The Sword In The Stone Page 4

  Not used to natural sunlight reflecting off of every surface, Julian squinted as he made his way down the ramp. Although he saw the sun as much from his flagship as the people down on Edsall Dark, each vessel had tinted viewports that filtered out the intensity of the light. It took him a moment, as it also did Talbot and the others, for his eyes to adjust and for him to get his bearings.

  As his vision changed from seeing vague, grey shapes to a colorful array of beings, he began to appreciate just how many people had gathered in one place. At the same time he noticed the crowd, the throngs of citizens spotted him amongst the collection of officers.

  “General Reiser!”

  “There he is!”

  “We love you!”

  The crowd grew louder until each person became drowned out by the collective yelling and applause. Julian looked for Margaret, but in the throngs of people massed shoulder to shoulder he had no chance of finding her.

  A woman shouted, “General Reiser, we love you.”

  “All hail, General Reiser!” an old man bellowed.

  Octo, the most vocal supporter of Julian amongst the representatives, made his way through the crowd with Winchester and a group of six others. Margaret was with them. Following that group were Hector and Cash and some of the other representatives.

  “General, nice to see you again,” Octo said with a grin as he extended a hand.

  Before Julian could shake his associate’s hand, Margaret dashed ahead and wrapped both arms around her husband.

  “Margaret,” he said into her ear, not wanting to let go of her.

  “Julian.”

  They held each other for a moment, then Margaret turned to scan for the other people near her.

  “Mom,” Talbot said, walking beside Julian.

  Margaret let go of her husband and squeezed her son so hard he grunted.

  Everyone around them was shouting congratulations and praise. With each volley of accolades toward the returning soldiers, but mainly directed at their leader, the crowd grew more energized.

  “General Reiser saved us,” an old woman said, looking up at the sky that no longer had a warlord’s threat floating above it.

  “No one else could have led the Round Table fleet into the Cartha sector,” another shouted.

  “All hail, General Reiser!”

  Julian held up a hand to quiet the crowd but his gesture was interpreted by the throngs of supporters as modesty, of him appearing to think he didn’t deserve the praise, which only made the crowd cheer even louder.

  He turned to Talbot and Margaret, whose hand he was holding, and said, “Let’s go home.”

  “Julian.”

  General Reiser stopped walking and turned around to find who had spoken to him. What had caught his attention wasn’t his name being called—thousands of people were doing the same—it was that even though a cacophony of noises bombarded him, one voice had managed to become clear and distinct amongst the din. He frowned and scanned the faces in the crowd.

  With Julian frozen in place, both eyebrows curled into a frown, Margaret asked what was wrong.

  “Julian,” the voice said again.

  Rather than answer, Julian kept looking for the man who had managed to make his voice heard over thousands of others. As he did, he began to realize why it bothered him. The voice calling out to him was one that not only seemed to penetrate all other noise, it was also one he had heard frequently during the campaign.

  It was the voice of the man who appeared in his dreams. It was the voice he had first heard in the cave that Lancelot called home, and it was the same one that called to him in dreams he could never clearly recall.

  No matter how much he looked at each person around him, though, none of them were the mysterious cloaked figure. He wanted to call out and ask where the man was but knew this would alarm and confuse his family and the representatives that had come to greet him.

  “Beware the tide of this march,” the voice said so clearly that it was as if the speaker were whispering into Julian’s ear.

  Julian spun around, and yet there were only his friends and family nearby. In the distance, across the field, a black robe caught his attention. The figure, a hood covering its face, was standing at the top of the ramp leading from the HC Ballistic Cruiser. Although all he could see from that distance was a vague outline, Julian got the impression the man was looking across the crowds, directly at him.

