The Wars of Zegandaria by Atanas Marinov, Atanas Marinov, Atanas Marinov, Atanas Marinov (find a book to read .txt) 📕

CHAPTER ONE: THE MARCH

This man was different. Although at first glance he looked like the others, he was not like them. He could not cry. Not once in his life had he done so. Not even when he held the cooling body of his commander, General Jacob Wallace, in his arms. That had happened at the famous Battle of Xanderar, where the Human Alliance troops had clashed. 'A great miracle' some biased person might say, but miracle or no miracle, it remained a fact. No one had been able to explain this distinguishing feature of the strange man-whether it was congenital, acquired, a disease, a sign of insensibility, or something else. Perhaps it was each of these things separately, or perhaps it was some strange mixture of the above. Still, there had to be some explanation, or at least a semblance of an explanation, and maybe not? After all, who needed it?

Maybe everyone! It was no coincidence, therefore, that the General had sent him on a secret mission despite his low rank, for he had been impressed by his extraordinary coolness and concentration on the task at hand from the very first days. And that, after all, was the most important thing on the battlefield, where an errant bullet could crack your skull. Almost all his battle comrades were killed, yet he did not shed a single tear. Not because they hadn't shared everything over the past years, but because an order was an order. An order - clear and firm. And vital. An order you couldn't disobey. And he knew that very well.

At the moment, this man was walking like a bum through the crowd swarming around the supposed approaches to Ultra City, the last bastion that kept human civilization alive. The land had long since been turned into a desert, or rather into something between utterly desolate regions and semi-desert areas, where here and there were oases in which the last sparks of intelligent life still smouldered. The people had long forgotten what year it was, and it didn't matter so much anymore. What was more important was that almost all the raw materials on the planet were exhausted, clean drinking water was scarce, and food, real food, was for some just a mirage before which they licked their lips helplessly as they walked aimlessly in the wilderness.

In fact, Ultra City was a vast complex whose entrances, or perhaps more accurately approaches, were located in the middle of the Zegarai Mountains, east of Ubunder. It was a place that was practically inaccessible even as a mere point of approach, and even more so that the untrained eye would hardly have discerned any signs of life here. Virtually none of the newcomers were familiar with the exact dimensions of this city-state, which still offered some hope of survival for humanity. Ubunder, they called the eastern part of the planet Zegandaria, which humans had colonized in the not-so-distant past, but which, due to excessive human greed and recklessness, had been almost completely ruined and devastated in a relatively short period of time.

All that could be read on the tortured faces of the strangers was fatigue and some feeling resembling boredom with the 'need' to live, they looked like a herd of tormented animals that had gone in search of salvation from the harsh zegandarian sun, which with prolonged exposure inflicted slight burns on the surface of the skin that did not heal for days. But as the saying goes - 'Hope dies last'. They were driven less by an instinct to live than by a herd sense of belonging to the rest. Yet here and there among the crowd glimmered individual clearer silhouettes that stood out more vividly against the general impersonal and grey background. One was that of a young ex-military man, who wore a uniform that, though a little worn, was still sturdy and fit him well enough not to look grotesque like much of the crowd, who were dressed in rags rather than normal clothes. Normality?! In fact, that word had lost its meaning so long ago that it was difficult to determine its meaning. Life had been reduced to a day-to-day thought, and sometimes for much less. No one knew whether, the step he took at any moment, would not be his last. Paradoxically, or perhaps quite naturally, the world had struck back at the 'blow' of the human race, and as it was ruining it, so was it.

Mark Lenner, that was the military man's real name, strode along quite confidently, though it would be fair to admit that the general discordant chorus of human moans, grunts and so on inevitably had some effect on him. Slightly paradoxically, the former private was now in the role of leader, a sort of 'general' of this entire 'army', as it would be rather curtly to call the dribblers striding across the planet's dry surface. Still, military training and discipline had their say, and he maintained a comparatively slow but firm and measured pace to his progress, much like a professional climber might wish to keep his breath longer in case he was needed at some later but vital stage.

In order that they might yet have some protection from the scorching zegandarian rays, they had wrapped over their battle helmets a special material, called quizon, used chiefly for making marching tents for the infantry, on account of its strength, moisture-proofness, and heat-proofness. But the main reason they did not rely on the built-in cooling system of their spacesuits was the insufficient amount of energy that was sorely needed to maintain their respiratory functions, as the oxygen content of the planet was relatively low. Not that a man left without a spacesuit would necessarily die immediately, but his breathing would become considerably more difficult, and if he still didn't get at least a respirator within a few hours, he would start to suffocate little by little. As a matter of fact, the temperature of the planet during the day could reach up to about 60 degrees, but at night it would get quite cold and temperatures could drop to -30. The reason for this lay in the slightly eccentric tilt of the planet, and the remoteness of its sun.

