Zein: The Homecoming (25 page)

Cronje blinked as the transportation from the Eastern Quadrant to the Core was completed. Although he and his team had been stripped of all their weapons they had not been shackled. When they were split up, with Cronje separated from his men, Reddash made to resist the move, and then caught his commander’s small shake of the head and he capitulated to his captors. Reddash joined the other men and was marched away. Cronje was taken down a few corridors when Colonel Travers turned into a room, the men escorting Cronje pushing the Malacca man in after him. It took the entire experienced soldier’s self-control not to kill them both.

‘Greetings, Vice-Chancellor, how are you?’ In front of him were Lord Fathom and Lord Southgate. Lord Fathom looked ill, paler than usual; he sat listlessly on a comfortable chair. Colonel Travers saluted Lord Southgate and left the room.

‘Drink?’ asked Lord Southgate, an offer that brought an icy look from Cronje. This was no time to drink.

‘What’s going on, Lord Southgate?’

He didn’t answer but continued to pour the wine into his cup. Cronje noticed the flushness in his face and slurred speech indicating that this was not his first glass.

By
Tucan, what the hell was going on!

Cronje maintained his inscrutable look, not sure what else to say, at least until he knew more.

‘Shocking turn of events in Emula, hey Cronje, what were your men thinking of?’ said Lord Southgate. Cronje didn’t answer. Lord Southgate waved away the lack of response. ‘Don’t worry, I spoke with the Inner Council and pointed out you could not have had anything to do with that madness,’ he reassured the army man.  

Cronje kept his own counsel. He was fine with the Blackstone brothers but he was more suspicious and less patient with the likes of Lords Fathom and Southgate, due to their longer relationship with what had happened within the quadrants. He had made his peace with Lord Fathom somewhat after Evelyn’s, his late daughter, bravery in fighting Zylar but he had very little to do with Lord Southgate. He was waiting for where this was all going.

‘They want blood though, Cronje, yes blood,’ said Lord Southgate, bringing his drink to his lips. His expression was one of regret and reluctance.

Here it comes
…thought Cronje.

‘The Inner Council would only agree to dropping the matter if we, I mean myself and you as members of the Council, agree to three proposals.’

‘And they are…?’ asked Cronje, finding his voice, trying to hide the sinking feeling in his stomach.
This was not going to be good
. He looked past Lord Southgate at the pale and ill looking Lord Fathom who was steadfastly ignoring the conversation.

‘What is the matter with Lord Fathom…Sir?’ said Cronje, belatedly adding the respectful title, the delay not missed by the wily politician.

‘We are not sure. He was fine up to two weeks ago and then became sicker and sicker. My only guess is that
he is missing his daughter.’ Cronje could see that Lord Southgate generally cared for his fellow Lord’s health and Lord Fathom appeared to take little notice of their conversation.

Cronje returned to the matter at hand. ‘So, Lord Southgate what did the Inner Council ask us to sign up to?’

Lord Southgate pulled aside a chair to sit down. ‘The three things are that the Malacca army is stood down, weapons handed in and their duties undertaken by units of the human army, secondly that the officer in charge is taken into custody and finally that they instigate an act of martial law across the colonies.’

‘They are not having Reddash,’ said Cronje with feeling. Lord Southgate, expecting the pushback from the experienced soldier didn’t respond immediately but poured another glass and handed it to Cronje, who initially declined and then relented…a drink would do no harm. Lord Southgate relaxed slightly and swirled his wine round his glass as he considered the best way to proceed with this tough and capable man.

‘Reddash would have plenty of time to state his case and the Inner Council will make the judgment – which for his protection includes both you and I. Pretty sure we can play the politics correctly to make it a misdemeanour charge, or do you feel he is completely innocent?’

Cronje averted his eyes. He knew from reading Reddash’s response when he gave his report that some fault should be proportioned to him. That didn’t mean he wanted him hung out to dry and he would fight that. Now with Lord Southgate’s help they had considerable influence in the Inner Council. The by-laws of the Inner Council meant that if the two nominated Zeinonian individuals voted together they could overrule a change in law over the quadrants. It was a safeguard negotiated
by Lord Southgate and the Lord Chancellor in return for insight into the use of zinithium, a powerful lever in the negotiations.

‘What about the army standing down and martial law, don’t we open ourselves to becoming prisoners?’

Lord Southgate stroked the top of his hair and paced across to the window where you could look across Lower Town.

