Test of Fortitude: The Torian Reclamation, #3

By Andy Kasch

Protecting your home is best accomplished from your enemy's front yard.
 
Five years after the malicious attack by the unknown dark ships, Tora has achieved an unparalleled military buildup. The Torians are now the alpha male of the Erobian Sphere and have taken to making regular patrols in whatever regions they see fit—but especially along the outer rim where the High General has come to "sense" covert enemy activity. When a fresh piece of happenstance intelligence only further fans those flames of suspicion, he convinces his old Earthling friend Brandon Foss to undertake a special mission. The plan has its risks, but it may be the only way to flush the enemy out into an open confrontation away from Torian space.
 
Unbeknownst to Brandon or the Torian military, three younger-generation Earthlings and their unique pet have also ventured out across the sphere—where they unwittingly tread on a hidden enemy base. Jumper, Alan, and Kayla's goofily-botched vacation plans land them at a critical point in the enemy's farthest advancement. Finding themselves alone, disparaged, and far from home, the three friends have no way of realizing that the manner in which they now cope with their rocky circumstances may well affect the course of the entire war.
 
And oh yeah. There's:
 
• Intense space battles
• Intriguing aliens with unusual attributes and abilities
• New technology advancements and, um, enlightening spiritual revelations
• Climbing, running, ducking, shooting, hovering, crouching, pouncing
• Trial by fire for eco-political ideals
• And of course, an evil flute that sounds like a drum
 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Andy Kasch
• Release date: Nov 11, 2022
• ISBN: 9798215526989

Book preview

Hydro-Dwarf Planet 28, Torian Year 5356

Brigadier Gorbinshir climbed into the cockpit of the last fighter on the makeshift flight deck with rare enthusiasm. The disapproving body language of Colonel Halstov standing at the cavern wall was hardly a deterrent. Besides, Gorbinshir thought he also detected a slight air of hope about him. As second in command, Halstov knew better than to openly question Gorbinshir’s directives. But he must have considered it an eccentric impulse for the base commander to request a fighter and personally engage in what was sure to be a minor skirmish.

Admittedly, minor skirmishes frequently had a way of surpassing their advance billing in spectacular fashion. That was, after all, how Gorbinshir had risen to his current position.

This battle didn’t figure to be anything more than quick extermination, though. Gorbinshir certainly wasn’t displaying the same kind of recklessness the former Brigadier had when he joined in the attack run at the Torian space station several years ago. Yes, they had been confident of its immediate destruction at the time—and no, the incredible light weapon that destroyed the attacking squadrons was not something anyone could have reasonably foreseen. Still, high commanders were expected to refrain from directly partaking in such routine engagements, especially those in which casualties could be expected. It had obviously been an act provoked by the irresistible seduction of imminent glory.

Not this act. This one was motivated purely by cabin fever. Gorbinshir was sick of these caves and just needed to get out for a spell, any way he could. He wondered for a second if that was the reason he’d decided to destroy the visiting ships.

No. That wasn’t it. He was too well-trained to allow emotions to interfere with his command decisions. Chances were high that the visitors had witnessed the end of the training exercises as they arrived. It was unlikely they had seen much, or that they figured the Ossurian ships for anything other than local defense forces, but it was enough to potentially compromise the Ossurians’ carefully-guarded presence here. How unfortunate for the visitors.

Their ships failed to register a match within the Ossurian database, so the visitors were probably a yet-to-be-indexed race. It was, therefore, a fairly safe conclusion their world was not located on the outer edge of what was called the Erobian Sphere by the inhabitants of this portion of the galaxy. Those worlds had all been identified and, with one exception, temporarily dealt with. Some more reluctantly than others, to be sure, and some through the instigation of outright civil wars. But Ossur now had a strong foothold from which to proceed with the invasion.

When the cockpit canopy was sealed, Brigadier Gorbinshir fired the hover engines and the small dark craft came to life. The empty copilot’s seat next to him was, no doubt, one of Colonel Halstov’s concerns. Ossurian interstellar fighters were designed for crews of two to four and rarely operated solo. Gorbinshir was seeking a feeling of freedom today, and knew he could best find it with as much space around him as possible. He refused any crewmembers.

Gorbinshir eased the fighter across the cavern floor and finally out of the well-hidden cave mouth, leaving the darkness behind. Birds scattered from the tops of nearby trees along the canyon wall outside. There was air around him now, and the welcome openness of late-afternoon sunlight. He could already feel the tight mail of confinement begin to loosen and fall from his shoulders.

