Alec Davis
Arielle crouched atop the roof of Maeda University. Ten stories high, the north plains beyond the Nameidium platform clearly visible in the coming dawn. The jade flora was pitted with jagged rock, which sat beneath a faint stream of purple dust. It was the Nameidium ore grains that revealed the passage of the wind. These were faintly lit by the glowing trees surrounding Maeda, planted in concentric circles, enveloping the city in an azure halo.
Arielle walked out onto the balcony which stretched over the vast canyon between the university and the city wall. Her metallic boots caused the balcony to give a little under the weight. She climbed the balcony railings and stood tall, her sandy hair was gently lifted off her sheathed swords by the calm breeze.
Arielle stepped off.
The Locking boots she wore made a frictionless platform to stand on anywhere she wanted. With both boots activated, she drifted forward – there was nothing to slow her inertia, like skates on ice. Her feet were Locked to an invisible track, with only air between her and the ground. If her Locking boots were turned off, she would plummet ten stories.
Arielle deactivated them.
Three Revival insurgents from the city of Stratos approached, illuminated here and there by Maeda’s rings of trees. It was their thirteenth attack against the city of Maeda since the Revival was formed. Their terrorism was an act of desperation, a last resort to gain safety from a world in periodic catastrophe. The Horizon always came, every year, with the possibility that more Stratons would die. If only the Maens would shelter them behind its city wall, they would be safe.
Maeda was a safe haven, protected from the wrath of the planet. However, its array of cramped tower housing was already too heavy – or so the Maens claimed – and the Nameidium platform the city stood upon could not support more people. ‘Lies’ the Stratons claimed. Over three-hundred years of bad blood between the Twin Cities – Maeda and Stratos – left no hope for trust between them. Though that is what the Maens asked for – trust. They claimed they couldn’t house more families and needed the Stratons to take their word for it. Two hundred and eighty-six people died the year previous when the Horizon came to Stratos. Two hundred and eighty-six men, women, and children died, who would have otherwise lived, had they been residing inside Maeda’s walls. The Stratons understood they couldn’t all be saved, they couldn’t all fit within Maeda’s walls; but the children, at the very least, could be protected when the Horizon struck next, though still the Maens refused.
So, the Revival attacked Maeda. They vowed that their terrorism would continue until Maeda opened its doors to them, or until Arielle killed every single one of them, just like she killed everyone in the last insurgency twenty years previous.
The three Revival insurgents continued their approach. There had been many attacks like this in recent times. The terrorists were testing the Maens’ strength, response time, but more importantly, their intentions. The Maen government were keen to send a message to its people, a message of change, a message of mercy – ‘we kill only as a last resort’. They would not repeat the ruthless massacre of the previous insurgency. Maen soldiers were now given this doctrine as a direct order, the most important order of all. However, some didn’t always follow it.
And with good reason.
Arielle fell. The wind in her brown eyes caused them to water, and the odd tear streamed around her pale, slender face. She manoeuvred her feet beneath her to brace for impact. A metal glove of fingertip cones and bones connected to a bracelet on her wrist, which controlled the various functions of the Locking equipment. One slowed her descent and curved her trajectory forwards at an incredible speed when she tilted her feet forwards – like racing down a curved ramp. Arielle barely cleared the height of Maeda’s stone wall, passing between the guards that patrolled it.
The insurgents spotted their opponent. Like Arielle, they glided a little above the ground at incredible speed on Locked boots, accelerated by the propeller backpacks they wore. Each of them drew a pistol, loaded bullets, and shot at their enemy.
No one had ever managed to hit Arielle. Since her first battle twenty-two years ago, people had tried and failed. She was a Ghost, the first Ghost. It was unlikely anyone would ever hit her.
She glided at great speed above the rocky terrain, crouching to circumvent the wind, and although her boots touched nothing, stood on nothing, they were secure. Arielle felt the restraint, the inability to turn her feet left or right even a little. They were Locked. And it wasn’t just her boots she could attach to the invisible track – the metal Nameidium that granted this ability could be engineered into many forms, including knives. Arielle pulled two from specialized sheaths and launched them at the insurgents.
Defending his neck with a heavy bangle, one soldier deflected Arielle’s blade. What he didn’t see was the smaller knife lower down, concealed in the shadow of the first. It pierced his bowel and he collapsed, eventually crashing into the rock below and tumbling until his bruised and broken body came to a final stop.
Arielle and the two remaining Stratons were now seconds from collision. She could see only the whites of their eyes, their silhouettes with the blazing sun behind them, low in the sky. Using her wrist control to manipulate her Locking gear, Arielle stepped from left to right, evading the enemy’s bullets perfectly, gracefully.
The clash neared. She steered towards the smaller of the two foes. Arielle jumped upwards and grabbed an unseen ledge – her glove hand was Locked in place – and then planted her feet next to hands, orientating herself upside down. Her enemy, surprised and confused, was slow to draw his weapon as Arielle swept her drawn sword across his head. At the last second he parried with his short sabre, but the momentum, Arielle’s blunt force, tore the weapon from his hand. Arielle used the impact to spin herself around in mid-air and revealed a loaded pistol pointed towards his head.
Finally, she’d seen his face. He looked young. Too young.
And he looked terrified.
Arielle pulled the trigger without hesitation.
The shot rang in her ears.
Her last opponent had passed and started to double back. Like the others that had come to Maeda, these three Revival soldiers had been rookies. Arielle, with her greater experience and skill, hadn’t felt challenged at all. At forty-one, she thrived for more, to be tested. She wanted to push her body like she had when she was young, to prove to herself that her age was irrelevant. Meaningless. And there was only one way Arielle could challenge herself to that extent…
She planted her feet on the uneven ground, rocks cracking under the impact, and faced her enemy. She sheathed her weapons to even the odds, to give her foe a chance to win. Arielle took a deep breath and waited with the sun rising behind her, warm on her back.
The Revival soldier closed in, sword and gun at the ready, and Arielle held nothing.
This isn’t worth it, she thought. I shouldn’t risk my life just to make myself feel young. Someday, they might learn that I’m…
Someday, they might need me, they might want to get to know me.
Someday, they might care if…if I’m alive.
Arielle pulled her pistol from its holster and loaded it. Dodging the enemy’s bullets, she looked her in the eye, and then shot her in the head.
Someday.
Alec Davis, 2020.
Deathkat Media 