The Way: Chapter 1

The First Step
- Hurjafren VI, Erada Constellation, Minmatar Republic –

Light from the morning sun began to slice through the cracks of the thick wooden walls. The beams slowly crept downward, carefully illuminating the surface they fell upon like thin paintbrushes against the encompassing black canvas of the windowless room. The largest shaft of light crawled across an ordered collection of scratches on its surface, the impact of the beam following near a long deep groove, while the radiance of the pillar enlightened patches of ticks and crosses that surrounded the valleys. Embedded within the contorting columns and rows of counting were words and symbols in a language few inhabitants on this world knew. The makeshift calendar betrayed itself to a rise in apathy, as the scratches and valleys became more sparse and disorderly as the minutes crept by.

As the beams of light tilted further down, they fell upon the body of a fair-skinned man with blonde hair lying on his side. His peasantry clothes were ragged and torn, encrusted with dirt, sweat, and traces of blood and soil. The flats of his feet were soot black, covered with calluses and scar tissue suffered from cuts and gashes.  Skin flaked and bruised where the coverings did not hide it. Atop the head of the man was a long and scraggly mop of unkempt blonde, strands falling over a proportionately thin and curly beard. Despite the abused and damaged appearance, the chest of the man rose and fell silently with relative ease as he slept. The man was alive, but the measure of that life was far smaller than it once was in comparison.

Hours passed and the beams of light soon constricted themselves into thin strands wedging into the floor near the reinforced door with no handle. The man continued to either sleep or rest, lethargically resisting any large movements other than shifting his position to his side or on his back. His sky blue irised eyes stared blankly at the walls and ceiling when open, lost between internal reflection and long droughts of consciousness. Far from comfortable, the man seemed complacent and accepting of his current residence. Pain, hunger, and misery were no longer alien feelings to his nervous system, but constant companions that comforted and reminded him he was alive. Death was simply sitting in a corner of the room, disinterested but infinitely patient.

The sounds of a community began to beat against the walls in muffled discord. Things unknown to the man rattled and clanked against other things, while voices spoke to each other in an unfamiliar language he had ceased trying to learn. The leisurely rhythm of the outside world repeated the same noises, some in casual harmony, others in rare spouts, but all accumulating in an organic chorus of life. It was stark contrast to lack of life inside the wooden box the man had come to call his permanent residence. While by no means an envious position, the man acknowledged in the back of his mind that he had earned this, and had come to inherit this voluntarily.

A set of footsteps grew louder with each echoing footfall that softly reverberated within the room. The eyes of the man glanced to the cracks of sunlight in the wall. It was not mealtime, and he thought he had already endured his monthly beating. Time moved so slowly in his little world; he may have simply confused himself. The man concluded the thought and began to regress inside his mind, preparing himself for whatever may come if the intention was harmful. The footsteps stopped short of the door, and the sounds of metal unlatching snapped through the wood with unpracticed and hurried resolve. With one final clank, the door of the wooden box swung open, and a destabilizing wave of light poured in from the outside world, causing the man to squint his eyes tight in response.

In the doorway stood two men, a surprisingly thin and dreadlocked Brutor, and a tall, pale Sebiestor with a red mohawk, both doing little to block the incoming swarm of light with their shadows. The Sebiestor swaggered in first with a cocked head, looking down at the ragged man lying on his side. Making deliberate noise with his approach, the Sebiestor circled the man trying to rouse a response, but was disappointed when none came. Standing behind the prone man, he brought his right booted foot up and set it down on top of the man’s exposed waist, resting it there momentarily before using the foot to roll the limp man onto his back. A curious murmur crawled out of the Sebiestor’s throat as he leaned down to inspect the man.

“Vyl vyl, ditta er ikka furistalta dun sture valle seut,” the mohawked Minmatar playfully growled down to the man on the floor, who then stood back up and turned back to his Brutor companion, taking up a mocking rigid stance with fists on his hips and nose upward. “Sa pe mag. Jag Caldari! Jag er sa stult og ren! Jag stir rutt og tilla hvar mant jag gjor!”

The Brutor brushed aside the chuckling Sebiestor and took a knee beside the man, checking his pulse with the right hand and using the left to fish through a shoulder pack he carried with him. Satisfied with the sign of life, he pulled out a beat up syringe gun and loaded a charge filled with a purple liquid, and proceeded to carefully place it on the neck of the man and injected a dosage into him with a hiss. The Brutor finished the injection and stood back up, looking back to the Sebiestor.