Confinement. That’s what living underground felt like. Too many months of this was starting to affect everyone. Sometimes Gorbinshir could perceive little difference between his existence and those of the natives they had enslaved and put to the mines. The life of the prison guard who gets to go home every night is not far removed from the life of those he guards. From a certain view of reality he is actually one of them, waning his days away in the same prison.

The saving consolation for Gorbinshir was that he knew his own confinement was temporary, and wholly necessary. Soon the general campaign against the Erobian Sphere would begin. The outer worlds were now mostly under Ossurian control. At the forward points, the underground bases on the hydro-dwarf planets were firmly established and perfectly concealed. The expansion would continue, vanquishing the evil classism infecting this portion of the galaxy and further securing the tranquil collectivism of Ossur. Once the Erobian Sphere was conquered, the progressive ideals which fostered Ossurian influence would forever be entrenched. This was a marquee occasion in the history of the galaxy.

Gorbinshir fired his main thrusters and spiraled his way upward, knowing Colonel Halstov would be less than appreciative of his acrobatic maneuvers. When he reached the upper atmosphere he straightened out, turned on his plotting screen, and positioned himself towards the fourth planet in the system. He activated the distortion field generator and waited for destination alignment. Seconds later, a ring of fire appeared around the hull of his ship and then he was rushing through bent space. In a few minutes he was there.

The sight of the bottled-up Latian fleet was always irritating to Gorbinshir. It made it impossible for him to enjoy the bright green scenery the gaseous fourth planet provided as a backdrop. Not because Gorbinshir cared for the plight of the Latians. They would eventually realize the fate of all Ossurian-conquered races: extermination or slavery, whichever they saw fit for themselves. Subjugated races were inferior, carried the seeds of rebellion, and could never attain a respectable status in Ossurian society.

The empty Latian transport ships in orbit here represented a minor defeat. Such annoyances could be acknowledged, but were never to be expected. Gorbinshir’s engineers had not yet designed a way to circumvent the security systems so that these numerous vessels could be re-employed for the Ossurian cause. That was just as frustrating as being constantly reminded of the setback.

Gorbinshir saw his own ships now, as he came around the front side of the anchored Latian fleet. His fighters looked poised and ready to run. Gorbinshir’s cockpit speaker crackled as the squadron leader acknowledged his approach.

Brigadier, do you request the honor of leading the attack?

No, Captain. Gorbinshir smiled as he realized how glad he was to be here. I request the honor of observance, and acting as rearguard. What is the current position of the intruders?

No change. Our long-range scopes still show only four transport ships. We’re picking up a couple of blips now underneath them, so they may be deploying fighters.

More likely shuttles, Gorbinshir answered. But come ready for a fight, all the same. You better take us in before they launch additional craft.

Yes, Brigadier. Your screen should be synchronized now. We’re set to go in 19, 18, 17, if you have no objection.

No objection, Captain. Proceed. Destroy the transport ships and any fighters. If there are landing craft in route, intercept and escort them to platform four. We need to index the race, and increased production in the mines is always welcome.

Acknowledged.

A few seconds later, the twenty Ossurian fighters simultaneously engaged their distortion fields and warped their way back to the small third planet which hid their base. They came out of distortion drive directly behind the four visiting transport ships.

The intruders were easy targets, having established orbit in a tight formation. Below them, three landing craft were deployed and nearing the atmosphere. No fighters. They obviously weren’t expecting trouble, whoever they were. The transport ships were small and couldn’t be carrying too many fighters.

The Ossurians weren’t planning on finding out. Gorbinshir remained in the rear and watched his squadron spread out for a uniform attack. Moving fast, they let loose with a timed missile barrage and then hit the ships with lasers as the missiles neared their targets.

It was over quickly. Only two of the transport ships managed to fire a defense laser before being overtaken in explosions that rocked and then ruptured their hulls. The Ossurian lasers connected with their outer distortion field rings before the missiles hit, effecting enough damage to prevent them from escaping into bent space. A second missile barrage was all it took to blow the intruders’ ships to pieces.

Get on those shuttles! Gorbinshir radioed. All three of the visitor’s landing craft had just vanished from sight into the planet’s atmosphere.

The Ossurians had no trouble running them down. The shuttles were moving slowly, as if they were first-time visitors following unfamiliar coordinates. They suddenly found themselves surrounded by hostile fighters hugging them tight. The universal language of lasers firing around them, and then one out in front pointing where the Ossurians wanted them to go, was clearly understood. Soon the shuttles and their impromptu escorts landed on platform four, a rocky plateau indistinguishable from dozens of others in the area.

