Shall We Begin Read online

  Shall We Begin

  (A Gateway to the Galaxy Story)

  By

  Jonathan Yanez

  JR Castle

  Copyright © 2018 by Archimedes Books. All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons— living or dead—is entirely coincidental.

  If you think this book is awesome at all it’s only because I have a pack of rabid ARC Wolves, a wonderful editor and a talented cover artist. Thank you for your help.

  ARC WOLVES

  Kelly

  Athena

  Eagle Eyes

  Lois

  Editor – BZ Hercules

  Cover Illustrator - Christian Kallias

  For everyone out there who has taken a chance on one of our books. This one’s for you.

  - Jonathan Yanez and JR Castle

  Chapter 1

  “You pigeon-toed, cross-eyed, poor excuses for recruits better get your act together. I swear to you, I swear to you on your own grave that I will not allow action like this to live and breathe in my Corps. Green, purple, scales, feathers, male, female, or some unclear mix of the two, I hate you all equally. Do you understand the words coming out of my mouth hole!?!”

  The recently titled Arilion Knights standing in front of the Drill Sergeant didn’t dare look to one another for consensus. Sergeant Claymore liked to keep them on their toes, so to speak. That is, if they had toes. If they shouted an answer, he’d jump down their throats. And if they remained silent, he’d jump down their throats. It was a win-win for him

  The squad stood in two neat rows at attention. Shoulders back, heads up. A dozen pairs of different-colored, different-shaped eyes looked back at Sergeant Claymore. Their attention darted about, shifted down, or stared ahead wide in fear. Fear wasn’t looked upon in the Corps as something to be babied. There was no room for coddling, helicopter parenting, snowflake protecting softness in his Corps. As long as the recruits’ courage won out, fear could be tolerated. Fear lived in everyone, but each had a choice to roll over and give in or snuff it out. As long as the recruits under his command refused to give in to fear, Sergeant Claymore could live with it.

  “Are you deaf today, you sorry sack of swine waste? I asked you if you understand the words coming out of my mouth hole!?!” Sergeant Claymore paced back and forth in front of his squad of mismatched, confused recruits from motley galaxies.

  “We understand what’s coming out of your mouth hole, sir!” the squad shouted back.

  “‘Sir?’” Sergeant Claymore rolled his shoulders. He got up in the face of one of the unlucky recruits, the heavy breath from his flat, wrinkled nostrils disturbing the eyes of the purple-skinned male Neeve recruit. “I work for a living, recruit. You refer to me as Sergeant Claymore. Do you understand the words coming out of my mouth hole?!?”

  With long white hair tied low behind his head, his pointed ears stuck up on either side of his face. Like the others in the ensemble, he wore the black with purple trim uniform of the Arilion Knights, the symbol of his own planet’s military fighting force on his shoulder: a leviathan wrapped around a trident.

  “I understand the words coming out of your mouth hole, Sergeant Claymore!” the Neeve shouted back, keeping his eyes forward, stance rigid.

  Sergeant Claymore was not a small individual. He was a Gorkope from the planet Judgeon in the Oberon Galaxy - the same galaxy as the Neeve’s home planet of Atmos. He stood over two meters tall and was twice as wide as the slender Neeve standing in front of him. Short, dark fur covered his muscular body from domed head and bulging forehead to pawed feet.

  “Good,” Sergeant Claymore said, taking a step back and readjusting his beady gaze on the entire squad. “Can anyone tell me what we’re doing on this godforsaken, bug-infested planet called Creeon?”

  He wasn’t surprised when no one volunteered to answer his question.

  “We’re here to start your training as Arilion Knights. The Order suffered losses during the Chaos War and now the vambraces have found you as replacements to take up the mantle. All of you.” Sergeant Claymore clasped his calloused, meaty hands behind his back and took a moment to meet each one of their gazes. He then looked around at their surroundings to give himself a moment to focus not on those brothers and sisters lost in battle but rather on the task before him. “Although the Chaos War is over, other threats will come. We will be the ones to slaughter those threats, you should believe me on that.”

