It was a queer comparison to be sure, yet Tyras likened the workings of Corthelus Airdock with that of a digestive system. The parallels were exact: It absorbed nutrients for the purpose of feeding its host in the form of merchandise and commodities from the world over, stored them all in one giant chamber where they were packed and compressed, then further filtered out to various areas within the organism where they would be judged where they’d serve best: to fatten in the form of foodstuffs and spices, help with muscle growth in the form of construction material for the ever-expanding metropolis, cerebral power represented by books and volumes of knowledge, or for the useless or downright poisonous items to be filtered away as waste.
The “Flying Besse” was gliding along dozens of other transport ships, some as rickety and old as the old girl, others sleek marvels of engineering, spewing the purplish exhaust of Purpurkrumb rather than the ancient black smoke of coal their own ship did.
The volatile sap of the mauve-leafed trees had been one of the factors which allowed Osnya to win the War so handily once its industrial capabilities were fully unleashed. Much easier to harvest than petrol and far more potent than coal, the mass plantation of forests of these giant trees had allowed them to quickly produce vehicles, from transport trucks to tanks to capital airships, by the end of the war the Osnyan military being almost completely mechanized.
Artificial forests of Purpurs were still visible behind them, a wide swath of wisteria-colored conifers with their queer mushroom cap-like giant leaves merging into each other into a single fluorescent field, looking in the early morning light like an Aurora Borealis trapped on the ground.
The airdock was monumental, having five stories of hangars each of which was as tall as a regular six story building. Several smaller staff ships were hovering above the controlled chaos of dozens of ships coming and going, alongside a small squadron of paramedics riding small, agile dragons: in the inevitable case of an accident, they could get there far quicker than the clumsier airships.
The ship went lower and lower, past all the hangars, until it touched the several square kilometer wide landing. While most airships could now comfortably include a gondola as large as it needed inside the air envelope, the older types of ships such as the Besse had to contend with tiny interiors and to awkwardly carry any extra passengers or cargo on bulky structures which resembled Fourth Era wooden frigates used when black powder based weapons was still a new cutting edge invention.
The ship gently placed its wood and brass passenger and cargo hold on the securers awaiting it. Gears far below the concrete whirred and the structure shook slightly as the giant claw-like steel clamps tightened on the hull, one airman cursing as his glass of rum spilled. The crew then got to work loosening the chains and the massive steel rod which connected the main airship to its burden, within seconds the ship flying away, resting into a hangar for ships of its class about two hundred meters away, the forest of gears grinding together to close the gate behind it.
Almost as soon as they landed, the ship was invaded by a small army of paramedics and even more policemen, mostly to check on the airmens’ general health and to treat them for shock, yet they were mostly blown off, the crew expostulating that they needed to load off the goods at a certain time, and most of them had been in brawls in portside pubs which ended in worse wounds. The medics seemed to begrudgingly understand, looking more glad that they were to treat cuts and bruises rather than examining bodies. Piracy had unfortunately become as commonplace a perilous occurrence for airships as errant gusts of wind blowing one off-course. That’s why he was here.
Having retrieved his meager luggage, Tyras went down the precarious wooden ramp, the constables letting him pass, some of them giving him approving pats on the back and handshakes as he passed by. Achlos also stuck close, almost by an unspoken agreement to speed him through another round of questioning.
Tyras took out his watch, clicking away the cover.
“Right. I very much should be going now, Mr. Dribas. I hope I managed to get you past the long arm of upbraiding interviews courtesy of Ignis’s finest. They’re well meaning lads, but more concerned with an immaculate report than the emotional wellbeing of a… traumatized victim such as yourself.” The steppe lion gave a teasing grin. The moose didn’t return it, grimly looking down at his shoes.
“I suppose I should be going as well, Mr. Maloko,” He said quietly. “Good luck with whatever it is you’re doing.” He half heartedly stretched out a hand, yet Tyras clasped it vigorously, shaking it while tapping his new companion on the shoulder.
“I am looking forward to our meeting today. Two gentlemen tend to get to know each other better with a good lunch in the presence of a violin orchestra rather than cooperating to inflict death efficiently.”
