8: Separatists
It was another miserable day in the Kelownan highlands. The forested mountains were shrouded under a dreary, overcast sky and were being belted with a torrential downpour that signalled the start of a typically cold Langaran winter. It was here, on the frontier of Kelownan territory, that some of the more unsavoury elements, or rather those who would be deemed as such by the Kelownan government, had taken to hiding in what had become trying times for the anti-government paramilitaries that had sprung up since the Ori occupation had ended. Training camps and hideouts were buried in dense, mountainous land, well out of sight of any aerial reconnaissance and far and away from any tract of actual civilisation.
The Ori occupation had carried on for close to two years. It had brought with it a level of subjugation and tyranny never before seen on Langara. The previous bitter rivalries between Kelowna, Tirania and the Andari Federation had faded, replaced with a necessary cooperation that had helped see the Ori pushed off of Langara. The occupation had ended at the same time as all other such ventures by the Ori, and the people of Langara had been left to pick up the pieces of their lives and rebuild as best they could. And in the wake of that cooperation against the common enemy, there had followed a time where the three superpowers of Langara had remained at peace.
Things had changed since then. The cooperation was gone, replaced once more with distrust and paranoia. Kelowna had emerged as the ultimate superpower since its dealings with the makalvari had begun, yet at some point those most disaffected by the government that had taken power since the occupation had ended and become organized. What was seen as a corrupt, uncaring and tyrannical regime was being challenged by a disparate yet organized insurgent movement. One such group had remained in hiding within the furthest reaches of the Kelownan highlands for years now, with many former soldiers who had fought the Ori having found a new home amongst its ranks. And today, under the soaking downpour, one of their oldest and most respected leaders was coming home.
Gorum Kavul wore a plain mix of grey and brown civilian clothes, and he drew his jacket close as he stepped out of the truck at the camp's entrance. The sentries present approached him with caution, weapons raised. Both wore ponchos to keep the rain from soaking them altogether. As for Gorum, he was unbothered by the pouring rain, and he simply raised his hands to show he was unarmed. His beard was gone, leaving him clean-shaven and otherwise giving the impression of a slightly younger man. His hair was close-cropped, and on his person he wore a simple and small backpack.
"I wish to see Slavan Zorvic," Gorum declared, as the guards neared. Beyond them, the camp was a ramshackle assortment of tents and simple timber structures. So much of it appeared worn out and rundown, with few people out-and-about save for the odd guard on patrol.
The two sentries searched him, patting him down and sifting through his bag before allowing him into the camp. They kept him at gunpoint, still suspicious despite having found no weapons on him. Gorum had expected such a welcome, and he trudged down the muddy lane that ran through the camp with the guards at his back and his hands held up. They led him to a central building, the largest one in the compound, built from timber logs and adorned with a tattered flag. It was the blue and black flag of the so-called 'Republic of Chevoka', the breakaway state that had existed decades previous and had taken up much of the highlands. The Kelownan military had put an end to any notions of separation, and the flag was little more than a token reminder of what the people here had fought for. Many of these same people had fought against the Ori, and in the end they had been pushed aside and forgotten by the people who had come to power once that enemy had left Langara.
Slavan Zorvic was one of the oldest leaders of the breakaway state, and he had been fighting against Kelowna since he was a teenager. He was also one of Gorum's oldest associates and the man with the most influence amongst these insurgents. The guards dutifully took him to the central building in which Slavan was located, no doubt wondering as to how this lone man had tracked them down in the first place. Few outside the camp knew of its exact location, and it was unlikely a lone individual would come all the way out here without good reason.
The inside of the main building was well lit and warm, courtesy of the oil drum fire by one wall. Smoke from that was guided out of the building through a simple vent. There was a desk at one end of the open room within, and a cluster of tables before it taken up with Slavan's staff. Most wore rugged combat gear with standard forest camouflage patterns upon it, although there was no official uniform for these separatists. They wore whatever they could scavenge, and that included some pieces of official Kelownan military equipment.
The guards on duty within questioned those who had brought Gorum here, and one of them held out a simple rectangular device that beeped as it seemingly scanned him. They were searching for tracking devices, and as expected they found none. Slavan, a grizzled sixty-four year old man with short greying hair and a lined face, had risen from behind the desk upon sighting Gorum. He wore a black vest upon which the Chevoka flag was stitched, yet his dreams of creating that breakaway state had died long ago. Now he and his soldiers existed only to overthrow the Kelownan government and to ensure that those people living in the highlands received their just due.
