House Of Cards

TWENTY YEARS EARLIER...

                        M'K'N'ZY

    Falkar regarded the remains of his troops and, as the blazing Xenex sun beat down upon them, decided to wax philosophical about the situation.  "It is not uncommon to desire killing a teenager," he said.  "However, it is not often that one feels the need to send soldiers to do the job."

    His men regarded him with a surprising amount of good cheer.  It was surprising they had any left, for the battle between themselves and the Xenexians had not only been brutal, but also extremely unsatisfying.  Although not particularly unsatisfying for the Xenxians.

    They were a somewhat bedraggled lot, these survivors.  Their armor, their clothing, hung in tatters.  Their weapons were largely energy-depleted, and when they had fled the scene of their final rout, they had done so depending heavily on short swords and knives to hack their way to safety (or what passed for safety).  Weapons that hung at their sides largely for ornamentation, for decoration, for a symbol of achievement. Most of them had never touched the bladed weapons except to polish them for display purposes. Not one man in fifty could remotely consider himself expert with their use. As Falkar studied the barely two dozen men remaining to him it was as if he could read what was going through their minds.
Falkar drew himself to his full height, and as he was six and a half feet tall, there was something to be said for that. His skin was a dark bronze, as was that of all the people of his race. His build was an interesting combination of both muscle and economy. There was no denying the power in his frame, but it stretched across his body in such an even manner that-despite his impressive height-it was easy to underestimate just how strong he was. His hair was long and black, and usually was tied neatly, but now it hung loosely around his shoulders in disarray. When one is beating a hasty retreat, it's hard to pay attention to keeping one's hair properly coiffed.

    His eyes were solid black, his nose was wide and flared, and his incisors were particularly sharp. "Perhaps we deserved our fate," he said tightly. His men looked up at him in surprise. If these were words meant to comfort an already dispirited band, they were not doing the job.

    "We have ruled the Xenexians for over three hundred years," he said tightly. "Never, in all that time, has there been any uprising that we were unable to quash. Never has our authority been questioned. And because of that, we have allowed ourselves to become sloppy. Become overdependent on hand weapons." He was striding back and forth in front of his troops. "We came to believe," he continued, "that we would be able to win battle upon battle, not because we were better prepared or the better armed...but simply because we were entitled to do so, as if by divine right. Well, the Xenexians showed us differently, didn't they?"

    "It was that damned boy," one of the soldiers muttered.

    Falkar spun and faced him, his dark eyes glittering. "Yes," he said, his voice hissing tightly from behind his teeth. "That damned boy. That damned boy. The one who rallied his people. The one who outthought us at every turn. The one who anticipated our moves, who was not intimidated by us, who gave his people hope. Hope, gentlemen. The worst thing people such as these could have. Because hope leads to action, and actions lead to consequences. And the consequences of these actions is that we are now faced with a people who stand on the brink of liberation. We fight them and fight them, and they keep coming back and defeating us. Our government, gentlemen, has made it clear to me that they are beginning to consider Xenex more trouble than it is worth.  And that damned boy is the cause."

    Falkar had been standing on the uppermost reaches of a plateau.  Now he pointed out at the formidable terrain before them.  It stretched on for hundreds of miles, seemingly in every direction.  The ground was hard and cracked.  Small mountains dotted the landscape, and there were small bits of vegetation here and there clinging desperately for life.

    "He's out there, gentlemen.  Out there in the Pit.  Providence has potentially put him within our reach.  His vehicle was seen spiraling out of control in that direction during the battles waning moments.  He's separated from his troops, from his followers.  He is alone.  He is no doubt scared.  But he is also very likely dangerous, as would any trapped and wounded animal."  Falkar turned and looked back at his men.  "I want him.  Alive, if possible.  Dead, if not.  But if you capture him alive and he "accidentally" meets his demise in transit, make certain that all injuries he sustains are to his body.  I want his face pristine and uninjured, easy to identify."

    One of his soldiers frowned.  "I don't understand, sir.  Certainly he could be identified from DNA records in any event."

    "True," said Falkar.  "But I'm referring to being able to identify his face...when his head is stuck upon a pole in the great square of Xenex."  He surveyed the terrain one more time and then said, "Find him.  Find M'k'n'zy...and let's put an end to this rebellion once and for all."