Zel felt fully restored as he edged closer to the compound. Korrich had grudgingly allowed one of his drivers to bring Zel to the outskirts of the prison, but it was Zel’s job to get inside. The driver wasn’t very respectful to Zel. Old hatreds died slowly.

Zel didn’t believe the driver would show to pick him up.

Maybe when Silen calls them they’ll come. Maybe, Zel thought as a searchlight meandered across the grass ten feet in front of him. He had judged the size and security of the prison. He’d broken into a few before, but this time it would be very difficult.

He paced the grounds three times, easily dodging the dogs around the mile-wide perimeter and avoiding searchlights. He got a quick feel for the area. On his first pass, he walked right past a man of a slight green-ish hue. He had stopped his motorbike on the street to take a drink, and looked at Zel curiously.

“I haven’t seen your looks before. What race are you?” the man, a Haman, asked, and looked at Zel with contempt.

“I’m not in the mood to talk,” Zel said as kindly as he could.

“You’re no Haman, and you’re certainly not a Grichian. But I can’t place you in any other race. You’re not that Prophet, are you?” The word Prophet came out with more hatred than anything else. The man spat a curse. “Why the world am I talking to you, pig. Get off our planet already.” The man, apparently without fear, got back on his bike and drove off, racing away.

Zel shrugged the encounter off and continued his search.

He found no weak spots. He saw no place where there wasn’t a camera scanning every square inch. And the two-hundred-yard stretch from the walled perimeter to the prison itself was lit up bright as day. The walls were actually five-fold. First razor wire, then thick concrete, then more razor wire, an electrified fence, and a final stretch of razor wire as thick as berry bushes. All of these were well-lit and guarded with armed men. It would not be easy.

It never is, Zel thought, and readied himself.

The prison itself was a solid block of concrete, four stories tall and rectangular in shape. Two guard towers stood on opposite sides of the building, and the middle had a final floor that looked like a box on top of a box. It had a high roof and long-shot gunners with searchlights scanning the yard. It was the oldest building in the city, four hundred years in age. Zel had a brief thought that no matter the architectural tastes of a culture, they didn’t care at all what their prisons looked like.

“Might as well go,” Zel said, and sprang from his hiding spot, diving through the first layer of razor wire. As he ignored the pain and already healing wounds, he suddenly heard a voice in his head.

“What are you doing?” the voice asked.

“Stay out of this, Trella,” Zel said aloud as he cleared the wire, a sharp cut slashing his forehead open and nearly hitting his eye.

“What for? So you can waste time on that planet?” Trella’s sounded impatient. “And you don’t have to speak aloud, you know.”

Fine, Zel thought as he climbed up on the wall. The security alarms were already going off, piercing and loud.

“I think you got their attention.”

Probably. Zel reached the top of the wall. As he did, he instinctively pulled his sword out and deflected the first shot at him as he dove down into the next layer of razor wire. He landed with a crunch of metal.

“Ouch,” Trella said.

What do you want? Zel thought as he slowly got up, his blood already drying. I don’t have time for this, so say what you want or leave me alone. He cleared the wire with no difficulty.

“Alright, I’ll be brief. I want to know why you insist on helping these people. You’re needed here, Zel. We’re preparing to make a thrust and we can’t be without the most powerful of the Golds. Zaria says she can shift you here as soon as you’d like. Oh don’t…”

Zel jumped on the electrified fence. The jolts seared into his body and he felt like he’d been set on fire. He quickly climbed and jumped down on the other side, his skin smoking somewhat.

Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

“…do that,” Trella said. “Zel, sometimes you’ve got the sense of an animal.”

Zel had to pause a little to deflect some shots as guards ran to confront him. Go away. I’m not coming, he thought to the White talking to him from Sevens. Zel knew it would be winter at Pinnacle, and remembered how beautiful the city was cleansed in white.

“So you want to die to help a foolish planet? They hate us, Zel, and you’re needed elsewhere,” Trella thought to the man on the planet where snow came to only the far north and the Frontier continent.

Ignoring these people may be why they hate us. Besides, if I don’t do this now they could go on fighting forever. The shooters paused to reload and Zel thrust a shockwave at the bundle of razor wire. It furled back a little, and Zel, his eyes closed and waving his sword to cut his way through, ran in. It was just like his training.

