Starship Doi Read online

  STARSHIP DOI

  by Alex Deva

  www.alxx.ro

  Cover art by Mihaela Morozan

  www.mihamorozan.ro

  Visit the website,

  listen for free to the first four chapters while you read:

  www.starshipdoi.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. Copyright (c) 2015, Alex Deva.

  This e-book is for your personal use only. You may not print or post this e-book, or make this e-book publicly available in any way. You may not copy, reproduce or upload this e-book, other than to read it on one of your personal devices.

  2015

  I.

  "My grandfather fought in the great war," the older man said.

  "I know," replied the younger. "You told me a hundred times."

  "Twelve thousand of them, and only a handful of us. And if they hadn't..."

  "...cut off the water supply, we'd still be free today," continued the young one. "And then they burned the city to the ground, and then the king took his own life rather than surrender."

  "And the bastards stole seven thousand talents of gold..."

  "...from the waters of Sargesia. Because a traitor told them where it was. Otherwise we'd still have it today."

  There was silence.

  "Fucking Romans," finally said the old man and spat on the grass.

  The young man sighed and looked around. The hills rolled softly into the distance, constant green except for the occasional patch of yellow farmland or some dark brown orchard. To his side, he could see the river Maris glistening in the sun. If he squinted, he could even make out the port being built there by the soldiers. Huge wooden structures on big wheels, the likes of which might have been used to siege a fortress, were being set up on both banks. The foreign engineers were converting a bend into a gulf by digging and dredging; for the Dacians living in Apoulon, the technology was amazing and revolutionary.

  He shifted his gaze, measuring up his companion. The old man had survived over seventy winters, which was very respectable, and it didn't seem like he had plans to join Zalmoxis anytime soon. He was tough and rough and had obviously seen a lot, been through a lot. But the one thing that the winters had failed to develop in him was a sense of humour. Or maybe it was those winters that quenched it, thought the young man philosophically.

  "You know, they're not even Romans," he said, challengingly, looking down with a tiny smirk, and letting his long, blond hair fall all over his face.

  "Who aren't?"

  "The Gemina. The legionaries."

  "The hell you say! This is the legion that crossed the Rubicon with Caesar! The legion that conquered Gaul!"

  "You know very well that was over a hundred and fifty years ago. Obviously they're not the same people today, are they? I've spoken to them, and..."

  "You did what?!" The old man was aghast. "You conspired with the enemy?"

  The young man rolled his eyes and waved impatiently.

  "They've been here for over a hundred winters now, fighting alongside us against everyone else. They may have been the enemy when your grandfather lived, but right now, they're not even Romans anymore."

  "How the hell can Roman soldiers not be Romans?"

  "They simply aren't. Like I said, I've spoken to them. Not one of them ever even saw Rome in his life. They're Sarmatians, most of them. And their archers? They're Arameans, the lot of them. Farther from Rome than we are," said the young man.

  The old man grumbled and looked away.

  "All I'm saying is, today, right now, they're not all that bad."

  "Well, they murdered ten thousand Dacians, boy!" countered the old man.

  "Their grand-dads murdered ten thousand of our grand-dads. Yes, that much is true. Also true, we murdered thousands and thousands of them. Besides, how many Dacians would've died in meaningless clan fights, anyway?"

  "The king had united the clans!"

  "Yes. To fight the Romans. We could talk about this ad nauseam," sighed the young man.

  "Where the hell did you pick up that word now?!"

  "What, ad nauseam? It means we can keep at it until we get sick," explained the other. "You have to get used to it, you know. The world is changing. Our language is changing. What, didn't people use to mix Greek into it too, before the Romans came?"

  "We're losing ourselves," the elder commented sourly. "We're becoming diluted in history and a thousand years from now, people won't even remember we were here."

  "Look behind you," said the other.

  The great walls of the Apulum castra loomed above them. To their left, the double main gate, called Porta Principalis Dextra, stood open under two stone arches, at both ends of a short, easily defensible tunnel. Beyond it, on either sides of the road, were the legionaries barracks, painted in gleaming white. In front of them, a half maniple was just getting in formation for daily practice. Their centurion was walking among the ranks, carefully inspecting each man's gear.

  "Just look at that," he insisted. "Over twenty thousand podes of stone and barracks and fortifications and gardens and the damn governor's house and enough marble statues to fill a village. That thing will last forever," he said with conviction.

  "And what if it will? It's not Dacian."

  "Can you write? Or carve a statue?" asked the young man.

  "Of course not."

  "Well, what the hell do you want to leave behind then? Your hat?"

  Finally, the old man let out a short, raspy laugh. He took off his rough, woollen cap, revealing long, thick and white hair, and inspected the object; with his other hand, he stroked his trimmed, equally white beard. He smiled at his younger friend and said, nodding:

  "What? It's a good hat, this."

  The young man laughed heartily and yanked it out of his hand. Still laughing, he started down the hill, and after a few steps, he threw the cap back over his shoulder. The older man caught it without blinking.

  "Come on," said the young shepherd, and whistled once.

