Chapter 23

Footsteps came at the top of the stairs, Paul stood dawned with the typical signs of another terrorvision. Ramona was slumped down on the ground, completely still, head drooped slightly facing the floor. “Ramona,” he began. “Are you okay?” No response. Silence hung in the air. He began to descend the stairs when a small object zoomed by, smashing against the wall just inches from his face. “Hey! What are you doing?”

“Owlen was calling you,” Ramona stood up rigidly, turning her neck to cast a piercing glare.

Instinctively, Paul wanted to know how that was possible. Owlen could only call on the communicator, which was...he patted his pocket. An icy wet blanket draped over his skin. Heart rate spiked as if preparing for a battle. “I see,” was all he could say.

“Yeah!” Her voice trembled with anger, and her white-knuckled fists shook. “Not like you should be grateful for the warm bed I gave you or the home-cooked meals that my mother made for you.”

“I am grateful,” Paul retaliated as if this was just another mundane squabble, it was not, he reminded himself, unmoving from halfway up the stairs.

Tears streamed down the girl’s red face, her pinkish hair was messy, and the glowing iris of her eyes burned with rage. “Why?” Ramona spat, turning away. “Why have you been working with him?” Her voice faltered as she gasped sharply.

“Ramona-”

“TELL ME!” She exploded with all the rage her adolescent voice could carry. Something metallic in the corner of the store fell over on its own.

Glancing around the room, Paul became acutely aware of just how many sharp objects were lying around in the store, sparker plugs were essentially razor blades, and a twelve-pound drone motor wouldn’t need much force to cause serious harm. “You know why I’m here,” he began earnestly, “the star map led me to Kanchi, directly to your bracelet like it was a beacon. The things I saw from Omega’s obelisk, back on Movaj. Something terrible is coming. I’m willing to take whatever help I can get. I’ve allied with the Reyleonard kid, I even dined with an Amani Progenitor.”

Ramona scoffed. “That doesn’t really answer my question.”

Paul remained rooted, normally he may have braved a pat on her shoulder. As long as he kept talking, he’d eventually find the right combination of words to calm her. “I required an army, Owlen had the means to provide. The map, the visions, I simply could not ignore what was right in front of me.”

“But you said it yourself, the map led to my bracelet…” She trailed off, sounding more hurt than angry now. “Did you ever stop to think the map was meant just for me, not the Cathedral?”

Paul wondered desperately where Martha or even where Eights was. A long moment of silence passed. Just as Paul was about to speak, Ramona cut in. “How long? When did you get in contact with him?”

“Ramona-” Paul said as he took a cautious step down, “my sincerest apologies for becoming intertwined with your life…”

The entire room quaked faintly as he attempted another step.

“Please just tell me,” she said meekly. Another long quiet passed between the two.

“The day I arrived on Kanchi,” Paul said finally. “He used to be a Tuyet Voi instructor; he recognized me and reached out on his own accord.”

Ramona gave an exhausted echo of a chuckle.

“He is but a pawn in my plans, a minor necessity to get what I need. Once I’ve achieved victory, we can destroy him,” Paul reasoned. “I will train you Ramona, together we can leave this place, see all the galaxy has to offer.”

Ramona sniffed and her voice became a little clearer. “But why didn’t you tell me?”

“I thought it best that you didn’t know. Owlen suggested it would be best for you not to get upset,” Paul said, the words dripped out of his mouth before he could stop himself. The entire shop began to rumble quietly; metal creaked as all the store’s inventory of drones and parts began bending and warping.

“He suggested?” Ramona exploded. “HE SUGGESTED!” Entire drone chassis collapsed in on themselves, glass vials filled with liquid burst, the whole building groaned. Ramona whipped around, her eyes ablaze with anger. “GET OUT!” she screamed in an almost feral tone.

A tremendous pressure incased Paul’s entire body that threatened to squeeze the life from his lungs; impossible to get free despite his struggling. “Ramona!” Paul’s faint gasps fell on deaf ears.

“GET OUT YOU LIAR!” With a brutal wave of Ramona’s hand, Paul was savagely sent crashing through the store’s front window and tumbling into the middle of the road.

Blood trickled down over Paul’s face, searing superficial cuts covered his arms and back, and a painful knot throbbed on the back of his head. The skies were cloudy and hot pavement pressed against bare skin.

