The Aeolian Master Book One Revival

Aeolian Master Book One

  Revival

  Copyright 2010 by John Northern

  A special thanks to TSE60.com for the book cover art work.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter One

  It could have been considered a whirlwind event, but it was more like a hurricane of circumstances and political intrigue that brought him to the Galaef. He didn't just think it was a rouse, he was certain of it. No one at this level of government would take an interest in the myth of the Aeolian Master, unless there was some nefarious subplot lurking just below the surface.

  But why had they involved him—a nobody from an insignificant planet?

  He didn't care. He wanted the money for the archaeological dig. So when they ordered, he came. The fact was, even if he didn't want to come, he had no choice.

  As the translucent metal door slid quietly into its recess, Professor Benjamin Hillar stepped through the doorway and into the huge, lower lobby of the Galactic Empire Headquarters.

  Maravan, the G Staff Guide, stepped beside him. He obtained a better grip on Professor Hillar’s luggage, and asked, “So, what do you think?”

  Ben looked around. “Incredible.”

  “Yes, sir, that was my reaction the first time I stepped through these doors.

  “All this wealth.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Ben raised an eyebrow. He noted what riches beyond imagination could buy—exotic plants with beautiful multicolored blooms sitting in lavish pots, priceless pictures by ancient artists hanging on the walls, expensive furniture made from imported hardwoods from around the galaxy, which were placed in expertly designed alcoves and recessed into the exquisitely decorated walls.

  “I suppose,” said Ben, “the Galaef has no limits as to what he can acquire—entire planets, if he so chooses.”

  “Yes, sir. If you will follow me, sir, I will take you to the registration desk in the upper lobby.”

  They stepped off the golden colored tiles—which appeared to be real gold and onto the plush, soft carpet with its architectural patterns and brilliant colors.

  They walked down the steps and started for the escalators on the far side of the room.

  As they continued forward Ben started thinking about his extremely controversial theory on the Aeolian Master Fable, and then he thought about the reaction he had gotten when he reported his theory to the higher-ups. The President of the college, and even the President's secretary with her coy smile, had, in one way or another, made it plain that this theory was beyond absurd. How could he consider the story of the Aeolian Master to be anything more than a myth?—a real man, indeed. The Magistrate's Undersecretary, putting his book down and looking up from behind his desk, had said it bluntly, "Don't get your hopes up, Professor Hillar. Money isn't granted for the sake of chasing a myth; especially one with no basis of fact." The Undersecretary paused, and then said, "I don't understand how you can think anyone is going to take you seriously." He twisted his lips in such away as if to say, 'Come on, let's get it in perspective,' and then he continued. "Putting in for this grant is just a waste of your time and mine. For hundreds of years this story has been told to children around the Galaxy—a story about a super human man from, ummm," he paused trying to remember without hiding his ignorance.

  "From ancient Earth," said Ben with an amused smile.

  The Undersecretary nodded his head and continued his train of thought. "Yes, from ancient Earth. A story about a man who was evil in the beginning—a man who destroyed cities and killed people by the billions, but then he repented and started doing good for the people with his super human powers.”

  That’s not quite the way the story goes, thought Ben. But he didn’t say anything. It wasn’t his intention to get into a lengthy, boring discussion about the myth.

  The Undersecretary frowned. “But it's just a fairy tale—a bedtime story for children, and everyone knows it." He paused a moment and then added as an after thought, "There's even a Tarmorian comic book about Em the super hero. And that's all it is—a comic book. How could you possibly think there is a man still alive in a suspended animation chamber who has God-like powers?"

  “Who gave you that ridiculous piece of information?” asked Ben. “I have never said there would be a man still alive. In fact, if we find a man in a suspended animation chamber, I am sure he is just a pile of bones by now.”

  Ben had known the Undersecretary for a number of years. He was now in his late-middle years, a little overweight, and balding. He had a wife and four kids, all boys who had gone on to college. One of them was a professor at the college where Ben was working. But what Ben had remembered most, and what he had observed over the years, was the Undersecretary’s lazy demeanor. He didn’t want to do anything unless he absolutely had to.

  Ben stood in front of the Undersecretary’s desk and waited, but the man said nothing, so Ben finally asked, "What is it you want?"

