A Convenient Lie

“Who do you think we are?” asked Hans, stepping forward angrily. “Though your masters may pride themselves on breaking promises, we commoners, as you so gladly label us, we have dignity.  We follow through on our word.”
The pilot nodded, rearranging his face into one that he hoped resembled contri-tion.  Hans shook his head in disgust.
“Just fly the midship already,” said Dyvell. “The Imperials outside don’t want to damage their precious machine, but I’m sure they’re not above destroying it if it means carrying out their mission.”
Hans glanced out the window of the piloting room and saw that some of the Impe-rials were attempting to crawl onto the roof of the midship.  What they planned to do when they reached the top was uncertain.  The rest of them, directed by the pale faced man that had killed Johnny’s father, were slamming themselves repeatedly against the walls of the ship, apparently trying to knock it over.
Sensing their urgency, the pilot situated himself in his chair and prepared the mid-ship for flight.

Johnny fell backwards from his sitting position as the midship lurched abruptly.  A curious sensation overtook him, and he realized that the midship was lifting off.  The few Imperials that had managed to scale the sides of the ship leapt off desperately, plummeting to the sand below.  The ground seemed to shoot away from him, and the midship flew higher and higher.  Then, it pivoted in midair, heading towards the massive lake.  They were on a path to the Havali Desert, away from the Imperial base that lay ad-jacent to Silverage.  Once there, Johnny and Hans hoped that they would have enough time to make their way east towards the Regali Mountains.  It all depended on how quickly the Imperials in Silverage relayed the news of their failure to their superiors, and how the Imperials there reacted.
As Johnny attempted to acclimate to the strange and different feeling of flying, he realized that self-pitying brooding about his father was useless; harmful, in fact, to the other rebels.  In his mind, he made a conscious decision to take charge once more, to help Hans lead them to their destination.  And when he thought of the others, he remembered that many of them had left their families behind.  It was not a well-organized rebellion at all, just a whimsical fight, a lucky battle that they had happened to win.  He wondered what would become of those left behind, whether or not the rebels would be able to come back for them.
What have we done?  Was this a mistake?
Images of his mother, crying out for help as her house burned to naught but ashes, flitted tauntingly through his mind.  He pictured Arielle, wishing that her older brother would come home.  Descriptions of Semson, the Rustic City, mixed in with his memories of Silverage.  He saw empty streets.  He saw carcasses burning in unholy piles.  He saw the desertion of morality, as survivors were reduced to sub humans, scrounging in dark houses and looting stores for food.
“Johnny!” said someone, disrupting his reverie.
“What?” asked Johnny, turning around.  It was Dyvell.
“I just wanted to check with you where we’re headed.  Do you want to land right at the outskirts of the desert or farther in?”
“I don’t know.  Do whatever Hans thinks is best.”
“Hans thought I should ask you.”
“In that case, just land a little past the edge of the lake.  In other words, on the de-sert sand, but still in easy reach of the lake.”
Dyvell walked away, leaving Johnny alone in the deck of the midship.  Most of the other rebels had gone to the quarters, a rather large room that held about fifty small beds.  The rest were either in the weaponry or in the pilot’s room.  Johnny glanced out the window once more, and to his surprise he saw that, far away on the shores of Silverage, another midship was rising into the air.  Behind the midship, behind the sandy landscape of dunes and dried grass, there were flashes of red and orange, fearfully reminiscent of flames, once again evoking images in Johnny’s mind of shattered homes and burned fam-ily members, left behind to die.
So the Imperials aren’t quite as half-hearted as I had hoped.  It appears that they are ruling this land for a reason.
“Dyvell!” shouted Johnny. “Dyvell!”
Johnny got up and started jogging towards the pilot’s room.  Dyvell poked his head out of the ruined doorframe seconds later

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.”

