It's because I tend to write scenes at the time of day during which they take place... so I try to write night scenes and night, and day scenes during the day, even if it means writing out of order. I find that being able to reference my surroundings for imagery and what not is extremely helpful. However, due to circumstances, I could only begin writing the night scenes in earnest yesterday at about 3:00 am, meaning my mental state was not ideal for writing the lengthy and somewhat complicated dialogue that this part contains. So I took my sweet time with it and got it out today. Here it is!
EPISODE 6: PART TWO
The door: wooden and showing the first signs of rot whipped open, thin splinters flying off into the dusty tavern. Landover, Hierophant of the Wheel, entered. The few patrons were stirred from their drunken revelries by the sudden noise, looking on at the new arrival with a mixed bag of expressions, from mild bemusement to stunned silence. Landover, through narrowed eyes, glanced across the room. The stools, like the door, showed their age, the wallpaper peeling. Dust coated the more unused booths. It was a half hour before last call.
The bartender, wearing the complete ensemble of white dress shirt with a black bow tie and suspenders, seemed the most disinterested of the bunch. He and his moustache gave Landover the most cursory of glances before going back to pouring drinks for the customers at the bar. A lack of respect to a Hierophant, one the highest ranks of the Wheel Army… But Landover had no time to deal with distractions. He had been sent here to kill a traitor, and that was what he’d do. He took two more steps into the bar. The eyes of the patrons followed him ; the bartender was not interested.
“Where is the traitor?” Landover asked of the room. The words came out slowly, crawling out of his mouth a man not quite dead would crawl out of a grave. They floated away from him into the viscous atmosphere of the bar, mixing with the aroma of smoke and wet wood. The bartender cast lazy eyes towards Landover, now absent-mindedly wiping a shot glass.
“In the back.” The bartender spoke with a posh accent, tilting his head ever so slightly towards a door at the rear of the bar. His words echoed impossibly inside the room, reverberating endlessly. No one seemed to mind. With the necessary information achieved, Landover strode across the bar towards the door, opening, entering, and closing it. He now found himself in a hallway, six or seven meters in length, built out of concrete and illuminated by a single flickering light bulb. At the end of the hallway was yet another door, this one made of steel. Landover opened, entered, and closed it.
The traitor himself. The bastard traitor to Landover’s own lord. While in his previous life he and Landover’s lord were good friends, this one took advantage of his ties in an attempt to seize his lord’s assets for his own. The plan backfired, and now here he was, in hiding. Landover was sent to bring justice to this walking insult. The room was small and simple, likely a converted storage room. The shelves lining its walls were empty and in the middle stood a modest wooden desk. A lamp lit up a series of documents on the desk. Behind this desk sat the traitor – the middle aged, greying man, who Landover once knew as a friend of his lord’s. But not anymore.
“So, he’s sent you, has he?” The traitor mused, smiling. “That old man has it all wrong.” The traitor shook his head, standing up from his desk and walking around the front. Landover moved a hand towards his holster. “He’s not so well in the head, your lord. I’d bet he even calls me a traitor.”
“You are a traitor.” Landover hissed through clenched teeth. “What you have done can only be redeemed through death.”
“What have I done, exactly?” The traitor asked, humbly amused. “I am curious. You follow the orders of your lord, moving from place to place and encounter to encounter, along a fixed path as if gliding through a dream. You don’t know what you’re doing.”
“I know perfectly well what I am doing!” Landover yelled, drawing his Hierophant’s pistol. “I am cleansing the Wheel of a traitor, one who would damn his own friend and brother!” The traitor seemed unfazed by the weapon aimed at his forehead.
“You know what you’re doing, but not why you’re doing it. The nature of the Wheel has never been to blindly follow convention. At its core, the Wheel is the embodiment of innovation.” The traitor began to pace around the narrow room. Landover’s aim followed him. “We want to invent, we want to create, we look to improve ourselves through the advancement of our technology. Occam’s Razor is forbidden in the halls of the Wheel. Yet through your blind subservience to an unsound lord, you destroy the foundation of what has made the Wheel what it is.”
“You are lying. I follow my lord for that is the Hierophant’s way.”
“The duty of every citizen of the Wheel is to act in ways that benefits the Wheel first and themselves second. Your lord obviously hasn’t told you the specifics of our… argument. You should ask him, once we’re done here.”
“We will be finished here when you are dead, traitor.”
“If that’s the way it’s going to be, then that’s the way it’s going to be.” The traitor’s smile turned into a regretful frown. “The Glowing Wheel is to blame for all this. You of all people should know things never used to be this way.”
“I do not care for your monologues.” Landover said flatly. “I have been sent here to kill you, and that is what I am going to do.”
The traitor sighed. Landover pulled the trigger.
