Hero of Ages

Don leaves the stench of his hired cabin with considerable relief. During transfer, the ventilation system blew the fumes of stale frying fat and other, less agreeable odours from the pantry straight into his quarter. In addition, an inexplicable dampness sustains a colony of green fungi in the room's corners. He never took the Angelos for a luxury cruiser, but she sooner classifies as tramp ship.

However, he's done with the Angelos' filth and her cutthroat crew. Today, the rotting ship reached his destination, Libertad, the eighth planet of the Vega system.

Don picks up his duffle bag and checks the dingy cubicle one last time. No, he won't miss this hole, not for a single minute. Halfway out the door he remembers the box with family heirlooms stowed under the lowest shelf of the cabin's closet. Wouldn't do to forget these aboard.

Disgusted, he brushes cobwebs or other unidentifiable grime off the sleek, black carbon case. In a wave of nostalgia he hefts the weight of the container. All considered, he could and probably should have left it on Earth, as he certainly won't ever need its content on this trending planet. Alas, he was always a dreamer, and these items are his only bridge to a mythic past. He remembers his abuelita telling him amazing stories of his far distant great grandfather. Until his father stepped in and called her a bruja, prohibiting her to further spoil the boy.

Don sighs and shakes the gloomy memories. A new life awaits him after all. With a remarkable spring in his step, he leaves the Angelos, ready to explore this strange new world.

~ ~ ~

The white sun—Vega—beats harsh onto the red dirt roads of Santiago, capital of Libertad.

Don is glad he found a place on the shady veranda of an acceptable restaurant in the so-called High Street. Most of the settlement is a weary accumulation of shaky makeshift huts. Only the small centre of downtown comprises solid buildings constructed of the local red, blue-veined sandstone in pseudo-colonial style.

With a wry smile, Don sips his synth coffee and remembers the recruiting posters.

'Become a pioneer in the unspoilt Vega system,' they said, and promised a picturesque, rich planet ready for colonisation. Even the system's name caught his attention. Destiny seemed to pave his way out father's suffocating vicinity and a desperate checkmate situation.

Like the Angelos, the planet fails to live up to the promises. But unlike the ship, Libertad doesn't bother him. He had solid reasons to leave Earth and search a new beginning. If half the rumours are true, this world offers everything he wished for.

Don drains his coffee and places a credit chip on the counter. It's time to look for a job, neither his family's riches and connections nor his pathetic past as professional fencing master and notorious drunk can help him here.

He follows the dusty High Street into the business centre of town. The mustering glances of passers-by tell him he doesn't fit. He urgently needs a new outfit. His black spacer coveralls, practical on board, won't do in a community where males dress up in tight tan trousers and fluffy, colourful shirts. A new haircut is mandatory too if he wants to blend in.

On the bright side, his father's generous good-riddance-check will help to set him up. However, he no longer carries misplaced illusions. This is his last chance to play it right.

~ ~ ~

In a new outfit, ridiculous haircut included—short on top, with long locks curling down his neck—, Don enjoys fitting in. Pretty women in frilly dresses smile at him, flirt impudently with fluttering silver eyelashes. Serious men in similar attire as his own nod in greeting, assess him out with approving glances.

Now, all he needs to pass as a successful new Vegian settler is one of the native riding beasts. Besides hover cars, they are the preferred individual mean of transport. No wonder, the soft, fine soil of Libertad defies rolling traffic. Even caterpillars get clogged fast by the sticky red dust. In consequence, the mining bots feature large, flat walking pads shaped after the caballi's wide feet. Despite the name, the semi-intelligent natives don't resemble horses at all. Six long, sinewy legs allow them to cross the dust plains faster than anything else. Their rump is man-high at the withers, with sloping back similar to a hyena's and a pronounced bump between the shoulder blades. Strong yaws are capable to crunch a diet of thorny bushes.

The caballi breeder, a member of the dark-skinned firstcomers, looks Don up and down as if it were him on sale before she leads him to the pen. The animals turn their heads, sniffing the stranger's scent. A big beast black as outer space walks up to him with wavering steps as if drawn by his presence against better judgement. It nuzzles Don's hair and licks his offered hand with an agile blue tongue. The seller nods reluctantly and pats the caballo's flank.

