Sons of Icarus; Chapter 1

A cool ocean spray through the open porthole awoke First Mate Jim Campbell as he snoozed through the late evening. A light, tuneful whistling could be heard over the light hissing of the sea as the Middle Ancient  passed softly through the gentle waters. The light trickled through the cracks of the old but tested wood of the deck, cutting straight yellow lines in the rough brown panel. Jim swung his legs out of the bunk with a soft grunt, feeling well rested and lightly hungover from the festivities of the night before. It was the lookout's birthday. Jim thought hard for the man's name, but it eluded him, as did the majority of the frivolities. A faint memory of the captain using a bucket as a boot and trying to kick one of the deck hands up the arse with it drew a small smile from the young man's mouth. A small muffled voice announced the presence of Milano, Jim's servant.
"Mr. Campbell, Sir! Captain awaits!" His youthful enthusiastic voice giving away his constant seek of approval from the officers on board. He didn't need it, he's in line for Midshipman when the time comes, a full officer rank. Jim liked him, he treated him well and let him dine with him and the Captain when it was appropriate. Highly frowned upon in the Chaladonian Merchant Navy, where the peasants were to know their place in the layer cake. He appeared at the door with a steel catering tray, and placed it down on the desk. He's already been up for hours, even with all the rum Jim fed him last night, he was still eager and awake. He knew his duties. He'll do well.
Upon the tray was a plate, adorned with eggs, some bacon medallions and, as Jim was secretly delighted to see, some fried mushrooms. Alongside the plate sat one of the steel jugs, and a small wooden cup. The young man filled the cup with a dark red liquid and handed it to Jim, who nodded and took a deep gulp. The warm red wine hit the back of his throat faster than he expected and drew his breath from him. After a brief cough, he filled the cup himself and handed it to Milano, urging him to drink. He took a modest sip and set it back down.
"Captain is waiting, Mr. Campbell, Sir. Will there be anything else?"
"No, Mr. Milano that's all. I'll see you topside."
Jim looked for his bicorn, and felt the light felted fabric under his posterior, and drew the hat from within. It came forth rather crumpled and more like a croissant than a mighty command staff hat. He peeled it over his head and staggered to his feet, the taste of honey mead on his breath and the fire in his chest from the rum. Still in his dress uniform from the night before, he looked around his modest quarters for any clues of the sort of entrance he made into the bunk. A quick scan of the desk revealed a knocked over inkwell, with it's contents dried over the scouting reports, and the inventory he had taken the morning before. Captain Yira won't mind. He can write them up again this evening.
His life on the merchant vessel was a relaxed one. He woke usually before the captain, leaving him sleep, and had the boson rouse the men and set them to work with getting the ship underway. In this case however the captain awoke first, and was on deck by the time Jim made his way shakily to the helm, full of a warm hearty breakfast.
"Afternoon, Mr. Campbell", laughed the captain, as he squinted in the early afternoon sun. the captain's large grey beard and bicorn framed his round, red face, and his unofficial uniform was as well-pressed and tidy as always, with the exception of the sweat stains around the chest and armpits. The captain was a short, jolly and friendly man, and there was no man on this ship who carried more respect from the crew than Captain Yira. His grey uniform was dotted with service pins from the Chaladonian Navy, and his old sword was perfectly polished as always. His purple suede bicorn was adorned with the symbol of the Chaladon Merchant Navy, a mermaid with a tricorn and a compass.
A proud man, who respected the seas and knew how to capture the movements of nature to propel his modest vessel through the open seas.
Jim nodded and took his place at the helm, wiping his brow as he grasped the wheel. The crew were dotted around the ship, either talking in small groups or lazily going about minor tasks.
There was not much work for a sailor for the Merchant Fleet, not on the water anyway. With the new fuel driven propellers the need for sails was lessened, and unless a ship was caught without fuel, the sails were more for decorative reasons and antiquity.
The real reason for numbers was the manual labour involved in loading and unloading, that led to a lot of inactivity, and it was perfect for the lesser educated of Chaladon to turn to as a long term employment. The majority of the Middle Ancient  were uneducated. Some were farmers, some were ex convicts, some were invalids from military life, and some were just out of schooling, and wanted a solid job with benefits. Many men followed their fathers, many of those men followed into the sailors life of alcoholism, sickness and a lifetime of hardiness. the crew of the Middle Ancient were quite a young crew, with very few of them over the age of twenty. The only exceptions were the Captain who would be approaching his sixties, and the boson, who is in his thirties. Jim was the oldest next to these two, at the age of twenty-four, which gave him an edge of respect with the lower ranking men of the ship.
Jim sank his hand into the breast pocket of his jacket, and felt the silk lining as he fumbled for his compass. He drew the small golden item and set it on the palm of his hand.
"Why are we heading south, Captain?" asked Jim.
The original plan was to head west to pick up the shipment and return it back east to home port with no deviation.
Yira frowned and removed his hat, fanning his red face.
"We drifted off course last night, whoever set the anchor never left it run deep and we drifted West. We need to proceed back North-East and return to our course heading."
One of the crewmen at the weapons locker was listening, and turned around swiftly.
"So we out West? In the black channel?Wiff raiders?" he said, shaking his head in fear.
Jim looked at the captain and could not tell if the calm on his face was artificial or natural, and faced the young crewman.
"We're not too far west, just a little of course, aren't we Captain Yira?"
"Right you are, Mister Campbell, we should be back on course within a few hours and we can return to our original heading."
