Spoiler: show
Tick-tock. Tick-tock. Tick-tock. The little bar swung back and forth on its pedestal, the metronome letting of its constant small tick each time the bar hit the edge and then swung back. Tick-tock. Tick-tock. Tick-tock. The bar continued to move, continued to dance on its small pedestal, always in constant and rhythm, never breaking that ever familiar and predictable pattern. The metronome was mesmerizing as it moved. It did not make sense, of course it did not make sense, but it was. Sure, you may be able to predict where that little bar would stop each time, know how loud that constant tick would be when it did, but perhaps that made it even more mesmerizing. It was as if each tick was drawing you in closer, as if the little swing of the frail metal bar was stealing you away from the real world piece by little piece. Ralph new that feeling, new that feeling all too well, and was fascinated by it, maybe even go as far as to say he loved it.
Ralph sat on the wooden crate, watching as the metronome continued its endless swinging and enjoying counting each tick in his head as it went off. His gun lay loose on his side, forgotten by its longtime owner. The men often joked around about his gun, saying that if it was not strapped to his body he would have lost it a long time ago, maybe in some transport or locker room without even seeing one second of the battle to come. Ralph ignored these jokes, sometimes even went with them (if you can’t laugh at yourself then you have no right to laugh at anyone else, or at least he thought so), but deep down inside he knew those jokes were true. And for that he was grateful; not for the jokes or the men who made them, but for the strap which hung down from his military vest, always attached to him and always grasping that trusty gun, even when he long since had let go.
His firearm was nothing unique, a standard Mark 3 Plasma Rifle, but despite how many times he might have forgotten it or almost left it behind he still cherished it. He may not have seen much action, hell he had only shot about five people in his life, but it had still served him well when he needed it. This was his special gun, just as every soldier had their special gun, and he loved it. Sitting below the rifle, strapped around his waist in its little holder, was his handgun, another standard for the average soldier. He may not have used it as often as the rifle (which was not often to begin with) but he had still used it and it had still served him. Behind the handgun sat a small pouch, no bigger than the handgun itself yet empty. This was where he kept his metronome, an instrument he loved far more than either of his guns.
He often took his little metronome out when he had spare time, placing it on the nearest platform (in this case a worn and empty table) and watching with joy as it bobbed back and forth, back and forth. He had been at it for about fifteen minutes now, just sitting on the wooden crate and staring at that ever bobbing bar. He often counted each tick off in his head as he did this. He was not very good at it, most of the time losing his place after passing the first hundred (his highest score was three-hundred seventy-two), but it did not bother him too much. He still enjoyed the watching and the counting despite what others might say of it. And others often did say something about it.
“Will you shut that stupid thing off?” said Randy, breaking Ralph out of his hypnosis. “That God damned ticking is driving me insane. The lack of action here is already helping enough with that. I don’t need your help too.”
“Well if you don’t like it you can go somewhere else,” said Ralph, never taking his eyes away from the swinging bar. “This is a big outpost. There has to be some other place you can watch.”
“I’m busy polishing my gun,” said Randy. He gestured to the group of parts on the table before him, laid out together in an almost perfect line on top of a large cloth. “I’m already halfway through with it,” continued Randy. “I’m not going to stop now and risk losing the pieces. Sherry would never forgive me.”
“Who is Sherry?” asked Ralph, for the first time moving his eyes off the metronome. “Your wife’s name is Abbey, and last I remember she hated guns.”
“I’m not talking ‘bout my wife you nimrod,” said Randy. “She is Sherry.” Randy held up the gun barrel up before him, which happened to be the piece he was currently polishing. “I lose one of her pieces and she’ll never forgive me. Maybe never even help me out again.”
“You named your gun Sherry?” asked Ralph. “Why? I know we all love our guns but that’s all they are: guns.”
“She’s not just a gun,” said Randy. “She’s my special baby. She’s helped me out so many times. I could never forsake her.”
“What are you talking about?’ asked Ralph. “You’ve only seen two battles since you signed up.”
“So?” said Randy. “She’s helped me more than enough times in those battles. I don’t know what I’d do without her.”
“And you call me crazy,” Ralph said, more to himself than to Randy. He turned back and concentrated on the metronome.
“Yea, I call you crazy,” said Randy. “That’s because you are crazy. And if you’re not then explain why you have to have that stupid block with you all the time.”
“Because I want to,” said Ralph. “Why don’t you tell me why you have to polish that gun of yours ten times more than you have to?”
“Because I do,” said Randy.
“See?’ said Ralph. “You don’t tell me so I won’t tell you. If you don’t like the metronome then just deal with it.”
Randy grumbled under his breath but beyond that said nothing more. The truth was, Ralph knew why Randy polished his gun so much. It was the same reason why Ralph loved his metronome or why Bob loved to organize the books downstairs, putting them together, taking them apart, and putting them back together again. They loved it because it was constant. They loved it because they knew everything about it, how things went together, how things worked, and what would happen next. It was not the actual objects they loved, for the objects were the harbors for what they loved. What they loved was the repetitiveness, the familiarity of it all. When they were caught up in their little tasks they were in control. They decided what happened, what went next and what did what. This also fought back what they hated: the unknown, the chaos, the uncertainty.
They hated the uncertainty because it was just that: uncertain. They could not control it; they could not predict it. It was all uncertain and for that they hated it, even feared it. These repetitive tasks, these seemingly meaningless tasks, fought back that uncertainty. While Randy was polishing his gun or Bob was organizing his books or Ralph was watching his metronome there was no uncertainty. The whole world around them disappeared, gone in one wave of their hand, and all that was left was what they knew, what they controlled. And that made them feel safe.
