The 13th Star: An Action Adventure Sci-F Apocalyptic Novel

On the planet of Falcon, some 400 yards beneath
the surface at 2 a.m., the central labor room’s lights are blue.
Five white-clad nurses, all in their forties, surround an operating
table on which a fair-haired woman, about 60 years old and with
delicate facial features, writhes. Contractions rack her tired
body, the veins on her neck seem about to burst, burning sweat
threatens her eyes, and she’s scared.

“Just don’t let me disappoint… Just don’t let
me disappoint…”

The nurses do their work mechanically; they
know the process and each has her own role. On each side one holds
the woman’s hands so that she doesn’t raise them and disturb the
area while giving birth. Below, a thickset nurse holds her legs so
they remain in the correct position.

And there are two other nurses. In their
absence, every laboring woman has to wait hours, or even days, to
complete her task. The first is the head nurse, who wipes the
woman’s sweaty face and keeps close watch on the proceedings.
According to the law on Falcon, a child may not be born to a mother
whose eyes are shut at the moment of birth. From the moment the
newborn’s head crowns, the head nurse ensures the mother’s eyes are
open and alert to receive the new citizen on Falcon properly.

The second nurse stands opposite, dictating the
laboring woman’s rate of breathing and the smile. It is mandatory
for the mother to smile when giving birth. She may not shout or
curse; she must receive the new life smilinga guarantee for health
throughout life.

“May he be born healthy… May he be born
healthy… Ahh!”

The five freeze momentarily. The mother, not
aware of the shout that escapes her throat, continues her efforts.
After waiting so many years for this moment, her tired body is
awakening to vigorous life, waiting for the head to crown. The
birth will bring her smile and great sigh of relief.

The Cherka language is heard in the room, but
none of the nurses understand the meaning of the muttering: “He’s
coming, he’s coming, and hell is coming with him.”

(Until today, there are sheets of ice on the
planet of Brisker that bear Cherka writing. The words note that the
Jorash is like a person with an animal attraction to murder and
looting.)

Benaya stands at the upper window, wearing rags
that testify to her age and her long and convoluted life. Her gray
hair grows whiter by the hour and reflects the blue light of the
delivery room. She has the exceptional habit of observing all the
babies born on Falcon. The Falconites add the nicknames “crazy” and
“insane” to her name, but always with a smile and much love.

Like a small child, she is glued to the cold
window above, her palms together. Her is nose always red, but not
from alcohol, and it’s also glued there. Her gaze wanders from the
mother’s face—who may not close her eyes and must smile the moment
she receives the child—to between her legs, focused on not missing
the moment a new child arrives.

Next to her, but not with her, is Rod Coldor,
Bergin’s Minister of the Army and Falcon’s war lord ,a tall
impressive man. His gaze is similar to the eyes of a predator after
killing its prey, delighted with its full belly and, above all,
satisfied with having realized the objective. Such a predator can
then continue onward, as if nothing happened.

This man wears black and a black line, like
makeup, defines his eyes. His beard is short and groomed, like a
French beard, around his mouth. He doesn’t smile, nor blink. He,
like Benaya who stands at his side, doesn’t miss any of the events
taking place on the gurney below.

Something else draws his attention—not the
sight of the old lady giving birth, which is not common on Falcon
but has previously occurred, nor the scream that escapes her mouth.
He neglects to give that fact the weight it deserves, but then
neither does Benaya, who today looks different than usual. But he
ignores that. Something different draws his attention. Amazingly,
he feels as though he is watching his own birth.

After two and a half hours of waiting, and with
great suffering, a small spikey head appears that doesn’t cry, but
smiles, as if happy for bringing his mother’s suffering to an end.
The head nurse brings Jorash to immunize and mark the new baby,
holding it five inches from his head—a fixed and precise distance
to prevent mistakes. She herself must not be stung.

But the Jorash, a light green, shiny, vicious,
snake-like creature lacking joints, knows its role and moreover,
knows its animal purpose. They have their own understanding, but
they’re controlled by those who raise them. It’s not every day that
a Jorash is removed from its cage, as sometimes months pass between
births. Although extremely venomous, they’re used
to immunize newborn babies and young children, and as a weapon by armies around the galaxy (when wrapped around the warrior’s
forearm).

During the barren years, the considerable
amount of concentrated venom accumulated in it can kill even
itself, like cancer.
Some say that the Jorash is a reminder of a person’s evil—prior to the six years of choice.

This particular venom-filled Jorash doesn’t
restrain itself, stinging the head nurse with venom so concentrated
that one drop is enough to kill. The head nurse clutches the Jorash
tightly, knowing her fate is sealed, but fearing for the lives of
the others in the room. This Jorash has stung in the past and
hasn’t been satisfied with one sting. She doesn’t release it and it
stings her a second time. Her immune system fails. The head nurse
collapses in the delivery room, her hands locking onto the Jorash
with greater force through the reflex of her dead body.

Benaya tenses, Coldor sweats, but the new
mother doesn’t know what’s happening. She’s exhausted and happy.
Before they took her son to be stung by the Jorash, she managed to
count his fingers and toes. Everything’s all right.

The thickset nurse traps the Jorash with long
pliers and brings it close to the baby’s shoulder, but the Jorash
refuses to sting. It swings its head from side to side like a
pendulum. Another set of pliers forces the Jorash’s tail to sting
the baby’s shoulder and then it abruptly dies. Its body hangs
slackly from the large pliers as everyone watches, astonished.