Achlos couldn’t help but give a reluctant smirk. “And these won’t be the last deaths I’ll cause today. Then again.. You already figured that out.”
“Tyras!” A warm, yet worried high pitched voice called out. The lion snapped around and Achlos saw his eyes widen, the silver ball expressing more emotion than it ought to have been capable of.
“Rhodika!” Tyras cried out as a figure emerged from the crowd and launched herself at him in a powerful embrace. She was also a steppe lioness, golden furred rather than Tyras’s silver and powerfully muscled as one would expect of a woman of her species, her build evidenced by her choice of attire: A long burgundy skirt with a matching silk shirt topped off with a beige waistcoat and an elegant plumed hat. She had a sturdy brown chirurgeon’s bag to complete her more utilitarian than socialite attire. Several ladies in long flowing gowns and corsets gave her a disapproving look as they disdainfully walked past.
The couple’s embrace turned into a deep, loving kiss, she having to stand up on her tiptoes to reach her husband's formidable height, the woman breaking away and sinking her head into her taller mate’s bosom. Her violet eyes twinkled up at him. He caressed her face lovingly, rearranging her hat after their affections had made it crooked.
“Whatever are you doing here, Rhodika?”
“It was meant to be a surprise… the hospital gave me unexpected leave and Cyprian doesn’t start school for another month, so we took an express train here. The little ones and the governess are at the hotel.” She explained quickly. “I just… didn’t expect to hear that your airship was attacked by a pack of villains.” She reached up and caressed his slightly bruised face. He gave a cocky smirk.
“Come now, my dear, we fought side by side in the war. You really think that rabble could do what the Lunist elite Nyxferer and Harbingers failed to do?”
She seemed to ponder for a moment then replied with her own lopsided grin.
“True, husband… but up in the skies, I wasn’t there to save you whenever your cockiness made you jump headfirst into a hornet’s nest.” They both laughed.
“As far as I remember,” Tyras replied. “We first met when I saved you, Rhodi.”
“Well, there’s an exception to every rule,” She teased, playfully slapping his arm. He winced ever so slightly, yet she instantly took note of it. Her countenance adopted a stern expression and she nodded to a nearby bench. He followed and removed his jacket and rolled up his shirt sleeve to reveal his sinewy arm which was adorned with a bandage, almost soaked through with blood. He’d been cut when the blast from the pirate’s cannon had thrown him off his feet and he landed on the bunk beds.
They both sat down and she cut the sailor knotted bandage with a pair of scissors. The wound continued bleeding the moment it was off.
“Oooohhh, yes. That will need stitches, big man.” She said in a sing-song voice. He rolled his eyes, but said nothing as she got to work.
“Actually, someone did need to save me…” He said with a smirk. “Achlos, why don’t you come over and-” But he was gone. Frowning, Tyras looked round the sea of people, focusing his Forte and searching for the large moose specifically. He saw him, a few streets away, hailing down a cab. He smirked and shook his head. He’d realized that the bounty hunter was not used to casual small talk and the prospect of explaining his misadventure to his new friend’s wife must have seemed like too much to him.
“Who?” Rhodika asked as she finished swabbing the wound with disinfectant and got the needle ready.
“Oh, don’t worry. I trust you’ll meet him soon enough. You ought to meet another fellow veteran who saved your husband’s li- hurk!” He barely suppressed a cry of pain as the needle sutured through flesh and skin.
“Relax, I’ll give you a honey lollipop when we’re done.” Rhodika said with hardly concealed amusement.
Tyras chuckled and shook his head, enduring the rest in silence.
----------------------------------------
He sent his wife back to the hotel, promising he’d be back by evening after he was done with his business in the city. He did wish to see the great capital up close and personal on the ground, yet Tyras decided that for his immediate needs, the skytram would suffice. Suspended on a vast network of twisting steel tracks spidering its way across most of the city, narrowly dodged by airship and dragon traffic, the city’s skytram system was barely four years old and an absolute spectacle of modern technology.
