Kastori Revelations (The Kastori Chronicles Book 1) (2 page)

Once she had placed Celeste in her pod, Crystil entered hers. She laid down on the bed, closing her eyes and wanting the horror to end. The last thing she remembered was the engines roaring.

“Enough,” Crystil said.

The recording stopped, but Crystil’s feelings did not. If anything, seeing it a second time triggered stronger emotional responses. She felt pain at how easily Dyson had died. Sorrow swelled at Celeste’s response to her father’s death.

And more than that, it was a reminder of another terrible truth. Of the ten people who had gone into hibernation, only three survived. Herself, Celeste, and Cyrus. Cortanus had data on why fellow soldiers had died, but the data concluded the system had malfunctioned in delivering nutrients and water to them.
Nothing could have saved them.

She ejected the seven soldiers into space, their bodies floating hundreds of millions of miles from home. To keep them on meant keeping on literal dead weight.
They would do the same to me if I were dead.

“Is there anything else I can do for you before training begins, Crystil?”

You can’t bring Dyson back. You can’t bring Emperor Orthran back. You can’t save Monda.

“Just keep my hope alive for Anatolus,” she said.

Cortanus went silent, and Crystil looked back at space. The knowledge that what once was, never would be, brought a sniffle and a gasp from her. Tears fell down her face.

When the time came to train Celeste and Cyrus, she quickly wiped the tears away and made sure no evidence remained of her emotions. The commander adopted a hardened face, stood up as straight as she could, and walked toward their quarters, the thud of her boots announcing her arrival.

2

Cyrus lounged on a black cushion, folded out from the inside of the ship, with his boots propped up, one arm behind his head, a smirk and his favorite novel, “Sandcrawlers,” on a screen in front of him. To his left lay an unkempt bed with egg crumbs, and in front of him, behind the book screen, was a window showing him the space he’d long dreamed of visiting under better circumstances.

“What I would give to ride one of those suckers,” he said as he skimmed the novel.

The sound of footsteps filled his ears, and his body shivered.
Here comes the Ice Queen,
he thought.
If she only learned how to do things like my father. To actually connect with people instead of ordering them around like bots. She’d be the kind of gal I’d want to ride a Sandcrawler with.

The thoughts of his father made him flash back to the last time Cyrus saw Pops—when he told Cyrus he’d see him again someday. He wished his father hadn’t treated him like he was eight, but given the situation, he appreciated the false hope. When he got on the ship, he immediately made his way to the hibernation pod. He heard his sister’s awful cry, the worst thing he had ever heard in his life, and put himself out before he could find out what had happened.

A firm knock came at the door.

“Sup,” Cyrus said, hoping to somehow melt the Ice Queen’s chilly exterior.

He stood and braced himself as his door slid open. He felt relief when he saw the white boots of his sister, Celeste. She stood with a nervous smile and the bangs of her auburn hair covering her blue eyes. She brushed her hair to the side and softly said, “Am I interrupting anything?”

Cyrus put his hand on his chin, as if deep in thoughts of the philosophy of the mission, and laughed.

“Only my reading time, which you know is the best part of this ship,” he said, stating a fact sarcastically.

He waved Celeste in.

“Funny,” she said as she sat on his bed, but not before making a disgusted face and brushing crumbs off. “You know someone else can be the best part as well.”

Cyrus laid on the couch, stretching his legs out.

“I’m sorry, I have to get permission from Queen Crystil to do that,” he said. “At least the good news is the way she commands us, we’ll need permission to die.”

Cyrus shot Celeste an encouraging smile, but she could only give a half-hearted effort back. Her expression quickly turned to one of concern, her head bowed and her hands resting in her lap. Cyrus had seen this face far too often since they woke up. He feared his sister would give up hope before they made it to Anatolus.

“Sis, are you OK? Talk to me. Let’s make things awesome.”

She looked up.

“I just wish you and Crystil would get along and not want to murder each other at the end of each day.”

Cyrus groaned in an exaggerated manner. Celeste did not change her expression, and as much as Cyrus wanted to crack remarks on the topic, he knew respectful harmony beat ugly tension.

“I know, I know. But I don’t even think we need to get along. I just think we need to cooperate better.”

“It’d be a start,” Celeste said. “But you guys don’t have to just tolerate each other. You two have a lot more in common than you think. Even if you two could not be more different in presentation.”

“OK, yes,” Cyrus said, holding up his hand and counting off. “We’re human, one. We breathe oxygen, two. We’re two of the last three people in existence, three. We’re—”

Celeste finally smiled without reservation. She knew Cyrus understood her point through his sarcasm.

“Besides, worst case, we don’t find any water or food, we have three years of supplies here. That’s not too long to have to tolerate us.”

“Three years,” Celeste said wistfully. “I have my doubts you guys will get along for three days.”

“Hmm, nah, we’ll make it. But between the two of us, if you had to jettison one, who would you send out?”

“Cyrus!”

Her forceful response shut Cyrus up, and he sat up and faced Celeste.

“I’m sorry, sis.”

She nodded once and her head bowed completely. Cyrus could no longer see her face. He stood up and went over to her, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder.

“I’m sorry. Are you OK?”

She sighed but didn’t look up. Cyrus waited patiently for her to collect herself.

“We already lost seven people. I don’t need any reminders of that. Or the people we lost on the other ships. Or on Monda. Or Dad.”

She looked back at Cyrus, who expected to see tears sliding down her cheeks. She didn’t have any, but her cracking voice hinted at their arrival.

“I still feel them, Cyrus. It’s like they are still here. I still feel their presence, as dumb as that sounds. I wonder why I have to resort to gut, strange feelings rather than being able to hug them, or play with them, or laugh with them. This evacuation, we should never have needed it. Right?”

