The 13th Star: An Action Adventure Sci-F Apocalyptic Novel (3 page)

Petra, the only female galactic planet, was
ruled by Mia, the most beautiful woman in the galaxy. Even Lunia
admitted that her special genes should have been further researched
before she was born.

With her black hair and shining green eyes, Mia
looked as if she were 30, although it was known that her rule was
longer than the fifth year—if not the sixth year—of counting. Petra
was also the galaxy’s most magical planet, and its few residents
ruled the stars beyond the familiar galaxy through magic known only
to them. The concoctions and potions created on the planet were
known to be incredibly successful. The planet’s magical abilities
deterred many, and it seemed as if a visit to Petra was more
frightening than going to Moran, the planet of the mercenaries. All
Petranos had a winding, snake-shaped tattoo starting at the left
eyebrow and ending in the middle of the left cheek. No one was
prepared to look directly into the snake’s threatening eyes and, in
fact, visits by foreigners to Petra were extremely rare.

However, there was one regular visitor—old
Bergin, who arrived at Mia’s bastion every Sunday at six a.m., when
it only seemed that everyone was asleep. His intense curiosity
regarding his destiny needed to be quenched weekly. He didn’t dare
complain about his previous week’s experiences, or indicate that Mia’s predictions weren’t always to his liking. Silently
he entered her room and sat in his regular chair, sometimes waiting a moment for her spoiled cat to move. He hated the feline
hairs that stuck to his cloak, but never said a word. Only one time his look conveyed his disgust toward the creature he so
hated, and on that day Mia presented him with such a week that at the end of it, he didn’t know whether he’d remain alive
or not. Since then he made sure to persuade himself, prior to setting out, that he loved the fat, spoiled puss.

Mia looked at him for a moment and then turned her back to him silently. On the screen above her head, one could see future
events. Sometimes he was amazed at what was shown would happen to him. Mia simply waited, looking elsewhere. Only when she
knew he’d finished his questions did she leave the room—still in silence—and he returned to his home.

Saturn, the water planet, was controlled by
Yona. Residents of Saturn had gills, allowing them to be people of
the sea and the water. They divided their lives between both
elements. They could remain underwater for up to three hours, and
many of them lived a double life. Below, Saturnénas had houses
where they spent time with their families, or alone. Many
philosophers and interesting intellectuals lived there.

Saturnénas attributed their mystical ability to
the absence of the spirit they sometimes found themselves in—the
underwater quiet enabled them to disconnect and live a spiritual
life more easily rather than a material one. Indeed, their writings
were studied and conveyed with great respect among galactic
citizens.

Since 70 percent of Saturn was covered with
water, the rulers feared a population explosion that was liable to
bring death and much sickness due to the limited dry areas.
Accordingly, over the generations, the order that forbade bearing
more than two children was never rescinded. Moreover, a Saturnéna
family that restricted itself to only one child was entitled to
many governmental benefits.

The Saturnénas weren’t against this ruling and
there were no tempests in their lives. Saturn was a key source of
galactic minerals and was therefore considered a rich and
well-established planet.

Delta, the planet of writers and medical
scientists, was an interesting combination of intellectuals and
medical researchers controlled rather high-handedly by Old Fred,
the scientist. Fred’s name was known far and wide, and even little
children on other planets spoke his name
with awe and tremendous respect.

Delta accepted new residents who wanted to move
to Delta in order to be inspired and create after filtering and
selection. A special acceptance committee, whose faces no one ever
saw, discussed the requests and made the decisions. The next
generation of Deltans wasn’t allowed to stay unless approved by the
committee. Even coupledom couldn’t be implemented unless the
committee permitted it, and those previously accepted could have
their citizenship ruled out and be transferred back to their
original planet.

The invention of a vaccination for the terrible Lime disease was attributed to Old Fred, a disease that originally sickened
residents of the planet Darfol.
In
fact, it plagued all the planets, but was first diagnosed among the
Darfolis. Initially all the planets attempted to conceal the
illness from each other, but eventually they realized there was no
one to conceal it from. So the unfounded mutual accusations
began.

No one knew the cause of the illness. It spread
from the fingers, which began to turn white. Within a few days, the
fingers became totally white. If one scratched or rubbed them, they
gently crumbled, but remained whole, as if they had white sand on
them. Gradually the hands became covered with the same layer of
crumbling whitewash, and thereafter, the entire body.

