I grinned inwardly at the new recruits standing before me in the gym. Some of them looked pathetic, either too skinny or too fat. They all wore toques. It kept more heat in the body, got you sweating more than you would normally. Some of them wore “Property of Roc Wieler” TShirts in an attempt at leniancy by appealing to my vanity. You could tell they were new.

“Alright ladies, you may be pod pilots now, but you’re certainly not Renegades; not yet anyway. We’re going to start by learning how keeping your body in shape will benefit your mind and soul.” I began, my voice booming with authority and intolerance. I was their drill sergeant for this orientation, my mission to show them how physical and mental excellence would aid them in enduring the hardships of real piloting.

One of the recruits snickered at my comment about mind and soul. “You find something funny recruit?” I asked, my voice stern as I got directly in the face of the offender. “Sir, no sir!” The recruit yelled back in perfect military form. I wasn’t in the mood for any insubordination.

“You’re dismissed.” I said dryly. The pilot’s eyes opened wide, wondering if he had misheard me, or if I was serious. I was always serious. “Did I stutter?” I screamed at the pilot, a spot of phlegm spitting from my mouth as I spoke. The recruit quickly turned and headed for the change room. “See how easy life can be?” I said sarcastically. “You either do, or you don’t. There’s consequences either way. I won’t cut you any slack in the Renegades because out there, our enemy won’t cut us any. If you want this, I’m going to break you. If you don’t want this, get out of my sight now.” Three more recruits left the gym. I paused for a few moments, letting any other doubters come to terms with themselves and leave if they so chose. Nobody else did; good.

“I’m sure you’ve all been to the gym. I’m sure some of you even think you’re in shape. You’re not. I’m not. Your clone isn’t either. It’s a whole new lifestyle now, ladies; and you have to train your mind before you can train your body.”

I grabbed two dumbells and thrusted them into the arms of one of the beefier recruits. “Arm curls. Go.” The meaty recruit bent his knees slightly, shoulder width apart, which was a good start, and then proceeded to use his back to create momentum for his arms to use in curling the weight. I stopped him quickly. 

“Form is the most important thing. If you’re not going to do something right, don’t do it at all. We’re not here to be muscleheads, we’re here to be pilots. My pilots perform at peak efficiency; that is your objective. Let me demonstrate.”

I proceeded to go over various common exercises with them, nothing out of the ordinary, illustrating proper form for each routine. I encouraged them to try, which they did, some doing better than others, but it gave me a sense of where each individual was at. 

“Nutrition is 90% of getting in shape, or something like that. 54% of all statistics are made up on the spot anyway.” Not a single recruit laughed. This was good. “Cut out the cheeses, the fatty foods, the salty snacks, the sauces on everything you eat. It’s bad for the body. No more Quafe, no more cafs, you’re all going to be eating healthy now.” I remember how hard it had been for myself at first giving up the foods and drinks I enjoyed, but after a few months I realized I couldn’t enjoy my food any other way. Things started tasting better, cleaner, and the results had spoken for themselves. 

“Open one of your hands. That’s how big a single meal portion should be. Never eat more than you can hold with one hand.” They gazed down at their palms, some of them beginning to wonder at the accuracy of my methodology. Truth be told, it wouldn’t work for all of them. It was worked for me. Still, the general guidelines were sound, and the astute ones would realize these were core principles, not a holy book of working out. 

“You’ll eat six times per day to keep your metabolism active. And you’ll work out twice per day, as your schedules allow. Now, onto the workout routine.”

I moved over to the treadmill. “First thing is ten minutes of cardio before every workout. Doesn’t matter to me how you accomplish that, but you need to make it high impact cardio. By high impact I don’t mean wreck your knees, I mean keep your heart rate up; make yourself feel like you’re going to collapse. Got it?” They all nodded their understanding.

I moved over to the chest press. “I don’t care what you exercise on a given day, in fact I encourage you to mix it up, keep it fresh and exciting for your muscles. Don’t let them get used to your routine. If they do that, they’ll stop developing.” I grabbed the bar, then instructed them on what we would be doing.