‘Not sure we have much option, Cronje – if we don’t then we lose their trust and if we do then we lose our freedom of movement,’ said Lord Southgate. ‘I like neither of them too much.’ He turned back to face Cronje. ‘I will back you on what you feel is the right move. I think we have to accept Reddash has to face questioning for his part in this mess but I am with you, we can’t allow for the Malacca army standing down and I completely feel the implementation of martial law is over the top.’

Cronje felt an element of relief, he hated these political games. ‘When is the next Inner Council meeting?’

‘In two days’ time and we are expected to attend and support the amendments.’

‘I don’t like how this is playing out Lord Southgate,’ said Cronje, frustration clear to see. ‘How do we ensure Reddash obtains a fair trial?’ Cronje remembered all the difficult times they had faced and he owed his life a number of times to the big Malacca man.

Lord Southgate shrugged and held out his hands. ‘They need us to mine the zinithium and more importantly make use of it,’ he reasoned, ‘They will not jeopardise that!’

The conversation continued in a similar vein until Cronje threw up his arms and agreed there was no way round it. He was free to go, all the soldiers were free to move freely around the Core, except, of course, Reddash who was placed in one of the Fathom’s Palace dungeons.

Cronje decided to take a walk down to the Lower Town. In the Fathom Palace there were a few Fathom guards and Southgate militia amongst the heavy presence of the United States and British armies. On the levels down to the Lower Town, the care for the lawns continued but he saw the fearful looks of the Fathom population under the human forces. He marvelled at the extension to the original Core with the Outer Perimeter Barrier now set well back from the Fathom Palace and with the new buildings under construction nearly doubling the size of the community. The streets were bustling with street hawkers selling their wares amongst the heavy patrols. The humans were taking no chances. He was walking through one particular market and stopped to buy an orange. He hadn’t eaten since he had left his homestead.

‘Don’t turn around my friend, you are being followed,’ said a deep voice, which was kept artificially low. Cronje continued to look at the fruit, picking up an orange and tossing it up in the air and catching it easily on its downward journey. He half turned to reach for a bunch of bananas and out of his peripheral vision he saw another man buying fruit.

Remo
.

Cronje was pleased to see and hear from a trustworthy friend; matters were becoming extremely weird.

Remo walked off indicating to Cronje to follow him. They both entered an adjacent alleyway. Remo glanced left then right, his face worn by strain and stress.

‘What happened in Emula?’

Cronje told him the full story, including the proposals to be voted upon by the Inner Council. He shouldn’t share such confidences but he was worried and he needed to share what he thought was an out of control situation. Remo listened quietly and when Cronje had subsided into silence he shook his head.

‘It is what I feared.’

‘What?’ Cronje’s fears had just multiplied as he monitored the wave of expressions on Remo’s face, which was usually so resolute.

‘Over the last month they have moved a considerable number of troops down here, nothing noticeable in any one movement but the aggregate number is a concern.’

‘What are they doing?’ asked Cronje. There was a noise from the street and they peered out to the main street and a Fathom man was arrested by two US Marines and hauled off.

‘That’s what has been happening,’ said Remo, with a grim expression. ‘They make arrests for public order or terrorist offences at will. It looks like it is not coordinated but each arrest focuses on Fathom clan members who have extensive knowledge of our systems, zinithium usage or our history.’

‘What do Lord Fathom and Lord Southgate do?’

‘Lord Southgate is rarely here and I spoke with Lord Fathom only a week ago but it didn’t seem to register, he looked ill,’ said Remo.

‘Yes, just seen him, looks like Princess Evelyn’s death has hit him hard.’ They both fell silent as they remembered the fateful battle when she was killed by Zylar. Then, realising they were suspiciously hanging around in the alleyway, Remo carried on with his assessment.

‘They closely guard the shifts down to Base Station Zero,’ said Remo, mentioning the main mining cave below their feet. ‘The zinithium is not kept here but shipped somewhere else. I tried to find the coordinates but they are wiped clean from the memory.’

‘So someone is stockpiling,’ mused Cronje, ‘but why, what is their plan?’

‘It’s not clear but the people down here are scared, and today they reduced the number of Zeinonians who could travel.’

‘Are there others we can trust down here?’

‘There are the remainder of the Fathom Royal Guard but they number less than one hundred and fifty. There are some of your Malacca Vets hanging around.’

‘How many?’

‘Probably another two hundred and a scattering of Tyther and Blackstone would double that number.’

‘What about the Southgates?’

‘Staying close to Lord Southgate and will not make a move without his say so,’ said Remo glancing over his shoulder. They needed to move. Cronje picked up the urgency.

