The Calm Before the Storm

Introduction to the Erobotic Warriors

 

Chapter One: The Calm Before the Storm

 

“All it takes to start a war is to find someone willing to start it.”

                                                                                                -Sir David Beatty

Sunday, July 10^th, 2665

Bath, Centaur

 

The spectacle outside the Hall of Ancients could not have been greater if all of Klayton's Erobotic Warriors had been assembled. With its lavish decorations, flags from each world hanging still in the breezeless morning, the crowd waited impatiently in the early morning's oppressive humidity to see their Messias, their savior, Senator Holden Michaels of Barol.

Standing just inside the building and clad in the traditional red armor of the Erobotic Warriors, Winston Colipiths strained his neck to see the Senator's personal command ship, Sultan I, parked in low orbit above the planet. She was guarded by two of Centaur's heavy space battleships, HMS Queen Mary and HMS Inflexible. Both battleships, Winston recalled, were veterans of the Great War, having participated in the Battle of the Faulklands. Inadequate protection for Sultan I if she ever came under serious assault.

Let the Voices pray nothing happens today. Let the Voices pray the Holy One lets everything run smoothly.

Winston, originally from Miaka, stood six-feet six inches, and weighed a little over two hundred pounds. Blonde hair, unkempt, offset his bright blue eyes, and a scraggly mustache sprouted just above the thin line that was his lips. Strong and lean, his armor amplified his movements.

Most must look at me as a freak, he thought. Centauran soldiers must look more formidable.

To many, the concept of full body armor may seem absurd in an age of space battleships and lasers, but this was no ordinary armor, and the Erobotic Warriors were no ordinary band of knights.

Why, why did you pick me for this? Winston asked the Holy One, the Great Deity. You could have picked someone a little more secure, or less given to anger. He sighed deeply. Why Klayton would assign him to protecting a man who gave speeches denouncing the Holy One and supporting their enemies was beyond him. Winston didn't give Klayton his opinion, but if the Commander had asked, Winston would have replied that he felt it was utterly against everything he believed in.

He found anger and pride rushing to meet his emotions, and he forced his mind to focus on other topics. The Holy One, he reminded himself, had drafted him for his weaknesses – fear of failure, fear of confrontation, fear of vices – not for his strength in battle or dedication to Commander Klayton.

While his armor came straight from the heavens and was virtually indestructible, Winston was still Man, and as such felt pain, suffering, and sorrow. The Holy One often chooses the least likely when it comes to making heroes: those abused, sexually violated, or emotionally or physically abandoned are his first choices.

Winston certainly fit into this category. Born and raised in Berlin just prior to the Great War, he’d watched in stunned silence as his father was arrested and charged by the Gendake-Polizei: the Thought Police. He’d never forgiven himself for not intervening, even though it would have resulted in his immediate destruction. As a teen he witnessed the death of his best friend, Wilhelm von Braun, as he was decapitated by a speeding hovercar.

Morally, it was a heavy blow.

For years he’d drifted on the Outer Major Worlds, a loose collection of small planets consisting of Nezzania, Holan, Crackin, Cashmere, and Ire. He spent the bulk of his time on Nezzania, then a second-class country, working meaningless jobs. His inability to commit himself to a job was a tremendous source of embarrassment and it wasn’t until that blue-haired man of legend, Commander Klayton, walked into the refueling station where Winston was working than did he begin to question everything, including his own mortality.

Winston went to work that day a shy boy of nearly eighteen. He left a Warrior, and a Servant of the Holy One.

Many theologians claim that the Holy One hates revolutions and uprisings. For evidence they point to the Dramastian-French revolution, which brought down the old monarch and ushered in a time labeled ‘The Time of the People,’ when rivers of blood ran freely through the streets. Nothing is further from the truth; if a seed of revolution is planted by the Holy One inside the heart of a follower, a wonderful thing happens: the man or woman undergoes profound change, if he or she allows that change to occur. The Holy One does not violate a person’s free will. If the said individual allows the revolution to occur, the result will be an adversary of the Crimson King. Never underestimate the power of a human with the Indwelling.

 

In Winston’s case, this revolution was almost overnight. The Holy One pushed him along, never breaking his spirit but desiring for him to grow and mature into a kind individual without the anger or hatred he’d normally held toward his superiors. The military teaches its victims that they are nobody apart from the service, breaks their spirit and will, and returns them to the world almost as shattered and abused as the way they entered the service. These social outcasts eventually become Thought Police or Galactical Troopers, whose sole job is to suspect everyone of doing something illegal.

