Chosen (5 page)

He was grateful for the attack; it gave him the cover he needed to begin his life as a member of the third colony. There was little communication between the three colonies, therefore little chance that anyone would discover he was an imposter. But as he had lain healing in Colony 3, he had been left to ponder whether he would have been attacked had he not arrived that particular day. Of all the Guardians, he alone had been the sole voice of opposition to the Masters' wanting to send the Guardians to the planets of the Chosen before the signs appeared. Gerok had always believed in prophecy and that it should be followed word for word, never interpreted differently.

If I had arrived on Volgon at the proper time, there may not have even been a Gorkon patrol near the portal and I may not have been attacked.

He had often wondered what would have happened were he to have been killed that day. Would another be sent? Would the Masters back on Gentra even know what had happened to him? Would the galaxy be doomed to destruction because his Chosen would never learn of their fate to save the galaxy from the Mekans?

All of these question and more plagued his waking thoughts and haunted his dreams. All he could hope for was that he could keep
his Chosen safe until the signs appeared so that they m ay meet their destiny.

After his rest, Gerok continued on to the ruined city, being careful to stay near the rock formations. As he passed by the first buildings, he saw a fresh track in the dirt. He bent down and examined it more closely,

Only a day old.
He stood slowly and began following the tracks, being careful to only step on the rocks so as not to leave sign of his passing. He noticed some of the tracks had been brushed away, though not enough to evade his sharp eyes and skills as a tracker. He stood and sniffed the air. He caught a faint, musky odor on the breeze and quickly walked back the way he had come.

He ran to the colony and relayed the news of the Gorkon patrol to General Kroylir. The General wasted no time in gathering a small force to deal with the threat.

“General Kroylir, I have a request.”

“Yes, Premier?” Kroylir stood on the balls of his feet, arms crossed behind his back. The General had the air of one who is ready to spring into action at a moment's notice.

“I have need of live Gorkons for the testing of a new weapon. Can you see to it that some of the Gorkons in this patrol are kept alive?”

“As you wish, Premier.” Kroylir gave a small bow, turned on his heel, and exited the main chamber, making his way to the surface.

Gerok rejoined his trainees in the weapons room. They had dismantled an old Gorkon weapon that had been confiscated many years past. It utilized sound waves. Anyone in the near vicinity when the weapon was discharged was killed as their hearts stopped and their brains were turned to mush. The major setback to such a weapon was that it would kill anything in its path, foe and friend alike. Feeror's idea, if it proved successful, would eliminate that problem.

“We have managed to isolate the sound generator, Premier Viisyr. We were about to connect it to the computer for further analysis,” Feeror said.

“Proceed.”

“The sound generator is still functional.” Feeror turned his head from the computer to address the others. “We need to fashion some sort of sound-proof chamber before we test the weapon.”

“Agreed.” Viisyr looked around at the others for their input as well.

“We should build the chamber here in the weapons room and restrict access. When testing of the weapon commences, level 2 should be evacuated.” Seelyr began sketching on a piece of parchment, designing the layout for the sound-proof chamber, placing it as far from the entrance as possible. She was an excellent artist and the others depended on her detailed blueprints and schematics to aid them in the creation of the shields and weapons. She had the ability to draw anything described to her.

“Now all we need is some Gorkon scum to examine and use for practice.” Kyron grinned as he cleaned under his talons with a small knife.

“That may happen sooner than expected.” Viisyr told of the Gorkon patrol he had seen in the ruined city and General Kroylir's assurance that some of the Gorkons would be captured for the use of the trainees.

“First thing tomorrow we need to begin building the sound chamber.” Feeror turned to face the others, fangs bared in hate and rage. “The sooner we can perfect the sound weapon the sooner we can kill them all.”

E
ARTH

“Let us bow our heads.”

Reverend Robert Marshall gripped the pulpit with both hands as he looked over the congregation. He bowed his head as he began the Lord's Prayer.