‘Remo, I will track down some of the Vets and tell them to make their way towards the Palace without drawing attention, you talk with the rest,’ said Cronje. ‘The Vets will need weapons.’ He looked enquiring at Remo.

Remo was already ahead of him. ‘I know where they keep the guns; I will just need to convince Lord Fathom to give me the pass.’ With a plan forming they shook hands and first Remo stepped out of the alleyway and then walked away with his long loping stride. Cronje followed soon after and made his way to one of the many bars on the main street. He had a good idea that he would find his men scattered within these buildings.

The Speaker waited for all the members of the Cabal to call in with their predefined code. When the last woman joined, a powerful political figure in the US who came from old money and to whom the new President of the United Sates was beholden for the positive campaign she had coordinated behind the scenes, the Speaker brought them all up-to-date, concluding with an assessment of
the potential loss of life as they neared the final stages of the takeover.

There was an audible gasp from some when the scale of some of the civilian injuries and losses that were expected were announced.

‘I thought we were not going to do this on the back of a high body count, Speaker?’ said a Germanic voice. The Speaker was amused; the man came from one of the most powerful families in Germany that controlled one of the largest global multi-national companies.

Pretty sure his father was not saying that when the Nazis were flexing their muscles
…thought the Speaker.

‘It is regrettable of course but need I remind you that we are building a dynasty that will have the power to step out into the Universe and be a force,’ said the Speaker. There were a few grunts of acknowledgment on the phone. ‘Let’s not forget that the amount of zinithium we are collecting has never been collated by any one nation, from what our contacts in the quadrants say.’
True
, the Speaker thought, with such an amount of the most powerful raw material known to any living being in this group’s grasp, untold power and wealth was theirs for the taking.

As expected the greed and avarice of the Cabal members cancelled out some of the more squeamish of the group. The Speaker had no such issues of course – soon the Cabal and the role of the Speaker would be shared with the rest of the world, but by then Earth and the quadrants would be under their full control.

Bailey stood up and wiped the sweat forming on his forehead. He was helping clear the debris from Reinan as the Zeinonians began the small steps to a new life without fear of the Pod.

The meetings between Kabel, Zebulon and Festilion had initially started cautiously and then developed more positively. It became acutely apparent that it was not only the Zeinonians who were sick of war but also that the Pod had reached their outer limits of patience with the death and destruction. They were driven by fear. Fear of the Changelings, fear of what the Zeinonians had done to their breeding grounds. After many sessions of talks it was finally agreed that the old breeding grounds which hosted one of the main villages, would not be rebuilt but remain Pod land, along with whole swaths of mountainous land which sat above the Pods main settlements. Heathlon, had relinquished her title to Festilion, content to enjoy the remainder of her days away from the pressure of office: the duplicated roles only served to present confusion. The line of authority was now via Zebulon, for the Changelings and Festilion, for the Pod, simplifying matters greatly. They now could live in peace and in return, Festilion had asked only one further request.

Bailey knew of the request and he waited patiently, searching the airstrip where one of the transporters would return Tyson from his recent trip to see the wider planet. Festilion wanted to speak to Tyson, once again, a request that Bailey knew his friend would have no problem accepting when he arrived back. The two had previously met on a number of occasions and each time Tyson’s knowledge of the magics grew. Bailey knew he was hungry for more information on the magics, however, it also unsettled his friend and they hadn’t caught up after the last discussion between Tyson and the High Priestess and he would not settle until he saw his friend back, safe and sound.

‘What are you stopping for Englishman, hard work too much for you?’ said Sean Lambert, heaving a ripped and useless settee onto an increasingly high pile of rubbish that would be burned later in the day.

‘I am not soft like you northern guys,’ Bailey retorted to the Scot, with no malice in his voice. He bent down and picked up a couple of broken shutters and then stopped. Tate and Belina were walking up the street, hand in hand. Tate was directing the clean-up and the men and women around him were happily following his demands, respect for what he had done for them over the last few years still present, even with the growing recognition that it was now a Blackstone who reigned as Lord Chancellor, echoing the mastery of the olden days.

Bailey had accepted the position that Tate and Belina were inexplicably drawn to each other but that didn’t help dull his memories and how he felt. Some of the other girls within the human civilians had made moves to attract him but he wasn’t interested. The old saying, “once bitten twice shy” was a true one for him. He shook his head and muttered, ‘My, my Bailey, you have gone soft in your head.’

‘What’s that?’ Sean was at his shoulder. The soldier followed his friend’s gaze and placed a hand on Bailey’s shoulder. ‘That was a hard thing to take, laddy, and I know you are hurting now but someone else will come into your life, when the time is right.’