“Johnny!”
A cry split the air behind Johnny, and he whirled around, trying to not to think about his own safety.  He turned just in time to see a man fall to the ground, a sword plunged horribly in his back.  Behind him, the pale-faced man stood triumphantly, his right hand still extended in a throwing motion.  All of the rebels gazed at the fallen man, no one caring about running any longer.  The Imperials had stopped too, their eyes shift-ing nervously as they watched the rebels.  The fallen man was lying facedown in the sand, but Johnny knew who it was without having to look.
“Dad…” he whispered softly.
The figure did not move, and neither did the sword in its back.  The man’s right arm was thrust forward in a diagonal direction, the fingers of his hand curled slightly.  The left arm was tucked underneath the body.  His legs were bent awkwardly to the side, and a growing pool of blood seeped out from the figure’s belly.  Johnny bit his lip to try and stop the flow of tears threatening to flee from his eyes, but the image of his dead fa-ther was still forever framed in his mind.
Taken from me…just like Yolen.
The bonds in Johnny’s mind broke, and the torrent of anger, fueled by desperation and sadness, urged him on.  As he started forward, the rebels turned to fight as well.  Time, which had momentarily slowed down, sped up once more, and Johnny rushed on, pulling the sword out from his father’s back as he ran.  The bloodstained tip shined briefly, the falling sun casting its last rays upon the blade, and then the sword was buried in the flesh of an Imperial’s chest.  Johnny pushed the sword in deeper, exerting all of his force behind it.  Satisfied, he kicked the man away, pulling the blade out as he did so.
He cast his narrowed eyes about for the pale-faced man, and he caught sight of him, disappearing behind a row of Imperials.  Johnny screamed an incoherent cry of rage, and he charged the second rank of soldiers, smashing into them with a vengeance.  They were only privates, and they did not truly support this battle, and the government they represented had just killed Johnny’s brother and father.  They never stood a chance.
The sword slashed through the air, and their half-hearted attempts to block it were pushed aside with ease.  Deciding that they valued their life more than Imperialism, they dove aside, allowing Johnny to move on, his unceasing anger directed towards the pale-faced man.
“Johnny, no!  Come back!”
Hans’s command was lost on Johnny’s ears.  The only sound Johnny heard was an incessant buzzing, coupled with his father’s last cry, replayed over and over again in his head, driving him insanely onward.
Johnny.  Johnny.  Johnny.  Johnny.
The pale man retreated further back, running now, the look on his face quite evi-dently one of complete terror.  As only a decent fighter, he knew he stood no chance against this boy, this epitome of everything he had come to fear about the commoners.  When they had lost everything, they were unstoppable.  And their losses, combined with their strange ability to strive forever towards a better future, led to riots, which led to re-bellions, and rebellions could not be allowed.
“Coward!” screamed Johnny. “You’re a coward!”
Lost from sight, the pale man crouched behind a wall of loyal Imperial soldiers.  Johnny, breathing heavily, marched steadily closer, and the feet of the Imperials began to shake, began to quiver in fear.
But as Johnny drew closer, he felt a strong presence behind him, a presence that he knew to be Hans.  Hans, though strong, had difficulty restraining Johnny and dragging him towards the midship.  The boy was struggling with all his will against the older man’s grip, attempting to even bite his wrist.
“Johnny, remember our plan!  Your father would want us to finish the plan!”
They were empty words, words that Hans, best friends with Johnny’s father, did not truly believe himself, but they were words of consolation and persuasion nonetheless, and that was what Hans needed.  Finally, Hans reached the midship, and he tossed Johnny into its depths effortlessly.  Most of the rebels were already crouching in the main room of the ship, drenched in sweat, tears, and blood.  They did not know how they had gotten this far, how the shocked Imperials had allowed them to escape.  They also did not know what would happen to the families left behind.
Hans wasted no time, helping the few stragglers up onto the ship and closing the doors, locking them securely.  Admittedly, Johnny’s bout of anger had done a good job in creating a diversion.  The Imperials on the beach were only now recovering from their stupor, rushing towards the midship like the angry but half-hearted demons they were.  Johnny, sitting up resignedly, saw them through the scratched windows, watched them press up against the sides of the midship.  He turned around to look for Hans, but the man had already started towards the piloting room, where two hapless Imperials sat waiting for their inevitable fate.