  The Order of Arilion Knights had used the desolate side of the planet of Creeon in the Oberon galaxy as their training ground for ages. The rich atmosphere proved breathable for the diverse life forms within the Order. This, combined with uninhabited landscape, made it the perfect place to practice without fear of harming bystanders or destroying property. On this side of the planet, the barren terrain was covered with sandy slopes to run up and down. Heat from the trio of suns beat down on the coarse orange dunes devoid of plant life already. It was going to be a wonderful day of drills as far as Sergeant Claymore was concerned.

  “It’s my job to shape you into the weapons I know you are. The vambraces only choose those who are of the most formidable Will. There were no mistakes; no Arilion Knight isn’t good enough. You have everything you need inside of you,” Sergeant Claymore roared, stepping hard with his nearly two hundred kilograms punctuating each word. “The strongest steel is forged in the hottest flames: you are the steel, this planet is the flame. Would anyone like to hazard a guess as to who I am in this beautiful scenario I’ve imagined?”

  “You’re the tongs?” a sable-feathered Gleason female whispered from the right side of the front line.

  “What did you say, twinkle toes?” Sergeant Claymore stalked over to the bird-race recruit, who winced at the new nickname she’d been given. “Well, speak up, new meat. I don’t have all day; we got a hump to go on that you just volunteered to lead. Speak up, speak up. I want to have us a little conversation.”

  Unlike the Neeve, this Gleason redirected her eyes from staring straight forward and instead looked up to meet Sergeant Claymore’s glare. She had a fire in her stare that Sergeant Claymore loved to see in his recruits, although he would never tell them that.

  “You asked if we had an idea of who you were in the scenario, si—Sergeant,” the Gleason said, clacking her beak together. “I hazarded a guess and said you were the tongs.”

  “Tongs? I’m not a pair of salad-eating, utensil-serving, mamby-pamby tongs!” Sergeant Claymore bent down so his big, sharp canines were inches from the Gleason’s beak. “I’m the hammer in this scenario, recruit. And so help me, I swear on everything you hold dear, I will forge you into a living weapon.”

  The Gleason female looked up at Sergeant Claymore with malice in her light blue eyes. Her form within the compass of her uniform tensed and flexed with agitation. The iron cross topped with a brilliant heptagram, the sigil of the Gleason forces, bulged on her shoulder under the tension.

  “You look like you want to take a swing at me, recruit.” Sergeant Claymore took a step back and narrowed his own dark eyes at the Gleason. “Well, go ahead. Please make my day. Don’t hold back now; you’re among your new family. I’m your daddy, your mommy, the brother you don’t like, and the sister who wears your clothes and returns them ruined. If you have something to say, if you have a swing to take
, let’s get this over with.”

  The Gleason didn’t move to take the bait. She was smarter than that. Nor did she back down.

  “Oh ho ho ho ha!” a deep voiced recruit bellowed from down the line in the back row.

  Sergeant Claymore rolled his eyes to himself, then trained his eyes with laser precision to the offender, whose laugh jiggled his round, green belly.

  Here we go, he thought to himself. There was always one in the bunch. One recruit who didn’t yet take life seriously enough to understand what was at stake. Why the vambraces chose them, he didn’t know. That was where he came in – the leader to break them down and build them back up to be the champions the Light needed.

  “WHAT? What, may I ask, do you find so funny? Is there something you’d like to share with the rest of the class, my aquamarine pretty little Boy George?” He loved any chance to remind these pretty polished-horned, high-pompadour, sparkling smile-type, Danny Zuko wannabe characters of how gritty life in the Order could be.