--
“Sir?”
Landover awoke.
“Sir, we’ve arrived.”
He sat up on his bed, rubbing his eyes. A crewman was saying something outside his cabin door.
Another dream – but of the same memory. No, same was not the right word. His dream now and his dream then were along similar lines, but neither of them closed in on the truth. Perhaps some day the memory would return to him.
“Extorris?”
“Yes.” The crewman replied. “We’ve arrived at Extorris.”
Extorris was a barren, volcanic planet. Its atmosphere was barely breathable by human standards and only the hardiest of plants could survive on its surface. Near its oceans of lava, life was unsustainable: the planet in general was nearly entirely uninhabited. Its only remaining residents made their homes in the compound known as Eagle’s Rest. Here, on this desolate rock, light-weeks away from the nearest bastions of civilization, the once glorious order of the Burning Eagle lived out their last days.
Eagle’s Rest was a compound composed of modular, prefabricated structures. Each of the gun-metal grey buildings was cut off by an airlock, as the inside air was filtered to make it more bearable to breathe. This is not to say the atmosphere of Extorris was unbreathable, only that it was very unpleasant to do so. The modules were each one or two stories tall, scattered around randomly. Most of them were residential units, except two: one a self-contained farm, the other what could be called the town hall. A low wall surrounded Eagle’s Rest and its’ approximately 200 residents, all members of the Order of the Burning Eagle.
When Landover’s shuttle landed on a cleared patch of land nearby the walls, a thin fog hung over the compound. The sky was black, the sun blocked by ash from a recent volcanic eruption. Crimson rays broke through the sky when the ash was thicker. Landover laced up his boots and buttoned up his bridge coat. Here was his last stop before his redemption could begin in earnest.
He stepped out of the shuttle, taking a deep breath. The air tasted sulphuric, foul. The force of gravity also felt stronger on Extorris, making each step a greater challenge. He smacked his lips a few times before proceeding towards the walls. The compound had one gated entrance, guarded by two armed soldiers. Their gas masks hid any emotion they might have shown towards Landover’s arrival. The must have known who he was, however, as they opened the gate and stood aside as he approached. The Order’s Flag, a stylized burning eagle on a deep red background, fluttered overhead.
No one was outside today at Eagle’s Rest. Gusty winds kicked up dust in its abandoned streets – if they could be called that. Landover coughed a few times. The monolithic town hall, built in the shape of a pyramid with its tip cut off just a bit before the top, menaced on the other side of the compound. Landover made for it as quickly as he could.
The walk to the town hall was uneventful. Its steel doors opened easily, the airlock did its work, and Landover was inside. It became much easier to breathe.
The town hall more resembled a temple than a civic building. The inside walls of the structure were painted a glossy black. At the center of the “lobby” a stone eagle stood erect, flames coating its body. The eternal flame of the Burning Eagle.
Landover knew where the man he needed to see was. He walked around the statue and moved further into the temple, his steps echoing off its towering walls. Now the temple felt less like a temple and more like the hollowed out insides of one of Extorris’ many volcanoes.
Landover’s movements were watched closely by two old men, sitting calmly on a bench to one side of the entry hall. One of them was mostly bald, his remaining hair grey and cut short, leaning forward on his cane. The other was equally balding but his white hair had grown out long and unruly with an equally rambunctious moustache. Both men wore dress uniforms, jet black with crimson trimmings, from their Order’s glowing days.
“So, Wahlbert, the old admiral’s arrived, has he?” The one kneeling on the cane croaked, squinting to get a closer look at Landover.
“Looks like he has, Godfried.” The bushy one agreed, nodding. “And what business do you have calling him old? Look at you!”
“I’ll call old whoever I want to call old!” Godfried snapped. “I been respectful my whole life, and look where it got me!”
“Calm down there, you old fool.” Wahlbert said. “That fellow over there’s going to get us out of here.”
“I’ll believe that when I see it.” Godfried grumbled, crossing his arms. Wahlbert did not reply; the two of them followed Landover’s path until he disappeared from view.
Junior Weapons Operator Harry Tambe didn’t take up the Captain’s offer of a free hotel room. He owned an apartment on the outskirts of New Pallas City and was determined to get his money’s worth out of it. The apartment wasn’t anything special, two rooms, with a kitchen, bath, and bedrooms, but he bought it on the cheap and all things concerned it was comfortable. The sixth floor balcony gave Harry a great view of the ravine and forest behind the building. Every morning he would wake up, slip on his slippers, and head out to the balcony, watching the sun rise.
Today was a particularly beautiful day. The sun was just peeking over the horizon, illuminating the legions of trees and painting the sky in a magnificent pinkish hue. The few clouds in the sky were thin and wispy, high in the atmosphere. He could see the glistening of dew drops on the grass below him. The air – he breathed in – crisp and fresh. And he had a whole month to himself… although now it had whittled down to three weeks.