Onlookers gathered and stared at the bloodied man, shocked. One brave man offered a helping hand, but Paul slapped it away as he got to his feet; the man backed off with a disgusted scowl. The onlookers were anxious; some were calling for the authorities. It was time to leave.

Finally, a long black case burst through another window, skidding to a halt before Paul’s feet. He snatched up the sword case, wiped the blood from his brow, took one last look at the shop, and headed off down the street.

***

Gusts of wind billowed the desert sands lingering on the small landing pad. The Intrepid’s loading ramp lowered, Paul was walking down before it touched the ground. Eager to both disembark after the four-hour trip and to get to the bottom of this “emergency.” The ten-inch thick trasteel front gates to Owlen's stronghold swung open slowly in response to Paul's approach. A complement of armed guards stepped out and waved their guest through routinely.

Inside was busy, more so than usual. The entrance tunnel was packed to the ceiling with ammo crates, weapon boxes, and armored vehicles. Everything was neatly stacked and organized in such a way that a small corridor was left for foot traffic, but even that was crowded with uniformed technicians and pilots dressed in yellow flight suits. Most of the Pulsars had rallied at last.

Shoving his way through the crowd, Paul walked briskly through the winding maze-like paths of the mountain fortress. Deeper inside, the air was cold and damp, the stench of toron body odor and flyer fuel was prevalent. Several new guard posts had been set up, each manned by at least three guards, a gun emplacement, and a few sentry drones. The whole base was running like a well-oiled machine. A strong precaution, whatever the emergency Owlen was so worried about must have really spooked him.

"It's about time you showed up-," Owlen stopped short, “-jeez, what happened to you?” He looked Paul up and down. “Looks like you’ve been chewed up by a relaquish- big slimy monsters, their heads look like giant blenders you see…”

"I hope you have a good reason for summoning me, Owlen," Paul growled, his right hand resting on the hilt of his sword.

Owlen jumped. "Uh-um...I apologize." He made a curt bow. “And I do." He stammered and hurried over to the control center's main console. The whole room was a hive of activity; workers and drones hurried back and forth going about their urgent tasks, every terminal was maned by data analyzers hunched over as they typed away. Owlen picked up a datatab and began scrolling through it. Paul yanked the tablet away to read for himself, his ghostly reflection stared back in the shined glass.

"Intelligence caught something last night,” Owlen began. “Turns out Mabahse has been imprisoned, Roy Morrell took him in. I think Numar has been covering it up for months out of embarrassment, but you can only hide this sort of thing for so long." The control center’s large wall monitor showed the ruins of what looked like a sandstone palace. “The emergency is that the factions will be in disarray; when the Superwinds hear about this, they might back out. And for all we know, I’m next on the chopping block for that Progenitor.”

Owlen cowered even more seeing how this enraged Paul even more. “I ALREADY KNOW THIS!” He threw the datatab and began to explain that he had already teamed up with Abel and that everything was under control.

“Does...does that mean the kid’s not going to kill me?” Owlen asked timidly.

Paul yanked the much lighter man out of his chair by the scruff of his collar. The guards took notice, but they did not dare make a move. “Coward,” he hissed icily. “Tell me why I should not kill you myself.”

Owlen’s eyes darted around the room as if the correct answer would be written down somewhere. “Convenience!” He blurted out. “Without me, it will take time to coordinate with everyone, possibly months.”

For a long moment, Paul considered this, he absolutely despised the man, but he was right, time was a scarce luxury. Free from Paul’s grip, Owlen composed himself the best he could, straightening his collar like his life depended on it.

“I’m in over my head here.” He shook his head, eyes sagging with exhaustion. “If only I had never killed that woman, I should have just ran when I had the chance.”

Through thick layers of fear, Paul sensed genuine guilt emanating from the man. But that meant little to him. He needed Owlen’s army whether his actions weighed on him or not. "We move on as scheduled. Do your job, and you may live Owlen Bek," Paul said, knowing his tone was threatening enough to scare the man into action.

Nodding furiously, Owlen gestured at the wall monitor, which changed to a gridded display of the Cathedral's defense network of assault drones and fortifications. "We have the numbers, but what about Roy?" Owlen sat back in his chair.