  "The Magistrates will never approve the grant. So let's forget it." He sat waiting for Ben to say, 'Okay, tear up the documents.'

  But Ben didn't say it.

  And now, in spite of the Undersecretary and in spite of what everyone thought, and through a series of events, which baffled Ben, here he was—about to meet with the ruler of the Galactic Empire to discuss the myth of the Aeolian Master.

  As they started up the escalator, Maravan asked, “If no one believes it, then why are you having an interview with the Galaef?”

  “Exactly,” said Ben.

  At the top, Ben found himself in another large room with more people milling about, and off to his left, approximately twenty meters, was the receptionist and several assistants sitting behind the biggest and most exquisitely decorated registration counter he had ever seen

  “It appears the rumors about the Galaef's Galac
tic Empire Headquarters are not exaggerated.”

  Maravan smiled as he said, “No, sir.”

  The counter was to his left situated near the back wall and took up the entire width of the room, which was approximately three hundred feet. The back wall was a huge aquarium with thousands of beautiful tropical fish. Located around the room, were guards dressed in colorful red and gold uniforms, standing at attention and watching the proceedings of the activities throughout the room. They all had holstered phasors strapped to their hips.

  Ben and the G-guide approached the counter.

  "Pass your number over the identifier, please," commanded the receptionist as she looked up. She was an extremely beautiful woman with long blond hair streaming down her back with a few unruly wisps lying on her shoulders. A large bosom crowded against the front of her white uniform.

  She was all business.

  Ben ran his finger about four inches up the zip-seam of his tight fitting body suit, opened the cuff, and rolled it up exposing a series of numbers and letters which were embedded in the skin on the under side of his wrist—Ben wasn’t one to be bothered with carrying a space traveler's ID card, which could be lost or stolen, so he had had the numbers genetically embedded in his skin.

  He waved his wrist over a small violet colored window projecting up from the surface of the desk in front of the secretary.

  Lights flashed on the control panel, as the receptionist's fingers raced nimbly across the buttons, selecting and pushing in a sequential pattern. Ben noted instead of talking to the computer she used a keyboard behind the counter, which made it impossible for Ben to see what she was typing. Confidentiality and security were measures to assure protection of the Galaef. If she pushed the secret button, a thousand armed guards would appear from nowhere.

  "It'll just be a moment," she said as she looked up from behind the screen. "Would you like to have a seat?" Her tone was friendly, but standoffish.

  "I'll just wait here," said Ben with a hint of impatience. There was no doubt that politics and protocol bordered on the division between common sense and absurd sense.

  “This is where I leave you,” said Maravan. “I wish you success, in spite of the you-know-who.”

  “Yeah,” grumbled Ben. “And thanks for picking me up at the spaceport.”

  “You’re welcome, sir.”

  As Maravan walked away the receptionist looked up from the screen. "Your presence in the Galactic building is now recognized and established, and I see from the read-out you'll be having a personal audience with the Galaef today." She looked a little surprised.

  "That's correct," said Ben. “It has something to do with a mythical God.”

  The receptionist ignored his statement and said, "Professor Hillar?"

  "Yes?" asked Ben looking into the beautiful blonde’s blue eyes.

  She eyed him up and down and then continued. "Have you ever been interviewed by the Galaef before this time?" It was merely a transitional question being asked to lead into certain procedures, which Ben would have to follow. He knew she already had the answer to this question.

  "No, I haven't.”

  "Then I must inform you of the protocol which shall be observed at all times." She looked at Ben with an expression of seriousness on her pretty face. "First," she continued, "when you are called into the Galaef's chamber you must drop to one knee and bow your head. You must not rise until he has given you permission." She stared at Ben, waiting for a reply.

  "Is that all?"

  "Oh, no. You must then rise and bow to his second in command. He will be standing on the Galaef's left. After you have finished, you must wait for the Galaef to begin the conversation; at which time you will never address the Galaef as an equal. You must always end your sentence with 'Sire' or 'Your Majesty.'" She paused a moment and brushed the few unruly wisps of hair back over her shoulders. "And finally, you must never laugh in the presence of royalty."

  "Never?" Ben was wondering why the Universe couldn’t get along without politicians.

  "Never," she answered. "It's considered to be a sign of disrespect."

  “What if he says something really funny, and I can’t help myself?”