Two giant gears slid the twin cars along, clattering and clicking away as if the passengers were in the interior of a gigantic, living clock. The capital’s wide streets moved lazily across the window, everything from the gold-ivory giant domes of the temples to the utilitarian steel and brass of the new sky-towers was almost blinding, light reflecting off the surface combining with the fires of various colors burning away in massive bronze bowls across the city to create a fantasm of warm colors draping the streets far below.
It wasn’t accidental: Fakonans believed that Light and Color had the power to maintain or damage one’s soul, and a warm Light in particular warded away the Dark which Lunists used to fuel their heathen magic. Even the smallest Fakonan village had bowls of colored prayer fire and reflective surfaces for spreading the Light across every nook and cranny, being able to nearly turn Night into Day.
A litter of reindeer fawns marveled at the spectacle far below, squeaking jubilantly whenever they saw a dragon flying closer by, the oldest one waving a toy plane around and tugging on his mother’s skirts, asking her if they too would be allowed to fly on a dragon later.
In his darkest moments, Tyras wondered if the eight years spent fighting in the war, his eye carved into ribbons, the over one million Osnyan dead and many more on the other sides of the conflict were worth it. It was said that after the war, hardly a table had remained intact, practically anything sturdy enough being turned into prosthetics for the maimed returning soldiers. He’d spotted five peg legs in this car alone, the father of the reindeer family included.
One look at the beaming capital below him and the fawns carelessly playing amongst the crowd told him a resounding “yes”. His generation had been sacrificed so that their children wouldn’t be born in a blazing inferno, but a warm fire. For those laughing children, none older than seven, they had been born in peace and comfort. The war was something they heard about, like fairytales and the mythos of their faith: stories read by their parents they marveled at and half understood, yet something they could never live for themselves.
For Tyras, his own childhood was a distant dream. Whenever he recalled his life before the war, it was faint and detached. It was like someone else’s memories. Like what one imagines when reading a novel. You could picture the actions, thoughts and feelings of a character, but never truly feel like you lived it. The change had been too sudden, too shocking. The older soldiers, who had wives and children and homesteads, had stronger bonds that not even war could sever. Their personalities were stronger, better defined, not so easily transfigured by the horror and death they witnessed every day.
But for Tyras and the countless other boy-soldiers who’d enlisted aged eighteen or younger, war had been their truest birth. Everything before that had been an extended pregnancy, safely cocooned by their nurturer from the grim reality which would have torn them to shreds.
These children, however, would remember their childhoods as adults. When he grew up and recalled his childhood, the cervidae lad would remember the first time his parents took him dragon riding, not an artillery shell turning his comrade into a fine red paste which smeared his uniform, all left to send home being two feet still in their boots…
The sky-carriage ground to a halt, sparks flying off far below as metal groaned from the car’s inertia. Tyras glanced at the brass digits above as they spun to form the words ‘ADMIN MESA”. His stick tapping the ground lightly, he stepped off onto a platform built on top of what had once been a frozen mesa at the center of four city states, now the center of the great capital.
The eighty square kilometer center was pristinely kept, the white cobbled streets seeming immune to the traffic of thousands of shoes, boots and bare paws. The City Hall towered above all other buildings, with ten stories for the countless clerks, secretaries and accountants needed to keep the city’s moneyflow going, with the final story being for the mayor and his family, yet it was surprisingly modest, bare brick walls which had only the boast that they were kept clean. Several other administrative and government buildings were found here, some as humble as the City Hall, others, like the Ministry Of Tourism, being nearly a bona-fide palace.
Usually, it reflected the character of each statesman, Tyras found: The Mayor had inherited a printing press from his father and rose to prominence through brave acts in the War and eventual leadership of an artillery company, the Minister of tourism was the youngest son of a noble family whose only noteworthy achievements were the impressive amounts of alcohol he could put away and the children he had fathered numbering well in the double digits, all out of wedlock and unrecognized.
The Administrative Mesa as it was called now, had been completely changed. Originally, it had been the seat of the Imperial Palace and the All-Gods Temple for almost a thousand years, yet its exposed location had made it easy prey for Lunist bomber raids and it had been completely destroyed.