“Patton!” yelled Hans, fighting his way through the mob.  Johnny watched him shove an Imperial away as he tried to reach his father.
“What, Hans?” shouted his father.
“Patton, we need to fall back.  If our plan is going to work, we can’t lose all of the men fighting in the middle of Silverage!”
“Fall back now?  Are you crazy?  What about the children?”
“We can bring them along or hide them in the houses and return for them later.  We need to get to their midship as soon as possible!”
Johnny watched in confusion as his father desperately screamed orders for the re-bels to fall back, for the children to run.  His brief period of shock, brought on by seeing multiple men being murdered, was ended abruptly when a child tugged on his shirtsleeve anxiously, asking for help.
“I don’t know,” Johnny told the boy. “Just hide somewhere safe.”
The boy took off running, closely followed by seven or eight other children.  They looked to be only about twelve or thirteen, and Johnny watched them go with sad eyes.  Their unstained hands had never seen the horrors of the world, and their future was darker than Johnny’s own.
At least they get to stay in Silverage, stay on the land they have helped to cultivate and nurture and grow, stay on the land that is in their hearts.
And then Johnny was running as well, his heart pounding violently in his ear-drums, his breathing short.  The muscles in his legs were strained, protesting pointlessly against the excruciating pain exerted through his joints.  Every step sent fire coursing up his feet, and he heard a nearby man cry out in pain as the man’s ankle twisted in a small hole in the road.  Johnny wanted to stop, wanted to help the man, but he knew that the situation was hopeless.  The man would die within seconds, either from the stampede of blue demons or from a sword.
“Where are we going?” gasped the woman next to Johnny, whose long strides were growing shorter by the second.
“Back to the beach,” Johnny replied breathlessly. “To their midship.”
Johnny ran through the streets of Silverage, moving past the sickly houses, past the forgotten lawns, past the land on which he had grown up, the land that belonged to the people but was taken by the Imperials.  And he pushed the anger down for the second time in minutes, pushed it back by the icy knot of dread in his stomach, pushed it back by the nauseous feeling that flooded his mind.  He held down the anger with the same bonds that held the picture of the bodiless head lying motionless on the ground.  Still, the anger pushed against the bonds, and the bonds were weak.
Johnny felt the hard, packed dirt begin to soften beneath his toes, a reversal of the situation before, and he saw the midship now, a massive vessel silhouetted against the darkening sky.  It was dusk now, that strange gray zone between pure day and pure night. Long shadows leapt out from their recesses, groping with thin fingers towards Johnny’s soul, and he resisted their allure, their pull.
“There it is!” shouted Hans. “There’s the midship.  We’re here!  We can do this!”
The strong man’s words sent a message of hope and relief to all of the rebels, and even Johnny felt for the first time that this might actually be possible, that for the first time in history, there would be a successful rebellion against Imperialism.  Of course, the hard part of the plan was now: though the ultimate goal was to escape to the mountain range that bordered Silverage to the east, there was a small Imperial blockade in that di-rection, and so the rebels would have to escape on the midship across the large Lake Planelia to the Havali Desert.  From there, they could travel to the mountains.  Johnny was not exactly sure how the rebels would be able to get inside and pilot the midship, but that was a problem they would have to face when forced to.  For now, Johnny knew he had to focus on running, focus on disregarding the painful stitch that had just developed in his side.