Far off, a highway snaked through the forest, cars moving along in both directions like ants scurrying one after the other. Harry forward on the balcony, taking in the relaxing scene.
Something metal creaked, then groaned. Too late Harry realized it was the balcony itself.
The added weight on the railing caused it snap and give forward, loose screws and rivets rattling all around. Harry, off balanced, flew down after it. Six stories down.
Hidden in a tree on the edge of the forest, Cass dangled her legs, watching Harry’s less than graceful descent through a pair of binoculars. The small toolkit she had used to loosen the railing’s screws had long been dumped in a nearby river. Finding and watching over Harry for the past three days had not been an easy task, but her newfound connections had helped her out in this regard. Every morning Harry enjoyed watching the sunrise and had a telling habit of leaning on the railing: something, Cass assured herself, she would teach her future children not to do.
Chuckling to herself, she hopped out of the tree, binoculars in hand, and disappeared into the forest.
“I’ll tell you right now, I’m not going to need convincing.”
The Grandmaster of the Order of the Burning Eagle was Rufus Eidhart, a man whose age was impossible to tell from his face. He could have been sixty, or seventy, or eighty ; but at the end of the day, it really did not matter. Age, after all, was nothing but a number.
Rufus’ face was wrinkled and lined with age, but his silvery white hair was neatly cut, gelled backwards. His eyebrows were perfectly trimmed and he did not seem to be fond of any sort of facial hair. He was dressed too in a Burning Eagle dress uniform, adorned with many pins, metals, and golden sashes. His grey eyes radiated wisdom, along with a healthy scent of mystery. In his presence, Landover, a 45-year veteran of the Wheel, felt like little more than a child.
“Are you sure, Grandmaster? Pledging your Order away so easily?” Landover asked, seated in one of the offices’ chairs. Rufus was standing, leaning back on his desk.
“The Glowing Wheel specifically asked you to relinquish us from our exile. Why wouldn’t I take up this offer?”
“But do you not find it suspicious, Grandmaster?” Landover asked. “That the Glowing Wheel would want you pledged to someone like me?”
Rufus shook his head, chuckling.
“Any sane man would, Landover. You and I both know what the Glowing Wheel has in mind with this.”
Landover nodded glumly. The nagging thought at the back of his head. The return and re-armament of the Burning Eagle could only mean confrontation, further down the line.
“You get it? Really, I should be the one asking you for permission.” Rufus said.
“I only do what the Glowing Wheel asks of me, Grandmaster. I must gain your services to proceed with my redemption.”
“Then there’s really only one way this will end.”
“I suppose so.”
“Where’s your Hierophant, by the way?”
“I have sent her off on a few tasks.”
“That’s no good.” The Grandmaster tutted. “Does she know you’re here?”
“Of course. I apologize for not mentioning this beforehand, but we will have to wait for her return until you and your Order can leave this place.”
“How long will she be?”
“It is hard to say. She is on a world some ways away from here. She should complete her tasks there within one local month. I am not sure how that will translate to time here on Extorris.
“Well,” Rufus murmured. “That shouldn’t be a problem. We’ve been waiting here for decades, and we can wait a little bit longer.”
Junior Personnel Officer Terrance Ryosuke was never a very healthy man, so it was no surprise to many of his acquaintances when they learned he had died of a heart attack after an exceptionally large meal comprised mostly of steak and potatoes in an upscale New Pallas City restaurant.
It did come as a big surprise to Cassiopeia, however, who was very much looking forward to experimenting with a new vial of poison she had just bought.
Landover spent the night in a guest room inside the temple. The room was barebones, painted the same black as the rest of structure, with only a bed and a chair for furnishings. A single fluorescent lamp was bolted to the ceiling, which Landover had shut off. He had neatly piled his clothes on the floor beside the bed and resolved to get as much sleep as possible. Extorris was not a planet one wanted to remain awake on for too long.
The walls of the temple dulled the lamenting winds. Pebbles kicked up by the gusts pattered against the steel modules, the equivalent of raindrops on a world like this. Landover shut his eyes harder, trying to make the wind and clatter of the rocks a soothing noise. Old men like him were supposed to be narcoleptic, weren’t they? Why couldn’t he fall asleep?
The answer came to him when he opened his eyes sometime in the middle of the night and noticed the hooded figure sitting on the chair in the corner. The figure’s head was bowed, and he or she was quite obviously wearing a Wheel Officer’s bridge coat. Landover could see the figure was wearing a scarf, but he couldn’t make out the colour in the darkness.
