Oglar entered the bridge of the Hammer in a dark and sullen mood. The conflict between the Council of Generals and his Loyalist’s was costing him more than he cared to admit. The war had lasted longer than any in Troclyn history and had nearly brought his people to their knees as everything from the economy to the spiritual unity of the masses had long been affected and was now close to ruin. The sense of depression and hopelessness that had been a predominant part of Troclyn life since the Great Shame had finally taken hold and now none were immune to the hand of destiny that was now paramount. Change had to happen. His people had to move forward or they would continue to slowly die under the heels of the Council. He was running out of time and he could no longer afford the luxury of wasting opportunities. He hated waste of any kind, but the waste of time was no longer acceptable to him. The universe had finally placed a time limit on his dreams and of those that followed his house and banner.
As he crossed to the throne, he looked around the large command center. A swell of pride filled his heart, momentarily replacing his anger and frustration. This was the best, most powerful battle cruiser in the Troclyn fleet. Oglar had handpicked every crewmember on the Hammer for not only their abilities but their family’s loyalty to the House of the High Lord. Their individual struggles to restore his family back to its ancient position of ruling his people, instead of acting as a powerless figurehead within the Council of Generals, had given him new powers and hopes his father had never known. His old anger and frustration quickly returned and those thoughts propelled his legs forward faster until at last, he stood at the command throne and next to his childhood friend and first officer, Illneu. “Report.”
Illneu sent out a secondary limb that accessed the command monitor next to the throne. “We approach the Dead Zone and the transmission coordinates.” Illneu split the monitor in two. One side displayed a tactical view next to a visible image of the local section of the zone. “Our scans have detected an interesting malfunction in one of the interdictor stations.”
Oglar watched the tactical display zoom into the station and its statistics flashed red. “By the Gods of War, are those readings true?”
“Yes, my lord, the gravimetric field generator is failing. It is only a matter of months before this station becomes inoperative.”
“When we are finished here, leave a probe to monitor the situation. I want to know the moment that station becomes inoperative,” Oglar turned his helmet towards the main situation monitor. “What of Orkemlis?”
Illneu turned his helmet back to Oglar. “His ship came into communications range just moments ago, I was about to call you.”
“Good, send the signal to my secure channel and join me,”
Illneu pressed a command code into the throne that sent Orkemlis’s waiting signal to Oglar’s quarters. He stood and in a loud, commanding voice said, “Second officer, you have the throne. When we reach the optimum position have helm hold at station keeping.”
A smaller, leaner bio-suit approached the throne. On his helmet, the second officer had a long gold strip and one dot denoting his rank. “I will serve and obey.”
As the young officer took command, Oglar and Illneu walked from the bridge and Orkemlis’s waiting signal.
* * *
“Sir we have reached the Corridor,” The helmsman’s hands methodically moved over his controls. “I’ve given us a minimum margin of safety for the jump drive Sir, to increase the quality of the transmission.”
“Good,” Orkemlis shifted his barrel-shaped body so he could see the com officer. “Send our greetings to the Hammer.”
Moments ticked slowly by as the com officer hailed the Troclyn battle cruiser. Shortly the bridge viewer wavered and changed from a barren spacescape to that of a sensor laden domed helmet of Troclyn battle armor. The main eye, which dominated the front, was a soft violet, two smaller lenses pulsated alternately just to the left. “Orkemlis, it is good to speak with you again.”
“Lord Oglar, thank you for taking the time to speak with me personally. It has been a very long time indeed,” Orkemlis shifted his weight in his command chair. “I must apologize for our lateness; I had great difficulty getting your supplies-particularly the computer virus you asked for. I hope the delay has not caused you any…distress?”
“No, there was no distress Orkemlis. You have proven your reputation to me more times then I can count, so a small delay in one delivery is but a small matter,” Oglar’s voice was a bit more mechanical since last they had spoken, a sign that Oglar’s health was starting to get worse just as Orkemlis had suspected and the algorithms foretold.
“I am preparing to send the drone shortly my lord; there are enough supplies to last you well into next year,” Orkemlis’s voice was easy going but professional.
“Is this line secure, Orkemlis?” Oglar asked quietly.