‘Maybe, maybe,’ said Bailey, as Belina caught his looks and smiled at him. Tate saw the exchange and didn’t seem in any way perturbed; he knew the bond they had was now unbreakable.

There was suddenly a roar as a transporter came into land. Bailey threw the broken shutters onto the pile of rubbish and ran to the temporary landing strip near the ships. Kabel and Zebulon came out first, closely followed by a thoughtful looking Tyson and Amelia who had hooked her arm through his. Bailey pushed past the guards waiting to escort Kabel and made his way to his friend.

‘How did it go?’ Bailey asked the pair.

‘We were shown around the whole planet, it is vast,’ said Amelia, glancing at the pensive looking Tyson.

‘Give me a few minutes with Bailey would you please, Amelia,’ said Tyson. Amelia supressed her surprise and gave him a quick peck on the cheek and went to look round the clearing up of the city.

‘What’s up, mate?’ asked Bailey as Tyson walked away from the hustle and bustle. No answer was forthcoming so Bailey traipsed after him, until they were on the edge of the Falls. Tyson sat down on the grass picking at the flowers in the meadow. Bailey joined him.

‘It is beautiful?’ said Tyson, knowledgeably. ‘You really have no idea how much effort has gone into making this place?’ His hand swept across the Falls and then Reinan. Bailey shook his head. ‘Centuries…’ He drifted off, unfinished, concern littered across his face.

‘So?’ Bailey said, not following.

‘The so is, Bailey, that the magics unpicked this idyllic life, led to thousands dying and took a race of people a fraction from annihilation. All due to the magics!’ said Tyson, more vehemently than he wanted to. Bailey was taken back but began to understand his friend’s concern. He reverted to his favoured protection and remained quiet, waiting for the full story. He didn’t need to wait long.

‘Before I left, Festilion told me the stories that led them to fear the Changelings,’ said Tyson, stopping to make sure his friend was listening. He was. ‘The likes of Zebulon were the success stories but for every Zebulon who wanted to become a skin changer there were many where it did not work well.’ He stopped again seeing Bailey’s confusion, ‘That’s the translation for Malefics, the name the Pod gave to the Changelings.’

‘Got it,’ said Bailey, knowing this was leading up to Tyson’s underlying worry.

‘Remember also, Zebulon was somewhat forced to convert by the actions of his younger brother and then his parents in the interests of saving the family unit; great motivator to make it work.’ Bailey was in listening mode, soaking up all this new knowledge. ‘She told me the horrible deaths some of the Pod or Changelings went through, people she knew from a child. The magics twisted them and hollowed them out, until they were just shells of their former selves.’

‘You’re worried that may happen to you, aren’t you?’

Tyson’s face seemed to age and Bailey held himself back from comforting his friend, the usual man to man reservation, which was a very natural occurrence between men. If Tyson minded his friend’s aloofness he didn’t show it, they had known each other since young boys and been through adventures not many friends would ever experience. Now he just wanted a friend to listen.

‘It is hard to describe, I feel this incredible anger inside me that, when I release it, I feel powerful and nothing can stand in my way. When it recedes I just feel empty and if it was not for Amelia I would struggle to hold it together,’ said Tyson.

‘What did this High Priestess say, and Zebulon for that matter?’

Tyson shrugged. ‘They said they had never seen such a powerful distortion of the magics and thought my control was astounding.’ He tailed off.

‘I feel there is a “but” in there, mate,’ said Bailey, reading his friend’s expression well…he should do after so many years.

‘The High Priestess said that irrespective of the control I would lose myself to the magics. There was a sense she picked up of my human genes fighting against the magics and by doing so increasing the power.’ Bailey was engrossed and was hungry for more news.

‘What does that all mean, surely the magics are not all bad, they helped us end the fight before?’ he reasoned. Tyson leaned down and picked a white flower.

‘Do you know that this is the hanish flower which makes their strong beer? They take these flowers, crush them, add water and place it through a zinithium powered press and then let it stand for over twelve months, before distilling – the flower then disintegrates. That’s why it is so strong,’ Tyson explained to his now increasingly confused friend. He gave a lopsided smile. ‘What I am trying to say, my friend, is that this flower is no longer a flower and changes completely over time, so much that it does not exist in its previous form.’ Bailey began to comprehend what Tyson was trying to get across.

‘So you are worried that sometime in the future, you would cease to be and become someone who looks like
you, talks like you but is not you?’ said Bailey and Tyson nodded sadly. ‘What you going to do then?’

‘Zebulon will look after me and he has promised that he will remove the magics before the point of no return.’