The panic was tremendous. Darfolis were asked
to stay in their homes and the Darfoli ruler asked for help from
the other galactic rulers. No one wanted to come to examine the
sick, as everyone feared infection. All the residents of Darfol
became sick, and some two weeks after their cry for help, emails
from each of the other planets’ rulers were sent to the Darfoli
ruler demanding a description of the symptoms. Those other rulers
tried to hide the fact that the symptoms of the dreadful disease
had already been discovered on their planets.

On the 30
th
day of the
Darfoli outbreak, which happened in the middle of the seventh year,
all the galactic rulers met, their faces as white as whitewash—but
not only from fear. On Rosten sat 20 scientists white with Lime
disease trying to find a cure for the galactic illness. Nothing
like it had ever been mentioned in the history books. Lunia tried
his hardest to invent an antidote, but the results offered only
limited comfort measures—no cure.

Each planet set its highest-qualified brains to
attempt to find a cure and discover where the disease had come
from. Old Fred, whose legs could barely carry him, awoke from his
usual midday sleep sometimes lasting a whole day lifted the
newspaper he’d dropped, and remembered the words of his beloved
grandfather: “Freddie, when everyone dreams, it’s worth doing
something.”

Interesting, he thought. Why am I remembering this now?
He went into his laboratory, made
himself coffee, and checked several solutions that he’d worked on
during the last year. “This Lime will kill us,” Old Fred said,
trying to shake off the powder from his skin that stuck to his
clothes.

Several days later, he tried to reconstruct
exactly what he had done during those moments, since Old Fred had
inadvertently formulated the cure for Lime disease. Something in
coffee and lime, mixed in solutions intended to increase the annual
crop harvest on his farm, all together saved the galaxy. No one
will ever forget Old Fred’s name.

Kantara was a military planet ruled by Bar, a
trained, highly experienced military man. Some said he was Coldor’s only friend.

Kantara’s other name was the Planet of War—not because it fought against the other planets, but because many armies were trained
there. Occasionally two rival armies trained on Kantara at exactly the same time.

Bar had been in a special elite unit. Most of its exploits had yet to be told, but he enjoyed special and extraordinary appreciation.
He was unable to wear all his decorations simultaneously because his suits were too small for them all to fit. He married
a beautiful young Petrano woman whose beauty and power stunned everyone who saw her. He was previously engaged to Mia, but
she refused to marry him unless she was allowed to continue practicing her magic, something which she’d been educated in from
infancy. Indeed, the woman he ultimately married, Rhonda, did all that her husband commanded.

Bar traveled to all the planets in the galaxy and selected seven youths from each who underwent a long and tough training
period. Eventually, only 12 remained—strong, well-trained men who prepared the next generation and the strongest armies in
the galaxy. The fantastic dozen knew how to fight better than anyone else—except for Bar, of course—with a Jorash and a Roll.

***

Bucha was ruled by Koffee. Most of the planet was covered with jungles and dense evergreen forests filled with many animal
species. It was said that nature surpassed itself and proved its power on Bucha, creating pink peacocks with purple crowns
and giraffes with tiny wings, which admittedly couldn’t bear their weight but added great charm. Bucha could have been the
most spectacular safari planet ever created.

The Buchawans hadn’t been blessed with great
wisdom or sophistication. Their leaders
were drawn from the animal world, and even their communication
system was not like others, as it was understandable only to
them—and perhaps to a few Buchawan animals whose language they had
adopted for themselves. Hand and body movements accompanied every
word, making the dialect even harder to decipher. Koffee, Bucha’s
ruler, was one of the three people who could speak the galactic
language. The advantage of those three was demonstrated mainly in
Koffee’s unquestioned ability to rule the planet.

The Buchawans’ appearance only had two unique
traits—b
lack, lackluster, very long hair that was typically left loose and wild, and a tiny human bone piercing their noses. It referred
to their history of cannibalism and was seen as a deterrent, despite the fact that the custom ceased decades ago. Nowadays,
everyone said, there were no Buchawans who ate others.