Ralph often found it humorous. Why would men so afraid of what they don’t know, so afraid of that uncertainty, be in the army? That’s where all the chaos took place. That’s where all those unpredictable moments happened, where one guess could mean the difference between life and death. It made no sense for them to be in the army, but they were. Here they were, sitting in an outpost out in the middle of a sleeping forest, wearing military uniforms with military guns and performing military orders. It seems so stupid, doesn’t it? If they were so afraid of the uncertainty wouldn’t it make sense for them to be as far away from a place like this as possible? Or maybe it’s because of that uncertainty that they are here. Maybe they are here because of their fear. Maybe they are here because they think they can stop the uncertainty; change it into something else, something controllable. And where does most of the uncertainty exist? Well, in the army of course; in those countless unpredictable battles.
But perhaps Ralph is just talking nonsense now—talking out of his ass as Randy would say.
Ralph sat on the wooden crate, watching as the metronome continued its endless swinging and enjoying counting each tick in his head as it went off. His gun lay loose on his side, forgotten by its longtime owner. The men often joked around about his gun, saying that if it was not strapped to his body he would have lost it a long time ago, maybe in some transport or locker room without even seeing one second of the battle to come. Ralph ignored these jokes, sometimes even went with them (if you can’t laugh at yourself then you have no right to laugh at anyone else, or at least he thought so), but deep down inside he knew those jokes were true. And for that he was grateful; not for the jokes or the men who made them, but for the strap which hung down from his military vest, always attached to him and always grasping that trusty gun, even when he long since had let go.
His firearm was nothing unique, a standard Mark 3 Plasma Rifle, but despite how many times he might have forgotten it or almost left it behind he still cherished it. He may not have seen much action, hell he had only shot about five people in his life, but it had still served him well when he needed it. This was his special gun, just as every soldier had their special gun, and he loved it. Sitting below the rifle, strapped around his waist in its little holder, was his handgun, another standard for the average soldier. He may not have used it as often as the rifle (which was not often to begin with) but he had still used it and it had still served him. Behind the handgun sat a small pouch, no bigger than the handgun itself yet empty. This was where he kept his metronome, an instrument he loved far more than either of his guns.
He often took his little metronome out when he had spare time, placing it on the nearest platform (in this case a worn and empty table) and watching with joy as it bobbed back and forth, back and forth. He had been at it for about fifteen minutes now, just sitting on the wooden crate and staring at that ever bobbing bar. He often counted each tick off in his head as he did this. He was not very good at it, most of the time losing his place after passing the first hundred (his highest score was three-hundred seventy-two), but it did not bother him too much. He still enjoyed the watching and the counting despite what others might say of it. And others often did say something about it.
“Will you shut that stupid thing off?” said Randy, breaking Ralph out of his hypnosis. “That God damned ticking is driving me insane. The lack of action here is already helping enough with that. I don’t need your help too.”
“Well if you don’t like it you can go somewhere else,” said Ralph, never taking his eyes away from the swinging bar. “This is a big outpost. There has to be some other place you can watch.”
“I’m busy polishing my gun,” said Randy. He gestured to the group of parts on the table before him, laid out together in an almost perfect line on top of a large cloth. “I’m already halfway through with it,” continued Randy. “I’m not going to stop now and risk losing the pieces. Sherry would never forgive me.”
“Who is Sherry?” asked Ralph, for the first time moving his eyes off the metronome. “Your wife’s name is Abbey, and last I remember she hated guns.”
“I’m not talking ‘bout my wife you nimrod,” said Randy. “She is Sherry.” Randy held up the gun barrel up before him, which happened to be the piece he was currently polishing. “I lose one of her pieces and she’ll never forgive me. Maybe never even help me out again.”
“You named your gun Sherry?” asked Ralph. “Why? I know we all love our guns but that’s all they are: guns.”
“She’s not just a gun,” said Randy. “She’s my special baby. She’s helped me out so many times. I could never forsake her.”
“What are you talking about?’ asked Ralph. “You’ve only seen two battles since you signed up.”
“So?” said Randy. “She’s helped me more than enough times in those battles. I don’t know what I’d do without her.”
“And you call me crazy,” Ralph said, more to himself than to Randy. He turned back and concentrated on the metronome.
“Yea, I call you crazy,” said Randy. “That’s because you are crazy. And if you’re not then explain why you have to have that stupid block with you all the time.”
“Because I want to,” said Ralph. “Why don’t you tell me why you have to polish that gun of yours ten times more than you have to?”
“Because I do,” said Randy.
“See?’ said Ralph. “You don’t tell me so I won’t tell you. If you don’t like the metronome then just deal with it.”
Randy grumbled under his breath but beyond that said nothing more. The truth was, Ralph knew why Randy polished his gun so much. It was the same reason why Ralph loved his metronome or why Bob loved to organize the books downstairs, putting them together, taking them apart, and putting them back together again. They loved it because it was constant. They loved it because they knew everything about it, how things went together, how things worked, and what would happen next. It was not the actual objects they loved, for the objects were the harbors for what they loved. What they loved was the repetitiveness, the familiarity of it all. When they were caught up in their little tasks they were in control. They decided what happened, what went next and what did what. This also fought back what they hated: the unknown, the chaos, the uncertainty.
They hated the uncertainty because it was just that: uncertain. They could not control it; they could not predict it. It was all uncertain and for that they hated it, even feared it. These repetitive tasks, these seemingly meaningless tasks, fought back that uncertainty. While Randy was polishing his gun or Bob was organizing his books or Ralph was watching his metronome there was no uncertainty. The whole world around them disappeared, gone in one wave of their hand, and all that was left was what they knew, what they controlled. And that made them feel safe.
