The Tinderbox

THE TINDERBOX

©2020 LOU DIAMOND PHILLIPS

All rights reserved.

This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. Any reproduction or unauthorized use of the material or artwork contained herein is prohibited without the express written permission of the authors.

Artwork provided by Yvonne Phillips

Cover design by Steve Beaulieu

Print and eBook formatting by Kevin G. Summers

Published by Aethon Books LLC. 2020.

All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. All characters, character names, and the distinctive likenesses thereof are property Aethon Books and the author.

Contents

PROLOGUE

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

TWENTY

TWENTY-ONE

TWENTY-TWO

TWENTY-THREE

TWENTY-FOUR

TWENTY-FIVE

TWENTY-SIX

TWENTY-SEVEN

TWENTY-EIGHT

TWENTY-NINE

THIRTY

EPILOGUE

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Lou Diamond Phillips is currently starring in the FOX series “Prodigal Son,” having recently starred on the acclaimed Netflix series, “Longmire,” based on the Walt Longmire mystery novels by Craig Johnson. Other recent credits include Amazon’s “Goliath,” SyFy’s “Stargate Universe,” CBS’ “Blue Bloods,” and recurring roles on Fox’s “Brooklyn Nine-Nine” and Netflix’s “The Ranch.” He received an Emmy nomination for “Outstanding Actor in a Short Form Drama or Comedy” for his roles in both Amazon’s “Conversations in LA” and History Channel’s “Crossroads of History.” Recent film credits include Warner Brothers’ “The 33,” “Created Equal” directed by Bill Duke, and Sundance Festival favorite “Filly Brown,” for which he was named Best Actor at the Imagen Awards.

As a director, Phillips recently helmed episodes of AMC’s hit series “Fear the Walking Dead,” “Longmire,” and ABC’s Marvel’s Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. As a writer, Phillips has co-written the screenplays for ‘Trespasses,’ and HBO’s ‘Dangerous Touch.’ He wrote the Miramax feature ‘Ambition.’ He recently produced his play ‘Burning Desire,’ a romantic comedy in two acts, which received it’s world premiere at The Seven Angels Theatre in Waterbury, Connecticut. Phillips was also asked by his good friend, novelist Craig Johnson, to write the forward to his collection of short stories ‘Wait For Signs.’

Originally born in the Philippines, Phillips was raised in Texas and is a graduate of University of Texas at Arlington with a BFA in Drama.

Drawing from a lifetime of work in the film industry, Lou used his screenwriting experience in order to write an original science fiction novel called The Tinderbox: Soldier of Indira. It is his first novel, inspired by a reading of the famed fairy tale of the same title by Hans Christian Andersen.

Inspired by the Fairy tale

by Hans Christian Andersen

PROLOGUE

It was written by the Predeciders that the planets of Indira and Mano were once a single planet. After centuries of mining the giant planet’s core for thermal power, the millions of thermal chimneys drilled into the planet’s shell caused it to split in a cataclysmic event that became known as the Great Schism.

The Predeciders, discovering their folly too late, evacuated millions into space aboard Astral Repatriation Communities (ARCs), where the survivors orbited the twin remains of their decimated planet even as the ragged halves remained locked in their own gravitational dance. After many generations, the planets were deemed once again inhabitable, and the pilgrims returned. Some to Indira. Others to Mano.

After many centuries of rebuilding, the wars began…

ONE

The cracked quilt of the desert floor stretched before the soldier like a puzzle with no end, reminding him of the mosaic-patterned tiles in a palace from his childhood. Everson couldn’t help but note, with more than a little self-pity, that his childhood was now a world away, both physically and metaphorically. His own planet, Indira, was lush and green, yet another luxury he would never take for granted again.

He trudged forward on the barren rock that was the planet Mano, home of the enemy he had come to kill.

The twin suns of Femera and Amali beat down on him unmercifully, without the considerate benefit of a single cloud. The heat intensified the throbbing pain in his head, as if his temples were pumping boiling blood through the veins in his cranium. He hadn’t seen it coming, but he suspected that the errant hoof of a fly-by birdun had struck him solidly in the head, sending him into blackness. As a silver lining, and in spite of the monstrous headache he now endured, he was sure that being rendered unconscious had probably saved his life. At the moment of impact, he had, after all, been involved in mortal hand-to-hand combat.

Everson turned and looked back toward the Grand Schism, where the Indirans, his people, had landed to begin—in his mind—their unwarranted invasion. There was only the singular line of his footsteps, a reminder of the many missteps he had taken in his young life to bring him here, the middle of nowhere.