A similar story can be told by all who serve the Holy One, with the notable exception of the Voices of the Faithful. The Voices, led by Karen Rooney of Dramastia, was female only, and with the exception of the Kanwak Klan (Janis, Raye, Stephanie) all had been selected at birth to form the ranks of the group that prayed daily for instructions for the Warriors.

 

The gong in the clock tower across the street clanged and Winston turned to it to study its gold-clad face with disappointment. His relief would be late, but Winston was not to use the texter and page the DOC, Dispatch-on-Call, usually Klayton or Karen, for another fifteen minutes. For once, he thought, can my comrades be punctual, like the Kanwaks or me?

There was a sigh to his right. Janis Kanwak, the youngest of the family, was no doubt wondering the same thing. The shy, somewhat pudgy woman in her middle twenties seemed eternally sad; Winston could never recall a time in their meeting when she was genuinely happy. Of course, Winston could not have known of the horrific abuse this woman had gone through. All the Kanwaks had been through various forms of a traumatized childhood. Janis, sister of Stephanie and Richard, cousin of Raye and Mark, had been sexually molested by an uncle at her seventh birthday party and spent the next seven years blaming and hating herself for being too shy to speak up. She was teased in high school for being so short. She confided in Stephanie that she cut her arms regularly to ease the pain.

At the age of nineteen, Janis, with her siblings and cousins, made the Breakout, a daring escape that caused them to fall into the hands of Commander Klayton, whose Warriors (The Three Musketeers, as they were then labeled) were already the source of much praise and criticism. While Mark and Richard were trained at once they were too late to join the Battle of Wachtowa, where the three Warriors teamed up with Nezzanian soldiers (this, of course, was back when Nezzania was still conservative) and Centauran MI-7 Operatives to combat the newly fashioned Roman Remnant Order.

Raye, Stephanie, and Janis were drafted into the Voices of the Faithful after dedication, and it was through them the first warnings that the Ancient Texts’ prophecies were coming true was revealed. Winston had swallowed some lumps then; like many ‘mature’ servants of the Holy One he’d believed that young servants did more harm than good and needed to be locked away in one college or an other until the Voices agreed they were mature enough.

 

“They’re late again,” Winston commented. “Who is our relief?”

“I don’t know yours,” came the thick Russian accent given to all Kraakatoranns. “Raye is mine. I paged her to pick me up a kafe.”

Winston frowned. A cup of coffee sounded great. He was tired, and his body creaked and groaned with every movement. “Why didn’t you tell me? I would have given you the money.”

Janis looked at the floor. “Zhalkiy – sorry.”

Winston rolled his eyes and sat on the cushion just below the massive picture window. Janis turned away, inwardly believing she’d committed some unpardonable sin against Winston, and that he now hated her.

 

There was then the soft patter of cushioned feet on the rug, and Winston turned to see the titanic figure of seven-foot tall Raye Kanwak striding towards them, a steaming cup of coffee in each hand. There were no covers, so they had obviously come from downstairs. She balanced each cup delicately so as to not spill on her dress; like Janis she was dressed with a white gown with golden trim and a silver collar. For Janis it fit well; for the massive figure of Raye Kanwak, it did not.

“’Morning,” Raye said. Her long black hair was tied back into a ponytail. Her eyes were bloodshot. Winston pondered whether she’d cried herself to sleep last night.

“’Morning,” Winston replied. He gestured at the coffee. “Where’s mine?”

Raye’s eyes narrowed. “Downstairs,” she snapped. “You can get it yourself.”

“Raye, I apologized and said I would keep my opinions to myself,” Winston said. He rubbed his jaw. “You have one hell of a right hook.” He now made conscious effort to lower his voice, as there were now more people standing around. Most were aides and statesmen, but the last thing anyone needed to know was the dissention between the two groups.

“You deserve more than a sore jaw, kulak,” Raye retorted. “The Holy One should send you down Lackey Dam Road for what you said.”

“Please don’t argue!” Janis pleaded. “Not here, not now.”

“What did I say?” Winston asked, ignoring Janis.

“You said men are better than women.”

Winston sighed. “I said that there are some things men can do that women can’t, and… umgekehrt.”