  A flurry of thoughts crossed Julian’s mind. He wanted to call out and ask who the man was. He wanted to yell that there was no possible way someone could appear in his dreams, let alone be on one side of the galaxy and then also on the other. After all, to get aboard the Cruiser, the robed figure from Lancelot’s cave would have needed to find a way to board Brigadier Desttro’s transport along with Julian and Talbot at the edge of the asteroid, and Julian was positive no one else had been there. He also knew there was no logical way the robed man should be heard over the frenzy of people in the crowd, especially not from that distance. And yet the voice hadn’t yelled, it had sounded more like a calm warning.

  Instead of saying anything, he stared directly at the distant figure, trying to make out who it could be.

  Who are you? Julian thought.

  To which the man said, or somehow thought the sentence into Julian’s mind from words unspoken, “Beware the tide of this march.”

  Julian yanked at Margaret’s hand so she was facing the same direction. He pointed at the Carrier’s ramp. “Do you see that man?”

  No one was there anymore, though. If they had been there at all.

  “What are you talking about?” Margaret asked.

  Julian squinted, willing the man to reappear. When no one did, he muttered, “I’m tired. The sun must have played a trick with my eyes.”

  “Welcome back, General Reiser.”

  Julian turned and saw the massive form that was Hector’s upper body resting upon his energy disk. His old friend was smiling and it was obvious that even though Hector hadn’t agreed with the Round Table’s campaign, he was glad that Julian and Talbot were both alive and safe.

  “It’s good to be back,” Julian said.

  He was going to move toward Hector, pat him on the shoulder, and say he wished he had listened to his friend’s warnings before taking the fleet off to the edges of the known galaxy. But before he could, the crowd surged forward, pushing Julian along with it.

  He turned back to Hector and shouted, “I’m sorry. Let’s talk later. We have a lot of catching up to do.”

  But the words were lost in the mob of cheers and people chanting Julian’s name.

  8

  “I’m sorry, Hector. Let’s talk later. We have a lot of catching up to do.”

  Hector watched as the crowd of people swelled around Julian, pushing him further through the streets, closer to the city center. Portia, having returned to their home, was no longer by his side. In her place, Cash watched what was happening and shook his head.

  “I can’t believe they’re celebrating,” Cash said in a low grumble. “It’s like they don’t realize a quarter of the fleet was lost doing something the original founder of the Round Table never would have agreed with.” After another chorus of cheers for General Reiser, he added, “Do you see what’s happening?”

  “No,” Hector said, his tone unenthused as if he were half asleep.

  “You’d have to be blind not to see it.”

  Hector turned toward his friend. With his physical stature, that was usually enough for people to explain whether they had meant an offense or not.

  Cash held his hands up in apology, realizing he had misspoken, and said, “Just watch.”

  Not wanting to see whatever it was that Cash was talking about, Hector swiveled so his energy disk rotated toward the direction of his home. He had only just begun to move when Cash reached out and grabbed his arm. All around them, people were still shouting.

  “General Reiser! General Reiser!”

  “All hail the gener
al.”

  “Someone should put him in charge of the Round Table. Then we’d see results!”

  “Listen to them,” Cash said to his friend. “They want a leader.” When Hector sighed, Cash held up a hand. “No, listen. I can’t see the world through your eyes. I don’t know what you’re thinking. But I do know you abhor war and conquest more than anyone else alive today. This parade started as a celebration for a hero, but it’s quickly turning into a call for a ruler.”

  Hector shook his head. When he blinked, it took effort to re-open his eyes.

  “Cash, everything will work out. I know it doesn’t always seem that way, but it will.”

  “Maybe I mistook the look on your face,” Cash said, still staring at the crowds of Julian’s cheering supporters.

  Hector turned and faced his friend. “What do you mean?”

  “You say everything will work out but I see you holding your breath as you watch the crowd. I see the vein bulging from your temples. It betrays how much you’re truly bothered.”

  In the distance, Julian and his wife and the others could barely be seen anymore. The only way to spot them was to track the center of the mass of people swirling about the person they were celebrating.

  A man shouted, “General Reiser saved us from Arc-Mi-Die; while the Round Table did nothing but hide.”