He had no idea where he was going, and perhaps it was high time to formulate a plan. He half hoped to be discovered and saved from the brutal heat. However, the other half dreaded the treatment he would receive. He would certainly be recognized as an enemy soldier, with his swarthy skin and full battle gear. That is, if he wasn’t simply killed on sight.

This thought irritated him more than frightened him, especially since he hadn’t willingly chosen this path for himself—the path of a soldier. No, that was someone else’s idea. And so, resentment fueled Everson’s feet methodically toward a dubious future where even death would be a vindication. Not that it would change anything about his current predicament, but it gave Everson a smidgen of satisfaction to think that he had been right that the battle should never have happened.

With the plodding detail of placing one foot in front of the other, Everson recalled the pre-battle preparations, until he suddenly remembered the life-giving hydreeds he was carrying. Feverishly, his fingers fumbled with the clasp of the pouch attached to his utility belt. He finally wrestled it open and plucked a small, wrinkled, egg-shaped pod from the dozen or so packed inside. The plant from which the hydreed came grew in terrain much like this near the Asunder Chasm, Indira’s equivalent of the Grand Schism, where volcanic activity and ground-splitting tremors were the norm.

Everson brought the pod to his face, his hand trembling with anticipation. His jaw worked as if he were praying under his breath, but he was actually trying to produce a mouthful of spit.

Nothing came. All he felt in his mouth was his parched lump of a tongue. He sighed in frustration, thought for a brief moment, and glanced all around him at the featureless desert. There was no sign of a living thing anywhere. Without further hesitation, he set the hydreed on the ground and unbuttoned his fly.

As he waited for a reticent bladder, Everson remembered his childhood and how his mother would bring out hydreeds just to delight him and his friends. There had been squeals of laughter at the transformation, at the percussive whump of expansion when the hydreeds had been dribbled with liquid. Presently, his anticipation was perhaps even greater than it was when he had been five. He danced a little in place as if to move things along.

A few errant drops of urine hit the dusty ground and were absorbed immediately. Everson adjusted his aim until a feeble stream hit the pod. He jumped back a bit when the hydreed expanded violently with a sudden wet, cracking thump that split the silent air. It wobbled before him on the cracked desert floor, a little larger now than the size of his head.

Everson quickly secured his pants and drew the heavy broadsword that he had reclaimed from a fallen comrade. He brought the blade down hard, and the hydreed split with a juicy crack. Then he buried his face in it.

The spongy pulp disintegrated in his mouth as he practically inhaled the contents, stopping only when his nose hit the solid rind. Dropping the drained husk, he stood for a moment breathing heavily. He consumed the second half with far less urgency, savoring the green coolness of each swallow as it flowed down his throat.

Everson squeezed the remaining pulp over his head and let it run down the nape of his neck and trickle down the crease of his spine.

Temporarily quenched, Everson took a moment to close his eyes. He couldn’t shut out the alien world, its suns glowing orange through his closed lids. That glare was truth. It was reality. Once again, his mind drifted back to the pre-battle preparations, to the strategic checklist that seemed so simple to achieve. Though Everson had never so much as lifted a finger in battle, he knew in his heart that wars were not so easily won…

* * *

“We will deploy at the precipice of Mano’s Grand Schism,” Commander Giza had intoned shortly before the battle, in his flat, matter-of-fact military-speak. He was a scar-faced veteran of the wars, and his close-cropped hair did nothing to soften his features. “This will allow us to engage the enemy on one front only.”

Unlike his gung-ho companions aboard the troop transport, Everson listened half-heartedly to the battle plan. He had been painted with the military’s homogenizing brush, and now he was just another face in the crush of copper-faced young men in uniform, anonymous and interchangeable. At least he was lucky enough to get a window seat.

“We can expect to be met by Manolithic forces from the garrison at Front Tier,” Giza went on. “Obviously, we will encounter infantry, but they will be buttressed by cavalry astride birduns.”

The large screen behind Commander Giza switched its image from an aerial view of Mano’s Grand Schism, a sheer-cliffed abyss with seemingly no bottom, to a picture of a birdun, the war steed of Mano’s warmen.

“For those uninitiated, it is a flying creature indigenous to Mano. They are a mount, nothing more, and they are as stupid as they look.”