How surprised the intruders must have been when the center portion of the plateau broke away from the outer edges and lowered them into an underground station. Gorbinshir and the remaining fighters flew back to the primary entrance tunnel deep in the nearby canyon.

An hour later, Gorbinshir walked into the grotto that served as Colonel Halstov’s office.

Who are they?

Halstov waited for the galactic map to show on his computer screen before answering.

Their world is called Bolkos, and is located here. A red dot appeared among the star formations on the screen that was now filling with familiar gridlines.

They’re not far from our edge of the sphere, Gorbinshir said. I’m surprised we didn’t have their ship designs indexed by now.

Halstov changed screens to display an image of the Bolkans’ now-destroyed transport ships.

I don’t think they’re very active, he said. Came here in lightly-armed vessels that were clearly unequipped for any type of warfare.

Then what are they doing here, Colonel?

Delivering heavy machinery. Some kind of a trade deal, from what we could gather—probably for the mineral. A stroke of luck for us. We’ve retrieved six beam-borers from their landing craft. Good ones. Powerful and more sensitive than those we’ve acquired from the natives.

Gorbinshir nodded. We can certainly use them. Let the commanding excavation engineer know. Orient the captives in the usual fashion. Then see if any of the survivors happen to be experts in operating those borers.

The chief astronomer came rushing into Halstov’s office and interrupted them.

Sir, we have another visitor.

More Bolkans? Halstov asked.

No. Azaarian.

Those fools, Gorbinshir muttered. Better see what they want, Colonel, and fast.

At that moment another messenger ran in, filling the dank den to near capacity. It was one of the chief astronomer’s subordinates.

Sir, we’re picking up another ship, just arrived at the Latian fleet above the fourth planet.

Latian or Azaarian? Gorbinshir asked.

The junior astronomer, now completely out of breath, only shook his head.

Gorbinshir raised his brow. Bolkan?

No, he managed to say. Unidentified.

* * *

Your brother is on his way up, Shaldan said with a contagious smile, revealing the teeth at the corners of his rumpled mouth.

Trodenjo chuckled. He knew Shaldan was just as excited as he was whenever they stopped for a little sightseeing—and Trodenmark, Trodenjo’s younger sibling, always had to be in on it as well.

By the book, Shaldan and Trodenjo were the only two civilians officially allowed on the bridge. But the military staff was used to this by now, and weren’t prone to getting uptight over such things—especially with the enterprise shaping up so successfully. The Measure was now projecting to be profitable within a few short months. It would be the first of Mpar’s six new interstellar commercial ships to reach that status, and, correspondingly, the first successful commerce vessel operating in the Erobian Sphere.

The sliding door in the rear opened and Trodenmark arrived.

What have we got? he asked as he came around the railing that separated the command pit from the upper perimeter of the rectangular bridge.

Trodenjo was half-sitting on the railing and didn’t bother standing up. He pointed to the medium-sized screen over Shaldan’s workstation before answering his brother.

There it is. The surrendered Latian fleet, peacefully drifting over a beautiful gas giant.

Hmm, Trodenmark said. Hard to see from here.

Trodenjo turned his head. Can we get closer, Admiral?

Admiral Farenbart only nodded from the command pit and mumbled some instructions to the senior navigator. The Measure responded and the view of the moored Latian fleet gradually became large on the viewing screens about the bridge.

Quite an ominous site, Trodenmark said. "Let’s not get too close. I’m actually glad we didn’t know about it the first time we came through here."

Shaldan looked up from his station and said, Information is the most valuable commodity. Right, Trodenjo?

Trodenjo hesitated to respond. As the lead merchant, he recognized the truth in that statement. But he also knew it wasn’t in Mpar’s best interest to be in the intelligence business. That was a dangerous profession, especially in unstable times. The crew of The Measure was quickly becoming aware of just how unstable the current times really were. That made it all the more important for them to establish a reputation as a neutral and entirely profit-motivated commercial venture.

Yes and no, Shaldan. It’s critical we stay apprised of interstellar political relations, yes. And there’s certainly a market for information. But The Measure will never deal in that particular commodity. We seek it solely for purposes of our own security.

Shaldan shrugged. He was young and idealistic, but Trodenjo knew he also respected the business savvy of his superiors. The kid would be a good trader someday, assuming Trodenjo remained his mentor. For now, Shaldan was content to handle merchant communications and learn. That’s where most of the action was anyway.