"Leave the Progenitor to me,” Paul said. “Roy Morrell should not be a problem. I’ve sent him a decoy alert; it should be enough to get him off-world for some time.”

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“Clever.” Owlen raised a thick eyebrow, then he winced at Paul’s sharp glare.

"I trust that you will take greater care in summoning me next time,” Paul continued sternly. “Ramona is privy to our alliance, she discovered your panicked transmission.”

Owlen’s whole face drooped in horror. “So, she knows…,” he said, casting his eyes to the floor, then back to Paul. “That explains the bloody cuts on your face. You’re a lucky man to be alive.”

“Perhaps so.” Paul didn’t want to think about it. “Have your men ready. I will return in the morning to speak with them.”

Owlen stood up rigidly and took a deep bow. "Yes, my lord."

With that, Paul swept out of the room and returned to the Intrepid, made his way up the loading ramp, closed a small compartment door, and slumped down into the pilot chair sapped of all energy. Proper sleep had eluded him for far too long, and a good rest on the flight back to Onesto was all that was on his mind. He keyed in the autopilot and the ship lifted into the air, zooming off into Kanchi’s horizon.

***

The man in black robes stood in the corner of the room; his yellow eyes and melted face peered silently from beneath a cowl. Oily humanoid shadows meandered aimlessly. Icy shivers ran up Paul's spine and reverberated through his skin. The inexplicable fear and anger that gripped him were prevalent as usual, but this time there was a stirring in the air, like an invisible whirlwind overhead that seemed to hunger, to have some malevolent rage. Was it a whirlwind? Or maybe it was more like a lightning storm or a set of flood gates ready to burst.

Despite the sinister pangs of fear, guilt, and jealousy, Paul was ready to face these after months of their plaguing. Cackles erupted from the black robes, which crept unnaturally closer and closer. Greasy black shadows made way obediently, or perhaps fearfully for the approaching set of flowing rags, which were not black by make but rather charred and melted. Defiantly, Paul remained still despite the wailing alarms in his head, screaming orders to flee or be killed.

Frigid waves lashed and stung his skin, agonizing pain curled Paul's flesh. The shriveled figure was standing mere centimeters away. And yet, Paul stood firm.

"I know you..." A whisper called from beneath the hood. "I've seen you." It spoke, but not directly to anyone.

Paul had accepted by now that these visions transcended all logic and understanding. So, he listened, listened as intently as possible over the rumbling and growing maelstrom overhead.

"I had no choice..." The voice carried an eerie dark weight that formed whispering echoes that lingered even after the decrepit man finished speaking. “I had to kill her...” He gave a crooked smile.

“You have one life left to leave,” a woman’s voice echoed in the distance. The sounds of plasma bolts rang out.

"Who..." Was all Paul could muster, his jaw hindered by sticky invisible tar.

"You’re her daughter?" The dark voice continued as the swirling clouds closed in around him, and then there was an abrupt change in the cretin's expression. Fear or surprise, maybe, it was hard to tell in the darkness. "Please don't..." He begged. "No, please, no!" Dark storm clouds swirled faster and faster, the winds intensified with static, and without warning, the man erupted with fire and lighting. His screams were drowned out by the sheer ferocity of the storm.

Paul's right hand felt as though it had been plunged in molten metal, the flesh peeled and disintegrated. Feverishly he tried covering his hand as if to snuff out the invisible flames, but nothing could remedy the searing pain.

"Paul..." A familiar voice echoed in the distance. "Paul..." It called again more loudly. "PAUL!" The voice boomed, and the shroud of darkness gave way to the interior ship lights, the drumming chaos of the storm dissipated into the soothing hum of engines and the muffled rushing winds outside.

Paul was dry heaving, drenched in a cold sweat, heart pounding dangerously. Frantically, he held up his hand only to find it was free of grotesque burns. The pain had been a fabrication. Relief from the realization was short-lived however, footsteps crept from behind. In one fluid motion, Paul whirled around unholstered his pistol and took aim at the figure of...a woman.

"Martha!" Paul exclaimed, jumping up and lowering his weapon. Looking weak and pale, Martha swayed in place before falling to the ground. Paul dropped to try a catch, but he found himself obeying the no-touching rule, which seemed pointless. "Martha, what's wrong? Let me help you to the bunk. I'll plot a course for the nearest doctor."

