IÁSTRON
VOLUME I OF THE GILAXIAD
—SECOND EDITION—
By
JAMES C. DUNN
Iástron
Volume One of the Gilaxiad
Copyright 2013 James C. Dunn
Cover Art by: Fahad Sulehria @ novacelestia.com
ISBN-13: 9781301527328
Give feedback on the book at:
[email protected] iástron: [yah-stron or, ee-yas-tron]
adjective: exhibiting signs of bodily and/or instinctual tendencies toward inhuman and possibly even otherworldly ability
noun: a iástron person
origin: 3900-3910 A.C.E
ia- + stron [translation: ‘bearer of the echo’]
Luna Athenaeum – Record Hall 19.134
CHAPTER ONE
THE FALL OF EUROPA
A CAVERNOUS TEAR cleaved through the high ceiling, dust and debris fell, a single scream echoed down the endless corridor, and Ava Lucasta knew they had come. The walls around her appeared as though to melt away before her aged eyes, dissolving from soft ashen grey to a sinuous stream of deathly black slime. A thousand drums pound and beat and her heart galloped within her weakening chest.
But Ava Lucasta had a task to complete. The fate of the Iástron people she held tight within her shuddering palms. She took a deep breath, steadied her trembling arm which had been resting, knuckles worn, upon the banister beside. And she ran. Her mind raced and her bare feet creased in pain as she hastened down the corridor.
No longer silent, the concave embankments that guarded her home had kept the army at bay for as long as they could. But its pounding rhythm advanced toward the heart of the sanctuary, far beneath the ice sheets of the frozen moon of Jupiter where the Iástron children slept. Lucasta’s home, though concealed, unknown, and considered the most protected place in the established galaxy, was about to be laid to ruin.
Above, among the higher stratums of impenetrable ice, scores of bodies marched, uncounted weapons were charged, a great many cheers roared out, and long years of propitious plans merged into a single force. It was an almighty storm that had brewed. By morning, control would rest with the army that had gathered.
As the walls of the refuge trembled and shook, Lucasta entered quickly into the girls’ dormitory and headed for the bed at the farthest end. There a cherry-haired young girl slept soundly. She woke her in silence. There wasn’t time to rouse the others, though it killed her that she couldn’t warn them; they were trapped down here, and very soon they would all be dead. Lucasta pulled the young girl from the dorm and half dragged her down the rumbling corridors. Left and right, down low and lower still.
‘Where are we going, Lucasta?’ the girl asked.
‘Shhh now child. Come. Faster now.’
The master had asked for this one, and this one alone. ‘Bring her to me,’ he had said. ‘She is a single hope, down among this dark. Her capacity for survival is above all others. I have seen it. This child will survive tonight.’ And so she pulled her alongside, surrounded by confusion and fear as the army above closed in. She prayed. She pleaded with fate that there was time . . .
In minutes they reached the rumination chamber. Huge, emerald copper doors opened without a hand and they walked silently across the dark marble floor. In the centre of the room sat a young boy, cross-legged. His eyes were closed. They moved forwards until they stood before him, the doors closing involuntarily behind. He opened his eyes and looked up.
‘Master,’ she said. ‘We don’t have much time.’
He blinked, looking from her to the girl, and then back to Lucasta. ‘How far?’
She shook her head. ‘Much too close and gaining foot by the second. They’re coming for you, Peter. It’s you they want.’
‘We have no time at all,’ he said, and he turned to the girl. ‘How do you feel, Ximma?’
‘Frightened.’
‘You have no reason to be frightened,’ Peter said as he rested a palm on her shoulder and lowered her to the floor. ‘Not while Lucasta and I are here.’
Lucasta watched carefully, backing away and sitting upon a long marble settle bordering the room.
‘Do you dream?’ Peter asked Ximma.
The young girl mumbled a timid ‘yes’ and looked across to her; Lucasta smiled, nodding receptively though she knew nothing of Peter’s intentions.
‘Good,’ he said. ‘And what do you dream of?’