Trodenjo noticed his brother looking disturbed as he surveyed the Latian fleet.

What’s the matter?

Trodenmark shook his head. I regret asking to come closer. It shudders me to think that if we—or anyone else who might be in the area—should fire a single missile into one of those ships, the whole fleet might blow in a chain reaction, possibly taking us with them.

I doubt the security systems are as sensitive as that, Trodenjo replied. And we aren’t as close as we appear. I thought you’d enjoy the sight. Why are you so easily rattled all of a sudden? What happened to the fearless merchant marine who signed on with this outfit?

I think he disembarked at Dirg.

Trodenjo laughed. Didn’t care for the Dirgs, did you? They weren’t so bad. Offered some interesting items for our catalog, and we have them profiled enough now that we ought to be able to target goods for them. We’ll make customers out of the Dirgs yet.

No, it’s not that. They were the last world we visited along the outer rim, and the only receptive race out there, if you want to call that receptive. Everything we’ve learned about that region is discouraging. If our government had gotten a sniff of how much war is really in the wind on this side of the sphere, I doubt they would have sanctioned our project.

Trodenjo stood up off the rail and faced his younger brother.

The time for interstellar commerce has arrived, he said. It’s only proper that the Mparians pioneer it. We must adapt to the environment we find ourselves in, and make the best of it.

Without accidentally making enemies, you mean.

Of course. That would be unproductive.

Trodenmark looked back at the screen. I wonder if it can be avoided. We’re bound to eventually upset someone, or at least draw suspicion of having made political alliances.

 That’s why it’s important for us to establish a reputation for nonpartisanship. Trodenjo raised his voice as he walked around the front railing. You worry too much, brother. Forget about those unreceptive worlds on the outer edge. We’ve established trading relationships with a dozen different races already. That’s plenty. We’ll disregard the others for a while. I’m all for playing it safe.

Glad to hear it, Trodenmark said. But I’m still unsettled. We’ll have to travel to Dirg in order to trade with them. There’s something about that whole region that doesn’t feel right. Don’t you think it’s odd that only the outer worlds have outright refused us?

I suppose. Maybe their remote locations have something to do with it. I’m just happy we’ve set up a viable operation, and faster than expected. Now it’s time to start doing business. Speaking of which, you better prepare the landing party. We’ve done enough gawking here.

The borer’s already on the shuttle. We’re ready when you are. When do you expect the Bolkans to deliver the rest of them?

Soon. Trodenjo flashed his corner teeth. We’ll tell the Sulienites to expect them any day. As enthusiastic as the Bolkans are about this deal, I honestly wouldn’t be surprised if they beat us here.

Trodenjo turned back to the command pit.

All right, Admiral. We’re done. Pull us up to Hydro-Dwarf 28.

Camp Store Mercenary Course, C4 Banor

Chapter One

Alan sensed the second group of young Banorians was about to be ambushed. He remembered now, it was always the second group. The first group had already come up the front side of the trench and was crawling through the tall goliagrass towards the final target range.

Which side the ambush would come from, and exactly who would get them, he couldn’t tell. Jumper and Kayla vanished in the far woods twenty minutes ago, so they could be anywhere by now. Their two assistants were positioned behind the rocks on this side of the field, below the observation platform, waiting to pick off any overanxious snipers.

And then there was you-know-who, the x-factor, a foe who operated mostly by smell and had remarkable patience. Unless he lost interest and decided to take a bath.

He didn’t this time. Alan detected an unnatural rustle in the brush just above the bend in the trench and knew he was in there, crouched like a compressed spring.

I think I saw some bushes above the ditch move against the wind, Brandon said.

Alan nodded. I saw it, too. Hope these guys are tougher than they look.

The two of them watched as the three teenage natives rounded the bend in the trench below. One of them took off running ahead of the others. That must have been an inspired move. He scrambled up the embankment and wriggled into the goliagrass.

His two companions were about to pay for their over-cautiousness. As they crept forward, the bushes on the ridge above them suddenly danced. A dark red blur flew forth and landed on the youth in the rear. His chilling scream echoed across the range. The victim’s remaining companion was so startled he fell and dropped his weapon. Alan couldn’t blame him for that. His friend sounded so horrified it even made Alan instinctively start to reach for a weapon he didn’t have. Brandon only laughed.