Quickly, Johnny’s father set off running towards the town, pumping his old, arthritic legs.  Johnny could only hope that his father would be able to recruit more citizens of Silverage to fight, to rally against the Imperials; not in peace, but in war.  It had happened before in the town of Semson, Hans had eagerly told him only minutes before.  The citizens had rebelled and successfully driven the Imperials from the city.  Of course, the Imperials had simply returned in greater numbers a week later, ultimately crushing the rebellion and crushing the few advances the people had made by themselves, which was the reason the city was now commonly called Rustic City.  But as Hans reasoned, the residents of Silverage had to be willing to take this rebellion as far as possible, so as not to end up like the citizens of Semson.
After Johnny had found the sword under his father’s bed, he had immediately rushed out to the western cornfields, where he had found Hans talking to his father.  The three of them had then walked back to their house, where they discussed what they could do.  The plan that they had eventually settled on scared Johnny greatly, but thinking about it also gave him a swift sense of pleasure, the adrenaline rushing through his body and filling him with a kind of strange, foreign energy.  It excited him the same way play-ing childhood games in the town square had; his muscles seemed stronger, and his mind more alert.
Johnny heard a startled cry from an Imperial as they sighted his father running towards the main town.  Soon after, he heard the crunching of boots on rock, and mut-tered curses of Imperials as they knocked loudly on the door to the house.  With a jolt of horror, Johnny remembered what he had neglected to tell Hans and his father: Arielle was still in the house, as was his mother.  Disregarding the plan, disregarding his own safety, he burst out from his hiding place behind the house into plain sight of the Imperials.  They stared at him in surprise, and the expression on their faces was almost comical.  The situation deteriorated further, however, when their initial shock wore off.
A rather short, pale man, wearing a badge displayed proudly on his chest, emerged from within the mass of Imperials.  He held a sword loosely in his right hand.  His left hand was clutching something that he kept inside his pocket.
“Who are you?” asked the man coldly.
“I could ask the same of you,” replied Johnny, speaking much more bravely than he felt. “This is my house, after all.”
“I’m an Imperial Sergeant, here to inspect possible cases of rebellion and espio-nage, and to collect our rightful amount of corn profits.  Now, answer my question: Who are you?”
“He’s just a boy, sir,” said a voice from behind Johnny.  Hans had emerged nerv-ously into view. “Don’t pay any attention to him.  He won’t cause any trouble.”
“On the contrary, commoner; I believe this boy could cause quite a bit of trouble, judging by the simple lack of respect he has for his government and his betters.  For the last time, boy, answer my question!”
“My name is Johnny,” he said quietly. “And you’re not my better.”
Behind Johnny, Hans swore loudly, throwing up his hands in annoyance.
“Excuse me?” The sergeant’s voice had dropped to something barely more than a whisper. “Would you care to repeat that?”
“I said, you’re not my better.  Or my government.”
The sergeant stepped forward until he was only a foot away from Johnny, easily within kicking range.  Johnny shifted his weight slightly; he felt the anticipation of a fight in the air, swirling around his ankles.

Sergeant Lixon and the tide of Imperials marched steadily closer, Lixon at their head like a serpent’s mouth, the corners of his mouth curled upwards slightly in a smirk.  He felt some remorse for hitting the girl, but it had been necessary.  Slander of Imperialism was intolerable, and her high-pitched voice had resonated discordantly within his mind.  He had never had any compassion for the little ones, their shrieking cries unable to stir any feelings of goodwill towards them.  Almost twenty-five years old, he had sufficiently repressed the unfortunate memories of his own childhood, shoved them back into his mind, into a place that he thought the memories could never escape from.  But still, still they manifested themselves in his every action, his every word, controlling even his thoughts.  Lixon knew this both consciously and subconsciously, and so when he hit the little girl, he found his self-loathing clawing at his insides, begging to be unleashed upon his insecurities.
“Watch your step, soldier!” barked Lixon, trying to extricate himself from his tangle of confused thoughts. “You almost ran into me.”
It was the same soldier Lixon had threatened earlier, and the frightened private cringed in anticipation of what might happen next.  However, Lixon merely shook his head in exasperation and continued walking.  The first outskirts of the town lay just ahead, and he noticed a run-down, old shack of a house.  Adjacent to the house was a large field of corn crops.  Lixon smiled to himself; the harvest would be good from these simple, peace-loving people.