  An angry expression crossed the receptionist’s face. It was apparent she didn’t appreciate Ben’s flippancy.

  "Never mind,” he said quickly, “I understand. I have met with a lot of dignitaries in the past."

  The receptionist eased her attitude. "Do you have any questions?" she asked.

  "No."

  "Good," she replied. She motioned to one of the guards at the end of the counter, and as he approached she said, "Then, if you will follow this gentleman, he will lead you to the preparation chambers." She indicated a man in a red uniform—a handsome man. He stood six feet three inches tall, had a muscular build, and a face that looked like a God.

  The guard said, “This way, please,” and then moved quickly toward a door against the far wall where the other guards were standing.

  Ben picked up his luggage and followed the guard.

  They stepped through the doorway and turned left. They walked down a long, vitalite hall passing transparent doors on both sides with people hurrying in and out of the rooms, obviously scurrying about on Empire business.

  It didn't take long for them to reach their destination. The only door along the hallway, which was not transparent, slid open, and the guard ushered Ben into the room—an austere looking room with only a panel of switches and lights against the wall on the left and readout screens, other various equipment, three simple chairs, and a robe hanging from a hook next to a body analyzer.

  "I'll need to take your luggage," said the guard. He stretched out his hands. "They'll be returned after the interview, and if it's decided you'll be staying awhile, they'll be delivered to your room."

  Ben handed over his bags. He knew his things would be searched for anything untoward, especially assassination devices.

  The guard tucked the luggage under his arm and barked out three more commands.

  The first two didn't surprise Ben, even though it was unexpected.

  "Remove all your clothes and put on that robe," he said. "And wait here."

  The third command, however, the 'wait here,' seemed a bit unnecessary. Where was he going to go while walking around in a robe with no clothes on?

  The guard, with Ben's luggage, turned and disappeared through the same doorway they had entered.

  Ben sat on one of the chairs and took off his shoes, then he undressed and threw his clothes over the back of the chair. He donned the robe.

  He knew his physical body would be analyzed more thoroughly than ever before, not only for assassination devices, but for any communicable diseases—bacterial or viral strains or any kind of fungus or other types of parasites which could be transmitted to the Galaef or his second-in-command.

  As he sat in the chair, scrutinizing the equipment, he thought about how things had happened so quickly. Two weeks earlier, he had just finished a dueling practice—any thought of the Galaef was far from his mind, in fact, billions of light years away. Sweat dripped from his brow as he loosened the grip on his sword. "Your lunge is a little slow," said Ben. "If you will keep a slight bend in the wrist, and then snake it forward with the lunge while straightening your elbow, you'll find yourself lunging quicker, and you'll be more successful in tournaments. "His sparing partner smiled gratefully and lunged a few times practicing what Ben had just told him. He obviously appreciated Ben's advice, and for good reason: Professor Ben Hillar, at the age of nineteen, had been the youngest man in the planet's history to achieve First Master Swordsman. And every year since, he had successfully defended his title. He also held the record for being the youngest to place third in the inter-galactic games. And he was the odds on favorite to place first the next time around. Ben was hoping to prove the odds makers right.

  He was putting his sword in the case when one of his students bustled into the sparring chamber. "The President wants to see you right
away," he said.

  Ben snapped the case shut and stood up. "He wants to see me?"

  "Yes Sir."

  Ben frowned. "What for?"

  "He didn't say, Sir."

  "Alright," responded Ben, "I'll be there as soon as I take a shower." He finished getting his things together and started slowly toward the locker room. What did Gurke want? He had known the University President for a long time, and it wasn't like him to call a professor in without prior notice. Ben considered the possibilities. Finally, it occurred to him it was probably news about the grant he had requested. If he were allotted the grant, he would be able to pursue his requested archaeological expedition and finally be able to put to rest whether or not his theory was correct. Once and for all he could bring his theory to a conclusion.

  The President looked up from behind his desk, "I don't know how you did it, Ben." He shook his head from side to side.

  "Did what?"

  "Asked for a tal and ended up with a pot of gold."

  This piqued Ben’s interest. "Does that mean I got the grant?"

  "Not at all," replied the President.

  Ben responded quickly: "Right now, this grant is the only pot of gold I'm looking for."