Dolsa was the second planet ruled by a woman. Born on Petra, Rahav found her place as head of Dolsa, the largest brothel planet
in the galaxy, after she was expelled from her home by Mia. The number of women on Dolsa was the largest number of any galactic
planet, and they did the work of both men and women. For 11 months, Dolsan women lived alone. Males visited from time to time,
but these weren’t family visits. Just work visits.

The Dolsan women went out to work when they turned 14
, and sometimes they worked every
day of the week, or for a whole month. But there was a strict rule
on Dolsa that no woman received the same man twice in one month. In
the last month of the year, every woman over the age of 14 who had
yet to return to her forefathers received her man, who devoted that
month to his permanent woman.
This was the great month of conception, and the Dolsan women were only allowed to conceive from one man.

Darfol—the politicians’ planet—held weekly votes regarding galactic trade and industry. The planet was not ruled, but was
headed by Dviv, a Deltan philosopher and author who intensely researched the first year of choice.

The planet Darfol was characterized by amazing scenery of waterfalls and tropical forests on one hand, and on the other hand,
a blue, almost transparent sea whose horizon was too distant to be seen.

Jorash-green snake ,'has its own intelligence
but is dominated by the very gdloarsi used for vaccination at an
early age and weapons of world armies
.

roll-meter long titanium rod shaped iron
axes,there is rod shaped rubber spikes used in the
game-rolltoy.

On Tuesday evenings on Darfol, the weekly
meeting for military leaders was held. It had one purpose—the good
of the world.

The boardroom became a battlefield where the
mouth was the sole—and sometimes lethal—weapon. Attacks were
mounted at every week’s meeting. Every discussion became personal,
every victory raised someone’s ego and belittled another’s, but
every time the meeting concluded in a positive atmosphere, with
everyone agreeing, “It was for the good of the world! Of course
it’s not personal.”

This week’s meeting was chaired by Bergin, a
fact that resulted in full attendance—no one was late and the room
sat in awed silence. A dozen military leaders, all of them leaders
of their nations, arrived pale, tense, and uncomfortable with
hardly any words of welcome. Only an oppressive, deathly
silence.

At precisely the stated time, an orange light
fell on the leaders’ faces, making them look even paler. In silence
they looked at each other, realizing that one was missing. Bergin
himself was late—or perhaps he wouldn’t even come.

With an ultra-thought instrument invented on
Delta, their thoughts were easily read by each other. It was not
surprising that the thoughts were alike: Something has really
happened if Bergin, the strongest person in the galaxy, has allowed
himself to be late. Being behind time was a phenomenon he
condemned. Perhaps something terrible had happened to him. Perhaps
something terrible was about to happen.
Perhaps this is a
trick to gather all of us and protest our abilities?

Fear
sprouted with each thought. They knew not to say anything when the door did finally open. Hopefully that would bring the solution
to the mystery. But their fears continued to gnaw away at them
.

Only Pandor, with his stony face decorated by
straight symmetrical lines and sharp scars from old weapons, smiled
grimly in resignation. The oldest military leader present, his blue
eyes had already dulled and his black beard had become shiny white,
revealing his age. But others weren’t to be misled—the old man was
not far from his peak ability and was still considered a fearless
warrior who, despite all his years, maintained an impressive
physical shape. He was a giant with a nice face, but little
patience, with a special ability to speak fearlessly—perhaps
because of his size and strength, or perhaps because of inner
integrity. The empty conversations conducted nearby were of no
interest to him. Everything about him said decisiveness and a
forward view to a horizon no one besides him could see.

The tense meeting’s discomfort was disrupted by
the sound of quick steps approaching the oak door. All eyes looked
at the silent door. In the silence of the hall on the other side of
the door, it was possible to discern that not one, but two pairs of
feet marched toward it with rhythmic, but not particularly rapid,
steps.

Those sitting in the boardroom only watched
Bergin enter, not each other. An unwritten law stated that only one
representative from each planet could attend the weekly meeting,
and it was always the ruler, or someone on his behalf. Bergin wore
his ceremonial bright green uniform while Coldor wore his usual
black, from his cloak to his shining boots.

Bergin didn’t say a word. He just looked at
those seated, trying to locate the fear, waiting for the first one
to open his mouth. The silence continued. Those sitting in the
boardroom managed, in a fraction of a second, to hide their fear
and wonder—at least from Bergin.