“I call these ‘Active Pyramid Drops’. For me, they’ve been gold. They’ll work for you too.” I laid it out for them plainly.

• Three sets with ‘Active Rest’ in between sets. Active Rest being high end cardio to keep your heart rate accelerated. You could run on the spot, jump rope, climb stairs, do bench hops, whatever you wanted, but the key was to keep the heart rate up, at least 85 beats per minute.
• For your first set, use 90% of your maximum weight and do 12 repetitions.
• Second set, is 100% of your maximum weight, 8 repetitions.
• Third set is the magic. Do 110% of your maximum weight, 6 repetitions, then immediately do your second set without rest, then your first set without rest. 
• Do this for four different muscle groups per workout, a group example being arms, which includes biceps and triceps.
• Do four different exercises for each muscle within a group following the above technique.

For the next hour and a bit, I oversaw their progress. It was always interesting to me to observe others. I could tell which would make the final cut already, and which were the quitters. Still, if I could change even a few of their lifestyles, inspire any of them to start taking care of their body and mind and not rely on a fresh clone should they die, then I knew I would be adding value to their lives. 

I couldn’t wait to share with them what my daily breakfast was, or my own little exercise I called “The Panty Remover”.

MATAR
PATOR SYSTEM

 Though tribal by nature, the Republic had advanced remarkably over the last one hundred years. Vast highways ran throughout the various metropolises of the planet, as well as one superhighway that connected all the major cities. This roadway was recently renamed the “Highway of Heroes”, in honour of the many fallen soldiers from our history, both recent and past.

It acquired this name primarily as an honorific to those fallen in the first great war of our people, but in more recent times its name was apt due to the fact that most returning from the frontlines in caskets found their motorcades following this great path for their final journey home.

It had become routine for information to slip onto the interweb when a new shipment of dead soldiers would arrive planetside, and inevitably this knowledge had been acted upon. On every major overpass across the continent, countless civilians and service personnel would stand in wait, regardless of time of day or weather, draping the proud Minmatar flag over the railings; a final tribute to those who fought valiantly for the freedom of our people.

It was raining heavily today, but that didn’t deter any of the assembled mass. Veterans in dress regalia stood tall, their standard placed firmly against the concrete, their stoic posture testament to the respect they were giving to these newly fallen comrades. Civilians had parked their vehicles on the side of the overpass, bringing local traffic to a crawl, yet none of the passing motorists were agitated or angry; there was quiet understanding and acceptance of this gesture. 

Daul stood amongst others from his infantry unit, waiting patiently. He could see the red bearded man-mountain fidgeting nearby. He had learned since his first battle that this man’s name was Corm. He was well respected, well feared, and well deserving of those sentiments. Daul had heard stories of Corm’s antics both on and off the battlefield and held the man akin to something between a monster and a god. He continued surveying those gathered, noticing firefighters, police officers, Concord Security officers, and other civilian professionals. His eyes fell on a small child in a stroller, her mother comforting her in this dreary weather. Daul knew by her demeanour that this woman had lost her husband to the war.

It left a sickened feeling in Daul’s stomach. There were those even in his own life that couldn’t stand the thought of war; wouldn’t discuss it, wouldn’t acknowledge that it existed in all its gruesome detail. Yet it did exist; ignoring it didn’t make it go away. He wondered if in fact the opposite were true, that if perhaps every Matari was aware of the gore of battle, the lives not just lost but violently taken, then perhaps as a whole they would do more about it; perhaps this war would end all that much sooner resulting in less lives lost. 

He was sure Sanmatar Shakor did all that a politician could, but his energies were diverted elsewhere of late; land disputes, religious cults and terrorist bombings seemed to be the order of the day for the Prime Minister. And even his attitude towards the war had changed when he did make public speeches. It seemed as though his support was dwindling and he was therefore adjusting his stance to maintain public favour. Daul had no respect for politicians. He had no respect for someone who couldn’t stand by their own beliefs regardless of status quo. But was he any better? Was he any less of a hypocrite?