‘They’re . . . frightening.’
‘Frightening?’
‘Yes.’
‘What frightens you, Ximma?’
The little girl breathed in deep. ‘Humans.’
They continued the quiet exchange for minutes more, seemingly unaware of the marching and the drums and the fire which raged all around them, deep beneath Europa and descending toward the lonely chamber. Lucasta bowed her head. The old woman trusted Peter. She listened to his voice, focusing on the gentle tone and youthful melody of his words.
‘Imagine something for me if you will,’ Peter said to the quivering girl. ‘Don’t think too much; though don’t allow your mind to wander. Simply close your eyes. In your mind’s eye conjure the image of an empty corridor. It is long, straight, and narrow. There is only silence and the lights are flickering, offering split seconds of alternating vision and dreaded darkness.’ His voice carried through the great space and bore them both to the very place of which he spoke. ‘Can you picture it?’
Ximma nodded.
‘Good. Up ahead you begin to see something move . . . in and out of the darkness . . . a creature, so utterly terrifying that your blood is frozen . . . your heart stone. It races towards you faster than you can flee, carrying with it a shrieking hiss which freezes you in your place. You see it?’
Ximma nodded.
‘A Human?’
Ximma nodded.
‘I see. You have now but three choices: to turn and run back down the passage from whence you came, or take one of the unknown paths leading off to either side. Or else you can charge straight ahead at the creature, and hope beyond all hope that it is the Human which flees first. The choice . . . is yours alone.’
Lucasta leaned forward, examining both master and student. The young girl fastened her eyes shut, concentrating. The young boy—their master—did so too. Smiling gently, he watched her thoughts and the testing choice she now considered, connected in a way few could ever understand. Lucasta, on the other hand, studied the child’s cautious expression, her tightly bunched eyes and pursed lips revealing the struggle within in a way which made reading her delicate mind relatively pointless.
‘What is it to be, Ximma?’ he asked.
‘I . . . I would . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘I would—’
A deafening thud connected with the copper gates. The three reeled around in panic. The chamber lights went out and an agonizing groan signalled that the enormous doors were being torn apart. The groan was followed by distressing yells and roars. The light from outside the room poured in and as the gates melted away one-hundred crimson-cloaked forms strode through. Peter stood and the old woman rushed over to clutch Ximma in her arms. The surge of cloaked bodies coursed around the room, moving slowly towards them.
Then, without warning, Lucasta was thrown into the far tiled wall as though assailed by a titanic freight craft. She collapsed onto the dark slabs, her brittle body numbed with pain, and the child Ximma charged to her side.
Peter remained motionless: a young boy surrounded by death. Peter Marx, however, was no child. He may have appeared young in body, but he was older than any who now lived. He raised his arms and the crowd stopped, silent. They watched him intently.
‘You have come here for me,’ he said. ‘
So take me.’
Lucasta couldn’t move from her position, set upon her belly, but she watched a young man step to the fore, dressed in grey, cloaked also in red. He was taller than the others, and she studied how his large eyebrows met in the middle with a most unsettling glare. He gazed down upon her master and smiled.
Peter breathed out. ‘Marrak . . .’
‘Peter,’ said Marrak. ‘Do not fight us.’
‘I don’t intend to.’
‘Good.’ Marrak turned and walked from the chamber. Also turning, his own scarlet cloak flowing behind him, Peter left with the assembly.
As what was left of the old green copper doors slammed closed, the young girl backed up and the elderly Iástron held her close. However, three of the men that had entered the rumination chamber remained. Lucasta stared at them with unmoving, elderly eyes. Faces frozen, they gazed back. A strained sensation fell above them, like a vacant over-blanket which sapped all energy and effort.
She had never seen her master in such a way; out of the corner of his great mind appeared to bleed a thing she had never seen in him before.
Fear.
He had left without protest, regardless of the damage this army had done. She had to know where they had gone. She had to find her master. She had to help.
‘Tell me,’ she said to the three men in her most imposing intonation, ‘is it customary to hold prisoner like this an elderly woman and an innocent child?’