Ralph often found it humorous. Why would men so afraid of what they don’t know, so afraid of that uncertainty, be in the army? That’s where all the chaos took place. That’s where all those unpredictable moments happened, where one guess could mean the difference between life and death. It made no sense for them to be in the army, but they were. Here they were, sitting in an outpost out in the middle of a sleeping forest, wearing military uniforms with military guns and performing military orders. It seems so stupid, doesn’t it? If they were so afraid of the uncertainty wouldn’t it make sense for them to be as far away from a place like this as possible? Or maybe it’s because of that uncertainty that they are here. Maybe they are here because of their fear. Maybe they are here because they think they can stop the uncertainty; change it into something else, something controllable. And where does most of the uncertainty exist? Well, in the army of course; in those countless unpredictable battles.
But perhaps Ralph is just talking nonsense now—talking out of his ass as Randy would say.
UPDATE 4/4/10
Man that was some old writing. I am nearing the end of working on this thing, and thought I could post the full prologue for those to enjoy and get interested. It is much better than the original and much more complete. While it is ten pages, that is still less than the other chapters of the book. Just note that most of these characters do not appear again in the book. They only exist to introduce the world, theme, and main plot of the SERIES, not just the book. Hope you enjoy.
Spoiler: show
Book 1: Discovery
Prologue
“An Uncertainty”
Tick—tick—tick—tick—tick—tick. The little bar swung back and forth on its pedestal. It let off a constant tick each time it hit the edge of its swing. Tick—tick—tick—tick—tick—tick. The metronome danced in a constant rhythm, never breaking that predictable pattern, just as it had been doing so for the past several minutes. Its movement was mesmerizing. Each little swing of the frail metal bar seemed to steal away any onlooker from the real world piece by piece as it sucked the person down into its mysterious depths. It would enslave you to the hypnotic dance if given the chance to get into your head. Ralph gave it that chance time and time again, but he never complained about it. He might even have said he loved it if he was asked.
Ralph leaned back. The wooden crate beneath him let off a little creak. His eyes stayed glued to the bar as his mind counted off each tick with a smile. His hand dropped down and brushed the gun leaning against the crate. The man didn’t notice the machine—it lay forgotten by its longtime owner. The scene was a common joke among the other men. They often said he would leave it in the locker room long before a battle began if it wasn’t for the strap attaching it to his shoulder. Ralph ignored the jokes, but he knew they were true. He was grateful for the strap hanging from his military vest. It always grasped the gun after his hands had long since released. He was glad the joking stories never came to fruition. Now he just had to remember to grab the strap.
Ralph’s firearm wasn’t anything unique—it wasn’t even as good as what people called the standard. But he still cherished the aging instrument despite how many times he might have forgotten it. He may not have seen much action—hell, he had only shot about five people in his life—but it had still served him well when he needed it. This was his special gun, just as every soldier had their special gun, and he loved it. Strapped around his waist under the rifle was his handgun—another standard for an average soldier like him. A small pouch sat behind the handgun. It was not much bigger than the device, but it was empty. Its normal occupant sat on the table ahead, letting off its constant ticks. Ralph never went anywhere without it. It wasn’t too uncommon to see the little metronome sitting on the nearest platform as its owner watched with an almost childlike joy. He had been at it for about fifteen minutes this time, but it wasn’t surprising to see him sitting for hours during the slow days. He liked to count each tick in his head. He was not very good at keeping track, most of the time losing his place after passing the first hundred (his highest score was three-hundred seventy-two), but he still enjoyed the simple act repetitive act. And slow days were very common in a place like this.
“Will you shut that stupid thing off?” said Randy, breaking Ralph out of his hypnosis. “That damned ticking is driving me insane. The lack of action here is already helping enough with that. I don’t need your help too.”
“Well if you don’t like it you can go somewhere else,” said Ralph. He never took his eyes from the swinging bar. “This is a big outpost. There has to be some other place you can go crazy.”
“I’m busy cleaning my gun,” said Randy. He gestured to the group of parts on the rickety table before him. They were laid out together in an almost perfect line atop a large cloth. “I’m already halfway through with it,” he said. “I’m not going to stop now and risk losing the pieces. Sherry wouldn’t forgive me.”
“Who is Sherry?” asked Ralph. He finally tore his eyes from the little bar. Randy was sitting on an old crate against the wall. The barrel of the gun was in his hand, wrapped in another old rag. “I thought your wife’s name was Abbey,” said Ralph. “And didn’t she hate guns?”
“I’m not talking about my wife, you nimrod,” said Randy. He held the gun barrel ahead of him like a priceless treasure. “She is Sherry. I lose one of her pieces and she’ll never forgive me. She might never help me out again.”
“Well, yea,” said Ralph. “She would kind of be broken. Wait, you named your gun Sherry? Why? They’re just guns, dude. Isn’t that a bit far?”
“She’s not just a gun,” Randy snapped. “She’s my special baby. She’s helped me out so many times. I could never forsake her.”
“What are you talking about?’ asked Ralph. “You’ve only seen two battles since you signed up three years ago, and they weren’t very big. There hasn’t been a real war in years.”
“So?” said Randy. “She’s helped me more than enough times in those battles. I don’t know what I’d do without her. She’s nothing like your stupid block there. What the hell has that ever done for you? Why do you even carry that thing around with you?”
“Because I want to,” said Ralph. “Why don’t you tell me why you have to clean that gun of yours ten times a day? Those things don’t really need any cleaning anymore unless you drop it in the mud. Why waste your time?”
“Because I want to,” said Randy.
“You see?” said Ralph. “You don’t tell me so I won’t tell you. If you don’t like the metronome then just deal with it. I don’t like your obsessive cleaning.”