  “Yeah, I just love seeing a fellow kin so large and in charge of a group. You know what I mean?” As if to prove Sergeant Claymore’s point, he ran a hand through his chartreuse stack of hair that came up just below the set of curved horns on his head. They gave him the extra height, whereas he didn’t even meet two meters tall.

  Sergeant Claymore had to bend down to meet him face to face.

  “Kin? Boy, the last time I saw my reflection, I don’t recall a visible fart complete with tiara, muscle-less limbs, a belly like playdoh, all covered in stank green looking back at me. I am a machine. A killing machine. And I. Will. Make. Machines. Out of All. Of. You. Make no mistake, I know my history. I know our people’s DNA is said to stem from the same line. But today? I’m not your kin. I’m your sergeant and you will not laugh out of line in my company. Do you feel the need to let out another laugh? A little giggle? A little teehee, recruit?”

  “No, Sergeant Claymore!” The air had been deflated from the pompous earth monkey-like creature who now wrung his prehensile tail in his hands and looked down.

  “Don’t think I’m singling you out.” Sergeant Claymore looked over the squad. “That goes for everyone. I don’t play favorites and I don’t bully. I treat all of you the same. I hate the weakness in you all equally. Now, would anyone of you like to voice your concerns, call me a utensil, take a swing, or slap me on the bottom and call me Shirley?”

  No one made a move.

  Sergeant Claymore had to keep himself from smiling at that last comment. Sometimes when he opened his mouth, he wasn’t sure what was going to come out. He couldn’t wait to tell Ugēn about this later. It was sure to have them rolling when they met over their favorite drinks back on Judgeon. Instead of a grin, he kept his perpetual scowl skewed hard on his face.

  “Alright, if there is no more hand holding or general tomfoolery to be had, let’s move out,” Sergeant Claymore said, looking over to the female Gleason. “That’s you, twinkle toes. You’re leading the hump today.”

  “Yes, Sergeant. Where to, Sergeant?” the female Gleason asked, accepting her fate.

  “You run in that direction,” Sergeant Gleason said. With an outstretched left hand, he pointed with his thick pointer finger to no apparent place on the horizon. “You run in that direction until I tell you to stop. You are on a need-to-know basis, Recruit Twinkle Toes, and that is all you need to know. Do you understand the words coming out of my mouth hole, recruits!?!”

  Chapter 2

  Truth be told, Sergeant Claymore actually liked the recruits in his new squad. It was still too early to tell how they would take to the training, of course, but these were the selections the vambraces had made. That meant they were already in the Arilion Knights and only needed to be trained and prepared.

  It was his job to do the hardening. Any babying or favors would do them no good in their preparation to face the darkness that lived in the universe. These Arilion Knights would be first responders from everything to quelling rebellions and fighting space behemoths to tracking down marauders, and everything in between. If they did their job smart and right, then they’d be the last ones standing as well.

  The harder he could be on them, the better trained he could make them, could mean the difference between life and death. Sergeant Claymore wasn’t going to let them down. Not on his watch. This was the beginning for them. They were clay for him to shape and, by god, he would turn them into what they needed to be to survive.

  The plan was to exhaust them physically, mentally, emotionally; to beat them down and break them and then assist them as they discovered they had more to give. As Arilion Knights, they would always have more to give, come hell or high water.

  Sergeant Claymore had kept them at a steady pace all day. When one began to lag behind, he ran alongside. To keep them in line, he’d spur them on, saying, “Move your bones, recruit. Life’s rough in the big city” or “When the going gets tough, the tough get going,” and maybe even some, “I love the smell of a little PT in the morning, don’t you?”

  The suns were already beginning to set when the squad reached the compound where they would rack for the night. The location was nothing more than a warehouse with a floor to sleep on and some stock of food. The building was simple; four walls, a hard ground and a roof over their head. After the day the sergeant had for them, the recruits would need to be hydrated, fed, and rested.

  Yes, Sergeant Claymore was going to break them, but he needed them healthy and ready to get back up every time they were beaten down.