Apart from the scarcity of food and clean drinking water, the danger to humans came not only from the abrupt climatic fluctuations, but also from the presence of creatures called guarrons, which were large humanoid lizards with relatively advanced intelligence, but considerably better adapted than humans to the extreme environment. No one knew where they had come from. All sorts of legends had been told about them since the time when Midriel was king of the Human Alliance. But according to some rumors, they were actually much more ancient. There was no one to confirm these rumors anyway, as King Midriel had reigned over 1000 zegandarian years ago, so any tales of this nature remained practically in the realm of conjecture.

The march, or trek as it would be more aptly called, for the sake of moving from point to point, with something going wrong at any moment and the caravan perishing, was now in its tenth day. They were forced to drag themselves literally like dogs because the speeder was becoming useless without fuel. And the fuel had to be saved for far more pressing needs, such as keeping the guaroons at bay, who for who knows what reason had become considerably more aggressive than before. Apparently they sniffed that the human race was slowly but surely fading, and their hour to rule this planet single-handedly as before had struck.

But even the guarrons were not the main reason for the exhausting journey Mark, along with Paul Zolsky, had been forced to undertake. The two had served in the elite royal combat units. One as an infantryman and the other as a sniper. The real reason for the rapid depletion of resources was the conflicts between the eastern part of the planet, Ubunder, and the western part, called Elohy. The clashes were naturally driven by the lust for power of the respective leaders of the East and the West, cleverly dressed up in a complex tangle of ideological fabrications, which, however, the masses at first blindly believed in, because there was nothing else to believe in. In time the situation became more acute and the planet was plunged into a state of total war in which many died senselessly.

Ultra City was practically a neutral city in addition to the last bastion of humanity. Many had even doubted its existence altogether, but given the lack of other prospects, had resolved to believe in it.

They hoped that since the polis had not interfered in the all-out war between East and West, it might be the scene of peaceful negotiations between the former enemies, and that in a longer perspective the possible remnants of human civilization might be gathered and organized to do battle with the guarrons, who were generally very secretive and subversive creatures about whose organization and hierarchy little was known.

- 'Mark, do you really believe they will open up to us? What if there's just nothing there?,' voiced Paul's concerns.

- 'They should open up,' Mark replied, with a slight snort of contempt, 'The information and orders were given to me personally by General Jacob Wallace.'

- 'You don't think he could have been fooled? After all, by now word of his existence would have gotten out from somewhere.,' Paul persisted.

- 'The General even gave me the secret passwords. Let's hope they haven't changed them in the meantime.,' said Mark with slight irritation.

While this very brief conversation was going on someone in the crowd gRoyaned and said in as tortured a voice as if from the depths of hell:

- 'I hope you're right, Mark, because you've been dragging us around the damned desert for ten days now. Quite a few people are on the edge of their strength and are already beginning to be dissatisfied. What if there really is nothing out there and all this wandering has been for nothing?', this remark came from a mouse-faced man whose real name few knew, and was known among his colleagues as the Rat, because of the predatory expression he took on when he got into a fight with an enemy. The other soldiers didn't particularly like him, but they felt something of awe for him.

Meanwhile some of the others pricked up their ears and listened to the conversation, and here and there a voice or two was heard in favour of what Rat said. The group was now entering Windy Canyon, also known as Devil's Throat, for again according to legend, quite a few people had disappeared without a trace in these parts. Of course there were no living eyewitnesses to confirm it, so the place was shrouded in mystery. From here on, according to the instructions Mark had received, the real approaches to the secret city began. He slowed his pace and said:

- 'Boys, be careful,' with those words, he took off the strap of his plasma rifle and brought it to the ready to fire.

- 'I think we'd better make a tighter formation,' Paul added.  'Like anything, a guarron might pop out of somewhere...'

He didn't finish when there was a sudden whistling sound and a sharp feather of enormous size landed just inches from him.

- 'Archaneans,' the Rat barely stammered, and ducked under a large protruding flat stone that formed something akin to a small alcove in the middle of the otherwise deserted area to protect himself from the whole barrage of deadly feather-shots that suddenly poured down from above.

There was a commotion throughout the crowd, as not all of them were military, and there were quite a few civilians as well, with the entire group numbering no more than thirty