Randy grumbled under his breath and focused back on the thin barrel. But, to be honest, Ralph did know why Randy cleaned his gun so much. It was the same reason why Ralph loved his metronome, or why Bob loved to organize the books downstairs, putting them together, taking them apart, and putting them back together again. It was not the actual objects they loved, but what the objects harbored. What they loved was the repetitiveness of it all. They loved it because it was familiar. They loved it because when they were caught up in their little tasks they were in control. They decided what happened, what went next, and what did what. And that was the complete opposite of what they all hated: the unknown, the unfamiliar…the uncertainty. They could not control the uncertainty. They could not predict the uncertainty. It was uncertain and they hated it. In a way they feared it. These repetitive and meaningless tasks fought back that uncertainty. While Randy was cleaning his gun or Bob was organizing his books or Ralph was watching his metronome there was no uncertainty, because they were in control. And that made them feel safe. Ralph had seen it—and felt it—more than enough times to know the truth.
Ralph often found it humorous. Why would men so afraid of what they don’t know be in the army? That’s where all the chaos took place—where one guess could mean the difference between life and death. But here they were, sitting in an outpost out in the middle of a sleeping forest, wearing military uniforms with military guns and performing military orders. They should have been as far away from here as possible. Or maybe they were here because of the uncertainty of it all. Maybe they were here because they thought they could stop it and change it into something controllable. Or maybe Ralph is just thinking on this too deep—talking out of his ass as Randy would say. But he knew in some way he was right, and they all knew it too. All ten of the soldiers in that outpost were there because of that uncertainty one way or another, because, even if they didn’t believe in it, the General Omega Kezeck did.
The head of the military had sent all ten of them out to that random outpost because of the uncertainty. It was the only reason the outpost existed in the middle of this vast forest far from any other civilization in the first place. A few mountains bordered the edge of the little outpost—the original ancient sentinels of the land. And at the foot of the mountains, just a few steps from the outpost, were the ruins. It was obvious from one look that they were as old as those giant tired sentinels. The strange part was that at the same time they looked e no older than a few years. That was because those ruins weren’t made out of rock pillars or broken stone. Those ruins were metal and plastic, covered in years of corrosion but somehow still intact. You didn’t have to know much about computers or how technology worked to know that they were as advanced, and in some way more advanced, than what the world of Zelune was used to that day. Even Ralph’s country Sagnaz, the most advanced country on the planet, seemed primitive compared to some of the devices found in those old buildings beside the outpost.
The strange technology scared General Omega Kezeck, head of the Sagnaz military, but it was not the only about the ruins that seemed out of place. The ruins were as much out of place in their location as their technology. This particular patch of forest may not have any civilization nearby, but it was not an unknown place. You could always find a picture of the lake these mountains overlooked in some cheap calendar hung in a sleazy fuel station. But, while the photos from a few months ago would have nothing but trees, mountains, and the lake, the photos from the past few weeks would be taken up by these strange ruins. It was as if the ruins had just fallen out of the sky one random night. It was just like the countless other ruins that had started to appear across the continent over the past few years. But what made this bunch so concerning was how expansive they were.
That was why the outpost was built only days after those old buildings had appeared. That was why ten soldiers were sent to man the outpost and keep watch for something they did not even know. It was all because of the uncertainty. The ruins were that uncertainty in this case, and so they had to be contained and be put under control. So far the General’s attempts seemed to be futile. The soldiers had been here for two months and still nothing had happened. Every few weeks a new team of experts would come down to search the ruined structures, but they would always leave with more questions than before. And in a way that was what Ralph always expected it to be. One day that little team of archeologists would walk in to find every soldier dead—Randy’s unmoving hand still on his gun and Ralph’s unblinking eyes still on his box.
Ralph shook his head. Perhaps he did think about these things too much. He took a deep breath and looked back at the metal bar ticking back and forth, back and forth. He began his counting again, if only just to help him get through another day being stuck in the middle of nowhere. Perhaps if he beat his old record this time his luck would change and by tomorrow morning he would be on his way home. He lost track at twenty-five.
“S-So Fred says to the woman ‘how about you…how about you and I go back to my place and…and have a little fun?’” said Brad. Loud snorts came from his mouth as he tried to hold in the laughter until the end. “And…and you know what she says? She says ‘sorry, but I’ve got a date with some ruins. They’re bigger than you’ll ever be.’”
Loud bursts of laughter echoed throughout the vast space. The room was surprisingly large for the tower’s size. It was able to sit at least three times the amount of people assigned to the outpost. It held no comfort to match its size. The room was pretty bare. Four gray concrete walls built up the perimeter, only broken by a door here and there. They were topped off by an equally gray ceiling. The place had only been built a few months ago but it already looked as if it was falling apart. Cracks lined the concrete walls and large dark patches covered the gray ceiling. Small buckets sat on the floor with the daily collection of rainwater. Large lights overhead sat in the beds of their sockets asleep, burnt out from either the leaking water or just simply never working in the first place. About only half of the bulbs still worked, and those had a tendency to flicker. They showered the room in a sterile white light, leaving the space hard and emotionless. Tables lined the walls—they had never been touched since the place was built. Only ten people were assigned to watch over the nearby scrap metal and all they had ever needed to use were two tables. The only exception was when those stuck up archeologists decided to come in, have a short meal, and mock the normal inhabitants of the short tower. In a way, the decaying building looked similar to the ruins outside. It was a result of hasty building and General Kezeck’s overwhelming desire to find out what those ruins meant above all else.