All that was left of it was the famous Kronulus Clock: A fifty meter tall clock tower built by Emperor Androcles The Third, the Inventor-King. The clock shaped in the form of the head of the titular Elephant God Of Time not only perfectly represented the exact time of the thirty hour day, yet it also had square dials which represented the exact day of the week or the five seasons below the giant clock, each season represented by gorgeous art painstakingly carved into the metal. No clockmaker, engineer or inventor in the world had been able to replicate it since, and with the palace around it destroyed, the Kronulus Clock was finally exposed to its people, visible from all central districts of the city, on the ground or above.
The Central Constabulary resembled more a fortress than an administrative building. The walls were concrete and steel, designed to withstand any conventional firearms and most improvised explosives. Four watchtowers with snipers overlooking the plaza surrounded the square structure like guards around a treasure chest. Loopholes around the impenetrable walls completed the association with an ancient castle of old. Three small airships were moored to steel masts and several barn-like doors littered the top floor which Tyras knew were dragon pens for rapid maximum force responses to any trouble spot in the city. The dragons for police duty were muzzled and their claws were blunted, yet their mere presence was more than enough to discourage even the most hardened of criminals.
Tyras made his way through the crowd of elegant, tired clerks and unhurried stockbrokers. There were no residents of the Mesa per se. They all traveled here by skytram or took an elevator from the lower levels to get to work. None but the more decadent of government workers who slept in one of the many upmarket pubs spent a night here.
He pushed open the heavy door of the constabulary and was instantly overwhelmed by an ovation of applause and cheers. All of the officers present stood up and began clapping their hands the moment they laid eyes on him. It vaguely reminded him of the last time he’d been on stage as an amateur tenor.
Officers of all species, size and rank lined up to shake his hand and congratulate him on his spectacular struggle against the rogues who’d seized the airship. By the time he was able to reach the elevator, his hand was numb. Though he could hardly blame them: not one of them hadn’t lost a partner at the hands of an air, land or sea pirate. Briefly promising the jubilant lawmen he’d join them for a drink in the evening, he stepped into the elevator and hit the button for the top floor.
He stepped out of the rickety box, gears and cogs whirring as it was already being called somewhere else. A tall, portly stallion with chestnut fur and some splotches of gray was already waiting for him, standing a good foot over him. His face had lost the handsomeness of youth, yet the keen green eyes spoke of experience and judgment which were more than a fair trade for looks.
“Lieutenant Maloko! It’s been way too long!” He ignored the outstretched hand and nearly crushed the younger man in a powerful embrace, lifting him off the floor. “Married life’s been treating you well, I see! You’re a little heavier than last time! Good! You always were too thin!” He chuckled through his teeth like equines tend to do. “You’re the man of the hour down here! I dare say you shan’t need to buy your own drink in a copper’s pub for a good while!”
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“It has been too long indeed, Cap-, Chief Phoebus.” Tyras smiled up at his old friend and boss. Phoebus had been his commanding officer for much of the war, and after the Lunists laid down their arms he returned to his station in the police and quickly rose through the ranks until he became Chief Superintendent of the Ignisdava PD.
“You really gave those foozler pirates a bloody nose, eh? Gotta say, I was a pinch worried for ya.”
Tyras gave a lopsided smirk.
“Please. I didn’t survive the trenches of the Broken Steel War only to get done in by a handful of dim ruffians. Those were hardly the disgruntled veterans turned outlaws our institution of law fears so. Which… I’m afraid this brings me to the reason I had scheduled this meeting in the first place.” He nodded to the Superintendent’s office door. “Shall we?”
The stallion nodded sagely, his beaming smile traded for a stony face of stoic analysis.
“I figured as much when you telegraphed me that you had something to tell me in person. Something you could not send me through the wire or a courier must be something which demands discretion. I see you went through the rear exits of the skydock to avoid the press vultures, took a hansom to Dresba Station then the skytram?”
Tyras smiled. He may have been known far and wide to the law for his deductive reasoning, yet that would have been nothing without Phoebus’s mentoring in harnessing the powers of observation his mind and Forte allowed him.