  A couple of dogs barked in reply and quickly ran to him, and the flock of sheep that they were looking after followed sluggishly. They went down the hill, away from the Apulum castra, home of the Thirteenth Twin Legion that called themselves the Gemina in Latin, and continued bickering.

  There was not a cloud in the sky. The warm summer air was barely moving, but the old man still kept his hat on. They walked slowly on the concrete road, one on each side of the draining ditch. The Roman roads were indeed another marvel of engineering. They required almost no maintenance, and simply being able to walk without getting bogged in mud felt nothing short of amazing to the conquered Dacians.

  From the opposite direction came two riders. The Dacians stopped, squinted and waited for them to get closer. They were two centurions; one old, one young. Men and horses looked tired, after what looked to have been a long journey.

  The horses stopped a few steps in front of the two Dacians. The older centurion opened his mouth to speak, but before he could, his riding partner yelled, in loud Latin:

  "Hail Rome!"

  "Fuck off," instantly replied both Dacians at unison, also in Latin.

  This angered the young centurion. His eyes grew large and his hand shot to the handle of the gladius hanging on his belt. Annoyed, the older man turned to him on his horse, and said:

  "Shut the fuck up, Cornelius." And then, to the Dacians, almost apologetically: "He's new. Greetings, Aramus. And to you, old man."

  "His name," said the old Dacian pointing to the shepherd, "is Aram. Aramus makes it sound like he's a kitten."


  "I don't care if it makes it sound like he's a turtle," replied the centurion in turn. "All I know is, with your strange names, I can't tell who's a boy or who's a girl. So get used to it."

  Before the other Dacian could reply, young Aram spoke placatingly:

  "Where are you coming from, Naevius?"

  "Porolissum," answered the tired soldier.

  "And what news from the municipium?" asked Aram.

  "The interesting kind," answered the other. "You'll never believe who was there."

  "Surprise us."

  "Only the emperor. Marcus Aurelius Septimius Bassianus Antoninus Caracalla, in the flesh."

  "Well, imagine our honour," said the old Dacian. "A true, real-life Roman emperor, straight out of the denari coin, all the way here in Dacia. Tell me, Roman, is his name really Caracalla?"

  "I heard that his troops gave him the name, back in the Germania campaigns. He didn't win, but he bribed some Germans into submission and so tried to call himself 'Germanicus', but the jokers kept calling him 'Caracalla', like the Gallic hooded tunic he took to wearing all the time."

  "How interesting," said Aram.

  "Yes, especially for the Germans," commented the old Dacian cynically. "And what's the great Emperor Tunic doing in Porolissum, of all places?"

  "Well, if you must know, it was to do with all these tribes and clans of yours," answered Naevius.

  That got the old Dacian's attention.

  "Which tribes and clans, pray tell?"

  "The Quadi. And the Marcomanni."

  "Hardly our tribes, then. Both of those are nothing but plundering nomad bastards."

  "Who can tell, these days? To the emperor, you're all the same. I tell you," said the centurion leaning down on the horse to press the point, "this land of yours isn't worth the trouble. Mark my words: soon enough, Rome will decide to cut its losses and bugger off this damn place."

  "More like cut its winnings," said the old man wryly.

  "Yeah Naevius, why wait then?" joined in Aram. "West face, forward, march!"

  The young soldier, who had been fuming quietly, spoke again:

  "Are you really going to let these barbarians talk to us this way, Naevius?"

  The old centurion turned to him and raised his eyebrows, without saying a word. The other held his gaze for a few seconds, then looked down.

  "So, what about your emperor and the Quadi?" asked Aram.

  Naevius turned to face him again.

  "He's just being himself. He invited the chieftain of the Quadi for peace negotiations, and then immediately had him killed."

  "He killed Gaiobomar?!" spoke the old Dacian, not quite believing.

  "Gaiobomarus," corrected the centurion sarcastically. "Yep, ran him through in front of his men, then ran his men through, too."

  "Well, fuck me," mused the old man.

  "No, thanks," replied the centurion. "Anyway, time to go. Aramus, when you finally decide to join the legion, look me up."

  Aram laughed.

  "What, and give up wearing pants?"

  "Seriously, Aram. We need someone like you in the Gemina."

  "Never lose hope, Naevius!" said the young Dacian, waving farewell.

  As the Romans left, Aram considered the news. The Emperor of Rome, no more than two days away from him! Exciting times indeed.

  A bird's cry interrupted his thoughts. He looked up and saw a hawk circling. What fortunate creature, he thought. Hardly an enemy in the world, truly free to go anywhere and do anything. What I wouldn't give to be like that.

  Another startled cry came, this time from the Roman riders. He turned, as did his older companion, if a little slower.

  The dogs started barking furiously.

  A yellow ribbon-like ray, attached to nothing but the blue sky above, wide as a man with arms outstretched and flat like a sword, was approaching from the east. It made no discernible noise and, for all the surprise it caused, seemed to do no other harm. It came near the two centurions and completely engulfed the young one, who instinctively picked up his shield and raised it above his head. Weirdly, the yellow ray went straight through his wooden and leather shield as it was water. The centurion appeared to be completely golden for a moment, and then the ray moved to his partner.