'You're lucky to be chosen. He's special, smart, take good care of him.'

Don is not sure what she's getting at. But he must admit the animal is beautiful and the price reasonable.

Transfer completed, Don thanks the young woman and wonders how it is to be born and raised on planet. The firstcomers arrived on Libertad two decades ago on a generation ship, isolated from Earth for centuries. They fled famine and misery at home just to colonise a planet becoming fashionable with wave after wave of luck hunters in faster-than-light-ships fifteen years later.

~ ~ ~

Don leaves the mining company's headquarter in a daze. He's got a job! And a real, paying one, too. His days as pitiful loser, useless son of the successful head of a banking empire, are finally done.

The disturbing part is he's ironically hired as an accountant. Either his father's genetic patterns are stronger than he believed or... he stops this unproductive train of thought. Hereditary skill sets are a myth, period. Otherwise his despised father and grandfather would have been less successful in a business based on exploitation. He will work as a trustworthy accountant and make sure his numbers remain true. This, he owes to himself and his remaining self-respect.

Reassured by his resolution he walks towards the company's stable to pick up his steed. A valet, one of the swarthy firstcomers, hands him the reins. Don nods his gratitude and offers the man a chip. The employee refuses, shocked about the gesture.

'You're not supposed to give us money. Please, just leave.'

Don climbs into the saddle, wondering what this was about.

It's strange to ride one of these mighty beasts. But he gets the hang of it. The caballo almost seems to read his thoughts. At this observation, his ride snorts and shakes his black-maned head, picking up pace across company land towards town.

Before they reach the magnificent gilded gate to the mining grounds, the animal stops. A column of sweating firstcomers approaches. The ragged workers stumble across the dirt road and into a yawning mining shaft. Some of them seem sick and undernourished. An overseer cracks his bullwhip to urge them on and flashes an apologetic smile at Don.

~ ~ ~

The bottle of local brandy he originally bought to celebrate his arrival and new job sits untouched on the table. Now Don learned about the firstcomers' oppression, he contemplates drinking himself senseless.

No, it won't do to fall into old habits, and least of them drinking. With shaking hands he opens the bottle anyway and inhales the pungent fumes. The booze is strong!

He pours the spirit into a bowl and determinedly puts it to use cleaning the dust-clogged mechanical parts of a disassembled bot.

The broken mechanical contraption was left by a previous tenant in the backyard of his rental one-room bungalow. At first, Don thought it a useless heap of junk, then a faint twitch of a cylindrical arm told him there was still artificial life in this outdated model. He brought the bot inside and disassembled the rusty body.

Don works on the bot for hours. Finally, all his teenage tinkering with malfunctioning household helps, thoroughly despised by his father, comes in handy. Most of the damage is mechanical and the bot's memory is wiped. But the solar charger still works. He reconnects the motherboard and sets up a communications protocol with his PA-tablet.

On the bot's round head several lights blink to life. Don smiles, the only thing he couldn't get to function is the speak-box. He will have to hunt fitting spare parts in a scrapyard. But the tiny bot is quite able to express his thankfulness with blinking red and blue lights and vigorous shakes of his wrench-clawed hand.

'Let's check what kind of bot you are, little fellow. Ah, here. Basic Robotic Natural Resource Detector BRNRD. Quite a mouthful if you ask me. Guess I'll call you Bernardo. Hm, come to think of it...'

Don kneels down to pull the black box with his remote great grandfather's heirlooms from under his bed. He opens the carbon lid and stares at the ancient items for a long time, listening to the bot—Bernardo—humming happily while recharging.

~ ~ ~

The magical light of the morning sun enfolds the town of Libertad. At the end of the mine's night shift, tired workers stumble out of shafts to be replaced by their almost as tired colleagues of the morning shift. Even the overseer yawns and rubs grit out of his eyes.

He is renowned amongst the firstcomers for his uncalled for cruelty. They named him 'Señor Muerte', Master Death.