“Slkka sirynt niarda,” the Brutor deadpanned, deliberately wiping his right hand on the shirt of the mohawked Sebiestor.

“Aaaagh!” the Sebiestor exclaimed in shock, jerking away and trying to wipe away the little smear of dirt with utter disgust. “Maaaahg! Hefakr! Dot tunkir av sven!”

Swinging a chair inside the room and placing it near the door, the Brutor looked up to his companion. “Hen vali trag, mun hen vali vere vokan obgodti.”

“Jag hipar ditta basokit er rysk,” the Sebiestor replied, holding his hands up like he was holding a firearm pointed at the man on the floor, and going through the motions of operation, finally pointing to his own head. “Ilt jag vyl gjor, ar skita danni Caldari ensuktat, oppditar, og rypeteri.”

The Brutor rolled his eyes and peered back outside while the Sebiestor occasionally leered at the man on the floor. Leaning out far more, the Brutor glanced around the world, then after a nod quickly turned his head back to the Sebiestor with another nod.

“Dah kammur hen,” the Brutor spoke, standing up from the wall and adjusting his appearance, then looking inside and pointing to both himself and the Sebiestor. “Du ter utonfir, ig jag skel boinno.”

Taking positions on either side of the door, the two Minmatar stood formally looking straight out to the world. The man on the floor continued to passively wonder why his body wasn’t being kicked at the moment. He was also starting to feel a strange sensation slowly flowing through his body: wellness. It was not a complete reversal of his current state, but it was not any worse. His thoughts were interrupted by the odd pattern of footsteps approaching the room, taking the form of a step, a shuffle, and the casual stab of something into the ground. As the sound drew closer, the two Minmatar at the door impossibly sharpened their stance. With a patient pace, the source of the footsteps painted a shadow in the doorway, and a moderately aged Sebiestor with a walking cane looked inside the room and entered.

Looking down at the tattered man, the elder Sebiestor let a wry smile crest and fall from his face. Old memories ebbed into his mind and faded as time had done much to forgive details. The man on the ground made no response to the entrance of the elder Sebiestor, to which the older man cocked his head and sighed.

“Plikke hem oppt,” the elder Sebiestor becked back to the two Minmatar, waving his cane at the man on the floor. “Te inna stola.”

The Brutor craned his neck within the room, then grabbed another wooden chair and walked inside, setting down the chair in the sunlight and opposite of the first chair he brought in. Letting go of the chair, the Brutor then swung his hands down and grabbed the prone man and lifted him up like a sack of produce, holding him upright on his feet. The man stood limply in the Brutor’s arms, swaying lightly like a cut puppet, and his head drooped to the floor. With little entertainment the elder Sebiestor shot out an arm and grasped the tattered man’s face, lifting it up and examining it side to side. It was him, the elder Sebiestor knew it, but the years had taken a toll on the man’s body and mind. He adjusted the head of the tattered man so the two were looking straight at each other, and the elder Sebiestor drew a breath.

“Avit’kesh,” stated Sarkos the Voushod, letting that wry smile creep up again with a chuckle. “Klaus Fleischer.”

As if magically jumpstarted, Klaus Fleischer’s mind began to unwind itself, and his eyes showed the spark of life and comprehension of what was just said to him. Memories of his own began to race through his conscious, and within a few heartbeats Klaus realized he was looking eye to eye a man who wanted him dead over four years ago. A shred of emotion flickered in his eyes, to which Sarkos acknowledged and nodded to the Brutor, who turned and dropped the prisoner into the empty chair in the sunlight. The elder Sebiestor planted his cane and carefully leaned back into the other chair opposite of the Caldari, clearing his throat and leaning forward on his cane.

“It seems you have weathered death quite well Mr. Fleischer,” Sarkos spoke in Klaus’s native language, cocking his head while examining the dirt and grime on the hand he used to hold the Caldari’s face with, resigning to wipe it on his pant leg. “I hope the accommodations were appropriate to your crime.”

The Caldari didn’t answer, still teetering on the chair, to which Sarkos could only sigh in response. The Brutor reproduced the syringe gun and loaded a clear liquid into it, and with a swift movement shot an injection of stimulants into Klaus’s neck. Taking a moment to readjust the Caldari in his seat, the Brutor walked outside mumbling to himself while the mohawked Sebiestor replaced him and continued to look down upon Klaus, his eyes betraying violent desires.

“I suppose it is commendable of you that you have accepted what we have given you,” Sarkos said, trying again. “It was quite a surprise when your former Omerta associates smuggled you to our doorstep, on your request no less. However, it is still the common opinion, amongst the Matari that know, that you are the lingering curse to Ishukone’s blessing.”