It was a rhetorical question, for Cyrus knew how strongly Celeste felt about it. He had chalked it up to her youthful pacifism. The way the magicologists had intensified the attacks in the last few months, Cyrus knew Celeste wouldn’t feel the way she did if she’d seen how bad things had gotten.

“Dad always told us peace would come. That he just had to meet with the head of the magicologists, and he would allow them to have their own land. Then, all of a sudden, he comes back, tells us the end is at hand, and we leave as our planet dies. How am I supposed to react when you make jokes about people dying? Especially you, the only person I love who is left? Because I know we will go someday. Both of us. But I’ve had too much recently for me to be OK with imagining even just one more.”

Cyrus enveloped Celeste in a tight hug, who sniffled and accepted his hug.

“Look, no matter how bad things get between Crystil and I, I’m not going anywhere, OK? I have too many adventures planned on Anatolus. I have to find some sandcrawlers.”

Celeste laughed between tears.

“Besides, in all seriousness, we’ve gotten plenty of training. We know how to defend ourselves, and we have so many weapons on this ship I feel like I could take out anything that planet throws at us.”

He smirked when he saw her rubbing her arms, trying to calm herself down.

They quickly became silent at the sound of heavy, approaching boots. Celeste straightened up and patted her clothes down.

“Be nice, OK? I worry half the time that she’s lost it. You’d feel the same way if you lost your wife like she lost her husband. Cut her some slack.”

Cyrus knew Celeste was right. It was why he fell in line with Crystil, even if he resented her.

“It’ll get better, I’m sure,” Celeste said.

“That’s just your optimism overplaying here.”

“It’s my gut feeling playing here,” she responded as she heard the footsteps stop just outside the door.

A single, hard, precise knock came. Cyrus gulped and put his hands behind his back.

“Come on in, Crystil,” he said, with a hint of warmth.

The door opened, and Crystil filled the doorway. With her tall, slender frame, her assertive eyes, her dominating presence, and her controlled speech, she always commanded every room. Cyrus suspected she did the same on Monda, save for when she was with his father.

Honestly, she’d be awesome if she could just talk to us like a human and not a cold, militant officer.

“We’re to begin today’s VR training in approximately five minutes. The topic today is hunting in the cold, and in dangerous weather. Are you ready?”

“I’ll have to think about it,” Cyrus said with a smile, but the fierce eyes of Crystil and an elbow from Celeste focused him. “I’ve thought about it, yes, I’m ready.”

“Good,” Crystil said without emotion. She looked at Celeste, and for a moment, her body posture seemed to relax. “I will see you in the VR room shortly.”

Cyrus definitely noticed a less rigid body as she left. He turned to Celeste, but she said nothing, walking out and toward her room to prepare.

3

Crystil walked up to a sealed black door with a small screen to the right side, about six feet off the ground. The screen would read her fingerprints, blood flow and body to confirm her identity. Inside, a giant arena about two hundred feet long and a hundred feet wide—by far the largest room in
Omega One—
awaited. The room looked like an empty white hall, save for ten small lockers in the back. But those lockers contained suits and helmets which would warp them to virtual worlds in which they could practice any skill, from kaido to hunting to mountain climbing.

The environments provided Crystil a satisfying place, if not a happy one. She felt purposeful teaching Cyrus and Celeste and feeling like she was back on the battlefield. But she did not feel joy and wondered if she would ever get that exhilarating, almost stupefying feeling again. She did feel accomplishment and a sense that if she, Cyrus and Celeste could continue to learn, they could rebuild on Anatolus. They could hunt, build homes, survive the elements, and start from square one.

Maybe, if that happened, joy would come to her again.

It’s almost insane to think it. Beats actual insanity, though. Unless we’ve already slipped to that point.

Beeping from the screen signaled the computer had accepted Crystil’s bio-identification.

“Welcome, Crystil Bradford,” Cortanus said. “You are authorized to enter the virtual training facility.”

She walked into the empty cavern slowly, always in awe of the abilities of the room.

“Cortanus, go ahead and prepare the ‘Winter Hunting’ simulation. Wait for me to get hooked up to run the simulation, as I’ll be waiting on Celeste and Cyrus.”

“Understood,” the voice echoed in the chamber.

Crystil paced in the room, waiting for the siblings. She did not have much patience, as waiting meant her mind would wander to dangerous memories. Even the beautiful memories with Dyson struck a terribly painful chord, serving as a reminder of what she could never have back.

Like the time he proposed to me. He took me to the Garden of Narshia. As perfect a day as you could ever ask for. A slight breeze came by as he got on one knee, my hair blowing in the gusting wind. He said it made me as beautiful and fierce as he’d ever seen. I said yes, overwhelmed—as if I’d ever feel that. He kissed me. Said he’d never…

“Cyrus!” she yelled. “Celeste! Do not make me wait any longer!”

The sound of their running pushed out any remaining memories from coming. But she did finish the one playing in her head.

… leave me. Dyson. That’s my fault.

Celeste came first at a full sprint. She stood at attention, panting. Cyrus followed at a jog and stood next to Celeste with his hands on his hips. Crystil looked at both them angrily.

“You knew the time we had to be here. Why were you not here at that time?”

“I—” Cyrus began, but Crystil’s eyes silenced him. He had figured out no answer was his best answer—which was still not a good enough answer. Celeste, easily the smarter of the two, if not the one with the most survival potential, never spoke.

“If I say come down at fourteen hundred hours, I don’t mean show up two minutes after.”

Cyrus gulped. Crystil had no visible reaction, but she wanted Cyrus to feel scared. She did not take a psychopathic pleasure out of it, but Cyrus needed to know fear.