  A boy yelled, “Make General Reiser the boss; the Round Table was our only loss.”

  Cash said, “You would never say it—I don’t think you would even admit it to yourself—but the only person these people should be cheering for is you. You’re the one who turned away from war. You certainly didn’t embrace it like our supposed hero.”

  Hector shook his head. “You have to stop talking like that, Cash. What would you have me do?”

  A pair of women bumped into Cash, barely noticing they had done so, and continued on following the crowds. A boy was placed atop his father’s shoulders so he could get a better glimpse of which direction Julian and the others had gone.

  Cash said, “The people aren’t going to stop yelling, they’re only going to get louder.”

  “So?”

  Cash rolled his eyes, then shouted, “All hail General Reiser!”

  A hundred people nearby repeated the call.

  Hector grabbed Cash by the arm. “What’s the matter with you?”

  “Why does it bother you when I say it? Don’t you see what’s happening? Pretty soon they’re going to be calling him King Reiser or Emperor Reiser.”

  A boy walked by and said, “All hail King Keiser?” as if trying out the phrase.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Hector said, but he could barely get the words out. Some of the people around him were yelling that they didn’t need the Round Table at all, just General Reiser. “They don’t know what they’re saying,” he mumbled.

  Cash looked at the people all around them. “Don’t they? They seem to know exactly what they’re saying.”

  Hector shook his head. “I know Julian. He only wants what’s best for everyone. He has more honor than just about anyone.”

  “All hail General Reiser,” a boy shouted.

  “King Reiser!” Cash yelled back as if in competition. Then, turning to his friend, added, “I know you to be a man of virtue, Hector. But I also know you like to see the best in others, even if they can’t live up to your expectations.”

  “Cash—”

  “I’d rather die than sit and watch the Round Table fall apart.”

  “It’s not going to—”

  Cash waved a hand for silence. “I was born free. So were you. But many in the Round Table weren’t. They only are today because of what Vere sacrificed. What you sacrificed.” He looked all around with a bitter expression on his face. “The Round Table sent General Reiser on a campaign we didn’t agree with, but something even worse than winning or losing happened—the people found their new ruler.”

  “You’re going too far, Cash.”

  “The worst part, my friend, is that you don’t even see it. It’s happening right in front of you and you don’t see it.”

  A group of three children pushed in between Cash and Hector on their way to keep up with the rest of the crowd.

  “General Reiser saved us from the warlord when the Round Table wouldn’t do anything,” one said.

  “Arc-Mi-Die won’t be so tough now that Reiser is back,” another called.

  The third asked, “Why can’t we just have him instead of the Round Table?”

  To which Cash let out a long exhale and said, “Indeed.”

  9

  The Turgdorians were said to frequent a bar at the far end of the colony. To get there, Lancelot had to walk through hundreds of yards of dark alleys and dimly lit streets. The ground was littered with puddles that alternated between spilt ale, places where criminals and goons had gone to the bathroom, blood lost during random fights, and trash that people hadn’t bothered to throw away.

  Lancelot felt as if her armor was an extension of her body, and so she hated stepping through the puddles and hearing the splash or squish each time one of her four heavy boots stomped the ground and sprayed filth.

  At one of the intersections she came to, an enormous stocky alien, wider than it was tall, held a human against a mesh fence. The alien’s hand was too large to hold the man by his neck. Instead, its palm encompassed the man’s entire skull, holding it in place while the human cried.

  “Please, I’ll pay what I owe,” the man blabbered. “I swear I’ll pay.”

  Lancelot continued past them, not bothering to intervene on the man’s behalf. She was there on her own mission, not to care for others. She did, however, make a quick assessment of the alien in case she ran into it some other time.

  “Please help,” the human called out to Lancelot.

  The man’s eyes were covered by the alien’s enormous palm, but Lancelot was sure if she could have seen them they would have possessed the fleeting hope that a stranger might intervene. The alien, its mighty hand gripping the man’s head like a small toy, turned and looked at Lancelot.