  "Don't be so sure." The President grinned and sat back in his chair. "Somehow your request went further than just the governing board of inter-collegiate magistrates on our fair planet." The President paused, still grinning.

  Ben sat down in a chair and gave the President a sardonic look. "Come on Gurke, what's going on?"

  Gurke’s smile vanished. "The Galaef wants to see you, that's what's going on," he retorted.

  “The who?”

  Ben could still remember being astonished when he realized what the President was saying. It wasn’t possible. In the first place there were very few who gave his project any credence. Secondly, because of that he never thought he'd get the grant. And thirdly, no one could have ever guessed the most powerful man in the Universe would take an interest in this project.

  But now, here he was, sitting in, what the receptionist had called the ‘preparation chamber,’ which in reality, was a ‘take off all your clothes and have every square inch of your body—inside and out—inspected chamber.’ And soon he would be standing in front of the Galaef trying to explain why he wanted money to chase a myth—one which no one believed in. It wasn’t conceivable that a man so powerful would take an interest in something so trivial. How the hell did the Galaef get involved in this?

  He pondered for a moment, then looked at the body analyzer at the far end of the room. It was completely enclosed in a dark, opaque material, except for the door in the front, which was transparent. Hooked up to a computer resonator for the purpose of scrutinizing every minute part of a person's body. Anything out of the ordinary will be found. A great invention for medicine, but also good for detecting assassins with built in flesh detonators.

  Ben was just becoming engrossed in the history of the assassinations of political dignitaries when two beautiful women, a blond and a redhead, clad in yellow body suits and wearing phasors strapped to their hips, entered the room.

  He was amused by the fact that he was told to take off his clothes, and then women were sent in to perform the examination. Not a bad psychological ploy.

  "Please step over here," said one of the women.

  As he walked toward the woman the other one began turning knobs and pushing buttons on the panel in front of her. Then the woman who had spoken stepped up to a large machine next to the control board on the far side of the room. "If you will be seated here, . . ." she said, indicating a chair next to the machine.

  After he sat down she picked up a long, thin metal skein, which protruded from a metallic tube in front of the machine. At the end of it was a small metal disc, bluish in color.

  "Open your mouth—wide," she ordered.

  He opened up, and she began passing the disc back and forth over his tongue and teeth. She did it in a slow precise manner making sure she didn't miss any part of the oral cavity. Finally, she withdrew the instrument and put it back in its holder.

  "Find anything?" Ben smiled as he tried to make light of the situation. He would have said something about cavities, but undoubtedly, being uneducated in ancient Earth history, she wouldn't have understood his dry sense of humor. As it was she didn't find his question humorous anyway.

  "Please be quiet and follow instructions," she said.

  The beautiful woman who was giving the orders had long red hair, which hung down to the middle of her back. It fell in thick waves like a red sunset with some of it falling over the front of her shoulders. It was rare to see a woman with red hair. In fact he had never had the pleasure of seeing it in real life. Only a few of the top fashion models had naturally red hair. And he had only seen them on the home viewer. Genetically speaking the trait of red hair had become a very rare occurrence in the last two hundred thousand galactic years. The gene, by course of nature, had become very weak.

  Ben, looking at the red-haired woman and ignoring her last command said, "Science can be a strange discipline." The statement held her gaze for a moment. So he continued, "The genetic engineers of the empire can induce the genes to pigment a gold number in the skin; and yet, they can't figure out why red hair is becoming extinct." He looked at the red hair and suddenly had the urge to reach out and touch it, but, at the last moment, thought better of it.

  The corners of the woman's mouth turned up slightly. It appeared she was about to say something when the woman standing over the computer screen looked up. "Negative." She said.

  "Good." The woman with the red hair became serious again. "Now, Professor Hillar, if you will take your robe off and step into the chamber, we will complete the examination."

  Ben stood up and walked to the chamber. He slowly scrutinized the small room paying particular attention to the floor, and then he took the robe off and hung it on the hook. He stepped inside. As the transparent door slid shut, he turned until he could see the two women programming the computer. They were giving it instructions to search every cell and every space in his body. It wasn't long until he felt a tingling sensation pulsing through his skin. It felt like a million little fingers softly touching, feeling, massaging his skin and muscles. Every space, every square inch of tissue was lightly probed. His body began to feel warm all over as the machine sent high energy particle waves through his flesh looking for anything which could be harmful to the Galaef.