They each looked to one another, and the closest stepped towards them. ‘The girl may leave, but you must stay.’ The Iástron snorted. ‘We will have the girl. She will be taken somewhere . . . safe . . . with the rest of the children.’ He smiled toothily and with a firm hand took hold of Ximma’s wrist.
But she, the old yet powerful Iástron Lucasta, took his as he did so, looked up from the ground, and cried, ‘We are not your enemies! They are. Help us to leave here at once!’
‘Wait!’ yelled one of the other men, reaching for his holstered blaster. ‘Don’t go near her!’
Too late. The Iástron released Ximma and whipped out his own weapon, triggered it, and fired. Thump! The black marble floor welcomed the man’s warm remains. The other held his arms high in surrender.
‘Good,’ Lucasta said as she took Ximma’s hand and staggered from the room, the now hostage-held Iástron and his guard courteously holding the warped doors open.
In minutes Lucasta and Ximma were rushing swiftly down the pristine-white and mazelike corridors of the station Europa. Deep beneath the frozen moon, the Iástrons’ haven had been secret for many years. And Lucasta, whose back now splintered with creasing pain, focused with all her power, penetrating the surrounding structures of the station until the small life-sign of Peter Marx materialized before her. As lightning strikes in an instant flash against the darkened sky she saw him.
‘There!’
Keeping the child behind her she raced along the corridors, until they reached another chamber, closed off on all sides. That was it. As she slipped through an opening of a single side entrance, a formidable voice spoke out.
‘Hold him still!’
The young boy, Marrak, was only twenty years old; and yet he and Peter were so alike, not only in looks, but in other, more dangerous ways.
Peering around the corner, Lucasta looked over the dark-red crowd and almost gasped when she saw her master. Covered in his own blood, he hung suspended on the far side of the room, encircled by a dozen more Iástrons. Each stood apart, arms reached out to hold him in place.
Marrak paced among them, circling Peter—humming, musing, taunting. He stopped. ‘How many children are here, Peter?’ he asked. ‘How many Iástron children live down on these levels?’
‘Three-thousand six-hundred and thirty-four,’ Peter replied.
‘And you chose them all?’
‘Every last one of them.’
Marrak smiled. ‘The children of Europa . . . the Iástron children . . . little echo-bearers. They have a song down here, you know? Do you want to hear it?’
Peter said nothing.
‘No? Well I’ll tell it to you . . .
‘Deep beneath the moon we lie; cut off from life, now ask us why,
‘We struggle with the rest you see; cursed, bloody . . . not meant to be.’
Silence filled the crowded chamber.
‘Marrak,’ Peter said. ‘You—’
‘Use my full name!’
‘No.’
Marrak smirked. ‘You fear me?’
‘I fear what you plan to do. I fear that which fills your mind. The struggle you are losing with yourself. Remember everything I taught you. Stop this now.’
Marrak laughed; a long, cold, childlike laugh.
‘So,’ he said, pacing once again, ‘our people tell me that the golden armies of Titan have at the last overcome dark and molten Crilshar. We all knew it was nothing but a matter of time until the war was over and the Humans stopped fighting amongst themselves . . .
‘But, as no one else seems to gather, therein lies our problem, Peter. You have been helping Titan and the Alignment. I know you have. And now there is peace out there, the attention will turn back to us. The hunt that began will now continue. They will come for us. They will find us. And every last one of us will die!’
‘You’re wrong! We are safe down here. They will not find us. You don’t need to do this.’
Marrak stopped pacing and stood before him. ‘I am taking the Iástrons to war. With or without your help.’
‘Help is not what you want from me.’
Marrak shook his head. ‘The result of your touch gives us our abilities: an echo of your own gift. You are more powerful than all of us combined. Even now you are holding back for fear of harming one of us. I don’t want to kill you, but I do want your gift.’
Peter sighed. ‘A gift is given. It is not taken.’
‘So you will give it to me?’