The great cat then pounced on the companion, pinning him and bringing his large fangs close to his neck. Now Alan laughed. Casanova really did seem to enjoy these games every bit as much as Jumper and Kayla. Satisfied with his kill, Casanova sprang up from the trench and vanished in the tall grass. His two victims stayed in place, appearing resigned. One of them had his hands on his chest.

A firefight then broke out in the rocky dunes beyond them. Jumper and Kayla must have located the third group. It was a running fight, moving forward towards the grassy field at the end of the course.

The first group, well-hidden in the grass, seized the opportunity and revealed their position by taking shots at the final targets. Jumper’s assistants opened fire on them from behind the boulders on their right, but it was too late. The first group was good. They took out the targets, so now only needed to slink through the last patch of goliagrass without getting hit.

Come on, Alan said to Brandon. It’s about over.

Brandon followed him off the observation deck and back through the camp store. Alan stopped briefly before the front door to examine one of the float suits hanging on the wall. He brushed some dust off it before continuing.

How’s business? Brandon asked when they were outside.

Steady. Busy enough to depress Derek, anyway.

That was my next question.

Yeah, Alan said. He prefers it slow. That’s when he gets to tinker with his other inventions. When we get a big float suit order, he starts mumbling about ‘the establishment’ and how he’s ashamed of himself for being a ‘sell-out.’ Sometimes I have to adjust his attitude by threatening to quit and come work here at the camp store.

Would you ever really do that?

No. I’m taking Jumper and Kayla in measured doses these days.

How are they doing? Brandon asked.

Alan shrugged. On again, I guess—for the last few months, anyway. Honestly, I get tired of keeping track. I think Jumper needs a break, though. He chuckled. That’s why I’m here. You?

Brandon’s expression turned serious. I have an important bit of business to discuss with Jumper.

They turned the corner and started walking the path that led to the staging area for the mercenary course. The three natives from the first group had already come out of it and were standing above the final target range pointing to spots in the grass, probably where they thought their friends still were. They were laughing and seemed pleased with themselves.

On the trail a ways behind them, two of their friends were slowly approaching. Those were the ones Casanova ambushed. They had taken the dead soldier’s path off the course.

As Alan and Brandon joined the group of victorious youths, more laser fire came from the grass directed at the final targets. Crossfire then erupted from both sides of the field, attempting to pick off the snipers. A few minutes later, another youth emerged from the front side of the field with his hands victoriously held above his head. He was the one who ran ahead and left his two squad members to become Casanova’s lunch.

One soldier from the last squad suddenly stood up in the field. His vest was lit up in red, and he began making his way towards the nearest trail.

That left two.

The laser fired stopped long enough for the three dead soldiers to all join them up top. Meanwhile, the calm of the field in the last stretch had become suspenseful. All eyes were upon it. Brandon really seemed to be enjoying himself. Even Alan had to admit to himself that this was still fun to watch.

Sudden bustling erupted in the grass before the targets, in two places. The last two soldiers stood up from one of the disturbed patches and yelled, but they didn’t fire at the targets. Instead, they fired across the top of the goliagrass at the other busting patch and connected with Casanova just as he leapt from it. Casanova landed before them, sat, and licked his chops. The last two soldiers kept their red beams firing on him for good measure.

Two lasers then came from the rocks and easily struck the last two mercenaries, who didn’t seem to care at this point. Their vests lit up in red. They finally shut their lasers off and gave Casanova a wide berth as they climbed the slope to the staging area—though Casanova had finally settled down to wash himself.

A short while later, Jumper and Kayla emerged from trail in the tall grass and joined them. Their clothes were both covered in dust. Kayla’s long black hair was tucked up underneath her cap. Jumper rapidly swept the top of his uncovered head with his hand, causing a small dust storm but bringing most of the dark color of his hair back in the process.

Less than half of you made it, Jumper said to the customers. They all turned and looked at him before Jumper continued.

That’s about average for a first-time run, though. And the first group to reach the final target range typically does best. Although you two, he looked at the last two to come in, would have made it as well, despite being last, had you not lost your cool at the end. You shot the beast, and probably could have then gotten those targets and scrambled your way out if you stayed with it.

The last two dead shoulders begrudgingly looked out at Casanova, who was still in the field licking himself. Kayla whistled for him and he started trotting up the slope.

The four soldiers whose vests were not lit up in red slapped each other on the backs and shoulders.

Kayla spoke. Number five, I wouldn’t get too enthusiastic about your survival. Yours was a hollow victory at best.

The fifth mercenary frowned and cocked his head.