  The sensation stopped and the door slid open.

  "Please step out, Professor Hillar." The redhead turned and walked back to the control panel. She manipulated a lever, and a black body suit tumbled out of a small opening.

  She handed it to Ben. "Put this on," she said.

  He took it from her and started dressing. When he was finished, he turned and faced the two women, waiting for further instructions.

  They seemed to eye him with a little more interest than they had previously shown, and there was a slightly detectable smile on the redhead's pretty face. Perhaps she was amused by his casual personality, but then the smile quickly left her beautiful face. It appeared that as he moved toward her, his strong build and taut muscles changed her inward mirth to admiration. Ben was barely six feet tall, but his build was well defined and his stomach was flat. He was a trained athlete, physically fit and capable of performing all types of activities. He had dark brown, almost black, hair which curled around his small ears, and his nose was straight, perhaps a bit too long, and it had a little hook at the end, like that of a hawk. His eyes were brown and piercing; and although his personality wasn't dignified, a deep strength could be detected.

  "You have successfully passed the examination," said the blond. "You're now ready to proceed to the Galaef's antechamber. Please follow . . . ."

  The red-haired woman interrupted the blond. “I’ll take him,” she said.

  The blond gave her a funny look. “Okay,” she answered slowly.

  The red haired woman led B
en out of the examination room and down the corridor to an Etron mover.

  As soon as they stepped inside, the redhead said, “mover—take us to the top floor.” It started upward, slowly at first, but with a gradual increase in acceleration until it finally reached its top speed.

  Ben watched the lights as they quickly flashed on and off in turn, indicating the level of the floors passing by. Again his eyes moved to the red hair, and lingered upon the long flowing waves falling down her back. Finally, as he began to admire her shapely physique she turned her head, and her eyes met his.

  He smiled in a tactful manner. "You're very beautiful," he said matter of factly. His eyes were pleasantly locked into hers. "In fact," he continued, "every woman I've seen since entering the Galactic Headquarters has been no less than beautiful, and every man no less than handsome." He continued his stare. "It seems the rumors I've heard all these years are more than fiction. The Galaef has computer chosen all of the personnel not only for their intelligence and loyalty, but also for their beauty," he said, "Ha. And why not? I'd do the same thing if I had the populations of two million planets to choose from."

  A sincere smile crossed her lips. "Thank you," she said.

  His eyes finally broke the grip, and he looked back at the flashing lights.

  "I'm surprised," she said.

  Her formal attitude melted away 'like ice on a red hot stove.' "Surprised?" he asked.

  "That you would say something like that." A pleased look crossed her lips.

  The Etron mover came slowly to a stop, and they stepped out.

  They walked toward the large transparent, sliding double-doors facing them at the end of the hall. There were two rugged-looking guards on either side of the doors wearing bright, blue and gold uniforms. Ben noted that these colors were different than the uniforms worn by the guards in the lobby. These guards were the Galaef’s elite security personnel. They followed him wherever he went. And they were trained to lay down their lives for him, to take a phasor bolt in the chest if they had to. Ben slightly shook his head—he hated politics, and yet, he understood the need.

  "Listen," said the woman as they came to a stop near the guards. She put the tips of her fingers on Ben's arm to keep him from entering the room as the doors slid open. "I get off work at five o'clock. So, if you would like someone to show you the city," she paused a moment. "My name is Lyil. Ask for my number at the front desk."

  "Sounds like fun," Ben muttered in a surprised tone, but she had already turned and was walking briskly toward the Etron mover. It happened so fast Ben didn’t know what to think. If he understood it right, here was one of the most beautiful women he had ever met, and she just asked him on a date.

  The guard on the right side of the door looked at Ben, raised an eyebrow, and smiled. “I’ve never known Lyil to show anyone the city,” he said, still smiling.

  Ben looked at the guard. “What’s your name?” he asked.

  “My name’s Frostadeem, but my friends call me, 'Frosty.'”

  “Well, Frostadeem,” said Ben as he turned and watched Lyil walking down the hallway, “I think I might, indeed, want to see the city.” Ben wondered if it was his fame as a swordsman, which caused her to take an interest in him.

  Chapter Two