Johnny crouched behind his house, Hans and his father at his side.  His sword lay plunged into the ground just ahead of him, and he glanced at it frequently, drawing cour-age from the sight of its blade.  Beside him, Hans shifted position slightly, peering out around the corner of the house.  He withdrew suddenly, and Johnny knew by the tense arc of his back, the determined look on his face as he turned around, that the Imperials were there, almost upon them.

It had been three weeks since Yolen’s death, and those weeks had been full of work.  Little more of interest had happened in Johnny’s life, but his arms were sore, as well as his back, from constantly toiling.  The issue of falsifying the Corn Tax, controversial as it was, was not brought up again, and a strange, uneasy silence formed between Johnny and his father.  Their only conversation concerned either food or work. Though they both tried to hide their dispute from Johnny’s mother, she inevitably noticed the heaviness of the air between them, and her eyes became sad.  Johnny no longer looked into her deep, blue eyes, afraid to see what he might find.
It was while he just finishing planting a row of peas that his sister came sprinting across the field.  Her little form flying surprisingly fast, her feet upturned the soil, de-stroying the seeds he had just planted.  Trying to keep his anger in check, Johnny walked towards her.
“Arielle!  I spent all day planting those.  I’ve told you to be careful before,” ad-monished Johnny.
As he approached her, however, he saw that her face was stained with tears and blood.  Her nose appeared to be broken, and her right cheek seemed strangely indented.  Sickly fear gripping Johnny, he asked her what was wrong.  Unable to reply, Arielle ges-tured soundlessly towards the beach, leaning over her knees in sudden exhaustion.  Johnny put his arm around her, and his words of comfort to her were really aimed at him-self.
As he helped her walk over to their house, Johnny chanced a look at the horizon, where, to his astonishment, he saw a line of blue coming steadily closer.  Squinting, he was able to make out distinct figures, all carrying swords.  There were at least fifty sol-diers, and more seemed to be streaming out of a massive vessel that lay on the beach.
After the initial shock had dissipated somewhat, Johnny felt an odd decisiveness, as if he had been ready for this moment for a long while.  Steely determination shot through his limbs, and he hurried Arielle into their run-down house, laying her in a large armchair.  He was not worried about her nose being broken; that would not kill her.  However, he needed to stop the flow of blood before she fainted.  Quickly tilting her head back, he placed a wet cloth right under her nostrils.  Faintly, she murmured something incoherent, her bloodstained lips parting just enough to allow that infinitesimal quantity of air to escape.
“What was that?” asked Johnny, leaning his head closer to her.
“They…said…they said they wanted to kill you…Johnny,” she whispered, chok-ing slightly on the blood and tears dropping into her mouth.
“Kill me?”
“Yes…and all the…the people like you,” Arielle’s voice began to grow stronger now, and she sat up slightly. “They said they wanted to get rid of commoners like us who try to oppose the government, Johnny.”
“Who said this?”
“A man.  He was short and pale, I don’t know his name.”
“It’s fine, Arielle, just try to rest.”
Arielle nodded and lay back once again.  Johnny stood there for a few more sec-onds, savoring this time, knowing deep inside that this was the last moment in his life that would be even reminiscent of peace.  He stared at his sister’s face, at the walls of the house, at his mother, lying sick in her bed.  Johnny wanted desperately to go to her, to weep in front of her, to tell her all his worries, and he might have done so, had she not been asleep.  Gazing sadly at her still form, he waited for a few more seconds.  When he felt that standing there any longer would cause him to change his mind, he started abruptly towards his father’s room.  Pushing open the broken door, he ignored the clothes strewn across the floor, the dirty cabinet in the corner that had once been clean.  Instead, he walked towards the bed.  Underneath the mattress was a short, strong-looking sword.  Grasping its smooth handle, he pulled it out from under the bed and used his shirt to pol-ish off some of the dust that had collected on the blade.  Johnny gave it an experimental swing.  He liked the sound of it whistling through the air, the power he commanded as he held it in his hand.