He blessed those present and passed his regular
seat, continuing toward the podium, a heavy oak platform at the
other end of the room. The silence continued, everyone watching
Bergin. He adjusted his position and stared at them, one by
one—forcing the others to lower their eyes, his gaze steady. His
view shifted and he continued on, like a reaper in the wheat
field—row by row, eye to eye with each. Only old Pandor didn’t
submit. Bergin looked away and continued.

In the center of the table were a dozen
collections, each with 11 small boxes—gifts from the leaders to
their friends—along with a hologram of the galaxy and the name of
each planet
.

Bergin held up a dark green envelope. No one
sitting had noticed it earlier. Now, when he opened it and removed
the content, the silence was more intense. Everyone looked at him,
terrified.

“In the seventh year of the choice, an all-out
war will start against the planets Delta and Rosten. It will be led
by the Dolsans and Buchawans. This war will be the last before the
coming of the thirteenth star,” he said in Cherka, a language not
understood by all those seated. Dviv, a short man with curly black
hair and a childlike face—said to be the wisest of men—translated
his words within seconds into a language that was clear to all.

Bergin continued. “I have proof that four
months ago, a plot was hatched by Rahav and Koffee to eliminate
Delta and Rosten due to their constant objections to the stars’
occupations.

“Gentlemen, some sitting among us wish the
others ill. I call on you, military leaders of the planets, to halt
this plot. Stop it before the coming of the thirteenth planet.”

His voice grew louder. “I leave in your hands
proof of meetings between the daughters of Rahav and the ministers
of Koffee. This proof will come a moment before the great war, the
war of doom.”

Bergin was silent, and his silence was even louder than his words. Representatives of the
planets
moved restlessly, looking at each other, lowering their gazes, and raising them again as he continued. “I call on you, Rahav
and Koffee. I bear the words of your friends, or anyone you see as your enemies. This war is unnecessary! What do you seek?
Say it here and now before everyone. What do you want to obtain just before the war that could be the end of us all—of you,
as well?”

In the commotion that erupted, not everyone heard the last sentence. Koffee, a hothead, failed to control his astonishment.
He hammered the wooden table with his club and soon replaced these blows with his hands. His eyes flashed fire, smoke blew
from his nose, and his right foot jiggled nervously. The club that rolled out of his hand provided a unique and sickening
opportunity to observe its appearance: the end used
for beating was a human head, with painful streaming eyes. But Rahab’s personality had vanished. Her face was practically
transparent,
her bright red
lipstick looking like a smear of color on the face of a dead person. She mumbled things that no one understood—and no one
bothered to understand.

Coldor smiled, satisfied. Things had panned out just as he expected. He was not afraid of Koffee’s idle threats. Koffee used
his appearance as a tool to intimidate, but those who knew him well recognized it was nothing but a façade.

Mia chuckled slightly, returning to her usual ways—the exposure of her former friend, Rahav. Mia would sometimes detain another
leader and recount Rahav’s treacherous deeds secretly, quietly. Now she gloated loudly.

The only exception to the tumult was Pandor. Ignoring the uproar, his gaze was fixed on Bergin. He didn’t
stare into space, but looked at him and
waited for him to continue. He found the situation hard to believe,
and so he waited.

Bergin continued to stand at the foot of the
podium, fanning the emotional turmoil with words of encouragement.
Coldor slowly approached. “You did your bit. Let’s hope that, like
the prophecy, the scroll does not have any meaning either.” Bergin
was not able to subdue his victory smile.

David, a short Levite who wore white, his face
and chest adorned with a black beard, went up onto the stage and
stood to the right. In a pleasant voice, he began to sing an old
song about a person who had no love or hope—all he had left was a
prayer that everything would change. In less than a minute, the
shouting and cursing ceased.

When he heard the silence and noticed that
everyone was looking at him as if he were crazy, he cleared his
throat and spoke in a pleasant voice. “God’s way is sometimes
strange. We’re people of the choice, and if we choose not to fight,
my planet will not take the first step. I am not a man of war,” he
said proudly, “and I am not a leader,” he added apologetically.
“But I will just say that if we—the people chosen to vote because
we’re wise, rich in experience, and restrained—don’t let destiny
occur this year, the thirteenth planet will never arise.”

