(1) Offspring Peltratria.
Place: Peltratria’s garden in the Dagerstanteen palace.
PETE WAS FAIRLY sure this was an intervention. He’d heard of those on planet Earth. Too bad all his cousins were wasting their time. He would go to Umicore Prime whether they liked it or not.
The scent of sun-warmed beams usually calmed Pete’s spiraling thoughts, but today, a prickle of unease tightened his skin. His six cousins, along with his sibling, Milray, formed a grim circle in his vibrant garden. They should be celebrating his courage, his audacity, his very Murry-like act of “taking the bull by the horns.” Instead, their collective frowns pressed down on him, heavy as gravestones.
But whatever. He’d go to Umicore Prime. They wouldn’t stop him.
Milray, stiff as newly carved Dagerstanteen statues, stood among his cousins, his sibling’s features pulled taut. The normally cheerful kesar blossoms seemed to droop around his family, their vibrant reds and blues muted by the collective gloom. Pete clenched his lower tentacles.
Daris’s voice, flat and cold as a winter star, sliced through the garden’s gentle hum.
“We came to stop you from this insanity, Peltratria.” The next king didn’t just walk. He marched, his heavy strides thudding past the garden’s central fountain, past the statue of a Dagerstanteen warrior, until his broad form eclipsed the doorway to Pete’s bedroom. The two Albeon guards, always a shadow to Daris, hardened their gazes by the exit. Daris’s jaw tightened, his eyes pinning Pete to the stone walkway. “You’re not leaving.”
A chill snaked up Pete’s spine, but beneath it, a stubborn heat flared. He would fly out today, come hell or high water.
“I told them what you’re planning, Pete.” Milray’s voice barely cleared a whisper, his shoulders slumping as his lips flattened into a thin, desperate line. “I had to.”
“I think I misunderstood.” Quayroot shook his head, a slow, deliberate motion that spoke volumes. “You wouldn’t be so stupid.”
Quay, Octnavin’s offspring, already studied the intricacies of being second king. His path demanded strategy, not raw combat. He wouldn’t understand. For Pete, however, becoming an exceptional warrior wasn’t just necessary. No. It was the unyielding pulse of his future happiness, a burning need deep in his core.
Pete’s eyes narrowed, a scowl threatening to etch itself onto his face, but he swallowed it, forcing his facial muscles into a pleasant smile. He casually leaned against the rough bark of a sun-drenched pelorus tree, its branches heavy with fragrant, silver leaves. They just needed to see this from his perspective.
“Going to Umicore Prime is like going to college,” he announced, his voice steady despite the tremor in his lower limbs. He crossed two tentacles over his chest, his gaze sweeping over each cousin, searching for any flicker of understanding. He needed them on board, metaphorically. Their silence would shield his location. Their distraction would allow him to borrow Lexar’s ship. His plan was brilliant. So why did their faces still look like storm clouds?
“How is Umicore Prime going to be like college?” Lexartanoom asked, a thread of genuine curiosity in his tone.
“Do tell.” Xylonnalme, Lexar’s sibling, mirrored Pete’s stance, his tentacles crossing with a soft thwap sound. “Because the way I see it, Umicore Prime is one of the most hostile planets in the universe for a Dagerstanteen.” His voice dripped with skepticism.
“Yes.” Daris smoothed back his blond hair tubes, each strand perfectly aligned. His gaze held a chilling certainty. “And I am positive that going to a human university is about getting drunk and having sex.” He paused, his eyes gleaming with morbid satisfaction. “Not dying a horrendous and excruciating death while a torelon’s claws shred your skin and its teeth grind your bones to dust.” Daris was becoming increasingly like his creator, Octnavin, with each passing cycle. Murry’s assessment echoed in Pete’s mind—wet blanket.
“It will not be like that.” Pete strode to the rock bench beside the bubbling fountain, his sense tentacle closing around the worn leather of a small, glass case. He flipped the latch. A soft click echoed in the tense quiet as the lid sprang open, revealing the polished gleam of bolo beads. “Besides, I don’t think a torelon exists.” Pete wouldn’t yield. He hadn’t yielded when he’d fought with King Octnavin for him and Murry’s lives, and he wouldn’t yield now.
“What’s it like then?” Lexar asked. The young pilot’s voice dropped low, tinged with the skeptical curiosity his creator, Rhylent, also possessed. It was a challenge, an unspoken “prove it to me.”