‘He can do that? How can you or he assess what the point of no return is?’

‘I don’t know, I just have to trust him.’

Bailey was still bewildered, something he was becoming used to in this topsy-turvy world he was within. ‘How can Kabel and the other Zeinonians deal with the magics? Won’t they also have a tipping point?’

Tyson smiled wearily. ‘It’s different for them, their ancestors were exposed so often to the raw power of the planet that when the Changelings imparted their so called gift they were able to place an element of control on the spread of the magics…unless…’

‘…unless you are Zylar craving it all?’ Bailey finished.

‘Yep,’ said Tyson watching a galloping mantelope across the meadow.

Bailey stood up and offering his hand to his friend said, ‘Enough lazing around for you, time to get stuck in with the others.’

Tyson smiled and accepted the proffered hand and then using Bailey’s counterweight sprang up from the blue grass. His then free hand clasped Bailey’s other forearm causing Bailey to look quizzically at his friend.

Tyson smiled warmly. ‘Bailey, please don’t change,’ he said, slightly choking on the words as he conveyed the years of friendship in a simple grasp and a few words.

Bailey grinned. ‘Never, one freak around here is enough for anybody!’

They both laughed and went to re-join the clean-up work, when there was an almighty shout. Both whirled around to see the fleeting figure of Eva speeding towards
them carrying what looked like a beef sandwich. Tyson reached out and caught the teenager by her arm.

‘Let go of me,’ Eva shouted, wriggling this way and that way.

‘What have you been up to, Eva?’ Since Tyson had seen her on that first day, he went out of his way to talk to her. The girl was trouble, with a capital T, but when he started talking to this wonderful Fathom princess who fought like a whirlwind, he was drawn to her, like a brother. A panting Hechkle joined them, slightly red-faced and pursued by an equally bemused Bronstorm.

‘Thanks, Tyson, she pinched my lunch,’ he said with a pained face.

‘You are too fat for this,’ said Eva, brandishing the large sandwich, much to Bailey’s and Bronstorm’s amusement.

‘Now, Eva, that is not a nice thing to say, is it?’ said Tyson, holding back the smile that wanted to break out on his face. Eva’s face was sullen, half hidden by a mass of ringlets and scrunched up red hair.

‘Hechkle needs his food; otherwise he will not have the energy to chase you, will he?’ he admonished. Eva grinned wickedly and the look she gave Tyson, took his breath away - it was Evelyn, bottled up in this tightly coiled spring of a girl. His face gave the game away and Hechkle’s face softened. He knew.

‘Please give Hechkle his sandwich back and I will make sure someone makes a similar sandwich for you?’ said Tyson.

Eva bristled at the request. ‘What’s the fun in that?’ she snapped.

‘Eva…’ warned Tyson.

‘Who wants his stupid sandwich anyway,’ said the petulant teenager and thrust the sandwich at Hechkle, who took it, made to backhand her across the cheek and
when she flinched, leaned back and laughed, earning another glare.

Bronstorm stepped forward and made an extravagant bow. ‘Come on, Princess Eva, may I escort you to the Royal Sandwich Maker?’

Eva giggled, all of a sudden her rebellious streak disappearing, she had a soft spot for the quicksilver Fathom soldier and curtsying back with a now radiant smile on her face, ‘Well thank you, kind gentleman, at last someone treats me how I should be treated,’ she said loftily. Hechkle scowled, which caused everyone to laugh. Bronstorm offered his arm which the young girl took and they strolled away as if nothing mattered, followed by a grumbling Hechkle.

‘They would do anything for that girl, wouldn’t they?’ said Bailey.

‘Yes, as I would do.’ said Tyson, his laughter dying away as old memories came back.

Bailey placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder. ‘Come on, why don’t we grab one of those lovely sandwiches?’ Tyson smiled his agreement and they set off after the disappearing tree of a man called Hechkle.

Amelia’s attention was taken by Tyson and Bailey holding their deep conversation wondering what they were talking about.

‘Anything the matter?’ said Gemma, who was enjoying the company of the older Jaida, who had shown a mischievous side to her personality as she provided joking assessments of all key members of the Aeria Cavern. Gemma was intrigued to hear about her on and off relationship with Tate and surmised that Jaida knew exactly how to get her man.

‘No, not really, they just wanted to talk,’ said Amelia, knowing full well something wasn’t right with Tyson…but there again that was not anything new.

‘Really glad you two have got together,’ said Gemma, hiding her small resentment that Tyson had not even attempted to flirt with her since their kiss on the ship…
now was not the time to be petty
.