Stupid was an understatement, Everson thought. More like an aerodynamic impossibility. The birdun was a winged creature, true enough, but its long neck and legs and fuzzy, bulky body were certainly inefficient applications of evolution. Not only that, it was a beast that had obviously stopped at a crossroads without picking a direction, with feathers quite sensibly on its wings but also adorning its haunches and the tip of its tail. The birdun was such an unlikely proposition that Everson hoped to see one in person.

“They are certainly no match for our Javelins,” Giza said.

Everson glanced over his shoulder to where the wickedly efficient flying machines were docked, double-high, at the rear of the transport. From the shovel-shaped nose cone and its flattened fuselage to the dagger-thin wings at the aft, the Javelins reeked of sleek. The cocky Javelin pilots stood at parade rest before them, almost smirking in their superiority.

The commander now paced before the screen. “The birdun cavalry is classically armed with HEXes,” he said. “Handheld explosives that are delivered by hand from above. Primitive but surprisingly effective if utilized correctly. We will also face TRAUMAs, troop augmentation machines.”

The image shifted to a combat vehicle so malevolent it appeared to be a living thing.

“They are lethal. They are impenetrable. But they can be stopped. This is the extent of the Manolithic arsenal. Our military dominance has not allowed their technology to advance further. It is now time for the Indirans to occupy Mano in order to maintain peace between the planets. Make no mistake, it is a noble mission.”

A battle was already brewing inside Everson. He didn’t want to be here, but he knew that he would have to focus if he was going to survive.

“Nucruits,” Giza said to Everson’s unit of soldiers conscripted for less than a year, “magnetize your broadswords to full. The Manoliths have no such application and it might give you an advantage. But, for the love of Light, wait until you’re clear of the transport lest you find yourself pinned and powerless…”

How Giza’s laser eyesight found him even among the camouflage of his comrades, Everson didn’t know, but find him he did. The commander’s gaze bored straight through him.

“I would also caution you to keep your weapons away from the heads and metal helmets of your comrades,” Giza added.

Everson’s cheeks tingled, but he did not want to give Giza the satisfaction of looking away. He stared straight ahead as several snickers tickled his ears. He had gained instant notoriety within days of putting on the uniform when his magnetized broadsword had become ignominiously stuck to the helmet of another nucruit during a mock duel.

“I think I’d rather you die than engage in such an embarrassing display,” Giza deadpanned before mercifully shifting his gaze. “Post conflict, we will march to Front Tier and secure it. Infantry, double-check that you have a full supply of hydreeds. It is a desert planet and you will dehydrate without them.”

Everson gave the pouch secured at his waist a cursory grope. Through the fabric, he could feel the jumble of odd pods. They seemed unimportant to him at the moment. Just something else he had to carry.

Commander Giza stopped in the center of the screen, his baleful eyes burning with purpose.

“Raza has armed you. Raza has defined you. Now prepare your minds to fight.” The screen filled with the image of King Raza the Forty-Seventh. Regal. Dignified. Intelligent eyes that also conveyed wisdom and humanity. Most of the soldiers had never actually seen him in person, but the projected image alone was enough to inspire absolute loyalty and sacrifice.

“Indira in Dignity. Indira in Death.”

A single, massive clap resounded through the transport as the troops brought their hands together and bowed their heads to touch their clasped fists. The standard Indiran salute.

Everson followed suit simply because not doing so would have drawn more unwanted attention to himself. As he did, he glanced out the window at the passing stars, at Femera and Amali floating brightly in the void. He recalled his childhood astronomy lessons and his studious readings of the Predeciders, wondering if he would be on Mano long enough to see the fabled Aurora Constellation.

Or if he’d die before he got the chance.

Perhaps it was due to the hypnotic drift of the stars, but Everson lost track of time. He was shaken from his reverie by the sudden dimming of the transport lights, a signal that landing was imminent.

Everson felt the surge in his stomach that came with rapid descent, followed by the tooth-rattling jolt that marked touchdown. Within seconds, the soldiers all around him rose to their feet and moved like sleepwalkers through the darkened transport. Wordlessly, they shuffled to their respective posts and prepared to disembark.

Finally, Everson left his seat and drifted to the back of the transport, nearer to the stack of Javelins, where Commander Giza had personally told him to go. He could only assume that it was a judgment by Giza of his combat skills and that Giza did not want him cut down in the first wave. Everson was not offended. In fact, he was somewhat grateful for Giza’s unintended kindness. He could feel an electric energy in the air that literally made his skin tingle. His senses were heightened, his body attuned to every sensation as the knowledge of the inevitable violence overtook him.