Mission 51, p.3
Mission 51, page 3
“Ah, here you are, my son,” Yonek said, a little awkwardly, emitting unexpectedly pleasant tones, his eyes beaming a placid pink.
Iohma sat by his side, her hands folded serenely on the table. She smiled and nodded to Zeemat, motioning for him to sit and start eating. Zeemat sat down slowly on the other side of the table, eyeing his parents with suspicion.
They had been waiting for him with an unusually large meal laid out at the table, decked out with some of Zeemat’s favorite foods—wild Cricksucker ova fried, seasoned, and salted just the way he liked them. Slices of roasted Gleek and a sweet Urkani dipping sauce made his stomach rumble. A variety of multicolored fruits were puréed and served in separate bowls for him to mix in his favorite combinations. A tall glass of chilled Hamaya juice was already poured and waiting for him next to his plate and eating utensils. It was as magnificent a meal as the ones they served on special occasions.
“We prepared this feast to remind you of our love,” Iohma said, pointing with open hands to the beautiful display of food on the table.
“We’ll always love you, no matter what happens after today,” Yonek added.
Zeemat sat down and started to eat, his eyes trained on his parents. After what had happened the night before, Zeemat was confused by their sudden change in demeanor. The storm’s charge certainly had not yet worn off, and this wasn’t like them—lately, they had been critical of his every word and action. Something odd was happening, and he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. He almost preferred their anger—at least he was used to that. Their pleasantries unnerved him.
“What’s going on?” Zeemat mumbled with his mouth full. “Last night you were angry and ashamed, and now . . . this.”
“Nothing to worry about,” Yonek said in a seemingly cheerful voice, his face unnaturally taut. “We made a decision last night and now we’re at peace.”
Zeemat stopped chewing mid-bite. The guarded looks on his parents’ faces concerned him more than the anger he’d expected. They looked down at their plates as if hiding something from him. They didn’t talk about their plans for the day like they usually did. Zeemat remained motionless but on high alert. He held his face still except for his eyes, which darted from his father to his mother, back and forth.
“Please don’t tell me you were serious about that Space Academy and Mission 51 nonsense,” Zeemat said.
“It’s not a rash decision, Zeemat. Your father and I have been talking about it for a long time,” Iohma replied, proceeding into what sounded like a practiced speech. “Don’t think of it as a punishment but rather as a chance for you to find your place in the family history of warriors and conquerors. You’re lucky we can give you this one final gift. No one else on the planet could have an opportunity like this.”
“As the Supreme Commander of Mission 51,” Yonek said, “I have the right and power to select the crew. I’ve already chosen three of the four, and today I will announce that you are the fourth and final member of the crew.”
“You’re going to Cerulea on Mission 51. Isn’t that exciting?” Iohma spoke in a high, chirping voice, her pacifying tone grating to Zeemat’s ears. “You’ll be remembered as a warrior and a conqueror, a hero.”
Zeemat couldn’t believe it. His mother spoke as if this should be a consolation to him, but how could they seriously think he’d be right for the job? A crew member of a once-in-a-lifetime Cerulean mission. Crews were chosen based on knowledge, skills, talents, aggression, and accomplishments, and Zeemat had none of those things. Becoming a crew member was a highly competitive process, and Zeemat had never even set foot inside the Space Academy.
“Zzzt! This is ridiculous!” Zeemat exclaimed, slamming down his eating utensils. “Look at me.” He pointed at his weak body clad in baggy, paint-stained clothes. “You know I’m not the right person for this. You know I’ll fail.”
“You’ll determine your own fate,” Yonek said, a little less cheerful now.
“It’s time for you to leave us.” Iohma’s face bore a firm look matching her husband’s. “The three crew members already selected are fully capable of seeing the mission through. You’ll train to be the fourth, and you’ll learn to be useful to your crewmates. You’re going to Cerulea whether you like it or not. You’ll fight for survival or die trying. You’ll be a beacon of Torkiyan Knowledge, Wisdom, and Truth and make us proud. You’ll seek copper for your people. You’ll learn what it takes to be a Torkiyan, and you will bring honor to our family.”
