The two persons leaving now are just such an example of this principle. One of them is full of the joys of discovery, looking to make his mark in territories unexplored and dreaming of the possibilities. The other is striving not to look back upon the place she abandons, lest the awful sight stir any doubt or second thoughts in her mind.
Try and see which is which.
-------
It is a special occasion on the Flying Kingdom of Dragonus.
Much as how the alignment of stars and planets is regarded and noted in Earth society, the people of this airborne continent are aware that what is happening is a rare event indeed, that only occurs once every few years. It is on this particular month that their kingdom, on its never-ending flight around the planet of Porphyrion, will pass over the kingdom of Orvance, on the continent of Ardea. And to those on Dragonus, Ardea is still a wild and unexplored land, full of savage beasts, hostile terrain and untouched secrets only whispered about in learned circles.
So it is with great fanfare and bustle that King Martin IV, the ruler of the civilized Mainlands of Dragonus, has appointed a party of the Royal Adventurer's Guild to set of on an expediton down to the surface world. Each member of this party, hand-picked by the Guildmaster himself, is an able-bodied veteran and gentleman, each one of them with some major discovery or grand feat to his name, wherever it be in the slaying of some dreadful beast or the discovery of ancient halls or artefacts beneath the earth.
And as they stroll down Alulet Street towards the sky harbours, a cheering crowd lining the pavements, all of them are quite prepared for whatever hideous secrets are waiting for them.
"H-hey! Wait up, you guys!"
Except one.
-------
In the waters around Space Colony Albion, on the far flung planet of Phytos, lights glimmered under the water.
At first glance, one would believe that these lights had been deliberately installed by the Colony Defence Force as a protective measure, or to guide craft into the sea ports that are their connection to solid ground. After all, even with two moons reflecting upon the calm and quiet waters, it is easy to lose one's way on a world composed almost entirely of water, with only one major landmass to its name. However, the theory falls apart when one notices that the entrances to the port is on the east side, not the south, and there are no sharp rocks to ward ships away from, merely sloping sandbanks.
So the immediate question would be: Why put those lights there?
The answer, from any one of the patrolling soldiers on the walls tonight, would be: What lights?
And you would just have enough time to say 'those lights there' before the smooth, curved backs of the giagantic shrimp break the surface of the water, and horrid realization sets in - the lights are living things themselves. And as the beady eyes of the beasts fix intently upon the illuminated walls as they march forth, pondorously and purposefully, the cry that all those living in this colony dread to hear comes screaming out of the on-duty sergeant.
"WALAJI!"
It is a Swahili word, meaning "devourers". And that is just what the hordes of writhing, wiggling monsters beneath the waves intend to do.
-------
Richard Upton Wilkins, Amateur Explorer and student of the Royal Adventurer's Guild, was beginning to wish he hadn't packed quite so much stuff.
Of course, most of it was approved Guild equipment vital for expeditions such as these - tents, sleeping bags, stoves, food and so on. But the young man's eagerness to emulate the legendary explorers of yore meant he'd gone a little overboard last night, including such contraptions as a Hexorite-powered camera, a fully-functioning absailing harness, a footprint-cast kit and goodness knows what else besides. The net result was that he was dragging along a suitcase that felt as though it weighed as much as a bonnacon dipped in mud, nearly fainting under the equally-demanding load of his backpack.
But the anticipation and excitement in his mind was enough for him to ignore those details, continuing to forge a sluggish path down the street after his comrades in spite of the weight. It was this, combined with his youthful appearance and freshly-pressed uniform, that gave away his identity as a student of the Guild - in fact, one of a select few appointed to accompany the seasoned veterans. For this was his first major assignment - to travel down to Orvance with the party and discover the source of a major river within it, a conundrum that had baffled Dragonian scientists and cartographers for years...
As the boy stumbled once again, almost faceplanting into the muddy street, a chorus of groans rolled out from the men ahead of him.
"Come on, Richard, lad!" called one behatted gentleman up over the roar of the crowd. "You don't want to be late for this!"