“They’re going to fight no matter what we do, Zel. You’re the only Sevensian not with us on one side or the other. Now stop messing around. The Prophets are in danger,” Trella said, sounding even more impatient. Zel often had that effect on the White, something normally only Reds could do to the calm woman.

“Prophets are supposed to stop wars, not make them,” Zel said, running forward.

“We can’t help what’s happened, Zel, but running away was the worst decision. Do you know how long it took me to track you down?”

“Not long enough.”

Zel fended off half a dozen guards who’d closed on him with guns drawn. Zel deflected their shots, and when they ran out of ammunition, they fled. More were coming as Zel ran as fast as he could to the prison doors.

“Funny,” Trella said. “Oh, and you see those men, right?”

The point of the Sevens Prophets is to bring peace to worlds. We’ve failed more than miserably here, Zel thought, his sword glowing bright.

“And that’s why you’re needed with us, so we can go back one day.”

Zel deflected a few more shots. One tore into his arm. Suddenly, the main doors burst open and a dozen guards fell upon him. This planet can’t wait.

“And if the Prophets are destroyed? What then?” Trella asked. Zel had an image of her putting her fists on her hips.

Zel stopped as many shots as he could, but after what seemed an hour the shots began dwindling. Then he dipped his sword slightly and a bullet crashed into his chest. He opened his eyes wide as the blood gushed and his attackers reloaded. Pained, Zel thought to the Prophet speaking to him, Maybe we were never meant to succeed. Even if we are destroyed, at least one world will be at peace.

Zel fell to his knees, blood all over his body and a gaped, painful look on his face. The two shots in him gave him no pain at all.

After all we’ve failed at, at least the Prophets will have succeeded, this one time. Here and now, Zel thought, and collapsed on his face, his eyes wide open, staring at nothing.

“Zel, Zel! Oh please, now you’re just being ridiculous,” Trella thought, and let Zel go. And Zel’s heart stopped.

Mandrin made his way down the corridors of the prison. He didn’t want to be there. In fact, he hated the prison. It made him worried that the Grichians might find an extra spot for him. After all, he was a Cawn, and everyone who worked there was a Grichian. Mistakes could easily be made.

Yet at least he was there to hear first-hand of Zel’s death. The guards seemed more relieved than happy that they’d killed the Prophet, as if they’d narrowly avoided death. Mandrin felt no pity for him, nor for the lives of his fellow Cawns. The world was changing. He knew it.

Shifting his wounded arm and wincing, he cursed the dead pilot who’d accidentally shot him.

Mandrin passed by a group of imprisoned Cawns as they headed toward their final destination. Silen, heavily escorted by anxious guards, was in the group. She seemed upset, and her watery eyes told him she’d been crying. The others, however, looked simply reserved and cautious, as a prisoner should. Mandrin thought Korrich’s wife was brave enough to hold back tears. As he headed to his office to file the census correction forms, Mandrin thought he heard her say, “He was coming for me.”

A dry and emotionless tone whistled in the sterile, white room. Meeeee it rang without feeling or change. The noise came from the heart monitor, and had been turned down as the prison physician knew the Prophet was dead on arrival.

“Why did you even bring him here?” he remarked to the guards, standing behind him.

The four guards who’d carried Zel in made vain attempts at being proud of their achievement. Hatred was still in their eyes for the Prophet. Even dead, Zel’s body invoked a fear in them they couldn’t hide.

“Procedure. He may be dead, but you’ve gotta give us a death certificate,” a guard remarked.

“Yeah, and make sure and say I killed him,” another stated.

Meeeee.

“It was my shot not yours,” a third replied with attempted resolve.

“No, I killed him. That means I get his sword,” the other said with little strength, his eyes going to Zel as if worried those words would wake him.

The last guard stood emotionless, staring doubtfully at Zel and the sword they placed close beside him, not wanting to hold it too long.

Meeeee.

“Right?” the first guard asked.

The argument stopped there.

“I can’t fill out a death certificate. He’s not a citizen,” the physician said as he put away his surprisingly clean examination instruments.

“Then make one up for him,” the first guard stated, trying to get this situation done and cleared.

“I can’t just create a person’s records.”

Meeee weep, weep.

“Do you know the…” the physician said, then paused. “Wait.”

Weep, weep, the machine croaked quietly in spaced-out tones. Weep.

The physician looked down as the Prophet opened his eyes.