Zeemat shuddered, momentarily immobilized at the thought. He shook his head slowly.
“I can’t do it! I won’t do it!” His mind raced through his dwindling choices. It was obvious he couldn’t stay in his house any longer, maybe not even in the same city. “I’ll leave,” he said, his voice crackling. “And I’ll live somewhere else if that’s what you want me to do.” He rose from the table and began to turn away.
“Yes,” Yonek agreed. “Somewhere else—the Space Academy.”
Yonek stood from the table, marched over to the desk in the adjoining room, waved his right hand over the desktop holograph, and brought up the ready image of two of his officers.
“It’s time,” Yonek said to them. “Zeemat is ready.”
“No, I’m not ready!” Zeemat yelled, pushing the table away and spilling his juice in the commotion. He dashed toward the stairs.
“I’m packing. I’m leaving!”
Yonek propelled himself toward Zeemat, stopping him with an outstretched hand.
“Your bags are already packed,” he said, nodding to the two small bags waiting by the entrance door.
“No!” Zeemat repeated. His parents had put their plan into action. He knew he needed to move fast before Yonek’s officers arrived to take him away.
Zeemat bolted to the front door, threw it open. Through the window, he spotted a speeding diamagnetic military cruiser, decorated with the Space Academy emblem and the traditional colors of space blue and star yellow, halting in front of the house, the coils still spinning with the vehicle a short distance off the ground. Two young officers leapt out and straightened their uniforms. Zeemat’s heart raced and his head swam as he looked frantically in all directions, assessing his best route of escape. He turned to his right and broke into a desperate run to freedom.
The officers looked at the running Zeemat, calm amusement playing across their faces, and then over to their commanding officer Yonek, who stood at the entrance door. He nodded for them to take chase. They nodded in return and took off after Zeemat like bloodhounds let loose on their doomed prey.
Zeemat ran in full sprint, panic rising like bile toward his throat. He glanced over his shoulder, shocked to see the officers running faster, taking long, powerful strides with their trained, muscular legs. Zeemat tried to lose the officers by turning at the last moment around neighboring habitations, but they kept him in their sight as they closed the gap between them.
When they caught up to him, Zeemat turned around and took a wild swing toward one of the officers, who dodged the assault with ease. With a swift countermovement, the officer twisted Zeemat’s arm into a defenseless position. The second officer grabbed his other arm and twisted it in a similar fashion, rendering Zeemat powerless in the grasp of these two strong soldiers. They held him in a vise grip, lifted him off the ground, and marched him back to their waiting vehicle in front of his house.
Zeemat tried to free himself, twisting his body and kicking his feet in the air, squirming like a fish in the grasp of a Flying Water Tyrant. But despite his resistance, the officers had no trouble carrying him back to the waiting vehicle, its doors opening automatically as they approached. Zeemat propped his feet against the doorframe of the vehicle in a last-ditch effort to resist his capture, but the officers forced him into the car with a practiced efficiency. They secured his arms and legs, restraining him like a prisoner.
“Here are his belongings,” Yonek said to the officers, handing over the two small bags he had packed for his son. “It’s more than he’ll need.”
He averted his gaze from Zeemat, who was hiding the whirlwind of emotions coursing through him, already mourning the loss of things as they used to be.
Zeemat shot his father an angry look as the vehicle’s doors whooshed shut. Yonek’s expression was firm for the benefit of his officers, but it morphed into grief as he watched his precious son being driven away against his will. It’s for his own good, he thought, trying to reassure himself that what they had done was right.
Iohma joined her husband outside, and together they waited for the cruiser to disappear in the distance.
“Zzzt. It’s for the best,” she said, echoing her husband’s thoughts. In her heart, she believed the words were true. “He’ll find his way. The Space Academy will be a fine home. He’ll find his talents and learn how to live like a Torkiyan. You’ll see.”