Peter smiled. ‘No.’
‘Wrong!’ Marrak reached out his arm, pointing his finger. Directly at Lucasta. Her head snapped to the side as though something had connected with her cheek. Ximma screamed and the two were pulled by some hidden force from their hiding place, through the parting crowd, and into the centre of the room.
Warm blood dripped down the old woman’s face. She wiped it aside and stood, slow but defiant. Marrak pulled her toward him as others took hold of the young child. He held Lucasta’s throat in one hand with throbbing pressure.
Peter’s face burned as red as hers. ‘Marrak, stop!’ he said, fighting for freedom, unable to move. His captors kept their distance, hands outstretched, holding firm.
‘Then give me your gift!’
Lucasta, looking down to her blood-covered hands, realised her master couldn’t surrender his power. Not to this madman.
‘I won’t!’
‘Then she dies!’ Marrak’s fingers tightened around her neck. Her faced burned. The room spun.
‘Stop it!’ he said ‘Stop!’
Lucasta shook, raised up so that her feet no longer touched the ground. Her eyes made contact with those of her killer. She raised her hand, brought it up to his face, and gasped, ‘Stop.’
Marrak let go.
She fell to the floor, and said, ‘Free Peter Marx!’
‘Your tricks are only as powerful as your quarry will allow!’ he said, swiping his hand across her face and sending her flying into the crimson crowd.
Pushed forward from behind, she slammed into the floor. She looked to Peter. ‘You’re . . . right,’ she said, panting for breath, and she turned to another Iástron towering above her. ‘Free Peter Marx!’
‘No!’ Marrak cried, but it was too late. Lucasta’s puppet had thrown himself at one of the men holding Peter in place. They both fell to the ground. The others turned, distracted, and Peter plummeted from above. ‘Kill him!’ Marrak screamed in a fury of rage, and the men around him fired their blasters at their old master.
Peter stood, and as though an impene
trable wind had suddenly filled the air around him, bright light, bullets, and screaming men and women took to the air all about him.
Lucasta, however, did not wait to see what happened. She turned and crawled across the room toward the place Ximma lay, while all about her light and dark collided in a roaring storm. She took Ximma’s hand and turned to see Peter fighting back an attack from Marrak himself, who, in an effortless bid to overwhelm him, was now tearing the room apart.
‘If you won’t join me,’ Marrak said over the tumult, ‘and you won’t give me your gift, then I will force you to fight! If you have nowhere to hide, your only option is war!’
‘Don’t punish them,’ Peter said, averting a dark gust of energy and driving it into the metal structure above. ‘Europa must remain!’
Marrak forced the ceiling above them to collapse, crying, ‘EUROPA WILL FALL!’
Lucasta took a deep breath. She picked up Ximma, who held her tight with streaming tears, and moved to find the way out. But before she could, the dark figure of a man blocked her way. He held up a blaster. A bright flash filled her vision. Then a burning pain in her chest. She fell back, dropping the child, and watched the ceiling above collapse inward. Down . . . down . . . falling . . . crushing . . . overwhelming . . . darkness.
* * *
Flashing images saturated Lucasta’s mind, cold dreams of death and ice. Screams were all she could hear. White flame and her master’s voice. Lucasta lay on her front, looking down at dark ice. Colossal shelves folded in on themselves and her home disappeared below. A weeping sounded, and shivers fell down her spine. All was white and black.
‘Lucasta . . . Lucasta, wake up!’ Lucasta looked up. Peter’s mourning eyes of cold sapphire looked down. He held her in his small, trembling arms.
‘Wh . . . What happened?’ She looked to her blood-covered clothing. ‘My chest—’
‘You were shot,’ he said. ‘I managed to heal you as we abandoned the moon.’
‘Shot? What . . . how . . . the others!’ She gazed around to realise they were inside an escape pod. Above, to the side, and all around, through the clear, crystal-like casement, she could see masses of ice collapsing, hurtling down towards them.
‘It’s all right,’ Peter said. ‘We’ll make it out.’