"No, sir! Sorry, sir!" And with a grunt of effort Richard put on the best spurt he could, pushing himself to catch up with the others and splashing water everywhere. Eventually drawing level with the seniors up ahead, the boy slowed slightly as he tried to keep in step with them, in a stumbling imitation of their powerful strides. One of them, a portly figure with a bristly and well-groomed handlebar moustache, seemed to notice this and edged up to him in an almost fatherly manner, a jovial smile spreading beneath his copious facial hair.
"Well, my boy," drawled the man, known to Richard as Mr. Harold Philander Esq, "this is a red letter day for you! Imagine it - a youngster like yourself, setting foot in wild and inhospitable lands! Exciting, is it not?"
"Oh, yes, sir!" gasped Richard as he nearly tripped in a pothole. "Most exciting, sir!"
"Just imagine it," continued the older man as they continued their miniature parade. "Treks through pestilent jungles, with anything and everything lurking in the shadowy foliage! Frozen peaks, buffeted by blizzards, with no protection but the clothes on your back and no weapon but the pick in your hands! Who knows what advantures you'll have and secrets you'll find down there, in the mysterious lands of Ardea, as we search for the source of the River Kairio?"
The boy's eyes twinkled in almost childlike wonder, as if he'd just met a childhood hero. The River Kairio, from what little had been mapped of it by explorers past, fed not just the kingdom of Orvance, but also Barrath, the Olden Oak Counties and Ostaria as well. Because of this significance it had been the dream of almost every major explorer and adventurer on Dragonus to find its source, never mind the conflicting evidence that pointed one way or another and had many a University at each other's throats. And on top of this, legends abounded that the source itself was the cradle of an ancient city, a remnant of the Old World before Dragonus took to the sky, and tales of the gold and riches hidden there were whispered even among the most skeptical of scientists.
And if they succeeded in finding it...
"Of course," Philander was saying, with a pompous tone that had long been his trademark, "nothing could really compare to my expedition to the Lost City of Varjak back in '82. Why, I flummoxed those inbred Lizardmen so badly they didn't know which way to turn! And let me tell you, the golden idols I walked away with at the end of it all would have..."
Richard, sensing yet another long-winded and self-glorifying ramble, rolled his eyes and paid no attention.
It was getting to be a habit now.
-------
Helen Myronix Harolds II, daughter of the late Duke Aldolus Harolds, cursed her sentimental heart and cast one last glance back upon her home.
It was an especially dark night, with the moon barely lighting up the towering skyscrapers that comprised the central district of Colony Albion. But the young girl was thankful for the dark, even with her night vision activated, for it obscured the horror that she knew all too well was taking place. The steely night air was filled with an awful orchestra of noise - the screams of the victimized or dying, the harsh rattling coughs of rifles and, above all, the awful shrieking cacophony of the swaming Walaji. Even now, hordes of plate-backed shrimps, scuttling spider-crabs and God knows what else where flooding the streets, through the latest breach in the walls, and with every snap of their jaws-
But no. Helen shook her head, dirty blonde hair swishing into her face with the motion. Best not to think about it - time was of the essence, and every second was bringing the beasts closer to her. Turning on her heel, the girl quickly paced away from the window she had been looking out of, climbing up the steps of the space port building as fast as she could manage. She knew for a fact that she wasn't supposed to be here - the curfew was on, and ideally she should have been at home in her mansion within the city districts, safe from the enroaching amphibious horrors, or in a CDF shelter underground. It wouldn't be long before a register was taken and she was discovered missing, presumed dead.
But the blonde was long past caring. She'd had enough of living in fear, of hiding in dark corners whilst more and more lives were sacrificed for a futile cause. Albion's government was still stubbornly refusing to evacuate the planet, citing a need for independance from Earth aid, and this had left the military forces to aid in the senseless war against an enemy that had seemingly no end to their numbers. It had been last night, as she ruminated on the seemingly callous way the people were being stuck in this death trap of a city, that Helen Harolds had realized it was up to her to find a solution to the Walaji problem.
It was time to do something.