Coldor has seen difficult things in his
life—some of which he was responsible for with his own hands—but he
is unable to drag his gaze away from the dead Jorash body held by
the thickset nurse. His legs move as though with a life of their
own and he hurries to the elevator. Outside the observation room,
his three permanent assistants wait for him, standing ready. His
face is as white as a sheet and he mutters nervously to himself.
They aren’t used to seeing him confused or upset. When he enters
the elevator, his expression is neutral and he says, “We have to
wake him up. The old man was right.”

Benaya, who is the age of the woman on the bed,
runs between the babies’ rooms. Her face is determined. “This isn’t
the Benaya of recent years,” those who have known her from
childhood would say. “This is the sane Benaya.”

She passes between the many white plastic beds,
quickly but gently moving the babies who have turned onto their
sides, seeking the baby who killed the Jorash. In the middle of the
room, she uncovers a shoulder that shows no sign of a sting. With
an old knife stained with blood, Benaya cuts the baby’s shoulder in
the shape of a semi-circle, as the dead Jorash would have done. The
baby does not cry. She quickly exchanges the baby for Armada’s
little son—her neighbor who’s dying of a serious illness. She
uncovers his stung shoulder and strokes it with her saliva-covered
finger. The sign of the sting fades rapidly; the scar is absorbed
into the soft pink skin that hasn’t yet seen the light of day and
vanishes completely.

Benaya lifts up Armada’s son and kisses him
warmly. “Good luck, poor baby.” She looks at the two sleeping
babies. “May all the stars of the world be with you, and I will,
too.”

Late at night in Bergin’s palace, there was a
slight commotion. It wasn’t every day that was Bergin woken from
his sleep. There needed to be a very good reason—At
least the beginning of a tribal war!
thought the
residents of the house. Bergin
, drowsy and confused, urged his chief of staff, Rod Coldor, to speak. Coldor sent his assistants to the security room while
closing the doors and looking nervously around to check if
anyone was
present.

“So?” Bergin urged.

Coldor bowed perfunctorily. “It has
happened—exactly as the old man said.”

Bergin poured himself a glass
of liquor and admonished him. “What exactly happened?”

“It happened,”
Coldor
stated emphatically.

Bergin understood what he meant. “Rubbish. You
consider every old person over a hundred to be like Rouget.”

The door opened and Tula entered the room.
Along with being Bergin’s wife, she was the daughter of Lunia,
Luria’s warlord, who was
a VIP of special pedigree because of the many battles he’d commanded and won.

Apparently the exceptional commotion got Tula out of her bed; her hair was gathered, as always, as if she’d not just risen
from sleep—two thick braids hanging down from her crown hiding the familiar scar on her cheek. She met Bergin at 15 when the
25-year-old man came for a visit to Rosten. His thick red hair caught her attention—his eyes shone as if he was a real brat
and his smile was captivating. He was on a familiarity trip after assuming the command of Falcon a week earlier and already
dealing with world leaders gallantly and with charm. His famous father had died of a mysterious illness; his mother died a
few hours later of sadness and in fear of the unknown. Bergin, who assumed the role of Falcon warlord
instead of his father, visited each area to meet all the warlords. Until then he didn’t know how to hold a weapon and knew
little of the trappings of government.

Tula fell in love with the young man with a broad athletic body and the truth in his eyes that captivated her. Years later,
the couple joked that underlying the link between the under-aged girl from the Luria family and Bergin was her father’s wish
to benefit from the many minerals on Falcon and take advantage of young Bergin’s vulnerability.

“I would like to ask Her Honor to leave the room, sir,” said Coldor somewhat nervously.

“I’m coming, my dear. I’m just putting Coldor’s brains back in his head. Please wait for me in the other room,” he said to
his wife in a quiet, calm voice, as if nothing extraordinary had happened.

The door shut and they were left alone. Coldor moved close to Bergin—something hardly ever done—and Bergin tensed. There was
a clear law that forbade coming any closer than two handbreadths to a warlord. Coldor asked forgiveness and raised his eyes
to Bergin’s—another law broken. No one looked into Bergin’s eyes without permission.

“My eyes saw a child born whom the Jorash feared to sting, as if it had feelings,” Coldor said sharply. “After it stung, it
died. If you think I’m wrong, come to the nursery and see the baby without a mark.”

He lowered his gaze and moved away. Bergin donned a red cloak over his portly body and walked toward the elevator. Coldor
followed him, and the three assistants behind him.

“Come and walk next to me!” commanded Bergin.

The nursery was quiet. The nurses had gone to sleep and only one remained, drowsing. She leaped up, confused by the unexpected
visit.

“Uncover the shoulders of all the babies born today,” ordered Coldor. The night shift nurse began to stutter while hurrying
to do his bidding.

“Shut up and do what I said,” barked Coldor.

The warlord and the chief of staff walked between the white plastic beds, quietly examining the little shoulders. They stopped
by a bed occupied by a baby with no sign of the Jorash on his shoulder.

Coldor picked him up roughly and showed him to Bergin, who demanded, “Who’s his mother?”

The nurse replied quickly and fearfully. “An older woman.”

“This is the baby. I saw his mother—she wasn’t young,” said Coldor
nervously.

Bergin opened his palm and revealed a Jorash. It looked at the baby, squirmed in the air, and with the speed of light, stung
the baby’s shoulder. The baby died instantly, without crying.

“You woke me for this? For the exceptional event of a sick Jorash,” Bergin said contemptuously. He stalked out to return to
his palace, surrounded by guards.

Coldor, a cold-blooded man who’d performed hundreds of executions with Jorash and his slashing Roll, looked at the babies.
Not wanting to take a chance, he called the head nurse and ordered her to scar all the babies’ faces.

If the day came when the baby grew up and became a warrior, sweeping the kings into a war of the clans, Coldor would know
where he came from.