The war had trained his mind in survival. His brain was reactive, retaliating against threats and adapting to any situation. Phoebus had further molded it to be proactive. For him to understand and know his enemy enough for himself to become the threat and situation the foe had to adapt to.
“The red earth on my shoes, I assume? There is some in the stretch of wasteland behind the airdock. And you know that the tram or subway does not arrive when I disembark, and since you know my compulsion for punctuality, I’d have taken the nearest cab, then the much quicker skytram.”
“Very good, very good!” the stallion clapped his hands together loudly with a broad smirk. “That blasted war did your brain some good after all, eh? Oh, come in, come in!”
Phoebus’s office did not look like the place of work of one of the most important officials of the city. It was large, a massive window took up most of the far wall giving an excellent view of much of the city and its air traffic, the desk was of fine mahogany, but that was about where the luxuries ended. The chairs were no more luxurious than those in any police captain’s office and the carpet was a plain pale green. A faint fragrance of cinnamon hung in the air from a scented candle and a half finished sweet roll on the desk.
The only clue as to the importance of the man who occupied this office were the Osnyan Royal Flag proudly displayed on the wall and a picture framed just below it.
“The 15th Scout Raider Platoon” the gold leaf lettering below it read. Ten soldiers and their stallion commander stood in it, eyes tired yet fierce, a faint smile of hope still blossoming on the worn, weary faces. They were clearly not average soldiers. They were all armored with a scale mail which was both light and could stop pistol rounds and shrapnel, they each had short Augustan swords on their belts, devastating in the claustrophobic trench warfare, and their guns were more suited for close combat, rifles traded for short carbines, SMGs and shotguns.
Their squad leader, a white furred steppe lion, stood in front of his team next to the equine commander, equipped not much differently than his underlings. Both eyes were still intact, giving a look of battle weariness yet also a devilish eagerness which made the soul of the present day lion fill with both prideful nostalgia yet also a chilling terror and reprehension at what he’d allowed himself to become back then.
Only two in that picture were still alive.
Both men stared at the picture before solemnly taking their seats. Phoebus produced a bottle and two shot glasses and poured a generous measure in both. Glass chimed and the brown colored spirit was downed in seconds.
Exhaling from the potent liquor, Tyras said. “Right. Let’s just get down to brass tacks, as the Nyterians say. I’m here to talk about the state of training of our police at large.”
The Superintendent gave a broad smirk and poured himself another glass. Tyras shook his finger when he was offered more alcohol.
“Hehehe, yes, training! I’d heard you took over the pistol and carbine training in Luxodava! You were up to some shenanigans, Inspector!” With the eagerness of a child opening a new toybox, he retrieved a letter from his desk. He put on a monocle, cleared his throat theatrically and began reading.
“The approach to training by Leftenant Maloko is quite unorthodox. I myself was always of the opinion that firearm training should be exclusively an outdoors activity, yet he clearly disagrees. He commissioned a two story wooden structure to be built on Academy grounds and had it surrounded with sandbags so any stray shots would not progress further. Several objects such as tables, barrels and chairs are placed randomly after each run. The Leftenant called it ‘The Mystery House’. Several officers voiced concerns that this exercise was pointless, since it was near impossible to miss with such short distances, yet the Leftenant simply smiled and said ‘then you’ll get top marks!’.
At the start of the exercise, the officer is permitted to load his pistol or revolver and is to open the door before him at an auditory signal. There are always three red “Kill” targets and an unknown number of “Innocent” targets.
However, the moment the officer opens the door, the lights go out. A single target springs up and the officer has a second to shoot it. In the meantime, other officers surround the compound screaming their lungs out, banging on pottery, a woman screams for help in a nearby room and Leftenant Maloko is climbed up on the rafters, throwing confetti and firecrackers at the officer. The first officer began screaming and unloading his revolver, hitting every “Innocent” target, leaving the “Kill” target intact. The officer in question (who shall remain nameless to avoid personal embarrassment) then went out for a few minutes and returned as he was before, yet I had noticed he’d changed his uniform trousers.”