Klaus brought his head up just enough so he could make eye contact again. “You’d rather I be executed,” he grumbled, some measure of strength returning but still in terrible shape.

“Perhaps years ago, yes. The wounds and loss you caused are still felt to this day. You understand that while we are an advanced race of people that take pride in ourselves, we are often very emotional and tend to get swept up by base feelings, and the desire for vengeance is an often expressed one for us. It’s something that even I, for all I try, am not immune to.”

“So you’re not going to kill me.”

“Mr. Fleischer, you may as well already be dead. The universe continues to toil and churn even without the likes of us playing a role in it. You have been off the capsuleer grid for quite awhile. I’m sure your cloning and corporate savings have defaulted and been nullified. It would have been quite easy and well within our justifiable rights for someone like Harlequin here to simply snap your neck and leave you out in the sun for the gulls to pick at your remains.”

“It still would be easy,” the mohawked Sebiestor, Bad Harlequin, chimed in with a hint of amusement.

“Then do it already,” Klaus spat back at Harlequin, bobbing his head over to look at him. “See if I care. Complete your avenge thing, your Avec-kosh or whatever.”

“If only your wish was my command.”

“Since when do my wishes matter?”

“Mr. Fleischer,” Sarkos interjected sternly, the seriousness of the tone betraying no humor in it. “Whether you know it or not, the times have changed. As we speak, your Caldari State has been commandeered by one man, and he is using your self-proclaimed cherished State to wage outright war against the Gallente, who now lay all but beaten before the zealous jackboots of your war mongering people. A Titan of your Navy casts a vengeful shadow on the face of Caldari Prime, and a terrible fear that they are just beginning is creeping across the galaxy.”

“Not possible, we don’t-“ Klaus began, immediate in denial.

“Yes, of course, I am the enemy, feeding you disinformation so that I might coerce you into giving me something I want. Come now Mr. Fleischer, if I truly wanted something that was locked away in your head, by now it would be totally worthless to us. Should you wish we could provide you all the current events reporting and facts needed to prove you otherwise. However, current events are not the reason I’ve come to sit before you today and talk to you.”

“Then what do you want?”

The Voushod drew a long breath. In his mind rose a personal doubt about the reason. It was a hard proclamation to swallow, but he had been guided in this way for so long, that perhaps it was not without merit and reason.

“Strange as it may seem to the both of us, those that advise me and many others tell me that you, once our most hated non-Amarrian enemy, who hurt us in ways you can never be forgiven for, are in fact redeemable, and worthy of a chance of redemption.”

Klaus had to think about what was just said to him before a painful chuckle began to escape his lungs. He continued to laugh for a few moments before shaking his head at the unamused Sarkos.

“You’ve come all this way,” Klaus huffed in between chuckles. “To recruit me?”

“You’re a compromised individual Mr. Fleischer,” spat back Sarkos without a blink of an eye. “The Caldari even before its newest fascist incarnation would have secluded you into a deeper and darker hole than you’ve endured here, or have simply given you a rifle and a pair of boots and sent you to your death in one of the many fronts against the Gallente, dying for a mere inch of land or space. The Gallente certainly could use the help, but they’re so suspicious of any Caldari these days you’d find it hard to get a job mopping floors much less find any occupation worth your skill and effort. Then of course, there’s your self-admitted cooperation with the Amarrians.”

“I am not an Amarrian pet.”

“There was a time you could have fooled me, but very well. Eliminating those three possibilities you’re left with a few options, but I could go ahead and tell you why you wouldn’t do them. Obviously there’s piracy, but you’re a proud man who values law and order, and you are not known for preying on the weak and helpless, even despite your crime against us. I know the Free-Spacers would love to get their hands on you and use you as an example against your former employ, citing that even the staunchest of nationalists can be turned into anarchists with vision, but then again your own personal values would come into conflict with this employment. And we need not speak of extremists and terrorists.”

“I thought I was talking to a terrorist just now.”

“Calling the Voushod a terrorist is not a smart idea,” Harlequin warned with a smirk, stepping forward and cracking his knuckles in preparation of turning Klaus’s face into a pulpy mess. “Call me what you want, but that quip’ll cost you.”

Sarkos shot out his cane out in front of the angry Sebiestor, blocking his path and sending a clear message that violence would not be necessary. Stopping mid-step, Harlequin looked over to the calm, still sitting Voushod in the eye, and lowered his hands, nodding to him and backpedaling to the wall and resuming his posture. Lowering his cane, Sarkos looked back at Klaus with a sympathetic look.