It was a mere matter of minutes to hack the door she found at the top of the stairs - the codes weren't that hard to figure out - and soon she was striding across the landing field, the sharp report of her iron heels ringing with every alternate step upon the platform. Already her eyes were fixed intently on her means of escape - the squat, spherical form of a Sontaran personal shuttle, isolated from the packed rows of other ships on the deck. Almost instantly, a barrage of holograms and notifications light up in her vision, displaying vital information on the craft's inner workings and current state.
As she approached the craft and began pacing around it, seeking some mode of entrance, a brief ringing tone sounded within her head.
"I calculate it is too late to dissuade you, Ma'am?" came the voice of Mike, the resident A.I. dwelling within her brain.
Helen supressed a snort. "Michael, it was too late the moment I stepped out of the door," she retorted, lifting an arm to trace the metalwork. "I really must get you examined - you're schedule-keeping abilities have been slipping." The tip of a finger caught on a gap, and relief crossed her mind - there was a door in the side of the ship, sealed tight to prevent the ingress of the vacuum of space and no doubt with an airlock to keep the air within. This was going to take some time.
Time she wasn't sure she had.
"Need I remind you, Ma'am," replied the voice, "that not only are you breaking the CDF-appointed curfew, but also Law #12B of the Private Propety Act and several laws concerning the theft of vehicles? That craft," continued Mike, even as he idly scanned the internal locking mechanism within the door, "belongs to Ambassador Drang of the 51st Sontaran Battlefleet, I'll have you know."
"Oh, he shan't miss it." Helen's tone was almost wistful as her left hand literally split apart, joints and pistons whirring into new and surprising configurations. "He hasn't exactly been in a complaining mood as of late."
"And what makes you suspect that?"
The A.I.'s words were cut off as the light of a plasma cutter flared through the gloom.
"I found his severed head in the street on the way here."
And so, with a background chorus of screeching growing in her ears, Mike oddly silent in her head, Helen began to cut open lock to the Sontaran ship.
-------
Thankfully for Richard, the crowd had thinned out somewhat by the time they reached the sky harbour.
Because so many of the major capitals on Dragonus were separated one way or another, traders and merchants had been forced to come up with radical solutions to get commerce to and from the territories. In recent years, airships fueled by refined Hexorite crystals had become the conveyance of choice for the larger, more developed kingdoms, and the ship that stood in front of them was just one such example - a sleek, yet powerful ensemble of oak timber and brass, much like an ocean-bound galleon. The rows of barrel-shaped engines on its sides simmered quietly to themselves in anticipation, and the unearthly pinkish glow of the crystal reactor within leaked through the gaps in the stern's woodworking, bathing everything in the eldritch light.
He didn't have much time to admire it, however, for he was almost immediately approached by a group of the many attendees that swarmed around the gathering like vultures. Before he had even put down the bags he'd been dragging along they were snatching them up, passing them one by one between each other and into one of the many ports that lined the hull like suckers on an octopus' tentacle. The slighty annoyance the boy felt at what he percieved as rudeness on their part was mollified by the knowledge that, having labelled his bags quite clearly the night before, there was no chance he could lose them.
With the weight off of his back, the boy was now able to walk upright without fear of falling over backwards, and took one last look around the scene. Many of the other students were arriving as well, as eager to begin their own assignments as he was, and one by one they were handing over their bags and joining their senior attendants to accompany them onto the ship. Crowds cheered and waved banners and threw confetti everywhere, a brass band played a rousing rendition of Mr. Pikedevant's "Steampunk Holiday" and vendors sold commemorative wares to the bustling people. And for the first time, looking upon it, a stab of nervous tension slithered into Richard's heart.
There was every chance he wouldn't come back from-
"Come on, boy!"
Richard was snapped out of his daydream by a sharp tug on his arm from Philander, the older man impatient to get started. Shaking himself awake, the boy stumbled after him and joined the small parade of gentlemen explorers as they ascended into the bowls of the ship, talking eagerly of the adventures to come as well as those of the past. There was no vice or professional rivalry here - each one was a close acquaintance and was more than ready to treat the thing as no more than a childhood game of Hide-And-Seek.
Except Philander, who was glowering irritably beneath his bowler hat and muttering:
"Claudandus above, I hate the child already..."
-------
"Any luck?" asked Helen, somewhat breathlessly.