Jim glanced back to the crewman, and again noted the fear in his eyes, and the sweat on his brow.
"If it's all the same to you, Captain, I'd like to have more men on lookout, just to be on the safe side."
"By all means, Jim," returned the captain. The captain never referred to Jim by his first name. Not in front of the crew anyway.
"I'll be in my quarters, Jim," the captain slurred as he took his leave."Not feeling the best. You have the ship until I return." He staggered clumsily to the stairs and his foot never took his weight as he made the first step, and he collapsed down the stairs, crashing awkwardly to the main deck.
"The Captain's down!"
"Is he hurt?"
"Mr. Campbell, what happened?"
Jim recognised the rumbling voice of the boson, and caught sight of him, head and shoulders above the crowd of concerned crewmen. A giant bearded lion of a man, who was dressed in his practical deck wear, like the rest of the crew, but with the addition of a hardwood cudgel, and a small sabre. He pushed through the line of men to find the captain lying on his back at the foot of the stairs. Jim shouted over the panicking crew.
"Enough!"
The crew all stopped and looked to Jim, with total silence aside from the hiss of the sea. He took a solid breath and projected over the sound of mother nature.
"The captain slipped and fell. He had a lot to drink last night, as did we all I'm sure. If the boson and some volunteers would kindly escort the captain to his chambers we can get back to work."
A few short moments later the boson made his way to the top of the deck, with a few harsh words to a few crewmen on the way, and put his giant hand on Jim's shoulder as he steered.
"Is he alright, Mr. Thomas?" Jim referred to the boson by his full name, and never by his title or his nickname, "The Lion."
"Yes, Sir. Just a little under the weather. Which we may be soon," the boson said as he pointed towards a rapidly darkening section of cloud.
"Indeed. I need you to station crew on lookout, all sectors of the ship on high security, and one on each post needs to be armed. Take the weapons, one rifle between five." Jim nodded his head towards to locked weapons cabinet.
"Just for the moment. The rest can rotate and keep and eye on the horizon. Get the flak cannon ready. We may need it"
The Boson nodded, a small trace of fear in his face as he processed the orders Jim have given. The crew had not trained for this, and none bar the captain and Jim had any experience with combat, and both were rather limited.
The Lion took a look around at the ship, taking in what viewpoints there were, before nodding and taking off, bellowing orders and pointing people in various directions. A short while later he returned and unlocked the weapons cabinet, taking out six rifles, before moving to lock it again.
"Leave it open, Ash. Just to be safe." Jim said, as he kept his eye on the storm, using the Boson's first name, just showing him how serious the situation was.
"Aye, Sir," he grumbled, and set off distributing weapons.
Jim could see the few men that were hastily assembled into a weapons crew were gathering at the bow of the ship and slipping the grey tarp off of the flak cannon. They tossed the tarp aside and began debating about who gets to sit in and shoot. Ash was present and informed them that whoever was sitting in the cannon would be targeted first if there was indeed anything to shoot. He then grabbed one of them and shoved him into the seat, advised the rest to help with loading, and turning.
Jim took a long breath and cursed whomever had led them to this situation, as well as the captain for not taking this seriously. The reason Jim stayed up to work on navigation, was to avoid this exact situation, and with the ruined maps and notes, he was not sure exactly how far North they had drifted, and how they would know when they are back on the right path.
"Navigation Aid! Off the Starboard bow! Just a mile out!" the lookout shouted down to Jim, who breathed a sigh of relief. the navigational aids were set for this reason, off course piloting and ships in dense fog. Once they found out which beacon it was, they can correct course and get back to land.
Jim peered up to the lookout, up in the crows nest atop the mast, and grabbed the radio next to the wheel, using the internal ship channel.
"Lookout, First Mate here, can you see what the markings are?"
Jim could see the lookout craning his head in the crows nest, leaning around to get a better angle on the bouy. The radio crackled in response a few moments later.
"The markings look slightly off. They're looking pretty rough, Sir."
Campbell was beginning to sweat, even more considering the heat and hangove combination. "Rough? Rough how? Are the regulation?"
"Hard to say, they're not the right colour. A kind of dark red."
That settled it. The merchant fleets used a regulation dark green paint for marking navigational aides, and this broke procedure. The fact that is was difficult to read aroused suspiscion, as they were always positioned for ease of access. Now that the paint is different, it presented a new threat; bait.
Jim slammed the ship into full reverse, and watched the crew lurch forward as the powerful engines turned and stopped the ship almost dead before pulling the ship around. Jim then lurched the wheel to the right, dragging the ship left and turning the giant craft around. A sharp wind waught the mast and turned it towards the turn, nearly capsising the vessel, but Jim put the Middle Ancient into full ahead, creating a large wake of white water and smoke from the engines. The ship was now heading full speed back North.
"We're not up north, we're far south. Captain was still bloody drunk when he woke up this morning." Jim was enraged, and terrified. They drifted south rather than north, and continued south to raider territory. Cloud cover was descending and made long range visibility more difficult. A faint rumbling could be heard over the sound of the roaring engines.
"Thunder?" asked the Lion, who appeared beside Jim.
"We can only hope", he replied.
"I can't see any ships for miles, what else could it be?"
It was then that Jim noted that the boson had only ever been on this ship, with this captain, on this route for almost his entire adult life, and had never even heard of a ship that didnt touch water.
"You think you've seen a lot in this life, Ash?" he asked with a slight smile.
"What's that supposed to mean?" returned a confused and slightly afraid Lion.
"Arm the crew, they're coming from the skies this time"
And with that, the skies opened, and hell descended from the heavens.