“It’s like this.” Pete took a deep breath, the smooth, cool weight of the shiny black bolo bead clutched in his limb. He slid one onto the end of a brown hair tube, then another, the small spheres clicking into place. The black balls glittered under the high sun, pulling the natural curl from his tubes until his strands hung straight and sleek to his second set of limbs. “Long ago, an unparalleled warrior named Nightmensotom ran away to Umicore Prime after killing his sibling and attacking his creator.”
“I’m aware of this tale.” Kanesomnola sat beside the open case, his head cocked to the side, a gesture that reminded Pete of JP puzzling through a complex calculation. “This Dagerstanteen soldier executed his sibling for no reason. I read in the archives that Nightmen lost his mind.”
“Renowned Warrior Nightmen was one of the most legendary Dagerstanteen soldiers who ever lived,” Pete continued, his voice picking up a fervent pitch. “He trained thousands of Dagerstanteens to battle the croow. He was an inspiring teacher and coach. Aliens all over the galaxy hissed his name in hushed reverence, awed by his superior skill.”
“Then he became a superior murderer,” Zarianquinnso added, his voice flat, devoid of emotion. Pete’s eyes flashed, a familiar prickle of annoyance rising. Zarian’s dry humor, so much like Fenton’s, always grated.
“I plan to go to Umicore Prime.” Pete didn’t even twitch at Zarian. His gaze burned with conviction. “There, I will find Grand Warrior Nightmen and ask to train under him. Like a professor and his student, I will learn, and I’ll become a tremendous fighter—a warrior of grace, cunning, and dexterity.” A wide grin split his face, the muscles around his eyes crinkling. “When I’ve learned what I need, I’ll come home and help our ailing planet. See? It’s the university of combat. I must do this.”
“Yeah,” Quayroot said, a harsh cough ripping from his throat. “I didn’t misunderstand. That is the stupid idea I thought I heard the first time. You know Warrior Nightmen is dead, right? It’s Umicore Prime, not summer camp.” His words were a cold splash of reality.
“I’m a mediocre combatant,” Pete murmured, the admission a bitter tinge in his mouth. He swallowed the rest, the deeper, more painful truth of why his dreary abilities couldn’t continue.
“Mediocre?” Lexar’s laugh ripped through the air. “More like you’re dreadful.” Rhylent’s offspring grinned.
“I know branches in the forest that can hit better than you,” Xylon scoffed, a bark of laughter following.
“Mud can take me down better than you can,” Zarian snickered, his eyes glinting with amusement. Pete wanted to argue, but the words withered unsaid. Each jab landed with the dull ache of truth. He was less than mediocre, a glaring, undeniable failure everyone knew.
“Why is this so important, Pete?” Kane’s voice, soft but firm, cut through the taunts. He strode, a quiet grace in his movements, to the rock sculpture of a Dagerstanteen warrior, poised mid-attack. “And don’t tell me this is about our sick planet needing our help.” He wound his middle limbs behind his back, his gaze fixed on the hazy, purple peaks of the distant mountains, demanding an answer.
Pausing, Pete tried to decide if he should share his dreams. He planned to fib and say this was only about the Dagerstanteen planet needing help, but now he felt compelled to confess the truth. Maybe if he could explain this well, they would understand
Pete hesitated. The confession heavy. He had planned to spin a tale of planetary duty, but a powerful urge pulsed within him, demanding the truth. Maybe, just maybe, if he painted the words just right, they would understand. His gaze flickered to Kane, who radiated a gentle warmth. Kane’s soft heart, his sweet and mellow disposition—he might find sympathy there. But the others? Doubt gnawed at Pete’s resolve.
“I don’t think any of you will get it.” Pete’s steps were slow, deliberate, as he walked to his hidden cache of weapons. The box rested beneath a mound of fragrant Nello stems, nestled close to a marble statue of a Dagerstanteen warrior, frozen in a bow-and-arrow stance. Pete knelt, his limb tracing the cool, smooth stone, before his tentacle found the box. He lifted the lid. The hinges let out a drawn-out, ominous creak that echoed the tension in the garden. Inside, sleek black pistols rested on fitted googol fabric, their scent faint but distinct. He ran the tip of his limb over their cool, polished surfaces, the weight of them comforting solidity.
“If you want to borrow the training ship, you must persuade me.” Lexar shook his head, a slow, decisive movement, his eyes fixed on the weapons. “Otherwise, the answer is a hard no.” The words sliced through the air, definitive and unwavering.
“And if you want us to tell our creators that you are doing a long training flight,” Milray added, his voice tight with concern, “you need to assure us that you can do this.”
“The truth is, I’m lonely.”