Breaking into the ship hadn't been a problem - then again, not much is when you have a plasma cutter for one arm. The hard part, after shimmying through the airlock to get inside, was starting the thing up, for despite her education the young aristocrat was not well-versed in any technology that wasn't either CDF approved or coded by her late father. There were one or two buttons that she immediately understood, for joystick steering was almost universal nowadays, but everything else had been a confused mess of symbols she could barely comprehend. Such was the price of aristocracy.
And thus, things had gotten drastic. Now she sat in the pilot's chair, a half-formed helmet or windscreen of sorts having clicked into place over her head as she grimly awaited a reply from Mike. Something like a long, striped cable snaked down from the right side of the helmet, the end of it plugged into a socket just below what could at a stretch be called the dashboard. A silvery ring floated in front of her face, the centre shimmering with readouts and information and scrolling numbers - all of it in Sontaran. Thank goodness for Google Translate.
"I've managed to access the engine startup protocols, Ma'am" came Mike's lubrigous voice in her head. "With any luck, I should have the craft up and running within five minutes."
Helen was just about to reply when a flash of moonlight on something caught her eye. She turned her head, peering out of the front window to get a better view, and froze as something pulled up sharply in the air a few metres away from her. Its sleek, almost pike-like form undulated as it hovered in place, wing-fins beating furiously to keep it airborne, and a cruel and narrow head with cold yellow eyes flitted this way and that in an eager search. As it turned slightly in the air, the horrified blonde could see the sharp mouth - or was it a beak? - opening and shutting, and hear the muffled chattering call.
Avipisces carcharodon. A Shriekspitter.
"Make that two," she hissed under her breath, instinctively pressing herself back into the seat. There was a beep of confirmation from somewhere, but she barely heard it - her breath was coming in short gasps of panic, her eyes wide as she kept her sights on the thing fluttering in front of her. She knew at once that she was in trouble, for the reinforced glass that served as a window would be no barrier against the Walaji. The instant it noticed her, it would only take a matter of moments for it to break though, and then... Bile rose in her throat, and she swallowed hard, but as quietly as she could.
A light came up on the dashboard.
Shriekspitters were called that for two reasons. Firstly, their battle cry - a deafening scream that pierced the air for miles around and shattered glass. Secondly, their caustic venom, which they spat from their mouths with great force and could melt through even stainless steel. Their primary role in the horde was of reconnisance, mapping out the area in front of them and disabling the major threats to make way for the rest of the swarm. But the headless bodies and ragged carcasses of many a soldier proved that they were not above taking easy pickings wherever they could find them.
Two lights came up on the dasboard.
There were two more of the things now, and they had alighted on the landing platform a short distance away. Perched on the ground they seemed low-slung and awkward, despite being almost as big as a man, and the way they hobbled around on their fins was almost comical to watch. But whilst a man could easily outrun them on foot, Helen was trapped in a metal ball with a massive window in front of it, and any attempts to leave her confined space would invariably be suicide. But to stay here for any longer would also mean death, for their keen eyes would soon spot her within her metal prison. The thought of it made beads of sweat appear on the young noble's forehead.
She wondered why they hadn't seen her yet.
Three lights came up on the dashboard.
"All ready, Ma'am."
Engines roared, afterburners flared, lights and diodes and screens flickered to life. And that's when the closest Shriekspitter noticed, and screamed as it turned and leapt, jaws agape and wings spread. But it had leapt too late, for Helen had already grabbed the joysticks, yanked them backwards and squeezed down on the triggers with a death-grip born of stark, primal terror. As though fired from a cannon, the ship rocketed forward with a roar, bashing the finned beast aside as it went and sending it spiralling over the side of the landing platform. The other two twisted round and spat hissing globs after it, but it was no good. Caught by surprise, they had let their prey escape, and there was no point in pursuing any further.
And as the ship rocketed skywards, trailing blue fire in it's inexorable journey towards the stars, Helen Myronix Harolds II finally relaxed and began to breathe.
The worst was over. Now... to find the solution.
"Set a course, Mike. To the Allied Systems of Earth."
"Of course, Ma'am."
TO BE CONTINUED...
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