Orkemlis waved a hand and the com officer nodded in the affirmative. “Yes, my Lord.”
“I do not like telling anyone this, but you are my only hope Orkemlis. You are a businessperson, as you have put it. One that can get the impossible, or am I mistaken?”
“I’m a businessperson that knows how to get things done and done quietly if that is what you need,” Orkemlis said easily.
“Good. Send the supplies as agreed; your payment will be sent back aboard the pod as usual. I will not need any more shipments from you of the drug however as it grows increasingly ineffective.” Oglar paused, seeming to consider his next words, “I need the impossible from you Orkemlis. I must find a way to either reverse the blight or come up with a means for me to produce an heir.”
“Lord Oglar,” Orkemlis said in a slow, measured voice. “I’m sure you are aware that none on this side of the dead zone has but the vaguest of ideas what the blight truly is or how it affects your kind.”
“I know, I know. Along with your payment, I’m including all my former doctor’s records and several samples of my germ plasma,” Oglar said quickly.
“I’m not sure what I can do my Lord,” Orkemlis said with a tone of sympathy. “I’m not a doctor or a miracle worker.”
Oglar leaned into the camera, as his voice grew chilly. “I’m not used to begging Orkemlis, so please do not soil our friendship by my having to do so.”
“I would not dream of it Lord Oglar,” Orkemlis took a deep breath and rubbed his hands. “I will do my best, for our friendship. That is all I can do.”
Oglar sat back, a sound of satisfaction and hope crept into his voice, “That is all I can ask.”
The monitor suddenly changed back to the spacescape of the distant Troclyn Oligarchy. Orkemlis smiled to himself, the opening algorithms were right again. He should not have doubted them. Now all he needed to do on this front was let Oglar sit and stew for a while until Orkemlis needed him. Besides, the equations gave a high probability that Oglar would have his hands full for several months with his war and Orkemlis could safely turn his attention elsewhere.
“Launch the pod and wait for its return. Bring me the medical files and samples as soon as possible. Then set a course for Ricanthis Prime,” Orkemlis turned back to the com monitor and his shadowy friend. “Oglar is on track with the rest of the game. I’m heading back to ‘work’, You have your instructions. Good luck.”
The Courier nodded once. “And to you as well.”
* * *
Oglar closed the channel with Orkemlis and sat in silence as his words sank into Illneu’s mind.
“My...my Lord, what did the doctors say?” his voice was quiet, strained.
Oglar turned his helmet towards the cabin window. “You heard what I told Orkemlis. All I will add is that we will need a new head medical officer and captain of the guard.”
“I see,” Illneu stood still, not sure what to do or say to his childhood friend.
“When we have placed the probe, set a course for the fleet. We must gather our forces and then I will face our enemies. Rithillian himself will kneel in front of me before any of them can discover my weakness.”
“But our supporters are not organized on the Throne World. We also need time for the fleet; it is on its last leg. Before we force a vote within the council, we must consider this course of action carefully if we are to justify our cause.”
Oglar turned his helmet to look at Illneu. “Our cause is just, that is all the consideration I shall give it. I am the High Lord and Messenger of the Gods of War. It is time the Council accepts that and reconciles the Shame of the Slave Wars. I must be allowed to lead our people to greatness; it is the only way to save them,” He stood and looked towards a painting of the galaxy. “We have been locked behind that wall for a thousand years and now the Zone is finally failing; soon we will not be blocked from taking the rest of the galaxy as is our birthright. The Alliance crumbled to dust long ago and the races of the Frontier are scattered and disorganized. There are none to stand against us. Our people must stop killing each other and do what the gods created us for, to conquer and rule.”
“Long live the Messenger of the Gods of War. Long live the High Lord!” Illneu spoke the words with such feeling and conviction that Oglar knew, knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that this was the right course of action and that Illneu would see this to the end, just as he had always done. What Oglar needed now was more time; Illneu’s support was not enough. He needed more if he was to return home and finally confront the Council and Rithillian. Before he passed from this life, he had to do what the Gods had demanded of him. He had to bring his people the glory and respect they so desperately needed or they would be a lost race for another thousand years.
* * *
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