The soldiers sat gathered at the two tables in the mess hall. Their empty trays sat on before them. The scheduled dinner had ended not too long ago. The food was nothing fancy—just some old macaroni and some aging juice—but that was to be expected. Any food was better than none out in a place like this, and they have had this slop enough times to get used to it. They had stayed at the table long after the meals were completed to crack jokes or simply laugh for no reason, but that was normal routine. They all loved this time of the day—not only because the laughter filled them with joy but because it also reminded them that they were not alone out this decrepit place. Ralph sat at one end of the two tables, hollering along with all the others at the stupid yet somehow hilarious joke. Everyone was there: Ralph, Randy, old Bob from downstairs, and even Hank had come out of his little hiding place in the maintenance office to join in on the laughs.
"I bet the ruins are the only thing that wouldn’t object to getting inside her,” said Hank. “That nerd has probably never been in bed with anyone before. She was probably afraid you’d break her!”
Laughter echoed through the room again. A few of the men were clutching their sides as the jokes cumulated their laughter.
“It’s too bad really,” said Randy. “Some of those women have got some nice bodies. But they have to ruin it with their craziness.”
“What are you going on about?” asked Bob. “They still look great even if they are crazy.”
“Yea,” said Randy, “but would you really want to be in bed with one of them and have her start yapping into your ear about those old races right before you’re gonna let loose. It would just kill the whole moment right there.”
“I’d be too busy giving her the time of her life,” said Hank. “She won’t even have the chance to talk between her moaning.”
“The only time a girl moans when she is with you,” said Randy, “is when she is out of breath after hitting you twenty times. Did you forget what happened last time you brought a girl in here?”
“Hey, that’s not my fault,” said Hank. “Those people are crazy, remember? I told her I didn’t believe that stupid crap about the old races and she just exploded. I don’t care how good they look. I’m not getting wrapped in this crazy mess just to get laid. That is not worth it.”
“They’re just a bunch of crazy kids,” said Cletus. His aging face already looked like he was ready for bed. “Back in my day crap like that was just a bunch of fairy tales, and not very good tales either. We all knew it was just something told the kids to get them to sleep at night so the parents can have some fun. If you heard one of those tales, you knew what would happen later that night in the bedroom. But now we have these stupid kids saying those stories actually happened. They probably have to steal just to get their food because no one wants to hire the loons.”
“The tales aren’t that bad,” said Ralph. “I like hearing them every now and then.”
“Aren’t you the guy who rented that book about them?” asked Randy. “I saw you holding it before. It was the book by Colonel Skylar’s dead brother, Dan, right? Why are you bothering with that nonsense?”
Ralph shrugged. “I was bored,” he said. “I wanted something to read for the day and to at least know what these archeologists were talking about. And I thought you want to borrow the book earlier?”
“Well, okay,” said Randy. “Maybe sometimes I like to hear it. I haven’t heard it in a while, now that I think about it.”
“You know,” said Bob, “I wouldn’t mind hearing it again either. It would give us a little refresher on why these scientists are so crazy. Think you can tell it to us Ralph?”
The other soldiers around the table nodded in agreement. Ralph shook his head.
“I can’t,” he said. “I’m not very good at telling stories. My kids say I ruin most of them. Why don’t you ask Brad? He is much better at it than I am. Think you can do it Brad?”
“Oh, do I have to?” asked Brad. “I just had my second drink. I don’t want to stop now.”
All the soldiers around him nodded and urged again.
Brad sighed “Oh fine,” he said. His words were met with echoes of cheers and applause. Brad climbed up on the table as the soldiers removed their empty trays. He stood still for a moment, his head down and his eyes closed, as if trying to be a statue. He took a deep breath.
“Were humans the first race?” said Brad. He voice was deep and quiet. The soldiers leaned in closer to hear, their eyes wide with anticipation. “We like to believe that we were the first ones. Who cares what evidence might come up? We try so hard to convince ourselves that these huge cities, vast halls of knowledge, and greater views of the universe are unique and never achieved before by anyone but ourselves. We try so hard to show that our great rule over this planet is the first to ever come and to prove our superiority.”
“That’s because it’s true!” said Hank. “We’re the best of the best!”
Brad jumped over to the man and knelt. “Are you so sure about that?” he asked. “According to the myths, we weren’t the first. You remember the myths, don’t you? They are told to almost every child as a nice little bedtime story. Even those stupid high school dropouts and bums you find in the lower levels of Sargan know about these myths. If you don’t know it, you need to be slapped just for not paying attention.”
“What makes these stories so important?” asked Randy. “Why should we care about this old crap?”
“Because of what it could mean for us,” said Brad, turning to Randy. “It was thousands of years ago. Don’t ask me how precise, because no one really knows. There are no records or remains of the events other than the stories handed down generation after generation. Humans didn’t exist back then. Or maybe we did, but were just too stupid to realize that we did. Those magnificent cities and vast libraries would still exist back then, but that was because they were not made by us. They were made by another species of people entirely, far more advanced than we are now.”
“If they are so advanced then why are they dead?” asked Cletus. “They should have been smart enough to save their own asses.”
“They should have been, yes,” said Brad. “But there was one major problem preventing that. There wasn’t just one race but two, and they were as equally advanced. They were called the Sharnek and the Drelnak. How those names had survived over their years while their technology disappeared is still a mystery. The races were similar in many ways, but different in the same number of ways. To simplify it for you, there was a dark race and a light race. I forget which one is which.”
“So you’re saying one of them is good and the other is evil?” asked Bob. “That sounds pretty lame and clichéd if you ask me. You couldn’t come up with anything better?”
“Yes, it does sound lame,” said Brad. “But that’s because you’re interpreting it the wrong way. There was no evil and there was no good race. They both had their fair share of good and bad people. I bet it was more bad people considering how they destroyed themselves, but I’m getting ahead of myself. The dark and light actually referred to where they liked to live.”
“Let me guess,” said Randy. “One of them liked light and the other didn’t.”