His eyes wandered amongst the crowd some more until they fell upon something they had never thought to see in this lifetime; a capsuleer. He had only glanced at the back of the man’s bald head, but he knew without a doubt the telltale implant at the base of his skull. The man had quickly pulled up the collar of his brown leather jacket, whether in an effort to ward off the elements or to hide his giveaway implant, Daul couldn’t tell, but regardless, he started making his way through the crowd to catch a better look at this man.

Capsuleers were an entirely different beast; an entirely different factor in this war. They were technically immortal, able to be reborn upon each death they experienced, though Daul had heard stories that capsuleer cloning technology was greatly exaggerated and they were capable of dying just like any other. To some, pod pilots were the pinnacle of evolution; the ability to fly great starships with a minimal crew, to engage in adventures that most people couldn’t even dream of. Their abilities were greatly respected, revered by many, giving them a divine attribute. But not everyone felt that way. To the growing majority, capsuleers were an abomination. They were the very reason this war continued. It was the capsuleers that brought hell to the stars. It was the capsuleers that callously watched as the lives of entire crews were exstinguished while they were simply reborn to fight again. A small political group had recently been gaining local media attention with their push for Shakor to ban military cloning technology, focusing the abundant funds it used towards civilian emergency facilities only. 

Daul didn’t have an opinion on pod pilots. He had never met one, and he was the type of man that evaluated someone based on face time, not heresay. 

The capsuleer he had been slowly edging towards had stopped, finding a suitable position to gaze across the Highway of Heroes, waiting as were the rest for the military motorcade to pass underneath. Daul believed he was the only one to have noticed the capsuleer, the attention of everyone else too busy looking down the highway in anticipation. But he was wrong, he realized, as he saw Corm approaching the pod pilot from an intercepting path. The look on Corm’s face told Daul instantly that his intentions weren’t happy ones. Corm was shoving his way through the crowd, some people cowering away from his mass, others being forcefully pushed aside. Corm had that look in his eye; it was the same gleam of insanity and ability that Daul had seen on the battlefield. He hurried his pace, trying to get to the capsuleer ahead of Corm.

Daul could hear Corm’s raised voice as he watched the man-mountain gain the attention of the pod pilot. The smaller man turned from the overpass railing to see what was causing the disruption, then turned back to wait for the motorcade. Those closest to the man had backed away, sensing he was the focus of the larger, well muscled man’s fury. Someone, the lady with the baby in the stroller, was pointing at the capsuleer’s neck, outing him for what he was. Murmurs went through the crowd, some shouting their disapproval of the man, others unsure of themselves and not giving into mob mentality quite yet. 

Corm arrived at the man five meters before Daul did. He watched as Corm screamed profanties at the back of the man, commanding him to leave this place or face the consequences. Obviously, Corm wasn’t an admirer. Upon failing to get the man’s attention, Corm spat on the back of the man’s head, his fists clenching and unclenching, the veins of his forearms visible even from this distance. His face was flushing red, and Daul knew that he had to try to talk down his comrade. But what was he going to do? They had fought only one battle together; they were not friends, and Daul damn well knew he wasn’t physically able to stop the behemoth. 

The wad of mucus ran down the back of the capsuleer’s head, the rain accelerating its slimy progress until it disappeared beneath his leather jacket. Still, he did not respond. Corm grabbed the man’s shoulder, spinning him with one meaty hand, his violent intentions clear. Corm never had the chance to bring his intentions to bear.

The capsuleer used the momentum of the spin to drive his straight armed fist into Corm’s solar plexus, his hip pivoted to deliver maximum driving force. Daul could hear the air expunged from Corm’s lungs, as the man-mountain doubling over from the blow. The capsuleer continued forward, following the momentum from the punch, to deliver a solidly driven knee to Corm’s groin. The bigger man’s hands went from holding his stomach to holding his balls. Still, the pod pilot drove forward. He grabbed Corm’s red hair in his hands, driving his rear knee upwards with impressive force. A loud crack could be heard amongst the crowd, and Corm dropped to the concrete, blood pouring from his nose. He didn’t get up.

The capsuleer turned his attention back to the motorcade, which could now be seen approaching in the distance. Daul watched as a few others from his regiment dragged the limp form of Corm away from the scene. The crowd seemed to have let the moment pass, either from newfound fear of the small man that had toppled the man-mountain, or from disinterest now that the reason for their being in this miserable weather was so close. 