“I cannot deny that our collective brethren have done little to prove we are more than just blood-thirsty freedom fighters, lashing out at anything that would make us appear weak in the eyes of the casual observer. It is perhaps something to apologize for, but at this time it is not a terribly great concern of my people. There are few outsiders that understand who we really are, and they do little to stand out amongst the hoards of fellow Matari who have the natural tendency to live in a world of acceptable shades of grey. However, the spirits tell me you are different.”

“That’s a fairly obvious statement.”

“Hence why I set before you a proposal, Mr. Fleischer. It is the judgment of me and my, advisors, that you may be someone who can learn who we really are, that despite your history and past actions, you are capable of redemption as a man of honor. You displayed courage standing in front of us while we sought revenge for your actions against our people, going so far to enter our space alone and charge head long into a battleship in your tiny frigate, so long ago. You would seek to serve a cause that rights injustice, which protects those defenseless, and a purpose in life you can be proud of.”

“You’re making a lot of assumptions about what I want.”

“But you do not deny these wishes and desires, yes? I offer you an end to your punishment for your crime, and to begin your penance. A penance of learning who we are: Our culture, our history, our dreams, our fears, our very soul, and last but not least, the will to see our resolve come true. Our war with the Amarrians continues, but it will not remain solely the Matari’s fight for very long. Even now, as your own race pushes the Gallente to the brink of collapse, they draw an eye to their neighbors, and the Amarrians are playing to their pockets and prejudice. We cannot hope to fight two foes at once, and the Gallente will be all but incapable to render assistance to our plight.”

“And you want me to be a poster boy for the other option. Not sure if you remember but being a poster boy for something is what got me into this whole mess.”

Sarkos shook his head and tapped his cane on the ground. “We do not wish to make an example out of you for political gain. If anything at this point it would be counterproductive. The Caldari would demand your extradition and the Amarrians would point to your incarceration here as an example of our barbarism. And I’m sure the Gallente would find the time to mutter something about human rights. Keeping your location and punishment a secret, and the voluntary nature you gave yourself to this, were honestly the only things keeping you alive. You would continue to remain a secret until such time you would join us in battle against the Amarrians who seek to re-enslave us all, even then it would not be your place to call attention to yourself. No, you would rather be a test to see if a Caldari can truly understand us.”

Standing up with measurable discomfort, Sarkos took a step to the side of the chair and looked down at the Caldari’s eyes.

“I offer you a chance to fight for a noble cause, a selfless one that puts you in harm’s way, but in doing so you will protect the helpless, free the enslaved, and find an honorable meaning to your life that every man-woman-child searches for but rarely finds. During that time, you shall learn who we are, where we come from, what makes us Matari us. You have my word, that should you find nothing honorable about my people, then you shall be released from this charge with no ill feelings. But should you chose to join us, I promise you, you will learn what it is to be Matari.”

The tap of the cane punctuated the Voushod’s last sentence, and he allowed a moment for it to sink in. As he waited for the Caldari’s response, Sarkos looked around the room.

“Or,” he said, casually waving his cane around inside the room unenthusiastically. “You can refuse and continue to serve your punishment here, and never be allowed to seek redemption, personally or publically. But, I hope, I sense in you a man who can rise above his faults and become someone better, and all he needs is the courage to take the first step in a long path. And in taking that first step, you may stumble, you may fall, you may even be scared, but while only you can walk your own path, we shall guide you, and you will not be alone.”

Klaus thought long and hard about the offer. He was Caldari, abandoning the State was a crime, a crime that he had enforced when Ullia Hnolku began what became both the highest and lowest moment in his life. Executing a man who dared to dream of helping others, all because of the bottom line of national security and the corporate status quo. The overwhelming silence of the State to bring Eckarine back from the clutches of the Sani Sabik had floored him, and in failing to make good on his promise to Ullia he never forgave himself. It had been a long time since then. Eckarine was most likely dead, the Caldari Independent Navy Reserve would be operating as normal, and the State would continue to exist as it always had. For all its faults, Klaus did not know if he could go against what he defended for so long.

“I need to see it,” Klaus said replied, slowly bringing his hand up to his temple. “What you say about my State.”

“Very well,” Sarkos said with a nod, looking over to Harlequin.