  "Whoa. What the..." uttered Naevius, completely unprepared. He looked at his fellow soldier, who returned his confused gaze. Almost immediately, as the ray left him and headed towards the two Dacians, he tried to warn them.

  "Hey... Look out!" he said.

  The Dacians were already watching, understanding no more than the Romans. Instinctively, Aram stepped in front of the elder, but was pushed aside. Frowning and apprehensive, the old Dacian stepped right in front of the ray and was engulfed in yellow light a few moments later.

  "Kinda looks like Jupiter is pissing on us," remarked the young centurion stupidly.

  The light went over the old man and immediately found Aram. He tried to step around it, but the light found him again in an instant. He, too, shot a questioning look at the old man, who simply shrugged and said nothing.

  Then, the light turned orange, and then red.

  "Looks like someone kicked the shit out of Jupiter and now he's pissing blood," replied Naevius even more stupidly.

  The ray stayed red for a few more moments, and then a strange thing happened.

  It turned dark.

  The summer sun was still shining and there was plenty of light everywhere, but the ray above Aram was like a grey shadow, which turned darker and darker until the young man disappeared in it completely. There was a black flash -- the ray becoming, for an instance, blacker than black -- and then it disappeared in a blink of an eye.

  Aram was gone.

  II.

  "My grandfather fought in the great war," the young girl said.

  "What great war?" asked the boy.

  "You know. When King Stephen the First invaded us."

  "What King Stephen?"

  "The King of Hungary, over a hundred years ago. He attacked us with thousands and thousands of soldiers. We were weak and divided, and we tried to unite against him, but he won anyway."

  "How do you know all this?" asked the boy.

  "My mom told me, and her father told her. He fought with the Ungri Nigri, the Black Hungarians," answered the girl.

  "Wow," remarked the boy.

  They were sitting on a low wall, next to the remnants of a marble statue, in the middle of the ruins of the old Apulum castra. Its front arches still stood, but there was no gate anymore, and vegetation had long before claimed the fort on the hill.

  A few steps away, a flock of sheep was grazing carelessly. The ruins were a favoured playground for kids in Belleggrada. Neglected and uninhabited, they were infested with snakes and lizards, but if you looked hard enough, there were still silver coins to be found, even four centuries after the fort had been abandoned. Doina had never found such a coin herself, but she knew a boy who had -- or so he claimed.

  Snakes and silver coins. That was what the great Apulum fort amounted to.

  Down beyond the rolling green hills, the river Marosh sparkled in the summer sun like a long, fat, silver snake.

  "I'm ten," announced the boy proudly and suddenly.

  "I'm twelve," countered Doina.

  There was another pause. A green lizard poked its head from under the fallen head of a statue, looked around, then quickly climbed over and disappeared into the grass on the other side.

  "So who were the Ungri Nigri?" he asked.

  "They were the best soldiers in all Vlachia and Transylvania," she said. "They fought in many wars and won them all. But they didn't like Jesus," she added.

  The boy's eyes grew wide.

  "They were Jews?!"

  "No, silly. They were not Jews and they were not Christians. They did not believe in God at all."

  The boy's eyes grew even wider.

  "How can someone not believe in God?!"

  "I don't know, but they didn't. Mom said tha
t made them fierce and fearless. She said that after Stephen became king, he sent a bishop to convert them."

  "And?"

  "And they refused."

  "So what happened?"

  The girl turned to face him, brought her hands up in front of her face, palms outward, fingers curled, and continued mischievously:

  "The bishop talked and talked, but the Ungri didn't listen. So the bishop lined them up and pulled the eyes out of every other man in the line."

  That impressed the boy. "Oh, shit!" he pondered in a loud whisper.

  It never occurred to him how this band of fearless warriors stood in a docile line, waiting to be blinded by a single bishop. The bishop was next to God for him.

  "But why didn't they want to believe? God would have saved them from blindness if they only obeyed the bishop, right?"

  Doina shrugged and said nothing. The boy jumped off the ruined wall, picked up his shepherd's stick and began wielding it like a great sword.

  "Then they could've gone on fighting and killing and destroying!" continued the boy, punching the marble statue with the wooden stick.

  One of the dogs started to bark.

  "You're scaring the sheep," said Doina, laughing.

  The boy stopped, giving the headless statue a fearsome hairy eyeball.

  "When I grow up, I wanna be a bishop," he declared.

  That amused Doina even more.

  "Bishops are weird," she said. "And besides, there's too many of them already."

  The boy turned to face her. "How do you know?"

  "Simple. There's no more land to give them, they have it all already."

  "And how do you know that?"

  "My mom told me that the Pope just made a bishop over a land that's just been discovered."

  "Discovered? Where?"

  "I don't know. Across some really, really big water."

  "Who discovered it? The Hungarians?"

  "No, the Vikings."

  The boy had heard of the Vikings. There had been Vikings in Transylvania, too. They'd only left charred bodies and houses in their wake.

  "Oh, shit," he whispered again.

  "Yeah. And the Vikings aren't even Christian. So some Viking named Erik found some new land, and the Pope immediately made a bishop for it. So imagine how long the waiting line is to be a bishop."