  “Ten minutes for chow and hydration,” Sergeant Claymore shouted as he wiped sweat from the matted fur on his forehead. “We’ll begin defensive constructs next.”

  There was a ripple of heavy sighs and heavier breathing as the recruits caught their breaths. They filed into the rust-colored warehouse that blended in with the color of the sand around them. In every direction, soft hills rolled over the landscape as far as the eye could see.

  The Judgeon leader turned to secure the door and allowed his gaze to fall across the rolling landscape one last time when something glinted for the briefest moment against the horizon as a sun caught metal. Sergeant Claymore raised a hand to shield his dark eyes. Whatever it had been was now gone.

  “Valkyrie, this is Sergeant Claymore on Creeon,” Sergeant Claymore said, pressing two fingers to this throat and opening the comm link to the Arilion ship that circled in orbit. “Probably nothing, but I thought I saw something metallic moving on the surface. Confirming this side of Creeon is supposed to be free of any locals.”

  Nothing. No response came from the other end of the line, not so much as static.

  “Sergeant Claymore to Valkyrie, come in.” The soldier fought back a dozen scenarios that ran rampant in his mind. He was far from panicking; however, he liked being in the know and no communication with support was definitely not in the know.

  He could always take flight and try to find the Valkyrie, but his chances would be like trying to find a needle in a haystack, even if he knew exactly where in orbit the ship was supposed to be. Besides, he wasn’t about to leave his recruits.

  Probably ran into a communication glitch or maybe they’re in a silent zone while orbiting, Sergeant Claymore thought to himself. Get the recruits training and try back soon. They’ll answer next time.

  Sergeant Claymore scanned the horizon one more time before entering the warehouse. There was nothing he could see beside the never-ending desert. With a snort, he turned to enter the building.

  “Let’s get going, recruits,” Sergeant Claymore said as he entered the warehouse. “Break time’s over. Let’s see what sorry excuses for defensive constructs you can create.”

  The recruits forced themselves from where they sat scattered across the wide space of the depository, too tired to interact or gab. Reluctantly, they placed their water canteens and food supplies away as they reassembled formation in a single straight line across the warehouse.

  On the outside, the warehouse wasn’t
much to look at. A long metal building ten meters tall with a slanted aluminum-type roof, it lacked any architectural design aesthetics. This had been done decidedly so because the inside, however, was a different story. The warehouse was one giant training mat. Lining the walls were storage units for basic supplies such as water, food, and medical equipment, but it was built for one reason: to train.

  “Your bodies are weak and you’re exhausted, so let's move on to testing your Will of mind,” Sergeant Gleason said as he clenched his hands in front of him and looked down at his own vambraces. The armor pieces glowed with faint wisps of purple so dark it was nearly black. “Look inside you and draw from the fire that burns deep. Imagine a defensive construct, whether it be a shield, a force field, armor, or anything else your kind uses for defense.”

  Warmth wrapped over Sergeant Claymore as a practiced move to pull forth and push out Will created hulking, translucent armor that covered his body from high-collared neck to heavy boots. The armor fed off the power of his Will like a battery or gasoline would charge a generator.

  Sergeant Claymore studied his recruits as they fought and fumbled their way to forming their own protective creations. Not to his surprise, the female Gleason was doing the best. She stood inside a cube that offered her cover in every direction.

  To his surprise, and slight delight, the Ju-zeel had managed a narrow wall of thorny vines reminiscent of his dense, rainforest-covered planet to sprout from the ground. The tendrils were hardly thick enough to stand for long nor would they protect them from even the sergeant bulldozing through, but they held.

  The now humbled recruit’s tail twitched with delight at his small victory.

  Others, like the Neeve, struggled to bring even a shield to life. The faint outline with a transparent, round Buckler shield he held in his right hand kept fading in and out of vision. More sweat poured off the Neeve’s forehead as he fought to hold the construct.