The mohawked Sebiestor procured a small, palm sized device with a wire and plug hanging from it, and tossed it into Klaus’s chest. The device bounced off his ribs, into his lap, and onto the floor. Abandoning his dignity, Klaus simply fell to the floor and grasped the device in both his hands. Klaus took the thin, needle-like plug on the wire and began stabbing it on his temple, trying to feel for the socket in which it went in. With a few more stabs, he found it, but the plug would not go in very deep, and inside his head he heard the sound of grime and dirt scraping against the plug. His fingers began scouring the floor before gripping onto a splinter, which he pried out and held between his thumb and index fingers. He then proceeded to perform the unsanitary task of cleaning out his temple plug with the splinter, the uncomfortable sensation sending shivers down his back.

Casting the dirty splinter aside, Klaus took the plug in hand again and needled it into his head. With a click and a snap the Scope News Feed device blared to life within the synapses of his mind. Klaus winced his eyes shut, the shock of long neglected implants taking no care to ease a complacent mind, and the Caldari had to focus intensely in order to keep from blacking out. Soaring through a digital plane-scape, the device began downloading events and reports into his memory. Information crashed into his mind like a relentless storm: Heth’s acsention, the Malaken incident, the book burnings, the invasion of Gallente space, the reclaiming of Caldari Prime, war. Video and audio of Caldari patriots and war-mongers marching in the street and announcing a new manifest destiny soaked in blood assaulted his senses. The State had turned into a war machine, no longer content to exist but hungry for death of its rivals. Honor and duty had given way to fascism and power. He had committed professional and figurative suicide for this: The glorious Caldari State.

He remembered being given the knife by that man. He saw his reflection in those sunglasses.

With a horse shout Klaus yanked on the wire and popped the plug out of his implant, disconnecting the feed and sending an electric jolt through his body, stunning him outright. The Caldari lay prone on the ground once again, shuddering and revolted. Standing above him, Sarkos could only imagine what was going through the man’s mind, but he could reasonably conclude he was witnessing what happens to a man when he is betrayed by an entire people.

“Not my State,” Klaus spurted, his body still trying to shut down from the shock, and his mind struggling to fight it. “Not my home. Not my people.”

“I’m afraid they are,” Sarkos replied with a touch of sympathy. “But the question is, are you the same?”

Klaus’s raised his head from the ground, still shaking and convulsing, and looked the Voushod in the eyes.

“No. I’m…” Klaus said before his body finally gave up and his body slumped to the ground in an unconscious heap.

“Vek!” Sarkos shouted, turning to the doorway and the Brutor outside. The Brutor jumped to life and rushed inside, pulling out handfuls of medical devices beside him and the Caldari as he checked vitals and ensured the man was not going die on him. While the Brutor medic began his work, the two Sebiestors looked at each other.

“Please ensure his survival and get him to the shuttle as soon as he can be moved.” The Voushod told the Brutor, speaking in his own native tongue again. The medic grunted in response as he performed his duties, waving a hand that asked for room and quiet.

“A word outside Voushod?” Harlequin asked, gesturing to the doorway. Sarkos nodded and followed the mohawked Minmatar outside a short distance into the middle of the clearing. The elder Sebiestor looked further out and glanced at the small but lively fishing village not a stone’s throw away, then turning back to his companion and the small wooden prison house the Caldari have been in for over two years.

“I could never question your judgment my old friend,” Harlequin began, a look of ire and confusion on his pale face. “But I still have reservations about this Caldari.”

“As do I Harlequin,” Sarkos replied, admitting his own doubt to his companion. “Had this advice and decree come from a different source, I would have scoffed it. But the spirits that guide us, the ancestors, have laid this before me. They know it is a difficult thing for us to do, and it is a very difficult thing for me, have no doubt about that. But they have guided me this far, and they have never done us wrong or had any ill intentions, and I will trust their judgment.”

“Many of our kind will not understand, I among them, and many more will kill him on principle. I will honor your decision, but I along with the rest will not coddle this Caldari, and should he so much as betray a grain of rice I will strike him dead where he stands.”

“Then it will be by his action and not my order. But remember Harelquin, my friend, if we are ever to look back on ourselves with pride as a people, we must learn to one day embrace the compassion and reason of our ancient ancestors. A race cannot live forever buried in the need for revenge.”

“As you wish Voushod.”

With a nod, Harlequin excused himself and started walking towards the landing pad where the Oracle shuttle waited, leaving Sarkos to ponder his situation. Looking up at the sky, he wondered what the spirits were thinking and saying to him. He knew he had personal doubts, as did they. However, he was the Voushod, the spiritual leader of his collective, and it was only he who could attempt such a questionable leap of faith. Even though his heart was in conflict, there was a small swell within his soul.

Hope.

And he knew hope was always enough.