"Gorum, is that you?" Slavan sounded both surprised and pleased. Gorum stepped around the guard with the scanner, who looked about to protest only for the former inmate to shoot him a mean scowl. Slavan motioned for the guards to move aside. He wanted to see his old friend up close, and Gorum approached with a smile on his own weathered features. Slavan stepped around the desk and the pair met in a warm embrace.
"How long has it been, my friend?" Slavan, who had been having a boring day, was glad for the distraction. "Ten years, almost?"
"Nine years, six months, twenty-two days," Gorum replied.
"And they let you out?" Slavan took a step back, and he glanced at the young uniformed woman nearby. His secretary, Gorum figured. She seemed to get the hint, rising from her spot and hurrying off to prepare something to eat and drink for the unexpected new arrival.
"They were never going to let me out, Slavan," Gorum stated. "Life sentence, remember?"
"Of course. And if it was not a Chevokan but a Kelownan, they would not have sentenced so harshly." Slavan shook his head slowly. "They occupy our lands and threaten our people, yet they do not find us here. I am surprised you did, however." His pale blue eyes narrowed, curious, yet the gaze suggested a small measure of suspicion. "How did you know we would be here?"
"An angel guided me," Gorum replied. Slavan began to laugh, but when he saw that Gorum was dead serious, that laughter ceased suddenly.
"You always were the most spiritual of us," Slavan said. He did not pry further on the matter; he simply accepted the presence of his old friend for what it was. "I am afraid you came at a bad time. The Kelownans have improved their surveillance measures. Their planes are more frequent, and we dare not leave the valley out of fear of discovery." He then leaned forwards, his voice dropping in volume: "And there is word of a disease out there, spreading amongst the population. I think it most prudent we stay isolated until we're certain of the severity of the situation."
"The plague is not something we should fear," Gorum countered. His voice was filled with conviction, and his eyes watched Slavan's own with increased intensity. "The plague will weed out the weak and the unfaithful, those unbelievers who would deny their own elevation. The strong and the pure have nothing to fear from the plague."
"What are you talking about?" Slavan's relief at seeing his old friend alive and well appeared to dissipate then. Instead, his ageing features scrunched up with a deep worry, and he glanced to the guards standing some paces behind Gorum. He sought their own reactions, to see if they had noticed anything unusual about their former heroic freedom fighter. For years, Gorum had fought for the separation of Chevoka. He had fought the Ori and his expertise with explosives had offered their resistance an edge that most within the Kelownan authorities did not share. Now here he was, returned to them, and yet all was not right with Gorum. At least, Slavan felt as much, although to Gorum what he did was what he knew to be the right thing to do.
"We must gather our forces and move towards the Kelownan population centres," Gorum declared, and he turned to regard the others standing within the cabin. "The plague offers us the perfect opportunity. They are stretched thin and they face rising discontent from the masses. Someone must take the lead where this dissent is concerned, and we are best equipped to do so."
"You can't be serious." Slavan caught Gorum's attention again, and this time he spoke with mounting disbelief. "We haven't the resources to mount an attack on a Kelownan town…"
"The people will join us when they see we offer liberation."
"Liberation?" Slavan shook his head. "What has gotten into you, Gorum? We fight for Chevoka. I could not care less what becomes of the Kelownan people in general, I simply wish to see Chevoka as a free and independent nation, no longer subjugated under the Kelownans themselves. That is what I fought for all these years, and it was what you fought for, was it not? Until the occupation, that is." He paused, his pale blue eyes narrowing firm. "Until you fell in with those resistance fighters. They used you and threw you aside, as is to be expected from the Kelownans. All that time in prison has changed you, I can see that much."
"I have become more enlightened, Slavan," Gorum said. He was unfazed by Slavan's increasingly dubious tone, and instead wore the same wide-eyed and intense gaze as he had when the exchange had started. He was a believer, in what Slavan could not determine. "I have been shown a path, a clear path, one that will not only free Chevoka, but also the entirety of Langara. Immortality awaits us, all you need to do is have faith. Have faith in me, Slavan."
"The nerve on you, Gorum," Slavan spat, his patience ending then and there. "You come back after all these years and expect us all to just fall in line behind you? Just who do you think you are, truly? We all admire you for what you've done, but that does not give you the right to commandeer our entire operation."