“Yes, I will see,” Yonek repeated.
Iohma examined her husband’s curious expression, not quite sure what to make of it.
“I must see,” Yonek insisted.
Three
Leaving Home
Zeemat stopped struggling in the back seat of the Space Academy vehicle. There was no use resisting the officers or his circumstances. He leaned his head against the window and gazed out at the rows of pyramidal dwellings identical to his own family unit. Their uniformity and symmetry had always seemed so boring to him, but suddenly they were like precious objects from a world he didn’t want to lose. He didn’t know many of the people inside those dwellings, but he felt as if they were all potential friends he might have met someday, but now he never would.
The cruiser swept past several tall lightning towers as it picked up speed. Zeemat inspected their intricate design and the beauty of the connected sidewalks. The swirling pattern of the copper inlays shimmered as they sped past them. He’d never noticed that effect before. He tried to capture mental images of everything he saw, in case he never came back.
The cruiser made its way out of his neighborhood and onto a thick metallic ramp that rose over the city. The diamagnetic force worked better over the heavy, electrified metal, and the cruiser picked up altitude and speed. They glided over other neighborhoods of pyramidal, spherical, and square-shaped habitations painted in a spectrum of colors. He thought of all the normal people inside them, eating their normal morning meals, looking forward to a normal day. He envied them, feeling sorry for himself.
In the distance, he spotted the school he’d attended as a child, and a painful pang of a memory tugged at the bottom of his heart. He had been a disappointment to his parents even then. He remembered the time his teachers had summoned his parents for a conference because he wasn’t “living up to his potential.” His father had echoed that phrase countless times since that miserable day.
Zeemat observed the public buildings and open spaces of the city as the diamagnetic cruiser glided silently overhead toward the city center, like a Mourning Spark hunting its prey without making a sound. Somehow, Torkiya City looked more beautiful now that he was restrained. Suddenly, he valued the freedom he’d always taken for granted.
The cruiser moved past the museum—The pride of Torkiya, a showcase of Torkiyan technology and conquests. Several people were walking up the steps of the enormous pyramidal building. His eyes followed the contour of the building to an opening at the topmost point, where a brilliant blue light shot skyward, projecting a column of light visible even in daylight. “The Illumination of Knowledge,” Zeemat whispered to himself. It was a work of art unto itself.
The museum was in the business and government part of the city. Cruisers at different altitudes zipped by in all directions, and countless citizens on the ground went about their business, entering and exiting the buildings like a swarm of Power Ants, scurrying along the decorated sidewalks in a single file.
His eyes were drawn to the city’s river, reflecting the burnt-orange color of the morning sun. As the cruiser zipped by, he gazed upriver toward one of his favorite landmarks, Torkiya City Park, remembering the countless times he had painted there, at all hours of the day and night, in all seasons of the year. He loved how the silvery grasses shimmered in the breeze, and he recalled the red, yellow, pink, and purple hues of the plants and trees. The air smelled different there—the pure, clean air of nature and of perfect freedom. He took a deep breath and pressed his face against the window to catch the last few glimpses of his precious park and city as he left it all behind.
The cruiser broke out into the vast, open country of the Production Lands, an enormous area divided into an orderly grid of even squares, with each square moving to its own rhythm, its supplies and output in perfect tune with the needs of the Torkiyan people. In each square, slave workers produced every different type of food, material, and product the Torkiyans used in their everyday lives. Zeemat peered through the window, trying to spot some of the working slaves, the genetically modified Senechians. He’d never seen any of the original captives, the ones his father had brought back from the Senechian War, the ones who still had memories and a free will.
Now these were second- and third-generation Senechians, fully modified by the Torkiyan Genetic Engineers with traits they would pass on to their offspring. These mindless slaves lived and died in the service of Torkiya. Zeemat caught a brief glimpse of a few of them, working in a Krkazi field, with an armed Torkiyan Supervisor nearby, his Charge Spear reflecting a flash of sunlight as they flew past. Zeemat knew that the supervisors shot energy bolts from these spears to “encourage” lazy workers.
