifles, ready to pre-empt him.

  “Enough of this,” the woman shouted. Impervious to the threat of Artan’s weapon, she passed through the cell door and came to a stop in front of him. “You’ve made this harder than it needed to be. I need you, and I’m going to take you. But I give you the option: surrender yourself willingly and I'll spare the others. If you resist, I’ll have my guards kill them all. You’re outnumbered and outmatched. Even if you succeed in shooting one or two of my soldiers, they’ll quickly disarm you and you’ll be made to watch as your fellow prisoners are executed one by one. If you surrender to me now, I promise they will be unharmed.”

  Artan knew she was right. Even if he got off another few shots, there was no way he could beat them. He’d been able to cheat his way to victory in the casinos, but this was one game he wasn’t going to win. The best he could hope for was a compromise – a draw. He looked round at his grandfather, then turned back to the woman. “All right, I accept your terms,” he said, feeling strangely calm as the words left his lips. “But on one condition,” he added.

  “What?”

  “That you let my grandfather remain here with the others, unharmed.”

  “But he is Starlanian,” she objected. “I need all the Starlanians I can get.”

  “He may be Starlanian, but he’s old and sick. He’d be of no use to you.”

  There was a pause as she considered this. “You may be right. His lifeforce is weak. I need strength and resilience, both of which you appear to possess in ample measure.” She was silent for a moment before continuing with a nod of her head. “It is agreed: give yourself to me, and the rest of them go free, including the old man.”

  Artan narrowed his eyes. “How do I know I can trust you?”

  “Because they are of no consequence to me. You, on the other hand, are.”

  Artan had little choice but to accept her proposal and pray that once he surrendered she would keep her word and let the others go free. He turned to his grandfather, who shook his head. “Please, Artan, there must be another way,” the old man pleaded, a teardrop rolling down his cheek.

  “I can’t see any other way,” Artan said softly. “I have to do this. One live for dozens of lives. You said I’d find a way to be a hero. Maybe this is it. I do this gladly, for you grandfather, and for the others. I don’t know where we’ve landed, but hopefully we’ve not yet crossed into Ha’shon territory. The others will take you back to Kaesibar with them, and they'll look after you.” He looked over at Dranan and the other townspeople, who nodded in agreement.

  “But, Artan...” his grandfather reached out to him.

  Artan took his hand and clasped it firmly. He felt his face light up with a smile, a warm and heartfelt smile born of a lifelong bond of love. He then let go of his grandfather’s hand, and it fell to his side as he looked on through hazy, tear-filled eyes.

  Artan turned to his captors and dropped the rifle. It landed on the ground with a clatter, the sound reverberating through the metal-plated room. He raised his arms in surrender and took a step forward. The woman motioned to the Ornakai and two of the soldiers closed in on him, grabbing hold of his arms and pulling him forward.

  Artan was relieved that the woman was true to her word, for she left the townspeople unharmed. She instructed the Ornakai to leave. Artan tried to look behind him one last time, but he was thrust forward by the soldier to his rear. Wordlessly, the soldiers marched him out the door and proceeded single-file down the narrow corridor.

  The signs of damage were plentiful as they made their way through the crashed raider. The pummeled craft was littered with the bodies of fallen Ha’shon, some of whom had died
in the impact, but many of which had evidently been dispatched by the Ornakai as they had boarded the vehicle.

  A sizeable hole had been blown in the side of the craft, not far behind the cockpit. The soldiers disembarked, climbing through the opening and onto the land beneath. It was still dark, making it impossible to say with certainty where they were, but it looked like a rocky wasteland, flat and barren. The soldier behind him pushed Artan out of the craft. He made it out but lost his footing and fell to the ground. A wave of pain shot up from his ribs and stomach as one of the Ornakai grabbed him by the arm and forced him up.

  Not far from the crashed Ha’shon raider sat another aircraft, barely visible in the moonlight. It was like a nocturnal predator with outstretched, spiked wings, lurking in the shadows, ready to swoop into the air and pounce upon some unsuspecting prey.

  Artan was made to stand and wait until the remainder of the Ornakai disembarked, along with the robed woman, who approached Artan, exuding an air of self-satisfied triumph. She circled him as he stood impotently between the Ornakai soldiers. “You really don’t know how special you are,” she said. “Or how important your destiny is. I can’t guarantee that what is to happen will be pleasant for you, but you can have solace knowing that your sacrifice will benefit this entire planet, and beyond. For you will help facilitate their return.”

  “Whose return?” Artan asked.

  “That, you will find out in time,” she said. He could just make out a twisted smile beneath the oversized grey hood. “In time,” she echoed, lifting her hand and placing it on his forehead.

  He felt a surge of energy passing through her hand into his cranium, and was instantly overcome by a wave of drowsiness.

  “For now, all you need do is sleep. I will take care of the rest,” he heard her voice echoing through his mind as he struggled to keep his eyes from closing. Unable to resist the sudden urge to sleep, he had no option but to give into it. His body flopped and his legs gave way, but he was caught by one of the soldiers. His senses rapidly shut down as he slipped into a deep, dreamless sleep.

  What he was aware of next occurred in hazy snippets as consciousness returned in short waves. For brief moments he was aware of being transported to some hidden destination: being taken deep underground, carried on a stretcher, aware of lights on the ceiling of a long, dark corridor.

  On an almost unconscious level, he became aware of a giant crystal nestled underground. Powerful beyond imagining, this mighty crystal was somehow calling to him. He had no option but to heed its call.

  This crystal, alive somehow, was his destiny. It was here he would preside over the ultimate fate of his world. Here he would be used to do something that defied the laws of the universe – something monumental, dark and unfathomably dangerous.

  He had saved his grandfather and the rest of the townspeople. In his dreams—or perhaps visions—he often saw them. They had escaped and made it back to Kaesibar. Indebted to Artan, the others saw to it that his grandfather was taken care of and that he received the medicine he needed. His grandfather was deeply grieved by the loss of his grandson, but he was alive and well cared for.

  Artan had made his choice.

  He had gladly sacrificed his own freedom for the freedom of his grandfather and the others.

  But he hadn’t been aware of the consequences of his choice, nor of the dire cost that would in time be exacted…