In military situations, she explained, it’s survival of your squad that matters, not everyone for themselves. In fact, a good soldier will readily sacrifice himself for the squad if the occasion calls for it. You left your brethren behind and escaped as the sole survivor. Good luck finding anyone who wants you in their squad after that.

The resulting dejection of mercenary number five seemed to resurrect his dead friends, who at least died honorably. That was suddenly meriting more respect than surviving at any cost. He slunk along behind the group as they filed to the equipment shack to return their vests and nondestructive hand lasers.

After they settled their bill and left, Jumper ran up to Brandon and slapped hands with him in the air.

So glad you’re here, Jumper said. I was going to message you later and ask you to come. Alan and I are looking for a ride to Amulen.

Brandon looked at Alan. Oh?

Alan shrugged.

Kayla too? Brandon asked.

No, Alan and Jumper both said. Alan’s response beat Jumper’s by a second, and Brandon’s resulting glance at Alan confirmed that he noticed it.

Are the public shuttles out of service? Brandon said.

Oh, you know. Jumper motioned towards the mountain peaks in the distance. We want to get dropped off in a remote area. It’s hard to arrange that kind of transportation.

Brandon looked at the mountains Jumper pointed to and said, What’s wrong with the Banorian wilderness?

We’ve done most of that. Jumper’s tone was beginning to sound like a plea. And we feel we need to get away more. Everything on Banor is so …sedate.

Brandon rolled his eyes. You mean not dangerous enough.

Alan laughed. Jumper shot him a stern glance before resuming his appeal.

What about it, Uncle Brandon? Can you take us?

When?

Right away. We can be outfitted within the hour.

I don’t think so, guys. Sorry. I have …errands to run, and you know I’m not crazy about you being over there.

I promise we’ll use plenty of skin protection, and we’re both in good shape. Oh, and no polwar. Still haven’t played it, and we won’t be around any population.

That’s not it, Brandon said. He looked around the parking lot and suddenly seemed a bit nervous. Can we talk in your office?

A few minutes later, Jumper was behind his messy wooden desk with Brandon and Alan sitting in front of him. Casanova curled up in the corner next to his huge water bowl. Several Amulites had come in to the store and were browsing, so Kayla was out front.

Jumper continued pleading with Brandon, begging for a ride, promising to stay at lower elevations in a relatively safe region. It was to no avail. Alan could tell Brandon was getting slightly irritated and had something on his mind that Jumper wasn’t giving him a chance to say.

Kayla then popped her head in the office.

Honey, someone wants to buy a roll of canvas using EM’s. You want to just take it? I’d tell them no, but we’re overstocked on that stuff.

Everyone looked at Brandon, who appeared amused at being relegated temporary judge.

You may as well accept it, Brandon finally said. I can exchange it for if you like, as I’m on my way to see Belle-ub.

Kayla thanked Brandon and left.

Jumper finally stopped jibber-jabbering and stared at Brandon the way a scolded zaboar looks at his master after getting smacked on the snout.

Good, Brandon said. My turn to talk.

Casanova got up, came over and placed his head in Alan’s lap. It was heavy, and the weight of those huge curved fangs hurt when they rested on Alan’s thigh bone. He shifted the cat’s head so it wasn’t directly tooth-on-bone. Alan wanted to hear what Brandon had to say without wincing in pain.

 Jumper, why did you resign from the council? Brandon asked. The real reason, I mean.

Jumper frowned. That was four years ago, Uncle Brandon.

Yes, Brandon said. Four long years ago, and I’ve just learned something incredible about the Amulen council. Something I flat-out can’t believe was never made known to me.

Jumper exchanged confused looks with Alan before answering.

I was representing Amulen Earthlings, remember? When there were no more Amulen Earthlings, there was no need for a representative.

Brandon shook his head. Yet you stayed on for a year after that. Belle-ub never asked you to leave. In fact, he considered you the Earthling representative for all of Tora, not just Amulen.

Alan decided to interrupt. Isn’t it obvious? He quit because he lost in the second tournament.

Jumper gave him a look of feigned scorn. Alan could see right through it, and suspected Brandon could as well.

No, Brandon said. It’s not. And I’ve always had some reservations about the manner in which you lost that game.

Hey, you guys were there. Jumper turned his palms up. You saw it. Sorry if I disappointed you. But I did make it all the way to the semi-finals again. Think that’s easy? Try it.

"Don’t get impish with me, Jumper. You know I’m extremely happy you quit the game, and I supported your decision to leave the council. It’s taken five years, but now Banor is finally recognizing Belle-ub’s government and