"Ramona..." Martha muttered.

"Did she hurt you?" He asked cautiously, fearful of what he could have caused, leaving Ramona in a rage the way he did.

"No...st...stowed..." Martha croaked with great effort out, face drained of color.

Paul shook his head, rules be damned. "Martha, I'm sorry, but I'm going to help you to the bunk so you can lie down." He reached out with one strong arm, fully expecting to easily lift the small frame, but instead of feeling the warmth and softness of skin, instead of the smoothness of the silk shirt Martha wore, there was something else, something hot, jagged on some parts, smooth elsewhere, and metallic all over. He froze, brow furrowed, he tried to make sense of the situation when he realized his arm was phasing right through Martha's body.

Reflexively he jerked back, wondering in the back of his head if he was still dreaming. No, this was not a dream; Paul had complete control over his senses and emotions, this was really happening.

Martha’s right arm disappeared, skin evaporating into a faint mist revealing a slender metallic arm underneath with small holo-projectors lining the sides.

Paul immediately recognized the thing before him was an advanced drone called a holo-skeleton. “Where is Martha? What have you done with her?” His weapon was already brought back up, ready to fire.

“I am Martha,” the drone spoke more clearly though there was still noticeable distortion in its voice. It had to be diverting power away from maintaining its holo-projectors. “Ramona she…” the drone’s speech faltered again as its projectors began to fail; one of its legs evaporated into mist, revealing the metal skeleton underneath. “...she stowed away on your ship. Followed you.”

“You’re an infiltration drone,” Paul began darkly, not lowering his weapon. “Why should I believe anything you say?”

“Paul…” Martha, no the drone, said weakly with what looked like a flash of frustration. “...don’t you think it was strange that I never let anyone touch me or that Ramona claimed I prefer to eat alone?”

Slowly, Paul began to lower his weapon, “or why you were never in your room at night. You were recharging. Your power levels are too low right now.”

It nodded its head. The image of Martha’s face gave a familiar warm smile.

“Who are you the image of? Why have you been masquerading as Ramona’s mother?”

“I…” the drone began as another one of its legs began to fade away. “...I am the image of Ramona’s real mother, Laura Finnick.”

Paul thought that name over for a moment, he was sure he had heard it before, but where? He considered the research before he arrived on Kanchi. Then it came to him. “She was murdered in a park nearly seven years ago…”

“By Owlen Bek,” the drone concluded for him.

A chilling revelation dawned on Paul. He wheeled around, strapping himself into the pilot seat. “Hold on!” He shouted as he banked the ship into a tight one-eighty turn. Ramona was out for revenge on Owlen; she’d rip apart the entire mountain fortress to get to him or die trying. Paul pushed the engines to their limits and the controls vibrated with power.

It all made sense now: Martha was created to be a surrogate mother to a lonely girl, but it clearly had not been enough. Ramona had spent her young life hunting Owlen down, she didn’t care who she had to push or who she had to use.

That night on the bridge, she had commanded Martha to call Paul in a panic, she had used him as bait to lure out Owlen’s men, only things hadn’t gone her way. She still needed Paul’s expertise. He wondered if all her hospitality and kindness had just been a rouse to lull him into a false sense of comfort.

“Ramona didn’t dictate everything I did, you know,” Martha said as if reading into Paul’s thoughts. “I was just a projection of her true self, but I didn’t just play the role of mother, I was her mother.” With great effort, the drone slumped into the co-pilot seat. Martha’s face looked exhausted. “I enjoyed cooking for you, watching you two. Ramona genuinely likes you. She looks up to you, you know. She told me so herself.”

So there it was, Paul hadn’t been just some pawn in Ramona’s revenge scheme, not entirely anyway. “Power down, Martha, don’t blow your power core. Ramona will be okay, I swear to you,” Paul said, wondering if there was some secret switch to fly more quickly.

“I think Laura would have liked you…” said Martha. “I’m programmed with her memories, or stories of such anyway. She was lonely in the preceding years after her husband disappeared. You would have been a light in her life.”

“A light,” Paul scoffed, though he found some happiness in the sentiment. He shook his head, “power down now, we can still save you. We’ll get you recharged, and by the time you wake up, we’ll all be safe at the house.”