Daul was torn. A part of him knew that he should go with his brothers-at-arms, but another part of him wanted to meet this capsuleer. He chose the latter. He easily made his way to the pod pilot, greeting him. “Excuse me, I don’t want to…” Daul began.

“Show respect.” The capsuleer said in a voice filled with gravel. The pod pilot stood at full military attention, surprising Daul by throwing a crisp salute towards the motorcade. Daul followed suit, immediately knowing he was in the presence of authority. The crowd also saluted, cried, cheered, or showed respect in whatever way they thought was most appropriate.

It was a sobering moment. Daul wondered if many would gather when it was him that would inevitably be in the back of one of the vehicles passing beneath them. He chastised himself for his lack of respect. These men and women had died defending the Minmatar Republic. They had made the ultimate sacrifice for their people, same as Daul would do, wouldn’t he?

Memories flashed before his eyes of his own cowardice, of his own wanton abandon of duty at the first sign of real threat. He felt strongly ashamed suddenly, not worthy of being in this place, not deserving to be amongst these people, least of all the pod pilot. He turned and began walking away, when he was interrupted by the voice made of gravel.

“What’s your name, son?” The voice asked. Daul stopped in his tracks, turning his attention back to the capsuleer. He was about the same height as Daul, but the man was thick as an ox. His face had hard lines on it, chiseled from experiences Daul didn’t even want to think on.

“Daul Halwick, first class private of the 501st infantry regiment, sir.” He found himself nervous beneath the hidden gaze of this man, unnerved by the sunglasses and scowl the other man wore. There was no way of knowing what thoughts went on behind those hidden eyes, what intentions may lay within the man. 

The capsuleer extended his hand. 

“Colonel Roc Wieler, Tribal Liberation Force. It’s an honour to meet you, soldier.”

Daul was five rows back and the mortar fire had already come. It had rained down from the sky in deathly silence and would have caught them off guard if some veteran in the front row hadn’t raised up his flak shield and set off a chain reaction that slowly progressed all the way through the ranks. It was better than it could have been, but some of them had still been late with their defenses, or put them up at an ineffective angle. They continued screaming even now, but Daul could hardly hear it anymore.

Daul was past the moment of fear. The nausea was gone, the tightness in his bowels. There was no way out, nowhere to run and hide. The forces had engaged. The mortars were proof of that. So now he was committed, and that lent him a peculiar type of calm. He was just waiting for it. Waiting to run forward to die or to live. That appeared to be his destiny. Now that he had marched up to the precipice, he found he could handle it.

He was not a large soldier, not the kind that reveled in battle. There were those around him that were. Brutors the size of mountains who considered the fray in a completely different perspective. It would take something special to bring them down, and they took the field with a reasonable expectation to be able to walk back off it when all was accounted for at the end.

Daul, on the other hand, was an average sized man. He was well trained and athletic, but this was his first battle, and he knew that there were those in the opposing army who had advantages of both size and experience. One strike was bad enough, two was unnerving. But as he had already concluded, there was no way out of it now, nowhere but forward to run.

Five rows back, he thought. Maybe, just maybe, the battle wouldn’t come to him. Maybe he could stay hidden behind his comrades.

He looked to his left and saw a mammoth Brutor with bulging muscle and a huge red beard smiling in anticipation. Something about that crazed look told him that he would be seeing action, that he wasn’t far enough back for security.

As one they started to move. Daul hadn’t heard any word of command, but the press of the bodies sent him forward. Shoulder to shoulder they crept along and Daul found that he could not allow himself to drift further back in the ranks as he had been secretly planning to. They were all too close, and they all pushed each other along as if they all shared the idea of the subtle retreat.

The walk became a jog, the jog a run, the run a sprint, and the exhilaration of the moment stirred his adrenaline. This was the battle. This was the moment of truth. And he felt the pounding of his heart in his ears and in the shortness of his breath. He resolved instantly that if this was to be his last accounting, it would be a good one, and he let loose with a wild scream that was picked up and repeated by the hoarse and nervous throats of the men beside him. His whoop became louder with their augmentation, and he picked up his own volume to pay greater homage to the cacophony they were creating.