Zeemat felt the energy drain out of him. He felt sorry for these young slaves. He wondered if they felt out of place, or if anything remained of their language and culture, any stories of their home planet. He wondered if they had hopes and dreams. Zeemat shook his head and scrunched his face, disgusted by how his Torkiyan people had treated the Senechians. The whole idea of production slave workers who had been robbed of all memory made him feel sick and angered him. He knew better; it wasn’t the way to treat another living being, especially from a sapient species. As the sight of the slaves faded in the distance, Zeemat recalled the fruitless conversations he’d had with his parents on the topic, and how his father had always shot him down for having “weak, anti-Torkiyan” ideas.
The vehicle continued to pick up speed, passing the Production Lands in a blur. Beyond the Production grid, the vehicle turned onto a different ramp leading to the Space Academy. As soon as they reached the ramp, the officers took their hands off the cruiser’s controls and placed them on their laps. Only official vehicles could proceed beyond this point, and the vehicle was now under the direct control of The Torkiyan Air and Space Command. As they entered the zone, Zeemat gazed at the sprawling Space Academy complex in the distance ahead, looming larger by the moment. His heart began to pound again, and a wave of nausea caught him by surprise. He brought a hand up to his mouth to discourage a vomit.
The Space Academy was famous for a spirit of intense competition, both physical and intellectual. It was the place where space travelers of all sorts earned their positions. It was the place where those special, select few Torkiyans would earn their spots on the missions to Cerulea. Those people were the best Torkiya had to offer. They became immediate heroes when they were selected, and they became historical figures after their departure. None of those heroes of the previous fifty missions to Cerulea had ever been heard from again. They were presumed dead, and they were honored for their sacrifices. As their vehicle drew closer to the Academy, Zeemat felt his own death looming near. Absentmindedly, he pulled at his restraints, which somehow seemed tighter, and he tugged at the top of his shirt, suddenly feeling claustrophobic in the confines of the cruiser. He felt anxious, alone, and most of all, gripped by a powerful fear of injury and death.
The cruiser now glided past the first of the large buildings of the Space Academy. All his life, he had seen images of the Academy on holo, but they’d failed to capture the sheer size of it. He was dumbfounded by the enormity of the complex—buildings of all shapes and sizes arranged in the shape of a star, with rays of buildings emanating from an enormous central construction. He knew each ray was devoted to the various aspects of the Academy’s operation—Science and Technology, Rocketry, Testing and Experimentation, Weaponry, Manufacturing and Construction, Education, and Administration. His parents often had spoken of their work at the Academy, but he’d never had much interest in hearing about it. Now, flying directly over it and knowing this would be his new home, he wished he had paid more attention.
They joined other cruisers in an orderly air-traffic pattern, some heading to and from areas within the complex, some departing for places unknown. Unlike city vehicles, these were cargo and military cruisers of different sizes and shapes, certainly specialized for different purposes. The largest ones were decked out in visible weaponry. The entire place seemed foreign, with square and rectangular buildings instead of the more elegant cylinders, spheres, and pyramids of the city. Along each ray of the star-shaped complex, the buildings seemed to be laid out in a haphazard arrangement of size, orientation, and spacing, so unlike the symmetry of Torkiya City. Irregularly shaped open spaces dotted the complex, perhaps used for testing equipment or for training personnel, Zeemat imagined.
He wondered where exactly he was headed. He wondered where he’d find the cadet’s classrooms, or the labs where the scientists developed new technologies, or where the engineers fashioned parts for the ships, the training centers, eating halls, and dormitories. The massive building at the very center of the complex looked familiar, and he remembered having seen numerous launches from that place on holo. The tall building was where engineers constructed the rockets and the ships. It was right next to the launchpads. He imagined his own launch from that place in the not-so-distant future. It would be his last contact with his home planet, and his body shuddered at the horrifying thought of launch into the dead of space.