  Just having the beast turn and look at her was enough to make Lancelot’s gloved hands twitch in the direction of her four weapons.

  Don’t say a single word to me, she thought, or I’ll have to come over there; and you don’t want that.

  The alien merely snorted, then turned its attention back to the human. Lancelot, satisfied that no insult had been issued, continued toward the bar where the Turgdorians were said to hang out. The man, his one hope for protection disappearing into the darkness, began to cry again.

  Around the next corner, Lancelot passed a group of six brawlers. Two were human, one a Gthothch, two Watchneens, and one a muscular horned alien with sand-colored skin that was covered with dark wrinkles. The six tore each other apart. The two humans, their bodies not made for that type of fighting, were the first to be defeated, both motionless on the ground in a pool of their own blood.

  Lancelot withdrew her pair of vibro lances and ignited them. Two long beams of glowing metal extended straight ahead, toward the remaining four fighters. The four aliens took note of her and her weapons, moved to either side of the street to allow her to pass, then, once she was past, resumed their fighting. Lancelot, satisfied they were no threat, de-ignited both lances and put their handles back into their sheathes behind her shoulders.

  Around the next corner, a half human, half lizard was pushed out of a bar’s entrance hard enough to send the human-alien hybrid flying into Lancelot. Lancelot growled and turned to look at the bar to see if anyone was close enough to pose a threat. Seeing no satisfaction would be gained that way, she scooped the drunkard into the air with her two longer arms, held him over her head, then threw him back through the bar’s entrance with enough force to knock over anyone on the other side of the door.

  Further down the street, a bounty hunter dressed in Mark-IV armor pointed a blaster at her. The bounty hunter’s armor was various shades of brown and yellow. From its reputat
ion, she knew the armor was blast-proof. The person pointing the blaster at her was taller and skinnier than a human. His helmet’s visor was tinted so his face couldn’t be seen. The blaster in his hand waivered slightly, and Lancelot could see he was either drunk or inexperienced at his craft.

  “I’ll let you pass if you pay the toll,” the bounty hunter said.

  Lancelot stopped in place. “Just out of curiosity, what is the toll?”

  “How much do you have?”

  Lancelot watched the blaster sway slightly to the side before coming back to center again. As soon as the same thing started to happen once more and before the bounty hunter could correct his aim, one of Lancelot’s shorter arms darted to her opposite side, grabbed a vibro lance, and extended it. The bounty hunter was able to get a single shot off, which deflected off of Lancelot’s armor. Then he grunted in agony as the vibro lance ignited and was driven straight through his chest.

  Lancelot waited until the full weight of the bounty hunter rested on the vibro lance. That was the sign that he was either dead or too far gone to control his legs. The vibro lance retracted back to the handle and the bounty hunter collapsed to the ground as a motionless sack of Mark-IV armor.

  She continued further down the alley. Behind her, a variety of aliens came out of the shadows and began rifling over the fallen bounty hunter, taking its armor and looking for anything else of value.

  At the edge of the colony, she looked out at the containment field that protected everyone from Crantive-8’s natural environment. It was mostly clear but also had a slight tinge of white energy that made it look like the barren landscape was covered in drying milk. Also outside the containment field was a collection of bodies of various types of aliens. Some might have accidently stumbled through the containment field in a drunken stupor. They would have immediately been exposed to the harsh air of the planet and died. Others had been tossed out there after dying in bar fights or after being found by the goons they had been trying to hide from.

  The bar she was looking for was directly next to the containment field, the very last establishment on the street. A bouncer was stationed outside—the owner’s effort to control the types of patrons and weapons that went inside. The bouncer was a control-mech android. It had the same analytical abilities of most other androids but its body was twice as tall and three times as wide as an average human. It had ion gloves that, when they touched any living being, sent pulses of energy through them, causing the recipient’s muscles to seize. It had Type III blast-proof armor that could not only deflect lasers from handheld and mid-size blasters but also absorb small explosives.