Everything slowed in a sense. His eyes recorded the images that flashed before him. The color of the men. So stark and white against the grey suburbia and blue skies.

The feel of the concrete beneath his boots, rubble and debris littered everywhere. The sharpness of the air as he gasped for it, seeming to cut his throat as he drew it in. And then, the clash of the weapons from the lines ahead amidst the sounds of gunfire.

It was like standing in one place and watching a storm blow in. A sheet of water and darkness, chaos, the fist of nature, coming at you in a black wall and then swallowing you.

Daul struck out around him madly. Nothing came close. Nothing was allowed. Arms, hands, broken weapons, the moment they entered his field of vision he smashed them away with a strike from his slender vibro sword. He spun in circles, blindly, mud and blood tossed up from the foul below and smearing his face and clothing until he was an unrecognizable mass. He stood in one place, never advancing, and the battle came to him.

It thinned after a while, after an eternal minute. Daul had no idea how long it had been, but he knew he was exhausted, and that there was nobody close to him. Slowly, his senses returned. The berserker rage that had overcome him had spent itself, and his body had rightly decided that the best chance for survival lay again in absolute faith for the control of his reason. He stumbled forward, the throng just ahead. He surmised his comrades were the ones whose backs were to him.

Suddenly, out of the wall of flesh broke a single soldier. The enemy, he could tell by the color of his armour beneath the blood. He was frenzied and broken like a struggling deer. Young, like Daul, he broke from between two bodies and looked up one and down the other before ever turning his eyes forward. He was nose to nose with Daul before he ever noticed him in his path. Daul just stood there in shock, waiting for him to come.

The madness had left Daul, the killing instinct, and it had left this soldier as well. Daul was watching him keenly, but detached, as in a vision, as he stepped forward. The soldier seemed relieved to be out of the fray. He seemed overcome that the two pillars of men he had passed through had taken no heed of his escape. He finished looking behind him and turned his eyes forward, meeting the eyes of Daul.

Daul saw himself reflected. For the first time in this battlefield of lunacy and blood, he saw the watery blue of intelligence. There was a soul in those eyes, an understanding. This was a young soldier, like him, one that was only looking for a way out.

They paused, a fragile truce. They waited and drew nervous breath. Daul could see a pleading there, the desire to escape. Or so he thought. Was he just imagining it?

With that question the moment was broken and the brief tranquility was overwhelmed by a stampeding fear. It was a battle. This was the enemy.

The other soldier saw the change in Daul’s posture and started to react, but it was too late. The sword had already skewered him. The lifeless body slid down the blade, and Daul came face to face with the eyes again, the eyes that had pleaded for non-aggression.

He turned the sword down and to the side, the body slid off in silence. He had triumphed, he had slain his attacker. But he felt nothing but scorn and self-loathing. No words had been spoken, but this man had asked for a truce, and Daul had responded to the request with blood.

Daul was still standing there over the body when the battle ended.

The soldiers came walking back, picking their way through the bodies. Some in a daze, others joyous and relieved.

A meaty hand crashed down on Daul’s back.

“You’re first battle, right lad? Nice to see you‘ve made the cut.” It was the man-mountain with the fiery beard. “You’ve got a few tricks now, you’ll make it OK. The ones that survive their first battle, tend to make it all the way. Glad to have you with us.”

Daul didn’t make a response. He knew what the difference was between the ones that made it and the ones that didn’t. The ones that made it killed. They ignored the pleas for mercy in the enemies’ eyes, they accepted the rules of the situation they were in and didn’t waste energy on dreams for a peaceful future.

Daul looked up at the carnage and the brutes that surrounded him. This was his world, these were his people, the desolation and the foulness of the living.

He glanced down one last time at the body at his feet, peaceful in its death-mask, and as he turned to walk off the field of battle with the other grotesque and misshapen approximations of the living, he wondered who the real victor was.