Both Janis and Raye raised their eyebrows, not knowing German. “What?” they asked in union.

“Vicibus versis. He means the reverse is true,” said a warm, exotic voice. “And I would disagree with you about women. We are all equal. You’ll see that when Hillary Clinton becomes President of Nezzania.”

The speaker strode up to them. His attire was a casual sport coat, button down white shirt, and a pair of white khakis. His wavy blonde hair was a shade darker than Winston’s, and his captivating eyes were the color of a deep, blue sky.

“I’m sorry,” Raye said, immediately attracted to the man because of his comment,” who are you?” She said this gently, so as to not offend.

“I am the Senator,” was the somewhat stunned reply. “Holden Michaels.” He was considerably shorter than Raye, but had no qualms with shaking her hand. “And you are…”

“Raye Kanwak. This is my sister, Janis. We’re members of the Voices. And this is Winston Colipiths. He’s one of-“

“The Erobotic Warriors,” Holden replied, not bothering to mask the distaste in his voice. “I thought the King was going to send Knights, not-“

“We are Knights,” Winston replied sourly.

“So you serve Klayton, then,” the man said. He smiled. Or was that a smirk?

“I serve the Holy One.”

Now Winston confirmed the man’s distaste for religious thought. Holden maintained his smile. “Of course. Don’t we all?” To the women he said, “I want to thank you for being here. You don’t know how badly my enemies want me dead.”

“Glad we could help,” Raye replied.

“Oh, we wish for nothing more than the destruction of the enemies of the Holy One,” Winston replied, in an authoritative voice.

Holden Michaels’ mouth dropped for a moment, and he struggled to find words for his next comment. Finding none, he excused himself and walked away.

“Osyop,” Raye cursed. “That was rude!”

“It was,” Janis agreed.

Winston sighed. “Ja. You’re probably right. I just think it is totally unorthodox for us to be defending a man whom would rather us all eradicated for our beliefs.”

 

Two blocks over from the Embassy, in a decrepit hotel simply known as Del Plazazo, thirty year old Mariam Gonsalves awoke to find he’d sweat profusely through the night, and that his sheets were soaked. He was cold and thirsty and, when he rose, so dizzy he had to sit back down again. Once the dizziness subsided he was able to go to the bathroom and splash cold water onto his face.

After, he sat at his desk and took out his diary.

 

Today I am still unwell. My sickness continues to weaken my body. I will pray for the Holy One’s strength to carry out my mission.

 

Mariam had spent much of his life taking orders from others. Whether it was a bloodthirsty father, being a member of the Nezzanian-Spanish Resistance, or dealing with a landscape supervisor who used a whip, Mariam knew pain. He knew what obedience was like. He also knew rebellion. As a child he’d spent hours gathering firewood for the band of soldiers under his father’s 10^th Resistance Division. Unlike the other resistance groups on the planet, Eion McSlattery’s IRA divisions, for example, the 10^th’s camp could be burned to the ground in five minutes, relocated in twenty, and set up again in ten. When Mariam was twelve, he returned to the camp to find it abandoned. There were no signs to direct him to the new location.

 

Alone and dejected, Mariam was taken in by the eighty-year old mother of Sean Cosgrave, Gretchen. Unfortunately, this was just before most Nezzbettians were deported to the slums of Roxbury in the ‘Trail of Tears.’ Being pressed under harsh conditions, Mariam watched the old woman waste away. In the end he was the only one present to watch her die.

He remembered the rallying cry of the Resistance and he’d taught this song to many within the slums, to give them hope:

 

What’s that doing for America?

Is it bringing us up or pulling us down?

Can you see the future,

Can you see it all around?

Can you see the crimson seeping into the ground?

Justice will be dealt, pound for pound,

Just have faith in the Trinity!

 

Numerous verses were added later, most involving some of the guards or famous senators that favored the incarceration of the Nezzbettians, and their forced move to the slums. One of the most popular of these, interestingly enough, was Holden Michaels.

 

There was a quasi-religious group in the encampment and it wasn’t long before Mariam found himself involved. The trouble with cults, of course, is that they do not speak truth, and even if they do, that truth is often so spun with lies that the original truth is obscured.

