Moon 514- Blaze and the White Griffon Read online

  No problem there, Blaze thought, unaware that she was already in tune with his mind. She smiled softly.

  After a few moments had passed, Evelia recognized that she had been holding her breath and that she was in need of some fresh oxygen so she deliberately and consciously made a decision to breathe – the first time in her life that she ever recalled needing to think about her own breathing. It seemed as if time itself had stopped. She found the magic woman absolutely entrancing. At the same time, Evelia felt an energetic peacefulness unlike anything she’d ever felt before – but she remained so physically calm that she intuitively recognized that the energetic portion of her feelings was entirely mental, spiritual. Silently, Evelia tried to name and understand these feelings she had recognized from the moment she had awakened from the magic woman’s administrations. There was beauty about them so she chose to bathe in their energetic calmness.

  And then there was physical beauty. As an artist – indeed, as the Order’s most prized artist and best art historian – Evelia devoured the magic woman with her eyes. She saw golden ratios all over her body; she even recognized the golden mean in the varying tones of her skin. Her large eyes bore different proportions to human eyes when compared to her entire visage but they were clearly based on the golden ratio as well – as were her stunning eyelashes. Evelia carefully surveyed the face of the magic woman while her eyes were closed and mentally measured the proportions of her unusual body – including her tail. Intuitively, Evelia craved a paintbrush, a digital stylus, a pastel stick – anything she could conjure into her mind – so that she could draw the proportions of this ideal model, this amazingly graceful creature, this beautiful and petite – yet majestic – woman from another world. And while thinking all of this, she watched as the magic woman’s face subtly reacted to Blaze’s memories – sometimes grinning, sometimes scowling, sometimes – perhaps? – mourning.

  Somehow, Evelia knew that the magic woman was nearing the end of Blaze’s life. There were no outward signs, there was no communication made, and there was no feeling that she could pinpoint that would confirm that it was so but she knew it was true nonetheless. And within a few brief moments, Evelia could discern the moment the magic woman had learned of Dr. Boyd’s mistaken transmission and of Blaze and Evelia’s decision to come meet the magic woman.

  The huge, feathery eyelashes quickly widened as if they were seeing some terrible thing happening in front of them. Graceful features disappeared for a brief moment as a passing look of terror swept over the magic woman’s face.

  “No,” she cried with both of her vocal cords, the dissonance of the two tones especially evident to Evelia who was no casual lover of music. Then, as tears began streaming down her face, she repeated her distraught feeling with barely a whisper: “No.”

  “What is it?” Evelia asked, assuming that she knew the answer – the magic woman had just learned about Dr. Boyd’s plans, her heart was broken over the betrayal, her hopes were dashed...

  But that wasn’t it.

  The magic woman pointed to the complex of Orders where Evelia and Blaze had spent their entire lives, where everything they had ever learned and understood was housed, where all of their friends and families lived, and then she whispered – nay, she hissed – again: “No.”

  Just then, as all three of them were looking towards the majestic buildings in the distance, it happened.

  Several explosions erupted all over the complex, one particularly huge explosion followed them all, setting every visible building entirely in one gargantuan blaze of fire. Nothing needed to be said. The inevitable conclusion was obvious: there would be no survivors. The Order was destroyed. Everything Evelia and Blaze had ever known was destroyed. Only one word escaped anyone’s lips as they sat in silence for several moments – and it surprised the others:

  “Jazz.”

  THIS WAS NOT HOW THINGS WERE SUPPOSED TO HAPPEN. Greydon nervously paced his personal quarters by the door leading to the hallway. A few weeks ago, the plan was to take the newest recruits on an exploratory tour – a tour to find the magic woman’s home moon and to learn from her people – a tour to find another place where human life could be supported and perhaps to find more people to associate with, learn from, and interact with – a scientific tour. The team would take samples from the moon, perhaps leave a few volunteers to secure a base on the moon - or its planet - and wait for Dr. Boyd’s team to pick them up on the next tour. It was simple.

  But this … this was not simple.

  Without explanation, Dr. Boyd urgently requested that Greydon bring Jazz to the waiting unit next to the launching pad – where the ship had been moved ahead of schedule. He was to give the boy a tour of the base, explain Dr. Boyd’s plans for the next tour, and ask if the boy would be interested in joining the crew. What young boy wouldn’t jump for that opportunity? Expecting Jazz to say yes, Greydon was to leave the boy in his personal quarters on the ship for a few days, gather the newly chosen secret teams from each Order – again, ahead of schedule – and make sure that they were each shown their new living quarters. While they were adjusting, Greydon and his team were supposed to locate Blaze, brief him about the nature of the trip, convince him to come back to the Order post haste, and await further instructions.

  But that was all before the explosion.

  By chance, Greydon happened to be with Dr. Boyd the moment it happened. While meeting with the newest recruits for the purpose of giving them instructions about their new security clearances, new understandings about the true size and extent of the Orders, and answering their seemingly endless questions, Greydon had felt more excitement than at any other time of his life: the database was completed, the Orders were finally to be united as one grand unit, space tours were to increase in frequency and duration, and Greydon was going to be third in command over everyone who survived the Third Holocaust – well, that is, everyone except the crazy natives and the small but extremely influential group of scientists that controlled the natives.