Empress Jamyl Sarum glided effortlessly across the marble floor of the cavernous palatial corridor. Her clothing was of a nearly sheer material, speckled with reflective dust, form fitting in the right areas, wistfully flowing in others. She was young and beautiful, her unblemished skin radiating a golden aura. Her thick dark hair had the shine of good health. She was truly a magnificent creature. The marble floor and columns that lined this corridor were polished to mirror reflection, and seemed to absorb the warm light she emanated, even casting aside the shadows of the high arching ceiling far above. 

Bodyguards and attendants remained out of sight, but within a distance to act should the need arise; not everyone valued the Empress as they did. They were invisible to her, a mere formality, as she considered herself more than capable of dealing with any potential hostile act against her. 

She strode with royal confidence, an air of superiority, but not one of arrogance. She truly believed she was worthy of all respect, worship and adoration from the Empires. The only sound to be heard as she walked was the occasional touch of material against floor, such was her grace and poise. She was a living beacon of hope and truth; the ultimate symbol of beauty and elegance.

A large oak door opened as she neared it, revealing a grand bedchamber. The ceilings were high here as well, though not as lofty as the central corridor, with artistic murals painted on them. They were depictions of Amarrian history, of their various successful conquests and contributions to the galaxy. The bed itself was made of sturdy mahogany, and stood ten feet tall at the four corner posts. It was wide enough to sleep three people, though only one person lay upon its comfortable mattress now. 

He was wrapped in a warm duvet, his frame resting on thousand count Amarr cotton sheets. Four pillows supported his head and neck, made from the hairs of Amarr’s finest maidens. He breathed steady, strong breaths, a good indication of his recovery.

She approached the bedside, looking down at the man before her, then turning her attention to the various monitors and life support apparatus he was attached to. The regular ping of his heart monitor let her know he was indeed healing well, and she had gone to every length to ensure so. Beyond the best doctors and medicines, she had employed the services of her greatest mystics and healers to aid in his journey back to good health. 

She leaned towards him, inches from his unconscious form, breathing him in deeply, his face glowing in the light that was her. She could smell his power, his tenacity. She knew he would make a powerful ally once she had broken his significant will. 

As a testament to her appraisal of him, he stirred to consciousness, not making a sound as he surveyed his surroundings with his eyes. His head didn’t turn, nor did his body move, but his piercing eyes took in everything. He swallowed once before speaking.

“I can’t move.” He said. 

She placed her hand gently upon his forehead, caressing him tenderly, quietly shushing him as a mother would an ill child. “You were all but dead when we found you. You will regain the use of your body in time.” Her voice was melodic and mesmerizing, it was no wonder so many swooned under her power. Already, her guest found himself feeling the tug of her at his heart, his want for her, his desire to please her, to consume her. His heart rate quickened, and noticing this on the monitor, she smiled.

Her perfect lips parted only slightly, revealing straight white teeth. There was a slight moisture to her full lips, making them even more appetizing. He hungered for her already.

“Where am I?” He asked, his voice weak and scratchy.

They had found him aboard his ship not too long ago, his crew dead, as he should’ve been. It was a testament to his strength of will that he had survived the ordeal. For reasons unknown even to her at the time, she felt that instead of destroying what remained of his ship that she should save this man, that he would be a catalyst in her efforts to unite the Empires under her rule. 

“You are safe. You are in my palace, the heart of the Amarr Empire. My name is Jamyl.” She let her arms falls naturally to the sides of her body, her palms faced outwards in a gesture of welcome and non-aggression. Just the same, he reacted, his heart rate spiking.

“You bitch from the underbelly of the ninth hell. I would rather suffer a thousand deaths than even to have the memory of ever looking upon your wretchedness.” He screamed hoarsely.

Jamyl changed then, though it could not be seen by any other. The light that radiated from her was extinguished. Her skin turned from gold to black flame, enlarging her form as if she were a living shadow. She devoured all light from the room, plunging it into darkness and spiritual despair. Her eyes smoldered orange flame, and when she spoke next, venom dripped from her mouth, burning holes into the floor where it fell.