The intruder raised their head, revealing an ivory-white mask beneath the hood. Thin slits were cut into it for eye-holes, with blue lines running down from the edges of the slits to the bottom of the mask, as if the mask was crying. Another slit was cut for the mouth, curving upwards in a slight smile. Landover immediately threw off the bed’s covers and hopped off, tensely moving into the opposite corner of the room. The masked figure’s head turned slowly to follow him.
“How long have you been here?” Landover breathed.
“Long enough to kill you, if I wanted to.” The figure spoke quietly in a man’s voice, in near-monotone. “But that is not why I am here.”
“Then who are you and why are you here?”
“I am here to talk with you, Admiral Landover. You are by far the most capable of the three.”
“Three who?”
“The three whose story I am following.”
Admiral Landover never left his combat position, even as the masked man sat, hunched over and nearly motionless, on the chair.
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“This universe has stagnated, Admiral. You must have seen it yourself. The Confederacy and the Wheel have been locked in a stalemate, one that will last thousands of years. Humanity and society will cease to evolve.” The masked man looked upwards, as if to the heavens. “It is altogether very boring.”
Landover listened to the man’s monologue. Where was he going with this?
“I must fix this.” The masked man said. “Although…” he mused, “I suppose I already have.”
“What do you mean by that?” Landover interjected.
“The masked man stood from the chair. Landover raised his fists, to which the man annoyingly waved a hand, as though saying such movements weren’t necessary.
“I have catalyzed events that can now no longer be stopped. I can see this entire sad story from its beginning to its end.” He began to pace around the narrow room. “I could disappear from this universe forever and it would change nothing. However…” He stopped. “I want to make certain the story proceeds as it is written, and that, above all, it is not boring.”
“Why do you speak of the universe as if it were one large tale?” Landover crossed his arms. He could tell when someone meant him harm, and this man clearly did not. The masked man sighed.
“I don’t know if I am god, or he has appointed me.” He now looked directly at Landover. “But that is what I am meant to do. I have done this bitter work across hundreds of universes and this one will be no different. I am to ensure everything moves smoothly. That every character plays their role, and lives and dies as they are supposed to.”
Landover stood in disbelief. This man was claiming to be a god… What insanity was this?
“Again, what the hell are you talking about?”
“It’s boring, Admiral!” The masked man suddenly raised his voice, throwing up his arms. “I cannot stand it. I cannot stand when it happens so slowly! I don’t very much enjoy this work, but it is what I have been made to do!” The words flew from his mouth, his arms out into the air.
“I will fix this universe!” I said, shouting out to nobody in particular.
But then, very quickly, I caught myself.
“I apologize for the outburst.” The masked man said. “No one else has heard it, I assure you.”
Landover was more than a little distressed. This man was obviously unbalanced.
“If you really can see the story from beginning to end, tell me.” Landover mused. “What happens to me?”
“Spoiling the end is against the rules.” The masked man said, flatly. “I can, however, tell you this.”
Landover listened intently.
“In the end, far away from now, I will be the one to kill you.”
His eyes widened. The masked man shook his head.
“I thought you would be more receptive to this. You seemed to understand the inevitability of things in your conversation with the Grandmaster.”
The masked man walked to and opened the door to the guest room, turning back at Landover, who had paced around to the opposite side of the room once more.
“I have more to share with you. But, I suppose, that will come later. Good-bye.”
The masked man left the room. Landover collapsed on his bed, trying to make sense of what had just happened.
Would they order it…?
“We’ll have three glasses of the Pallas Vinyards Vintage, thanks.”
Yes! Yes! Yes!
It was poisoned! Poisoned! Poisoned!
Midshipmen Deborah Barnels, Doug Garcia, and Jeremy Anders : killed, all at once. Or, to be more precise, they would be dead within twelve to twenty-four hours, as her provider had told her.
After the elation of a job well done died down, Cass felt somewhat unsatisfied. This job was getting to be too easy. These people operated on schedules like clockwork, every night the same wine. It was almost boring. She sighed. She had gotten all dressed up, tying up her hair, putting on a pair of her nicest stockings and an equally classy black dress. This was a fancy establishment, after all, and she had to blend in. Her night’s work turned out to be over in a matter of minutes, which, she thought, was quite a shame. She had secretly been hoping that they would order a different wine today and she’d have to go on to plan B. Now, she had the whole night ahead of her and nothing to do. Cassiopeia was… bored.
She sighed again, leaning her head on her hand. A waitress walked by, asking for her order. Cass asked for a glass of ice water. What to do… What to do…
The bell at the restaurant’s door jingled, indicating a new arrival. She glanced absentmindedly at the door.
Well… he was cute, as long as he lost that stupid beard. And what was the deal with those goggles? She glanced lazily at the clock. The night was still young. Cass decided to have some fun… fun that, for once, didn’t involve murder.
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