Such as it was with the cult commonly called ‘The Forum,’ on Nezzania, in particular the Roxbury slums. While groups like the IRA and the IRB encouraged overt bloodshed, they were far more organized and concerned for the welfare of the Nezzbettians than were the religious leaders of the Forum. By the time Mariam was twenty-five, and Holden Michaels was establishing himself, the Elders had voted him as the man who would eventually overthrow Michaels and ‘free the galaxy.’ By the time Holden had arrived on Centaur, Mariam had escaped the slums, had his tail amputated, learned to blend in with the population, and purchased a small .45 caliber projectile pistol that would elude detection on most worlds.

Shooting came natural to Mariam, who’d learned to shoot as a boy and never forgot. As he shot targets in the Centauran lowlands, noted for its unicorns and harts, he no longer pictured himself killing Holden Michaels, but his father, and many other who’d wronged him.

 

By now, the cult named ‘The Forum’ had disbanded, and some new brainwashing religion had filled its stead. The trouble with lies, of course, is that they must continue to dupe the general population. When it fails to do so the people move on in search for another religion that can provide them with some meaning to their fruitless existence.

But Mariam still believed the Forum. Of course, it is impossible to say that what Mariam believed now, after years of being away from the actual cult, was what he believed initially, but the fundamental cause, that he was destined to slay the beast known as Holden Michaels, remained the same. At times, as it was later revealed in his diary, he lost focus on that cause, and even swayed from killing Holden, pondering if the Barolian Senator was indeed the galaxy’s savior, as it was often reported by the local media, who were determined to transform his legacy into one comparable to the One Who Will Come, the future Messias of the Holy One. Yet in the end, the Forum’s seed of hatred won over: Holden Michaels must die.

 

The Center for Disease Control on Centaur issued an alert the day prior, July 9^th, after a growing number of tuberculosis cases sparked alarm regarding the Senator’s visit. Mariam, suffering from what is called ‘miliary tuberculosis,’ a far more serious and highly infectious form of the disease, had been spreading it through sneezing and using common utensils. We cannot blame his transmission of the disease solely on him, however; the crowded and unsanitary conditions of the city were also responsible. Many years earlier the CDC issued a report stating that the town of Bath was a breeding ground, an epidemic waiting to happen.

Mariam knew he was on borrowed time and that the endless fatigue, night sweats, and fever chills would only get worse. Perhaps this was a message from the Holy One that he should carry out his mission as soon as possible.

He stumbled out the door into the morning’s heat blast and almost collapsed. He grasped the railing, his body feeling like rubber, and slowly made his way down the stairs to the grand pavilion. He tried to recall what the eatery served for breakfast and as the handsome waiter with a curled mustache approached him he blurted out, “pastry and coffee!” He sat down before the waiter could offer a table closer to the kitchen. The bewildered waiter gave a curt nod and walked away.

 

Lancelot du Lake, who at forty-five was the oldest of the Warriors, showed up ten minutes after eight dressed in full gear, carrying his helmet and his sword, Seace, in its scabbard by his waist. His red armor fit him well, and the morning sun glinted off its polished metal plating. “Excusez-moi,” he said. “There is need for you to stay, monsieur.” He then noticed the Kanwaks and added, “Madames too.” His thick accent was difficult to pronounce, and Raye turned to Janis for understanding.

“We’re all escorting?” Winston asked.

“Oui,” was Lancelot’s reply. The Frenchman put his hand on his hip. “King George thought it would be wise.”

“Indeed.” Holden Michaels had approached as Lancelot was speaking. The two exchanged some light conversation before turning to the others, who stood at attention. With Lancelot leading, followed by the Ambassador, then Winston and finally the Voices, the group began walking down the corridor to the motorcade. The Voices, as was customary, bowed their heads and began to pray. Yet Janis was distracted.

“Gybyel,” Janis muttered.

Raye struggled not to break her concentration. “Speak not that word!” she hissed.

“You don’t feel it?” Janis asked.

“I don’t sense anything,” Raye admitted.

“I have a bad feeling about this,” Stephanie said. Not wishing to argue, Raye held her peace.

 

Mariam Gonsalves head was on fire, and sweat poured down his forehead, soaking his shirt. Thankfully, his waiter simply assumed this was the fault of the weather, and not some sickness that caused dizziness and death.

“Waiter, monsieur?” the woman asked.