Loud curses and shouts were again heard. David
tried unsuccessfully to calm them. Still standing at the podium,
observing the stupidity and haste of the military leaders, Coldor
approached, bowed his head slightly, and whispered to David, “The
strong survive. Do you think you’re strong?”

David looked at the military leaders, not at
Coldor. “I’m not strong, but I’m not scared.”

Coldor took David’s hand firmly and said, “See
you soon.”

David didn’t even think to look at him, never
mind to turn around and face him. He knew his place in the
world—and certainly in the boardroom.

There were only two seasons on Falcon—winter
and autumn. The winter was very harsh, but not rainy. The strength
of the wind was frightening, and some said that one could hear the
arguments between the winds of the heavens and understand entire
words. Falcon was not a planet friendly to strangers. People didn’t
stream to it and few wished to settle there. The Falconites lived
there in full acceptance of their fate.

Its distinctive structure resulted in
interesting architecture, which was similar to the tribunes
encompassing a giant stadium. Every floor in the construction
spiral was unique to a predefined population. The circle with the
largest radius, that in the upper part of the crater, belonged to
its ruler, Bergin, and his men—the palace level. Descending the
spiral toward the core of the crater, the Falconites’ pedigree and
importance decreased. At the bottom, close to the core of the
planet in a place that suffered the constant heat of lava, was the
prison.

The palace’s ring surrounded the planet and all
its needs were supplied in that range—hospital, shopping centers,
entertainment, parks, sitting rooms, and other services. Bergin and
his courtiers had no need to leave the area and descend the planet,
unless they were asked to do so for their work.

Bergin’s palace was always dark and closed to
visitors, to the point that horror stories were spread about the
events behind its walls. No one dared to speak publicly about the
palace or its residents.

One of the legends, whose truthfulness no one
knew, described giant statues that were affixed one night to the
external walls of the palace. The necks of the statues, like the
heads of a monster-person, bent toward the base of the crater.
Rumor had it that Bergin didn’t send his courtiers to spy among
citizens of the planet because the statues would report everything.
Strange deaths that occurred were attributed to the giant statues,
new illnesses were associated with their anger, and unsolved
disagreements that dragged from one generation to the next were
caused by the giant statues. “The statues”—that was what everyone
called them, but the words were never spoken above a whisper. The
stories about the statues were recounted by father to son
secretly.

Another legend common on Falcon, which no one
saw as an insult, referred to the planet’s unique structure of
being a wide crater. Some said that God didn’t want so many planets
and decided to forgo Falcon, just like one squashes a pea on the
table. He touched its base with a finger, and instead of shattering
into trillions of tiny fragments, an enormous belly opened up,
which resulted in its strange bowl shape.

In the depths of Falcon, in its middle rings,
Benaya brought up Rettoul, whose name meant “putty in the hands of
the Creator.” It was strange name for a small child, but no one
gave it too much thought. The orphan Rettoul had been raised by
Benaya since he was two months old. Benaya had known his mother,
who put him in safe hands with great love, and Benaya took upon
herself the task as if also being entrusted with the mother’s
heart.

“What sort of name is this—‘Rettoul’?” said his
mother to Benaya when the two sat together after his birth,
drinking distilled pine juice. “Are you sure it’s a name for a
child?”

Benaya laughed. “Your son is something else—a
child with a strong spirit and a gentle soul. He will shape his
surroundings; this child will forge all of us.” Benaya’s shining
eyes swept over the dying young mother.
So the boy was called Rettoul and, when orphaned, was transferred to Benaya’s care.

By the time Rettoul was eight, his eyes shone
like fire and his
constant smile radiated to those around him. A scar somewhat compromised the integrity of his face, but it was not enough
to overshadow his wonderful light and joy of life. No one remembered its origin or knew its meaning. Rettoul was a short boy
with a solid physique. His day was similar to the other youths of his age: study, football, and the company of two huge dogs
who sometimes seemed human beside him.

Benaya was received with smiles and tremendous love. “What a great kid you have,” friends said. “We’re so glad our son is
a friend of Rettoul’s.” Her pride was overwhelming. “Rettoul, how well-brought-up he is,” “What a kid. I wish my child was
like him.” Benaya dissolved with joy, recovering a moment later. He was not just a good kid, well-brought-up and friendly;
Rettoul was something else. She was the only one who could connect things.