“You ungrateful cur! You dare to speak to me in such a tone?!” She hissed. “If it were not for me you would not exist at all. If it were not for me, you would have no use to this universe. I alone have chosen you. I alone have spared you. I AM YOUR GOD!”

The man in the bed shrank away from her, his eyes wide with shock. His heart rate continued to elevate, but no longer from desire; now it was from distress. She raised her arms high to her sides, continuing to devour life itself from the room, cackling a malevolent laugh that sent chills through the spine. 

“It is at MY whim that you live. It can be at my whim that you die. Choose your next words wisely, fool, as they may very well be your last.” Her voice echoed and reverberated throughout the room, casting dread upon it.

Without reason or warning, she shrank back into herself, the dark flames subsiding, her eyes return to their normal radiance. Her skin once more glowed its golden hue, and she fell to one knee, her gentle hand propped up against her forehead. 

She grunted in pain only once, then stood regally, smiling warmly down at the man in the bed.

His eyes darted back and forth, trying to make sense of all that occured within the last few moments. She seemed to not notice the silence, patiently waiting for him to take the intiative and speak.

Finally, he did. “Milady, my life is forfeit, save for serving you. I am your humble servant. What is thy will?”

She lay her hand across his forehead once more, consoling him. “Just rest, my brave warrior. I will need you whole to fulfill your destiny.”

She turned to leave, walking a few paces before stopping, looking around for something that could not be seen. She paused a moment, inhaling, her eyes closed. When she opened them again, they were smoldering flame, and she looked straight at the presence she had detected. She knew it was there; she could see right through it. An evil smile curled at her lips, and she pushed her will against the unwelcome trespasser.

—

Gigaer awoke in a sweat, immediately entering a meditative trance. The meditation was both to calm himself as well as to retain with crystal clarity every detail of the vision he had just experienced.

After a few moments of inward contemplation, he was satisfied that he had remembered everything, and began committing the dream to his journal. 

He wrote of the Empress. He wrote of the location. He wrote of the man in the bed, what was his name? He struggled with his memory, pushing aside the various puzzle pieces until he saw the single answer he sought, mentally plucking at it, bringing it to the forefront of his mind.

Ah yes, there it was. He wrote the name down, unclear of the meaning of any of this. 

Jamyl Sarum had rescued a man for some unknown purpose; a man by the name of Mako.

“C’mon, Colonel, time for you to go sleep it off.” The bartender gently positioned himself under my heavy frame, putting my arm around his neck, helping me to my feet.

It had been another good drinking binge. It was late, my mind felt disconnected from my body; I might’ve even be able to sleep. It wasn’t that I was feeling any undo stress of late and felt the need to drink; quite the opposite in fact. My life was in a very good place at that point in time and I merely was celebrating my enjoyment. 

The bartender patiently aided me until my legs recognized what was brain was saying, and graciously helped me out the front door. I put my hand against the wall, steadying myself as I staggered down the station’s promenade, ignoring the stern look of the occasional club going passerby. 

I was about forty feet from the Black Hole Pub when I heard the sound.

THUMP THUMP THUMP

I swayed my head around, everything going dizzy for a moment until my eyes focused on the front door to the pub. Just outside of the locked facility was a coffin. It made no sense to me, yet there it was.

THUMP THUMP THUMP

The coffin began moving towards me.

I wasn’t one to panic in almost any situation; and I certainly had no fear of death. Strangely, whether due to the booze, my fatigue, or some other nonsensical reason, I felt a surge of fear rise up within me. It was almost as if I knew that coffin was for me.

THUMP THUMP THUMP

I turned around, a spike of adrenaline coursing through me, and began running drunkenly down the promenade towards the turbo lifts to the military levels. 

THUMP THUMP THUMP

The coffin was gaining on me. I stumbled a couple of times looking back over my shoulder, but mostly managed to keep at a full run. My breathing was heavy and laboured. I could feel sweat profusely on my brow. 

I made it to the turbo lift and began jamming the ‘Call’ button with my index finger, all the while my eyes wide, looking back at the quickly approaching coffin.

THUMP THUMP THUMP

It was less than fifteen feet away when the lift finally arrived. I let the air out of my lungs with a sudden woosh, feeling lightheaded from unconsciously holding my breath, and ran into the lift, struggling to find my security card. 