Mariam nodded. The coffee was weak, but the cocoa-croissant was delicious and the sugar content rushed to his head. He felt alert now, yet feverish, and as he gulped down the water his waiter placed on the table he felt alive and at last ready to accomplish his mission. He drew his wallet from his pocket and removed a fifty-credit note. He placed this under his glass and left, hoping the waiter could use the heavy change. As he left he jammed his hands into his coat pocket. The cold steel of the revolver was a comfort.

 

Lancelot rode in the lead hover-convertible, next to the driver, a swarthy little Turk from Gibraltar who despised the Warriors and grumbled in Arabic about having to cart around His followers. In the second car rode the Voices, who prayed with urgent ardor, and Winston, who yawned without cease.

The roads were blocked at various locations, giving the Senator a smooth ride from the Embassy to Oxford University, where he would give a speech denouncing Imperialism.

The long motorcade did not just include the Ambassador, but many other important Centauran figures, as well. Professor Naom Chomsky, a humanities teacher who had gotten entangled in politics, rode next to the Mayor of Bath. Both seemed interested in grabbing the spotlight, and waved at those clustered at the curb. Seldom few waved back; fewer still knew recognized Naom Chomsky, or even the mayor.

Winston pondered the predicament both Klayton and King George V were in. Here was Holden Michaels, proud Senator, representing the interests of the Roman Remnant Order, now growing even more in popularity, a champion of the people and hater of the Holy One. King George knew Michael stood against everything he believed in, but understood that if he forbade the Senator from coming there would be riots, and many would voice opposition of the Monarch’s decision to ‘silence the freedom of the press.’

Richard Kanwak had attended Merton College north of London and explained to Winston over tea one fall afternoon the problem with colleges: ‘One’s head swells, but the brain liquefies.’ While neither man had an issue with obtaining an education, they both had a problem with the fashion in which the students were brainwashed regarding religion and other issues. ‘If there’s a ridiculous theory or some New Age crap floating around out there, you can bet your bellybutton there’s some professor around to spiel it, and a group of students dumb enough to swallow it.’

It was this last comment that Winston considered now. Holden Michaels was going to preach hatred of the very system that allowed freedom of speech in the first place. And the students of Oxford University would eat it up, thus producing the next the next generation of brainwashed and deluded professors.

Winston sighed. And we’re protecting him?

 

Mariam stopped through the security checkpoint and turned to the officer with an expression just shy of terror. Relax, he told himself. They can’t do anything unless you give them reason to suspect you. Yet no matter what he did, he could not bring himself to calm down enough to settle any suspicion. The officer manning the checkpoint, a man in his mid-to-late fifties with gray hair and a face so wrinkled he resembled a prune, studied Mariam’s expression for a moment.

“Y’okay, mate?” he asked.

Mariam panicked and dashed into the crowd. There was a chorus of raised voices then; the Senator was coming! More and more people began to press forward, and Mariam let himself be carried along. The security guard or officer was suddenly nowhere to be found, and Mariam knew the man had not rung any alarms. Even if he had, there would be no time to intervene.

He strained his neck to see the motorcade moving up the street. Knowing he only had one shot at this, panic sank its rusty little claws back into his brain stem and he drew his weapon. Before he could get a clear shot, however, the gun discharged.

 

Lancelot ducked as he heard the first shot and whirled around as the driver hit the accelerator. Now there was a second shot, and the Senator blinked in amazement, suddenly as white as a sheet. Then Lancelot noticed the blood pulsing from the man’s severed jugular.

Lancelot jumped into the backseat, taking off his glove to cover the hole in the man’s neck. Then he noticed another in the man’s chest, blood beginning to saturate his shirt. How many shooters? he wondered.

Holden blinked again and, knowing his life was ebbing away, studied Lancelot’s hazel eyes.

“Damn you,” the Senator muttered.

“Ne-parler,” Lancelot stammered.

“Damn you, damn your god.” Holden’s breathing grew jagged. He gritted his teeth and issued a low growl, a soul moaning in protest of being taken so soon. Then he relaxed. Lancelot shook his head in protest, but it was too late. The great soul had taken flight.

 

No sooner had the shots gone off than several men tackled Mariam to the ground. It mattered little; the man had already pushed his body to the limit of what his sickness would allow. As he fell back he opened his mouth and a massive stream of bile, blood, and virulent bacteria erupted forth to spray the crowd. Of those hit, half would die within three weeks. Those were the lucky ones.