“Our Father who art in Heaven,

Hallowed be thy name.

Thy Kingdom come, thy will be done,

On Earth as it is in Heaven…”

The voices of the congregation mingled with the deep baritone of Reverend Marshall as they finished the prayer that completed the Sunday service. The reverend walked off the dais and down the center aisle, murmuring greetings to the folk as they stood and began to make their way out of the church. Reverend Marshall walked out of the front door and positioned himself to the left. The parishioners exited the church and paid their respects to the reverend, praising him for his wonderful sermon. He politely declined several invitations to join families for lunch, claiming he had other duties to attend to.

Reverend Marshall said good-bye to the last parishioner and went back inside to retrieve his family Bible from the pulpit. His footsteps echoed in the now empty church, causing him to attempt to tread lightly, so as not to disturb the venerate silence. He trailed his fingers along the edges of the wooden pews, lifting his hand slightly as he reached the end of one, fingers touching nothing but
air, until coming to rest on the next pew. He stepped up onto the dais and walked over to the pulpit, where his Bible still lay open to the pages he had used in his sermon. As he made to close the holy book, his eyes caught a glimpse of another verse, on the page opposite the one he had read from earlier:

Blow the trumpet in Zion! Sound the alarm on my holy hill! Let all who live in the land tremble, for the day of the LORD is coming. It is close at hand--

A day of darkness and gloom, a day of thick clouds and deep blackness. Like dawn spreading across the mountains, a large and mighty army comes! Such as never was of old nor ever will be in ages to come.

As Reverend Marshall read these words he suddenly shivered, his skin pebbling in goose flesh. An unexplained feeling of foreboding and terror swept over him. He gripped the edges of the pulpit with both hands in a white-knuckled grip as the words swam before his eyes, forming the image of some
thing,
a massive shape and form he couldn't identify. He blinked and the words reformed. His chest heaved and he broke out in a cold sweat. The reverend reached for his Bible, hesitating before actually touching it, fingers curling into a shaking fist.

Now I am being ridiculous. It's just a damned book!
He quickly shut the tome and picked it up, taking a deep, shuddering breath.

This was not the first time a sense of impending doom had come upon him. However, it was the first time he had ever seen anything out of the ordinary. He had no explanation for these episodes, other than the possibility that he was somehow tapping into some deep-seated fear of the
actual
end of the world.

Reverend Marshall sighed as he rubbed a hand over his face, noting absently that he was in need of a shave. He made his way back down the dais and down the center aisle between the pews, the echoing footsteps taking on a sinister sound, as if his fears had suddenly grown feet and were following close behind him.

He burst out the front door and blinked a moment in the light of the noon-day sun and stood holding his precious Bible in both hands
against his breast, as if he could somehow use the holy words within to purge himself of these unpleasant sensations.

“Afternoon Lieutenant—or should I say Reverend—Marshall?”

Robert Marshall glanced to his left and spotted Brad Phillips, one of the Protectors, strolling down the main thoroughfare. He was a lanky man, with long hair pulled back in a ponytail that fell to his waist. It was his custom to wrap a thin piece of soft leather around his ponytail. He joked that it could double as a whip. A hand-rolled cigarette hung lazily between his grinning lips, smoke curling around a handsome face. Sunlight reflected off of the large, aviator sunglasses he had found on a scouting mission to the ruins of a city called Denver.

“Since Sunday service is over, I suppose I am back to being Lieutenant.”

“I brought those two mares to Jeb to be shod.” Brad took one last drag off his cigarette, threw it down in the dirt, and stamped it out with a foot clad in tall black, leather boots. “They should be ready tomorrow morning.”

Robert nodded absently, not really paying much attention to the other man. He was still uneasy about his reaction to the Bible verse he had read and was trying desperately to make sense of the incident.

“You alright Lieutenant? Should I fetch the Sawbones?”