Arielle, Johnny’s little sister, was playing on the beach when she saw the Imperials exit their giant midship.  Marching towards her town like a wave of death, she felt her heart beating faster at the mere sight of them.  Cowering in the sand, she realized that there was no place to hide, and these men seemed impossibly quick, moving more rapidly than her ten year old legs could ever run.  Still, she took off sprinting towards Silverage, hoping to warn her family and the others of the incoming soldiers.
She had not gone thirty yards when they caught up with her.  Strong hands grasped her arms roughly, and coarse voices shouted at her.  Sobbing, she kicked at the hands holding her feet together.  Arielle heard a satisfying crunch as she broke the Impe-rial’s nose.  Swearing violently, he tossed her to the ground, where she lay still, breathing shallowly.
“What’s going on?” came a grating voice. “Why did we stop?”
“Sorry, sergeant, but this commoner got in the way.”
Even Arielle, only ten, noticed the way in which the Imperial spat out the word commoner, as if it tasted revolting in his mouth.
“Who is she?”
“Why don’t you ask her yourself?”
“Very well.  Girl, what is your name?”
“A-Arielle,” she stuttered.
“Why were you running from us?”
“B-because you’re s-scary.”
“No, we’re not.  We’re the government, girl!  We’re the only reason your family can put food on the table, though not much food, judging by the look of you.  Without us, you would be nothing!”
“My brother says you just steal what is ours.”  Her voice was growing in strength, now, as she gained more confidence. “You don’t do anything but hurt us.”
Silence fell among the tall figures standing above her.  Their heads formed a strange veil of darkness, but she could make out the sky behind them, still bright and sunny, a ring of hope near the Imperials.
“Who is your brother?” asked the man, and his voice was low, menacing.
“I…I don’t know.”
A fist came out of nowhere and, seconds after she registered it, searing pain shot up her right cheek.  Arielle felt something wet running down from her nose.  Gingerly, she reached up to touch her face.
“Calm down, sergeant, it doesn’t really matter.”
“But it does, soldier!  People like her brother are the reason these insidious rebel-lions are even happening.  We need to eradicate them!”
“Just let her go.  It won’t help our standing with the commoners if she comes back bloody and bruised.”
“Since when have we cared about the commoners?”
Still, the one called Lixon seemed to relent, and he let her go.
“Before you go, girl, know this: the Imperials are not bad people.  Your brother is a bad person.  He’s trying to undermine our government.  Now go.”
Arielle ran, wiping her face as she ran, not knowing what were tears and what was blood.