Phoebus had been chuckling the entire time while reading the document and at the end, he slapped it on the table and began laughing loudly, gripping his midsection.
“Whipped those laddies into shape, didn’t ya? It was quite a change from shooting wooden targets in clean air!”
“That was exactly the point, sir. When they’ll be necessitated to draw their sidearms, they won’t fight in clean outdoor shooting ranges, they will fight in ‘mystery houses’. Our current training regime creates very good marksmen, but does very little to prepare for the stress and chaos of actual combat. We need gunfighters, not competition shooters.”
The smile disappeared and in a moment, he was the grave commander once again.
“I’d say our officers are already well trained enough. They’re the envy of law enforcement the world over!”
“That they are, sir, but it’s due to two things: One, our training and modus operandi for general fitness, community policing, negotiation and de-escalation are indeed second to none, which helps with street level crimes. Secondly, at the last headcount two months ago, 49% of officers were veterans of the War, and their bravery and coolness under fire translates very well. But as the years will go on, that number will drop, and so will the performance of our forces unless we act preemptively.”
“It would be… expensive and lengthy to completely change our training doctrines, Tyras.” Phoebus said thoughtfully. “Especially since, as far as the Ministry of Defense is concerned, we’re doing a really good job. Out of every gunfight, robbery and piracy attempt last month across the Kingdom, for instance, about 80% of them ended with every criminal dead or apprehended.”
Tyras smiled patiently “You just told me that should a villain wish to do harm for their own benefit, they have a 1 in 5 chance of successful flight. Furthermore, of those fabled 80%, how many ended with no dead or injured on our side? Or no civilian casualties?” The Superintendent winced uncomfortably. Tyras suppressed a smile. He’d created an opening and now was the time to capitalize.
“Air piracy is a completely new breed of crime. Any villain with a string of successful robberies and who’s smart enough to save can purchase an airship. They can go where they please, when they please. Making away with the loot is easier than ever, as the sky is quite literally the limit. We’ve got bona fide “pirate ports” popping up in the mountainous regions, where access by foot or vehicle is near impossible, and which we’ve been slow and ineffective at shutting down. The press are calling them a rumor, but you and I know better.
The rogues that I took down earlier were amateurs. We were lucky. Yet even they were prepared: They had sidearms, shotguns and sawn off rifles. What did the Sky Guard show up with when they did? Full length rifles that would have been more a hindrance than aid in the close quarters of an airship.
We won the War because we adapted better than our enemy to the realities of technology and trench warfare. But our lawmen are still training with autoloaders as if they were flintlock pistols. Something needs to change.”
“That I agree on,” The stallion replied. “But like I said, we cannot afford now to completely change training doctrines.”
Tyras smiled with the restrained cockiness of a gambler about to show a winning hand. “I know. Which is why until we can do that, I propose this:” Opening up his suitcase, he retrieved a leather folder and placed it on the desk. His superior picked it up gingerly, studying the cover like he expected it to be covered in blood. Then he opened it up and skimmed it.
“Dear Mr Mayor…
I, Lieutenant-Inspector Tyras Maloko of the Luxodava Constabulary put forward the proposal for the formation of a special team under my command tasked with identifying, tackling and stopping airship piracy, train robberies, bank heists, raids on “pirate villages” and other high risk situations which the regular police have proven less than ideal in solving…
…
For the beginning, I wish the team to number no more than five [5] members, myself included, to minimize costs and allow a more streamlined command structure…
...
The provisional name for this new team is the High Risk Reserve Unit…
…
I propose that the new unit is stationed in Ignis-Dava for several reasons:
1) It has the most talented pool of officers to draw upon
2) Generally speaking, the Ignisdava Constabulary has a richer inventory of equipment and weaponry
3) The Police Academy has an undeveloped stretch of wasteland which could easily be used to construct a headquarters and training ground for the unit
4) It has the richest air traffic of the nation, making it an ideal focal point for the unit’s purpose
Of course, this also means I am putting forward a request to be transferred to the Ignisdava PD…
…
For the first batch, I wish to handpick the members. The officers in question must be at least 25 years of age, to have served a minimum of one year in the Burning Steel War, no black marks or suspensions, a marksmanship score of at least…
Phoebus set the document down. He got the gist of it. He looked at his subordinate with something between surprise and admiration. Tyras maintained his even gaze, yet inwardly, his heart kicked up a notch.