THUMP THUMP THUMP

I dared not peer out of the lift, knowing from the increase in sound that the coffin was near. I managed to get my security card out and working, and leaned heavily against the glass doors of the lift once it had recognized my credentials and allowed me to input my desired level, the doors closing.

A pleasant melody played over the lift speakers, a soothing blend of lounge jazz and cheap keyboards. It’s funny the things you recall sometimes.

I felt myself nearly have a heart attack as the lift chimed its arrival at the military level I had requested, and only then realized that I had been nodding off. The booze in my system was doing its best to assist the coffin in its morbid task. 

I shook it off and exited the lift, turning down the corridor towards my quarters. My heartrate began normalizing as I walked, my fear subsiding. I chuckled to myself, convinced I had manufactured the vision of the coffin in my drunken stupor. I wasn’t as young as I used to be; maybe it was time to start taking it a bit easier on my body.

The lift chimed behind me. My mouth fell open and I stared in disbelief from twenty five feet away.

THUMP THUMP THUMP

The coffin came out of the lift, sounding even more menacing than before, if such a thing were possible. Naked terror washed over me and I sprinted for all I was worth away from the coffin down the corridor towards the military barracks. 

THUMP THUMP THUMP

The coffin was in hot pursuit.

My mind betrayed me then, drifting towards philosophical musings on my just and imminent fate, debating within itself the rightness and wrongness of my impending doom. I tried to shut the thoughts out, and focused every ounce of my willpower on making it to the safety of my quarters. 

THUMP THUMP THUMP

The coffin was relentless, closing the distance between us at an alarming pace.

I arrived at the main lobby of the barracks, and tried to stand still long enough for the retinal scanner to register me. Sweat poured into my eyes, causing the scanner to fail on its first two attempts. I slammed my open palm against the wall in frustration and dread.

THUMP THUMP THUMP

The coffin was nearly on top of me. 

I wiped my eyes with my sleeve, and opened them wide, praying for a miracle. The scanner pinged its confirmation of my identification and I hurredly made my way into the military barracks lobby, not pausing once enroute to my quarters.

THUMP THUMP THUMP

The coffin was in the lobby. I didn’t know how it was possible, but I had given up trying to reason any of this logically. I made it to my quarters, and pulled out my keys, dropping them onto the cold floor.

THUMP THUMP THUMP

I picked up my keys, fumbling with them until I finally managed to unlock the door before me. I entered my quarters, slamming the door behind, locking it securely before slowly backing up, wide eyed in shock, trembling my exertion and horror.

I could hear and feel my breathing. My clothes were saturated with sweat. I simply stood, knowing there was nowhere else to run. I took a deep breath, willing myself to calm down; forcing myself to believe it had only been a hallucination. 

Several minutes passed, and I took off my jacket, throwing it over a nearby chair. I held my hands to my head, massaging my temples, cursing aloud for allowing myself to be so out of control. 

THUMP THUMP THUMP

The coffin was right outside my door! I back peddled, tripping over a side table, landing hard on my ass. 

THUMP THUMP THUMP

The door to my quarters burst open, tearing from its hinges, the coffin not pausing as it lunged into the room like a starved predator.

I scurried backwards from it, knocking over a vase of flowers, kicking up a floor rug, finally getting my footing back and running towards my kitchen.

THUMP THUMP THUMP

I pulled open drawers, knocking their contents to the floor, doing anything and everything I could think of to slow the reaper hunting me.

THUMP THUMP THUMP

I kept running, past my bedroom, into the bathroom, locking the door behind me. I wedged myself between the toilet and shower, arming myself with a plunger.

THUMP THUMP THUMP

The bathroom door exploded into hundreds of  wood slivers. There was nowhere left to run. The coffin stood menacingly before me. I threw the plunger at it. I threw toilet paper at it. I threw my toothbrush at it. I grabbed everything within reach, bombarding the coffin with lavatory accruement. I threw shampoo at it. I threw my louffa at it. I threw painkiller medicine at it. I threw cough syrup at it.

The coffin stopped.