The dry sand cracked under the feet of the Imperial soldiers as they leapt out of their flying vessel.  Impossibly immense, it towered above the myriad of blue-clad figures that littered the beach.  Beside them, waves gently lapped against the shore, driven onward by some unknown force inside the fairly benign and peaceful lake.  The lake, too, was large, stretching out across the whole expanse of land that made up the borders of the town of Silverage, and then running to join multiple rivers, which in turn branched out into various tributaries.  The lake was called Lake Planelia, and its colossal proportions were made second by only one other body of water, the ocean.  The ocean stretched on for a seemingly indefinite time, and, to almost everyone, it did.  Only select people were made privy to the information that beyond the ocean, there existed another land, with other people.
But the Imperials on the beach, mere privates, led by a sergeant, did not know this.  To them, their life was comprised of carrying out the orders of their ruler.  The ruler’s name was not known, but his titles included master, leader, and king.  Few Impe-rials, and even fewer commoners, had ever seen him.  Tales of his grandeur and power were spread wide about the land, along with the fear perpetuated about his deadly ser-vants, the Exterminators.  Rumored to be armored in solid, impenetrable metal, they pos-sessed inhuman strength and advanced weapons.
The only weapons the Imperials in Silverage had were swords and spears, at least for the most part.  The sergeant fingered the cylindrical object strapped to his belt.  Though it appeared harmless, it was the most destructive weapon the Imperials had cre-ated.  This was a relatively small cylinder, so its explosion would be correspondingly small, but it was still devastating enough to blow up an average sized house, killing all of the residents within it instantly.  When twisted, a small flame inside was ignited, which then took several seconds to reach the thin layer of dust that coated the interior.  The dust was the true weapon here.  Indeed, it was called Firedust by many, especially by the min-ers who were forced to unearth it.
The sergeant’s name was Calvin Lixon.  Small in stature, he had a waxy complex-ion and dark, brooding eyes.  His shoulders were weak, but his chest was thrust out proudly as he commanded his subordinates.  Only recently promoted, he took joy in his newfound power.  Though his fighting skills were not extraordinary, his tactical genius was praised by many captains, and it was expected that he would pilot his own midship soon.  This particular vessel was not truly his, just given to him to complete this mission.  The mission in question was particularly dull and boring, and Lixon craved a better as-signment.  Still, he dared not say anything, lest they decide to demote him.
Holding his sword loosely in his right hand, his left secured firmly on the cylin-der, Lixon reflected upon the fact that military force was not even needed in this situa-tion.  His “mission,” if it even deserved that title, was to ensure that the residents of Sil-verage paid all their taxes and to collect their corn.  It was expected that the citizens would attempt to protest or actively rebel, but Lixon highly doubted this, even if a trusted source had informed the Imperials.
Silverage was a peaceful town, and so their protests, if any, would be peaceful.  A strike had already been crushed several weeks earlier with ease.  It was strange that workers insisted upon striking, when they knew very well that would be replaced within minutes by better, more efficient laborers who were actually thankful and grateful for their job and the generous amounts of money offered to them for their job.
“This whole idea of dying for their beliefs is inherently foolish,” muttered Lixon aloud. “It accomplishes nothing in the end.”
“What’s that, sir?” asked a nearby soldier, glancing at Lixon.
“Nothing you need to know, private.  Keep marching!” snapped Lixon.
The soldier rolled his eyes and made a show of over exaggerating each step, smirking to his friends.  A wave of hot anger, the source of which Lixon could not deter-mine, welled up in his stomach, and he felt the blood rushing to his face.  Enraged, he stepped forward, grasped the soldier by the arm, and pressed the point of his sword against the private’s neck.
“I may just be a sergeant, but I deserve more respect than you will ever receive in your sorry life,” snarled Lixon.
The soldier looked at him with wide, fearful eyes, and then nodded once, almost imperceptibly.  Lixon released him in disgust, feeling a mix of emotions wash over him.  Part of him felt oddly violated, but his brain rejoiced in this show of power.
Looking ahead, past the mass of at least fifty Imperial soldiers, Lixon saw the town of Silverage.  Humble and simple, its agricultural roots were displayed plainly in the modest homes and expanses of cornfields.
Lixon smiled to himself.  This was going to be easy.

I am procrastinating finals, and felt like posting the newest few paragraphs of my novel.

At the bottom of the stairway was a metal gate.  The gate was built into the stone wall that ran parallel to the building.  Patrick slid the bolt in the gate to the right, and the iron door swung open, creaking softly.  He pulled his bike through the opening.  Immediately outside the gate was a ragged looking man, who lay with his head slumped against the wall.  A cup labeled “change” was stretched up in his hand, but with a quick glance, Patrick discerned that there was no money in there.  For a moment, he debated with him-self, trying to decide whether or not he should give the man any money.  He thought of the lonely twenty dollar bill folded in his wallet, and decided against philanthropy.
“Spare change, please, sir!” moaned the man.
“I’m sorry, I’m broke too,” mumbled Patrick, desperate to escape the situation.
Fortunately, the man did not make a wild attempt to grab at Patrick’s pant leg, did not murmur incoherent threats.  He just stared back with broken eyes, and for a second, Patrick contemplated reneging on his decision.  But how could he possibly afford to give money away when he was a month behind on his rent?
He hopped onto his bike, trying to forget the image of those eyes.  They were light blue, and the memory of them was engraved into his mind.