Dec 30 2008
Imperialism, Book One, Chapter 3
The door to the pilot’s room of the midship began to crack steadily, bulging inward. The two pilots inside had tossed their chairs and boxes of tools against the door, and were now pressing against it with all of their weight. On the other side, Hans and another man named Dyvell were throwing themselves at the door, knowing that their combined weight would easily break the door.
“Let us in and we won’t hurt you,” grunted Hans.
The pilots whimpered softly in the room, and Dyvell thought with surprise about how weak this group of Imperials had been. Perhaps their power lay not in their strength, nor even their massive numbers, but in the fear those uniforms inspired in the people, the terror a civilian felt when he saw a cluster of Imperials watching him suspiciously. And if that fear were eliminated, if the civilians no longer blindly obeyed the government be-cause of mere anticipation of something they thought to be inevitable, then, and only then, could a rebellion succeed. That had been the problem with Semson, or Rustic City. The people had rallied behind a strong leader, and he made their fears go away with his words and bravery. But when the Imperials had come in their death ships, shot their ar-rows and flung their explosions at the rebels, that leader had died. The rebellion had shattered, collapsed without a director, without a leader. Now, Semson was a place of sorrow, a place where no one wanted to be. The streets were vacant, dark and depressing. The houses, once praised for their grandeur and beauty, were layered with dust and cob-webs, spiders spinning silk in unused corners and rats scurrying across the broken floors. The city had literally fallen, and now it was practically deserted. Most who had survived the Imperial invasion either fled to the Zuma Forest or migrated to Treel, a nearby city.
Lost in his thoughts, Dyvell did not realize that the door had splintered, and Hans was pushing his way through without regard for his safety. His large frame squeezed strangely through the gash that repeatedly slamming against the door had caused.
“Careful, Hans, they might be dangerous,” cautioned Dyvell.
“I think I can handle them,” said Hans.
A feeble cry rose up from the pilots, sounding even weaker in their harmony, and they reached for their swords, which lay sheathed several feet away. They drew their swords, dusty from lack of use, and turned to face Hans, whose massive presence seemed to fill the entire room. The two pilots glanced at each nervously, and then the one on the right lunged forward. Hans knocked him away deftly, sending him crashing into the wall. The other Imperial leapt forward as well, trying to catch Hans unawares, but Dyvell, having already crawled into the room, tackled the man, smashing him to the floor. There was a loud crack as the pilot’s head hit the floor, and his neck snapped hor-ribly, killing him instantly.
“Thanks for that,” muttered Hans. “Although I wish you didn’t kill him.”
Dyvell didn’t reply, still too surprised from what he had done. Dyvell was a peaceful man, as were all of the people of Silverage. Hans was too, but he possessed a calm energy, a strange light brooding inside of him, and he fought without regret and only as much as necessary.
The dead man was like an omen on the floor, and Dyvell wished he could dispose of the body. He knew, though, that as soon as he opened the door of the midship, the Im-perials crowded outside would rush in like a flood of evil. Only, they weren’t all evil, as he knew. Most were misguided or unwilling to do their job, and not the savage beasts many commoners portrayed them as. But the anger welled up inside of him once more as he remembered that the Imperials had chosen to be soldiers; they were not forced to do their job. They could’ve chosen to be commoners like him.
“You killed him!” cried the pilot that Hans had struck. Slowly pushing himself to his feet, he winced and said, “Who are you people? Why are you here?”
“We’re commoners. The people you’ve oppressed for far too long,” replied Hans. “We’re taking over this midship. Fly it or we’ll kill you.”
The pilot seemed to hesitate for a moment, as if some strands of loyalty to Imperi-alism kept him from betraying his government. Then, he nodded, coming to the conclu-sion that ultimately he valued his life more.
“Fine. Fine, I’ll help you,” he gasped, wiping off the streaks of blood on his face as he spoke. “But you have to promise not to kill me when this is all over.”
“Sure,” said Dyvell.
“I suppose I have to agree, then, even though you’ll probably renege on your promises anyway.”