Brad nodded. “Yea, pretty much,” he said. “The dark race was called that because they lived in the dark. They preferred a dark cloudy day over a bright sunny one. That does not mean they were nocturnal. They just preferred the dark places of the world—the stormy alleys, the thick forests, and the caves in the mountains. It is even said they made their homes underground to escape the bright rays of the sun. Their dark aspect also referred to their use of Keshlen, but I’m getting ahead of myself again. Now, the light creatures should be self explanatory—they were just the opposite of the dark. While the dark race was not a fan of too much sun, the light race could not get enough of those bright hot rays—they may have even worshiped that big ball of fire in their early years, when they were still primitive and confused like we were back then. They built their cities out in the open, sometimes right under the hot desert sun. They might not even have had roofs on their houses half the time, just so they could enjoy its glowing energy that much more. I think I even heard rumors that some of their cities flew, but that sounds like nonsense to me. And, of course, their light aspect also referred to what they did with their Keshlen.”
“What the hell is Keshlen?” asked Hank. “You gonna tell us or what? Is it like magic? I would love to have some magic.”
Brad jumped across the table to Hank at once. He stared at the man almost as if he had been insulted. “It is not magic,” he said. “If you say that one of those archeologists you’ll get slapped around twice as hard.”
The table erupted with more laughter as Hank looked away.
“I can’t really tell you what Keshlen is,” said Brad. “I never used the thing, and to be honest I’ve never even seen it before. The fairy tales make it sound like magic, but the crazy scientists will tell you that’s bullshit. According to them, Keshlen is a type of energy, like electricity. What did this energy do? Don’t ask me, because I’m not an expert in this. To be honest, the only person that came close to answering that question was Dan Skylar, and he died years ago. As far as I can tell, it allowed them to do amazing things, such as having cities float, and doing things that might be thought of as magic. But there was a price for these stunts. In order to perform these feats that had to sacrifice an equal amount of energy first. You can’t create a star without sacrificing the energy you would find in a star. It seems kind of pointless to me in the end, but I’ve never used the stuff.”
“What’s the big deal?” asked Bob. “If you don’t know what this stuff is, then why are you even telling us about it?”
“Keshlen was what allowed them to get so advanced so fast,” said Brad. “It took them half the time as it took us to get to the technology we are at now. Both races were able to use it. The Keshlen flowed through their bodies like electricity through a conductor. But Keshlen was also what destroyed them. The problem was, both races had different views on how the power should be used. I don’t really know how they used it—I don’t even know what the hell the thing really is. They just preferred to use it in one way, but they also hated the way the other race used it. The tension built between them over the centuries, and eventually a war broke out across the planet. Dan called it the Keshlen War in his silly book if I remember right. The war lasted for years, and in the end it destroyed them both. Almost everyone was killed by the great powers they thought they could control. Some people may have survived the brawl, but no one knows what happened to them. Maybe they’re still hiding somewhere on the planet in a secret society. All that matters is that we humans came after the Drelnak and Sharnek destroyed each other. This great planet Zelune is ours now, and not the property of some stupid people who killed their own species off. And we live in the most advanced of the three major countries on the planet. For Sagnaz!”
Brad raised his mug into the air, and the others followed. They all cheered and drank as Brad sat back in his seat.
“What a load of nonsense,” said Cletus. “I can’t believe anyone would ever believe that is true.”
“I’m with you, old man,” said Brad. “But it does make a good story every now and then.”
“I figured you men would be too old for fairy tales,” said Cletus. “No wonder the General stuck you out here in the middle of nowhere.”
“Hey, you’re here with us,” said Randy. “He stuck you out here for a reason too.”
Cletus waved his hand and shook his head.
“If those races did exist,” said Bob, “where do you think they would be hiding?”
“Maybe they’re hiding in that forest on the southern border,” said Bob. “There’s nothing down there other than that rundown town. I never understood why the General spent all his time down there anyways.”
“What about in the east islands?” said Randy. “Maybe they’re hiding among the midgets!”
“Hey,” said Brad. “My cousin lives out there. Don’t you be making fun of him. He hates it when people call him that stupid name. It’s an insult.”
“I don’t really care where they’re hiding,” said Hank. “I’d just love to get my hands on some of that Keshlen. It’d be a perfect way to get girls.”
“The only way that would help you get girls is if you made one,” said Randy. “I bet she’d still slap you after that though.”
Laughter filled the room. Ralph loved it—it helped him forget about the endless days spent in this pointless outpost. It was nice to spend time with all ten of the men…except all ten weren’t there. Ralph didn’t notice it until now, but one of the men was missing. Matt, the youngest of them all, was nowhere to be seen. How had Ralph not noticed it? Matt was the loud and energetic one of the group. He almost never shut his mouth when someone else was in the room. He was like a machine gun with words.
“Hey,” Ralph asked when the laughter died. “Do any of you guys know where Matt is?”
The laughter disappeared from the other faces as soon as they glanced around the room. The warm feeling in the space became cold and grim.
“Yea, of course,” said Hank. “He’s right over…” Hank looked over his shoulder, but the seat next to him was empty. “I could’ve sworn he was here,” he said. “Isn’t he the one who made the joke about General Kezeck’s chrome dome?”
“No, that was Cletus,” said Bob, gesturing to the aging man at his right.
“I haven’t seen that stupid kid since this morning,” said Cletus. “He hasn’t been here the entire supper.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?” asked Ralph.
Cletus shrugged. “I didn’t think it was that important,” he said. “You know how Matt is with his jokes. I figured this was just another prank.”
“Something’s wrong,” said Ralph. “Matt never does something like this. He’s always the first one down here when dinner starts. We always have to fight with him to get our share of the food. We need to find him. For all we know we could have intruders in this place.”
“You’re paranoid, dude,” said Hub. “Why the hell would anyone want to break into this place?”