Today, he displays a terrible mood. Under the weight of heavy pickaxe, a teenage girl stumbles. A boy of the same age reaches out to support her as the end of Muerte's whip coils around his wrist. He gasps in pain and tries to free his arm, but the overseer is not yet done with him. The big man urges his caballo backwards and pulls the boy off his feet. Then he yanks his whip free and turns to the girl. She steps back, eyes wide and limbs trembling.

Before his whip can reach his victim, the overseer is tackled from behind by a black-clad rider on a caballo the shade of night. Muerte turns towards the newcomer with burning face. He obviously hates to be interrupted in his games.

The stranger sits tall and quiet on his steed, a black half-mask and broad-brimmed hat covering his face. A thin-bladed sword in his left hand glints in the morning light. Muerte laughs.

'Look at this, who are you, sonny, her boyfriend? Do you want to scare me with a kitchen knife? Pity guns are banned on Libertad, or I'd show you a real weapon. Ha!'

He lashes out with his whip fast as lightning. But the stranger is no longer there. His beast moved to one side while the rider jumped from the saddle in one fluent motion. With three quick steps he comes up from Muerte's unguarded side and a deft slash of his rapier slices the overseers saddle-girth. The burly man tumbles to the ground. Before he finds time to get up, the stranger steps around the caballo and points his rapier at his adversary. But Muerte is not ready to give up the fight. The tip of his whip coils around the strangers shiny black boot while the overseer jumps up, teeth bared in a snarl. He yanks at the whip but the stranger is faster. With two long strides he covers the distance and points his sword at Muerte's Adam's apple.

'Señor, please apologise to the young Señorita for scaring her.'

Muerte laughs and lets himself drop to the ground again, pulling his adversary off his feet with his whip. The black stranger turns his fall into a roll, still holding on to his sword. In an almost playful motion its point touches the overseer's whip-hand lightly. Muerte pulls back, cradling his cut hand, blood dripping into the dust. The stranger frees his boot and steps up to him, sword raised menacingly.

'An apology, señor. These are human beings and the company's employees, not your slaves.'

Muerte yanks a knife out of his sleeve and dives low under the other man's sword to slash at his stomach. The stranger avoids him, twirls around and pins the overseers knife-hand to the ground with the tip of his rapier. Muerte looks up at the swordsman's masked face in defeat.

'As mentioned, señor, I won't tolerate your attitude towards your company's employees. Be sure to tell your coworkers.'

With a kick of his boot, the victor sends Muerte to sleep. Leisurely, he picks up the overseer's bullwhip and sheathes his rapier. He dusts off his pants and lifts his old-fashioned hat to the petrified girl.

'Señorita, my pleasure. Señor.'

The boy's eyes light up as he lifts his fist in delight. Other firstcomers join in, clapping and cheering their newfound champion. With a single jump the black rider mounts his steed, and in a cloud of dust he disappears in the desert haze.

~ ~ ~

Late at night, Don sits on his Veranda and studies the sky. Vega's dust ring, responsible for the life-friendly conditions on Libertad, is visible even during the dark hours, colouring the western half of the sky a shade of purple.

Bernardo hands him his far removed great grandfather's rapier, freshly oiled and sharpened. He runs a finger along the sleek blade. The small bot blinks his lights in a blue-green pattern, a sign of his contentment.

With soft steps the mighty black beast ambles near, nudging Don with his nose. He heard rumours of native caballi mind-talking to firstcomers. No one knows if these stories contain a grain of truth. But at this point, Don is ready to believe in destiny, devoted bots, and talking steeds.

'Well, I'm glad you're happy with the outcome of our little adventure, too. If you don't mind I'll call you Tornado. Because that was the name of Diego de la Vega's horse. This was his sword. They were famous, him, his horse, and his mute friend Bernardo.'

Don looks up at the stars and hefts the rapier.

'In memory and honour of a legendary namesake and ancestor.'

With three bold strikes he paints the mark against the night sky, a sizzling Z, the sign bound to become the trademark of another fighter for the oppressed.