“No…no Brad, I am quite alright. Just wool-gathering.” Robert smiled to show his comrade the truth of those words. “Are you on patrol tonight?”

“No, not until tomorrow. Tonight I figure on winning some of my loot back from Sloan.” Brad grinned and smoothed his hair back.

Robert let out a genuine laugh. “Not unless the man is drunk, or dead!” Sloan's prowess at cards was legendary among the Protectors. None of them would even play the man unless there was no loot at stake.

“Oh, now that hurts, boss!” Brad put his hand to his heart in mock tragedy. “I will beat him tonight, mark my words!”

Robert shook his head as the man sauntered off to the bunkhouse, where all of the Protectors and their commanders lived. Robert chuckled to himself as he pictured the evening ahead. Sloan
would win even more of Brad's loot, and poor Brad would lament its loss for days, swearing for the hundredth time that he would never play cards with Sloan again. Only to come back a few weeks later with newly acquired loot, claiming that this time he would win for sure.

Ah, to be young again!
Robert thought as he watched Brad walk into the bunkhouse. He could faintly hear the man call out to Sloan, but missed the reply as the door closed.

Robert made his own way to the bunkhouse. Their General, Ted Smith, would be back from patrol shortly and he would expect all of his lieutenants to be present for his report. The men at one of the watchtowers had seen smoke in the distance and it was suspected that the Horde had been looting and pillaging. Personally, Robert didn't care what they did to the ruined city of Denver, so long as they stayed away from the Jhinn encampment.

But there were some who wept at the loss of the history that lay buried in the ruined cities. There was only so much room in the small carts used for transport and most of the townsfolk were too busy working or refused to enter any of the ruins, fearing ghosts and spirits. The Protectors were also busy, and most had no time or desire to sift through the dirt, and old buildings to see what treasures could be had. But there were a few Protectors, like Brad and Sloan, who were fascinated with the deserted cities and took every opportunity to explore them. The things they found were the stuff of fireside stories in almost every home. Brad and Sloan were interested in exploring and loot but there were others, like Tess Golden, who wanted to know about the people themselves, and what sort of lives they led in this strange place.

The Sawbones, Mark Halliwell, was the most curious of the lot. He found the ruins of a hospital, grown over with climbing weeds and vines. He brought back what tools he could salvage. Mark found some old medical books, binding eaten to almost nothing by insects and the pages crumbling to dust. He packed them up carefully and brought them back to the Jhinn encampment, hoping to be able to read them, to learn something more of the people that lived before the apocalypse. Unfortunately, they were indecipherable, and the Jhinn had used the ancient books for fuel during a particularly harsh and long winter.

Lieutenant Robert Marshall greeted his comrades scattered about the common room of the bunkhouse, seated at the two large tables at the front of the room or lying down on the pallets arranged in three rows, one each along the east and west walls and one row running right down the center. The women slept along one side, their pallets separated from the rest by a cloth curtain. There were two large stone hearths, one on each wall. In the back of the room, a cook stove lay nestled between a large window and the back door leading to the stables. There were several large bearskin rugs on the wooden floors. The room was filled with the stench and smoke from beef tallow candles in holders along all four walls and on the tables.

Scattered remnants of the old world were found in most homes in the encampment. Most items were easily identified, such as books, knives and other eating utensils, twine and rope made of some strange synthetic substance, sleeping bags, and blankets. Some items could not be identified but were treasured nonetheless. There was much speculation as to what these things were and what they might have been used for. Old widow Coulson had the rarest of all treasures and was more than happy to let people come over and gaze at it in wonder. It was round and flat, with a little piece missing from the edge and it had a small hole right in the center. On one side was the word Memorex and writing in thick black ink that said “Trip to San Diego”. The other side was smooth and reflective. She had it hanging from the ceiling from a piece of twine and when it caught the light, rainbows appeared all about her small home, filling her guests with gasps of wonder and delight.