  Where did they come from anyway? and how did they secure the technology they had? Greydon had pondered these questions many times. He supposed that there could have been another group of people who survived in bunkers, who retained a history of technological advances, and who continued to educate themselves – just like Dr. Boyd’s Orders.

  But he had seen the pictures.

  A few years back, Dr. Boyd had been able to secure access to two independent satellites that had been taking pictures of the planet for decades. When pieced together, it had been quite evident that there were next to zero survivors on this planet – apart from those societies on or around Malaysia. And the database contained no record of nearby bunkers. Greydon suspected that a few scientists from one of the Orders may have abandoned their post and deserted their Order for some reason – but there was no record of any such event in any of the Order histories.

  None of that really mattered now.

  While Greydon was immensely enjoying his post teaching the newest recruits and preparing them for the next mission – the mission that was probably the most exciting of any he had been involved in – he heard the first explosions.

  The conference room had been designed by Dr. Boyd to oversee each of the nine Orders. A semi-circular wall of windows allowed an expansive view of Dr. Boyd’s lifetime of labors – and the labors of men who had gone before him. The wall of windows allowed those in the conference room to enjoy beautiful vistas while they learned at the feet of the world’s most brilliant scientist but they now allowed Order members to personally observe the destruction of their family members and friends, the destruction of their homes, the destruction of many lifetimes of hope.

  Initially, panic ensued but Dr. Boyd quickly regained control over his crew. Despite the horror etched all over his face, the recruits quickly recognized his skilled and charismatic leadership as he informed everyone that he had been informed of possible attacks by the natives. And although, as he told them, he had never expected that t
hey would have access to technology of this kind, and although he had not expected an attack so soon, his elite team of trained soldiers would supervise the situation and determine what should be done next. Until then, it would be exceedingly dangerous for anyone to return to their Orders.

  Within moments, the team assembled outside the base. Roughly a half hour later, it was evident that they should not expect to find any survivors.

  But there were a few.

  “SIR, WE’VE GATHERED EIGHT WOMEN, five men, and two young adults that survived the blasts. They were all located in the east wing of Unit 2 where we found three of ten explosives undetonated.”

  “What is their condition?” Dr. Boyd immediately queried, deep concern surfacing in his voice. His emotions were clearly barely in check.

  “Not good sir.”

  “Where are they at now?” Dr. Boyd’s voice was starting to crack a little. This was no hardened military leader who had seen a lifetime of battle. This was a man doing the best he could with the information he had available. If things had gone as planned, Blaze would have been in Greydon’s place and Blaze may have been holding these briefings. Dr. Boyd simply wasn’t cut out for this type of leadership – he needed a warrior in charge here, not a microbiology and chemistry savant.

  “We’ve moved them into tents on the outskirt of Unit 6 – where it attaches to Unit 2 – and we have our only remaining emergency nurse attending them. It appears that our entire medical unit was not at the base where they were supposed to be – they were having an unscheduled meeting in the conference hall between Units 8 and 9 when the explosions hit.” The soldier only briefly paused before continuing. “None survived sir. You are the only doctor left – well, you and our emergency nurse. With the help of some of the soldiers, he is doing the best he can to help survivors find some comfort, sir.”

  With this news, Dr. Boyd all but crumpled into his chair – two of his children were part of the medical unit and a full dozen (or more) burn cases could never be handled without some trained staff unless their injuries were relatively minor. From the sounds of things, the survivors would likely suffer long, excruciatingly painful deaths.

  “Thank you for your report,” Dr. Boyd forced himself to answer with as much composure as he could muster. “Let’s go,” he added. Then, in a raspy, rather hushed voice, he gave the soldier another order: “Quickly!”

  GREYDON TRIED TO STAND TALL. He tried to look composed like a leader should. He tried to appear more in control than Dr. Boyd.

  But the blood was too much and the burns were even worse. Beyond the smell of burned flesh and blood soaked rags, the moans and cries of the survivors were nearly unbearable for someone unaccustomed to observing trauma patients in their hour of suffering. And this was all very new to Greydon. His training had little to do with medical emergencies. Sure, he knew how to slow bleeding, how to treat a concussion, and a good deal of other simple medical tasks every soldier knew but his training had been largely theoretical so he found himself disappointingly unprepared for what was happening and had to excuse himself from the main tent. He knelt outside behind some bushes and tried to control his stomach for quite some time before he began hearing the distinctive sound of gunfire.

  At once terrified and concerned, he ran back to the main tent opening only to see that there was no wild shooting melee here, only methodical, rhythmic, carefully placed shots. As Dr. Boyd walked away from the survivors and towards the door where Greydon was now standing, gun pulled and ready for whatever might come, three soldiers walked along the rows of makeshift beds and euthanized each of the burn victims – and those few who had only suffered injury by shrapnel. As the gun firing continued, the moans ceased. Cries of agony ended. Silence ruled.