“That’s a tall order, Tyras. I’ve had section chiefs come in with lesser proposals and I rejected them.”
“Well, sir, I am not a section chief. Pray take this proposal as is, not in the vacuum of bureaucracy, but with the context of reality. Simply put, if we are to call the air pirate problem a war, then we are losing it. It’s like the first year of the War, when we used last century tactics like soldiers were still armed with muskets and millions of souls perished on both sides because of our ignorance until we adapted. I had served since the first month and I do not wish to repeat the experience of impotently breaking our fists on a brick wall before we realize a mallet would be better suited. All I ask is that you allow me to provide the tool. Me and one former comrade, outnumbered and outgunned, took down twenty pirates. Imagine what I could do with an entire squad.” Tyras kept his gaze even, trying his best not to look at the picture behind his verbal sparring partner, to not look at their accusing gazes, to not recall that day…
“I understand, son,” his former and current commander said clemently. “Your arguments are sound and I do know your motives are selfless. However…” His grass green eyes met Tyras’s own two orbs of brown and silver. He looked back at the picture behind him “You need to know you have nothing to prove. Their deaths were not on you, and deep down you know it too. They knew the dangers of fighting for the Light, and no one could have led them in battle better than you. Not even I. No one could have prevented what happened that day. Just one of the many merciless dice throws of war which overcomes even the best of warriors.”
“That was no dice throw, sir… The cards were laid out by me.” Tyras could no longer look up at his commander, as hard as he’d tried.
The silence stretched uncomfortably.
“You had no way of knowing that what you did would lead to what happened that day.”
“Yet I knew it was wrong.”
“War is full of good people doing wrong things for the right reasons. Sometimes it’s justified, sometimes there is no excuse. Yet whichever category your actions fell into, you have paid for them in full, with your eye and your soul.” He grabbed Tyras’s glass and poured another generous measure, in spite of his earlier protests. The lion quietly drank it.
“Yet… redemption is not your sole motive. War broke you, Tyras. It broke all of us. Broke who we once were. Yet from the shattered pieces, it rebuilt us, for better or for worse. And you… it built you into the finest warrior and NCO I have had the honor of commanding. And there is no one in the world better suited to be the spearhead against this new threat the nation’s facing. Yet… for how much war broke you, you miss it. You were good at it, one of the best. And now, as much as you enjoy exercising your brain rather than your brawn, focusing your powers of deduction on solving murders rather than inflicting them, you are suffering. You are not harnessed at your full potential. You are like a great powerful engine disconnected from its original machine, tearing itself apart, shooting steam and idly working its pistons for nothing.
And all I wish to know is… are you doing this for duty? Or for yourself?”
“For the Light and my people.” Tyras replied without missing a beat. “The foremost sin in the Eight Strictures is idleness. Having an ability that would better the life of those around you and not using it. I am doing that right now. We all are. It is time to change that.” He was silent for a minute and he looked his commander in the eye. “But, I shan’t lie: I am also doing this in part for myself. Perhaps because I wish to redeem myself for my late comrades, or for the mere sporting pleasure of it. If you think that compromises my ability to lead this experimental new team, then I bid you farewell.”
Phoebus looked at the man before him as if he expected him to continue, to give more arguments in favor of his proposal or to insist. He didn’t.
“Well, Tyras…” He got up and clasped Tyras’s hand in his own giant mitt. “Sincerity has always been one of your higher qualities. And I appreciate that. You told the truth even if you knew it may compromise your ambitions. Consider the team founded. I can start sending word that good capable men and women are wanted tomorrow.”
Tyras gave only a nod. “Thank you sir.” He said with a difficultly restrained joy.
“Speaking of which… do you have any particular officers in mind for this team of yours?”
The newly appointed commander couldn’t suppress a knowing smirk.
“I do have one man in mind…”