"I have all the right in the world, Slavan." Gorum was calm, almost unnervingly so. Slavan watched him, no longer seeing his old friend but rather someone else, something else that was driven by a force he could not truly comprehend. For all he wanted to dismiss Gorum's claims as nonsense, the ravings of a man who had spent far too long locked up, he could not do so entirely. Rather, there was an underlying sense that there was some truth behind it all, if only through the conviction Gorum displayed.
"I have the angels themselves on my side," Gorum added. He leaned forwards and the two guards behind him went to step after him, yet Gorum made no other moves. The guards relaxed and Slavan, still unsure as to what to make of his old friend, took a step closer in turn. There was something wrong with Gorum, and he hoped to find out what.
"These angels, who are they?" He was somewhat familiar with the term, had even heard stories of such creatures. They were made of pure light, or so the stories went. The look in Gorum's eyes suggested he might have seen something unusual, something that might have very well driven him mad.
"Only the chosen may look upon them," Gorum said. "And you, Slavan, are no chosen. You do not even believe, do you?"
"I don't know what I should believe, Gorum. You tell us to move south, towards Kelownan territory. You would order us to our deaths."
"Not with the angels of light behind us," Gorum countered. "We will be victorious with them on our side."
There followed a long pause. Slavan regarded Gorum a moment more, gauging the man before him and finding himself conflicted. What could he do about his obviously disturbed friend? He looked to the guards again and then, after a further pause and the tense silence therein, Slavan motioned to the two soldiers.
"Take him away," Slavan ordered. "Lock him in one of the sheds until I can figure out what to do with him…"
Gorum had expected such a response. From within one sleeve he slipped free a small blade, barely two inches in length. It had been kept concealed within a simple sheath contained within the sleeve, and it fell cleanly into his grasp. He slashed it forwards without preamble, cutting across Slavan's neck and sending forth a torrent of blood. Slavan stumbled, shock filling his eyes, followed by outright panic as he realised what had happened. His hands went for his slashed throat, yet his attempts to stem the rush of blood were futile. It spilled down his vest and, as he fell against the side of his desk, it pattered across the desktop and stained the papers and maps he had spread across it. The guards behind Gorum simply looked on, stunned into inaction. Gorum, imbued with a confidence in action that only a religious fanatic could muster, spun to face the two guards. The bloodied blade was held tight in one hand, and with another slashing movement he took one of the guard's eyes.
Slavan fell to the floor, emitting a horrible wet, gargling sound. Blood rapidly pooled around him as he writhed about, still clinging on to his rapidly diminishing life. The guard with the slashed eye started screaming, and the other went to raise his weapon. Gorum stabbed him in the chest, plunging the blade between his ribs and sending it straight into his heart. The guard gasped and, within seconds, had fallen limp, collapsing to the floor. The other one had fallen against a nearby table, startling the increasingly panicked radio operator seated there. Equipment fell off of the table's edge and clattered to the floor.
Gorum plucked the weapon from the dead guard's grip, spun it around and swatted the other guard across the head with it. The man went down with a loud thump, sprawling across the floorboards with blood oozing from his nose and mouth. Gorum brought the butt-end of the weapon down again, splitting open the guard's skull and sending forth a rush of blood as the contents of his head threatened to spill out altogether. And then, suddenly, the room was silent.
The handful of other personnel inside were all on their feet, yet none moved. Gorum lowered the rifle as he looked to the others, all of whom were staff officers with varying support roles within Slavan's command. None said a word, all just watched Gorum with a mix of surprise and horror. The female officer who had gone to fetch some drinks and snacks was partway across the room, the tray of food still in her hands. No one dared make a move, and Gorum offered them all a smile.
"I will not tolerate cowardice," he announced, and he walked across the room to where the woman stood with the tray. "I want word sent out that everyone in this compound is to gather in the clearing outside. And I want word sent to other battalions across the frontier that Gorum Kavul is now in charge. There is work to do, and I don't want to waste any time." He plucked a biscuit off of the tray and bit into it, teeth crunching into it loudly. None of the support personnel inside the command centre moved. Some appeared visibly confused.
Gorum took a step towards the nearest one, the radio operator who immediately jumped into action and started tapping out a communique to be sent to the rest of the separatist fighters still in hiding. No longer would they stay here, hiding in fear of Kelownan superiority. They would march south towards the capital, and the disaffected plague-stricken people of this land would follow them. Gorum knew this for certain, for the angels had told him in his dreams.