  As Greydon looked back upon Dr. Boyd in shock, he observed tears freely falling down the cheeks of this man who had once been the subject of Greydon’s greatest admiration. Appalled, Greydon held his feelings in check as Dr. Boyd placed his hand his shoulder, trying to master his feelings before announcing his judgment: “I could save none of them, Greydon.” A silent moment passed before the older man repeated. “None of them. There was nothing I could do … not here, not now.”

  Greydon’s shoulders slumped, his arms heavy – like an ape, they almost drooped to the ground. With great effort, he lifted his right arm and placed his pistol back in its holster where it would quietly charge, awaiting its next call to duty. This was too much for the young man to absorb in one day. This was too much for most men on any given day.

  Then, things got much worse. His eye caught a soldier lying on the ground at the far end of the tent. “Is he okay?” Greydon naively asked, pointing to the fallen man.

  Dr. Boyd silently shook his head.

  “What happened?” Greydon pressed in genuine concern.

  Dr. Boyd paused for quite a while before answering the question. “He refused to follow orders,” he blandly spoke as if this portion of his job was mere routine – a routine that had been instituted before today’s horrific events.

  The sharp contrast between that answer and the man crying moments before left Greydon completely disheveled and confused. His heart sank to the earth below – and he left it there.

  “GREYDON.” THE VOICE CAME FROM BEHIND the door and it came with conviction and authority. The voice was amplified through the door’s intercom system.

  Greydon ordered the door to open and stood in front of it, awaiting Dr. Boyd’s orders.

  “I trust you are feeling better?” the old man inquired.

  “A little. How are you doing?” Greydon responded, immediately thinking that he probably shouldn’t have been asking personal questions of his superior like that – at least, not under these circumstances.

  “A little better as well,” Dr. Boyd confessed. “Everything is very different now – life will never be the same,” he explained with no small degree of melancholy escaping his voice, “but I have had a little time to reconsider our plans and to make necessary adjustments,” he continued. “I will get you up to speed on these things very soon but first, we need to find Blaze and Evelia to bring them back here. If we cannot convince Blaze to come, we at least need to bring Evelia back. Byorn has tracked them down and conveniently, they are not far from the magic woman’s sacred pond so we need to be quick. Well, that is not quite accurate,” he corrected, reconsidering his word choice.

  Gathering his thoughts, Dr. Boyd remained silent for a bit before continuing his explanation and orders. “I am not sure why but Blaze and Evelia have been separated since very early this morning. Blaze is nearly back to the pond where the magic woman and Evelia are apparently awaiting his return – and he has brought someone back with him – a very small someone – perhaps a native. It appears that he has been joined by a young child of unknown age.”

  NERVOUSLY, HE ROTATED THE HOLOGRAM PAD. This was the updated, completed database. With a swath of his hand, he had access to every valuable particle of information preserved from human history. Whatever technology, history, discovery, or artistry that humans had ever learned or obtained was right here in the palm of his hands.

  More or less that is – it was, of course, incomplete.

  Information – tons of information – was destroyed or lost during the First and Second Holocausts. And human filters had to determine which information was duplicative – and more significantly – which information was less reliable or less “important.” Human subjectivity played an integral part in the preservation of the database and therefore some information was unquestionably tainted by human bias. That was however unavoidable and necessary – nobody could ever verify which of the bazillion internet pages and personal websites contained accurate information when there were no citations to where the information was obtained – and once video – and then hologram – editing had been perfected, it became nearly impossible to determine which footage was authentic versus which footage was fabricated for the purpose of entertainment. Everyone in the Order, and now Blaze had to
presume, everyone in all of the Orders – knew that some historical information in the database could be completely fictional. There was simply no way to avoid the nagging possibility that some preserved “history” was in fact fictional – or worse – propaganda. Verifying scientific truths was one thing – verifying historical truths was something entirely different.

  That is why Dr. Boyd assigned different orders to review the same information on multiple occasions – it ensured that as little human bias crept into the project as possible. It was better to have some small amounts of questionable material chosen by one team but rejected by another than to have one team’s bias eliminate material that may be helpful or valuable to future generations – Dr. Boyd was visionary that way. If there was too much discrepancy between two teams reviewing material, a third team would be appointed to review it all again. That is why it took nine Orders and a few generations to produce the hologram pad resting in Blaze’s hands. No doubt, it took well over a billion man hours to produce the extraordinarily important artifact Blaze tumbled between his hands.

  Virtually every day of Blaze’s life had been dedicated to improving that database. In fact, virtually every day in the life of everyone that Blaze had ever known had been dedicated to improving the database or ensuring the survival of the people who were working on the database – they were carefully preserving human history, preserving important lessons, preserving mistakes so that they wouldn’t be made again, preserving everything that could be useful for generations to come. For very many decades, Order life had revolved around this ordinary looking object: a flexible piece of brownish grey linatech that measured less than a half inch thick when folded in eighths. Although rectangular in shape when folded, people referred to the physical hologram pad that the database was stored in as “the cube” because it appeared to be nothing more extraordinary than a simple block of linatech.