“I’m with Ralph on this,” said Bob. “This doesn’t seem right. We better find him. Something bad could have happened to him. You remember that time he almost fell down the stairs, right?”
“But he could be anywhere in this damned tower,” said Randy. “Hell, he may not even be in the tower at all. How are we supposed to find him?”
“Wait a second,” Ralph said, tapping the table with his knuckles. He turned to the man across the table. “Fred, you were the last one to see him, right? You two were scheduled to watch at the top of the tower today. Did he have his talkie with him?”
“When I saw him he did,” said Fred, “but he might have dropped it off somewhere. You know how he is with that thing. He thinks it’s a worthless rock in a place like this.”
“I know, but it’s good enough to try,” said Ralph. “Anyone mind letting me borrow theirs? Mine broke this morning. I can still hear fine on it but the talk button doesn’t work.”
“Yea, you can use mine,” said Bob. “I charged it this morning. It should be fine.”
A small box hung on the left side of Bob’s belt. He pulled it off and handed it to Ralph. It was small and rectangular, about a little smaller than a TV remote. About half of the object was just empty casing—too many soldiers kept losing theirs so the army had to enlarge it a bit. He held it up to his mouth and pressed a small button at the top. It made a low electronic beep as it turned on.
“Matt, you there?” asked Ralph. His voice echoed out of the other talkies in the room. The repeating voices sent an eerie chill down the men’s spines. There was no response from Loudmouth Matt. The walkie-talkie was silent and lifeless. It seemed to make the situation more ominous than any amount of noise could have done.
“Matt, you there?” repeated Ralph. “I order you to report in.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” asked Randy. “You’re the same damn rank as him. You can’t order him.”
“Well,” said Ralph, “if you have a better idea for making him respond then I’d love to hear it. If he thinks he’s in trouble maybe he’ll put in the effort to respond.”
“That’s not how you make him think he’s in trouble,” said Randy. “This is how you scare the boy.”
Randy grabbed the talkie. The others shut off their equipment before he had a chance to talk.
“Hey Matt!” yelled Randy. “Get your ass off the bed and report in. None of us want to search this place again just because you’re too damned lazy to tell us where you’re going. You make us waste an hour searching for your sorry ass and I can promise that you won’t sit on the toilet for a week!”
“Damn it, Randy,” said Matt from the small device. His voice was whispered, but it still made them all jump. “Will you shut up? I had to turn the volume down the second I heard your voice. Are you trying to get me killed?”
“It’d serve you right, kid,” Cletus said into his talkie. “You had us all worrying like crazy down here.”
“It’s nice to know you care,” said Matt in a sarcastic tone. “I would have reported in earlier but I was worried my position might be compromised.”
“What are you talking about?” asked Brad. “How can your position be compromised? We’re in some cheap outpost by some scrap metal. There’s no one else out here.”
“Try telling that to this guy,” said Matt.
“What guy?” asked Brad. “What are you going on about?”
“When I was on my way down to the mess hall earlier,” said Matt, “I saw some movements down the hall. Something didn’t seem right so I kept my mouth shut and followed the person. I was right to do that. They aren’t one of us. I’m not even sure if they are human.”
“Sounds to me like one of you idiots left the door open and some animals got in,” said Cletus. “You could have told us you were doing some exterminating.”
“But that’s the thing, man,” said Matt. “These aren’t wild animals. As far as I can tell they’re wearing some kind of funky armor. I haven’t seen anything like it. They stand like humans, but they don’t move like us. And they’re bodies just don’t seem right either.”
“You’re babbling, dude,” said Hub. “Is this some stupid joke of yours? You were listening to our conversation about those stupid myths, weren’t you?”
“This isn’t a joke,” said Matt. “They’re walking around here like they’re looking for something. It’s like they’re on some sort of mission. And who knows? Maybe this does have something to do with those myths. You saw those ruins out there.”
“Dude,” said Hub, “we all know you want to prove those stories are real, but you don’t have to plan some stupid joke to make us believe it. Just get back down here so we can relax.”
“Damn it,” said Matt. “I told you this isn’t a joke. I am serious. You guys get down here and we can—wait! I’ve been spotted. Wait, no don’t—“
The voice cut off. A strange noise came through—one that sounded strangely like gunfire. The talkie cut back to the ominous silence.
“Matt, report!” yelled Randy. “Damn it, this better not be some kind of sick joke! I’ll kick your ass if you’re wasting our time.”
“Do you think he was telling the truth?” asked Hank, his eyes wide.
“We’ve got no way to be sure,” said Cletus. “But I don’t want to risk anything. We split up and search the place. If he’s telling the truth we can go save him. If he’s lying then we can all kick his ass. Get your arms and we’ll meet back up here to decide who goes where. Understood?”
They all nodded and agreed, but it was hard for them to hide the fear on their faces. Every single one of them was afraid. This thing was an uncertainty, and that sent chills down their backs.
It is strange how sometimes something as familiar as your house can seem so unsettling in a new light. Ralph had been in that dingy little outpost long enough that it had become his home. He knew every room and every little turn in the rundown hallways. But now, as Ralph walked down the hallway with his rifle out in front of him, these familiar places had never felt so alien. Long hallways stretched on before him, disappearing into the shadows as the dimmed and flickering lights faded away. Some of the lights flashed violently, as if they were having a continuous heart attack. One bulb had let out a few sparks before giving off its one last breath. It almost sounded as if it were giving off a final death scream. Long shadows emerged, disappeared, and formed again along the walls as the lights danced. Ralph’s rifle bolted upward with almost each flicker, not sure if what he saw down the hallway was real or a trick of his eyes. Why hadn’t they ever fixed the lighting in this place?