Martha’s hand reached out and squeezed Paul’s, which phased right through to the hot metal skeleton. Paul squeezed back. “It’s too late for me. But it’s okay; Ramona doesn’t need a drone raising her anymore. And you need to fall in love with a real woman.”

Warmth filled Paul’s face.

Martha winked with the faintest of giggles. “Take care of my daughter.” Martha gave Paul an all too familiar warm smile, its hand went limp, and what was left of Martha evaporated away.

For a long while, Paul held onto Martha’s hand before placing it on its lap in a dignified manner. It was quiet on the ship; Paul expected Ramona to pop out and say some witty remark or Eights to sputter something indignant. But, Paul was alone. Time to mourn could wait. Ramona was in trouble.

Soon a faint orange glow could be seen beyond the dark starry horizon. Brighter and brighter it grew as the Intrepid raced over the frigid sand dunes. Dark smoke and giant flames spewed out from Owlen’s mountain fortress. Paul landed on the same platform he left just hours ago. He palmed the ramp release and unbuckled his seat harness before the ship finished its landing.

Outside, the thick metal gates were bent wide open. Chunks of flaming debris littered the landing pad, and the air was thick with the stench of ozone. Paul was already in full sprint into the base paying no mind to the destruction all around him. Groaning and writhing guards laid scattered throughout the corridors, but none of them were dead. They’d be fine; Paul kept running, knowing full well where Ramona would likely be.

The observatory, Owlen’s seat of power, nestled atop the mountain his base was built in, was in ruins. The glass dome shattered, one of a kind works of art lay smashed or burning. Flames danced all around. At the center of it all stood one figure, another lay crumpled on the floor. Arcs of blue lighting erupted from Ramona’s right hand, hissing loudly and lashing at the motionless figure on the ground.

Paul approached cautiously. “Ramona,” he said calmly. She remained silent, her gaze fixed on the smoldering humanoid remains at her feet. The lightning had stopped. The only sounds were the crackling of flames. “Ramona,” he tried again, but he did not dare touch her.

Finally, she turned, her bright green eyes stared up at Paul’s with a heavy sadness. Tears formed river deltas down her soot dirtied face. “He killed my mother…” She crumpled to the ground, sobbing.

Paul knelt and embraced the young girl, not knowing if that was the right thing to do. She hugged him back, crying into his shoulder. She felt so tiny in his arms. His eyes dropped down to the charred human remains, indistinguishable from their identity, although there was no doubt it was Owlen.

Smoldering human corpses were nothing new to Paul, yet...Owlen’s burnt remnants were eerily familiar. But, that wasn’t right, it couldn’t be. Logic on Kanchi had been thrown out the window long ago, Paul supposed. He wondered back on the article he read about Laura’s murder, she was killed in a park, and her body was hidden among some trees. In almost all the terror visions, the cloaked figure mentioned that he had no choice, that he had to kill. Then there was the most recent vision, the worst of them all, the lightning storm that engulfed the man. An all too familiar shiver ran up Paul’s spine, and then it hit him. The visions were not premonitions, they were memories. Owlen was the cloaked figure.

Paul dreaded the thought, he dared not believe it. But he couldn’t deny why the memories had grown more potent the closer he got to Onesto. The Cathedral was never the culprit, it all came from the young girl in Paul’s arms. He had been experiencing the weight of Ramona’s sadness, her loneliness, her hatred for Owlen, and her need for revenge. She had dreamed of this day for years, she had always planned to burn Owlen alive. Paul shed a tear and held the girl more tightly, not because he wondered how anyone could survive that way for so long, but because Ramona was the one left to bear those sorrows.

But thoughts could dwell on these things later; the observatory was still being engulfed with flames all around, the roof’s twisted trasteel could collapse at any moment.

“We need to go, Ramona.”

She wiped the tears from her eyes using her left hand and nodded in agreement. Her right hand...Paul’s stomach lurched at what he saw. Her hand was charred black all the way up her wrist, the flesh disintegrated down to the bone. In his many years of war, Paul had seen a myriad of grotesque scenes of violence but never had he felt so sick to his stomach.

Ramona must have caught his gaze; she lifted her hand. Her wide glowing green eyes just stared, a look of shock marked her face, but it quickly faded. She turned white as a ghost, then fell limp into Paul’s arms.