Ralph was alone. Cletus had split them up to different sections across the base: Fred and Brad had taken the barracks, Bob and Hub were down in the power room, and Cletus and Randy were heading up to the lookout deck. There were only nine soldiers with Matt missing, and Ralph was the extra. He supposed it wasn’t all that bad. Since he was alone they had chosen the least likely place any intruder would be for him to search: the old stock room downstairs. But more than once he wasn’t sure if he really was grateful. That place was pretty creepy when you went around alone. The old stock area was a series of rooms connected to each other by large metal doors in the basement. But those rooms hadn’t been used in months. They had once held all of the outpost’s supplies, from firearms to food to replacement cleaning chemicals. But the outpost, being the shoddy piece of military construction that it was, did not fare well against the common storms drifting in from the sea. When Ralph had gone down after the first major storm to get a bottle of wine, he found himself in water up to his knees. They hadn’t been back to the room since it was emptied. It was worse that Ralph never got his hands on that wine.
Ralph hesitated at the door leading down to the storage rooms. A small crack formed between the door and the threshold, and Ralph’s anxiety went up. Had they left the door open after they cleaned the room? He didn’t think so, but he didn’t come down this way too often. He pushed the door open and stepped through, the corroded metal hinges squeaking as they turned. The stairway was dark, but he didn’t bother flicking the nearby switch—they had taken the bulbs out when the room became unusable. He pushed a small switch on his gun, and a white ray of light drifted out down the stairs. A small room sat at the base of the staircase, and Ralph let out a sigh to see it was void of water. The rain had only started twenty minutes ago, but this place looked old enough to be flooded in ten. A small chair stood overturned at the bottom. Had that chair always been down there? Hadn’t the men taken everything they could find out of the waterlogged rooms? A spider crawled out from under the chair and scurried across the floor. It squeezed itself into a small crack and disappeared.
Ralph made his way down the steps and headed to the left, his eyes still attached to the small crack in the wall as if expecting the arachnid to attack him. He almost tripped at once. A large metal door sat at his feet, and it clanked as he kicked it. The center of the plate bowled into a large dent, almost like a giant irregular lens. Its hinges hung dangling off the side, the screws that once held them in place scattered across the floor. It was as if a terrible creature had burst its way through the door. Small scorch marks surrounded the indentation, as if someone had placed explosives on the metal, but no other signs of an explosion were visible. What the hell could have done this?
Ralph could feel his heart pounding against the wall of his body, but he ignored it. He was a soldier, after all—not a timid kid with a toy pistol. He had a duty to do. He took a deep breath, stepped over the door, and headed into the storeroom. What he saw he did not expect. It was still empty, but an extra feature had been added. In the center of the square room sat a large black circle. It was a giant hole, right in the center of a military storeroom. Ralph certainly didn’t remember that. Word would have gotten around if someone was planning on some remodeling. Around the black spot sat large chunks of concrete and other rubble. They were strewn across the floor, almost as if something had blown out the hole from below. Long dark blotches extended from the hole across the floor and headed to the door—footprints. For a moment Ralph had the crazy notion that someone climbed out of this hole, but he pushed the thought aside. He made his way to the dark spot, if only to see the inside of this strange hole and where it led.
And then the room exploded…or at least it sounded like it did. A large crumpling sound filled the entire room, echoing off the walls and increasing tenfold in the empty box. Ralph’s hands shot up to his ears, his gun bouncing off his leg on its strap.
“Brad and I have got nothing down here, man,” said Fred’s voice. The walkie-talkie had sprung to life. It was deafening in the empty the room.
“Randy and I’ve found nothing up here,” said Cletus. “As far as I can tell no one’s been through here since last night.”
“Yea, same here,” said Hub. “The generator room is just how I left it. I can’t see any signs of tampering. But this piece of junk looked like it was tampered with the first night we got here.”
“So we still have no idea what the hell it is we’re searching for?” asked Randy. “Great. Just great. Why don’t you just point a gun at my head now and get it over with. If there’s something here then that’s pretty much—“
“Get down!” yelled Cletus’s voice in the background. A roar of gunshots echoed from the talkie and pierced Ralph’s skull. The transmission was cut off.
“Randy?” Fred yelled into his talkie. “Cletus, what’s going on?!”
Nothing but silence returned his question.
“Damn it,” said Fred. “Respond! That’s it; Brad and I are heading up there to see what happened and—oh crap!”
Another explosion of gunfire echoed through the room. The transmission cut out, as if someone had taken some scissors and cut the invisible line which connected Ralph to his friends.
“Fred?” yelled Ralph into the device. “What’s going on? What’s wrong?”
Ralph’s heart was beating faster, pounding on his chest like a battering ram. Small droplets of sweat started to leak on his forehead. He was holding his gun so tight that the knuckles began to turn white—if he squeezed any harder he would have fired into the wall. Silence was all that returned to him. He didn’t bother to ask again. Ralph spun on his feet and ran for the door. He stopped as his flashlight landed on the opening. A person stood in the darkness, holding a gun pointed right at Ralph. Ralph raised his gun in turn.
“Who are you?” asked Ralph.”What are you doing here? Are you shooting at the others?”
“The father…told us…to do it,” said the dark figure. His voice was slow and raspy, as if he was struggling to make his throat work. “He said…that they…weren’t worthy. And neither…are you.”
Ralph didn’t have time to speak. The room echoed with gunfire.
Remember that this is just the prologue. None of these characters actually appear again throughout the book. Only one main character is mentioned (Colonel Skylar) and one secondary major character (General Kezeck). Simply, the prologue was meant to introduce you to the world as well as a peak at the plot of the series, not the single book. I needed an effective way to explain the world and what it is currently like, that way I can spend the rest of the book fleshing out the characters.