Day 2

I was seated at my upstairs window. An ancient oak desk sat there where I often read and clear my thoughts by looking out the window. I can see almost ten miles in every direction. Ten miles of long nothingness full to the brim with absolute hollow solidarity. Nothing but the wind, the dust, the hills and the wild to keep me company.

Except this time there was something else; a small black dot moving across the hill, about a half a mile away. I ran back to my chair, dug my hands in my bag and came out with the telescopic sight for my rifle. Grabbing the rifle too I scrambled back to my perch. I turned my desk halfway around so I could lie down and steady the rifle. The desk easily took my weight. Pushing the books and writings off, I pushed open the glass, which came loose with a crack and a flourish of dust. It had clearly never been opened in my lifetime. I took my binoculars from beside me, my father’s old, black, metal and plastic binoculars, and peered through. The powerful lenses were out of focus, and too withdrawn to see the shape. As I adjusted the dials by the edge of the objective lenses and eyepiece, and the shape began to take form. I hoped it was of the woman; the woman who ran through my garden this morning or last night. As it took shape, it was clearly another person. Not the woman however, this was of a man.

I focused further and was able to get a good look at him. He was a savage looking creature with rough, hide clothing, a long, intimidating spear, and harsh, almost yellow skin. He wore a sick and mean scowl, and his face looked scarred and worn. His clothing was improvised, made from cloth, wool, and animal skin. He seemed lost. He didn't seem to know where he was, what he was doing, or where he wanted to go. I wanted him gone. Selfish, I know. Honestly I was terrified. He looked in no way friendly, and I only wanted to scare him away. I loaded a tracer round into my rifle. Funny looking things they were. They looked the same as my regular ball shots, but stamped with a “G” at the bottom, and the tip was coated in a red substance. I never fired one before, but I read that they were used to mark accuracy, because one could see the bullet after firing, and get adjusted to the conditions, and in turn adjust the shot. The round slotted in and I worked the bolt into order.

Half a mile is a long way for a shot to travel. Everything needed to be taken into account. There was only a little wind, so if I got the distance right I could let loose a shot right over his head, and get him high tailing it back to where he came from. I could track him and find out more about his people, and where he came from. All going to plan, new friends and a new life could be around the corner.

Did I want to do that? Find new people? Whichever path I chose, I needed to take this shot, and get him moving back to where he came from.

I noted the time in my journal that I saw the man. My watch said six o'clock, but it felt much later. I started dialling in my sights shortly after that. I took the distance as about eight hundred metres, or half a mile. With my notebook and texts I rounded that to about eight hundred and seventy yards. I dialled in my sights to nine hundred to overshoot the target. Lots of vague numbers but I needed the shot to be very close, with not a lot of time to spare. He might have moved slightly, even twenty metres can spoil the shot. I noted the dust coming off the ground and saw the wind was starting to kick up. I decided to wait a few moments for it to die down. It didn't. It started blowing from my left, which was north. It changed and began to blow into my face through the window. I made another adjustment up on my scope. This had to be it. It was now or never.

I slowed by breathing, and listened to my heartbeat. Two thumps. Two thumps. Two thumps. In. Out. In. Out. I exhaled slow and easy. My heartbeat slowed slightly. One more breath in, and one more out and my heartbeat was in my ears. Two thumps.

The shot thundered throughout my house. It nearly took me by surprise. I pulled a bit hard on the trigger and the crosshairs dipped at the last moment. The shot still looked high. It spun out to the right before the wind carried it back left and kept the trajectory elevated. The bullet glowed white with a red centre and traced a slight line through the evening darkness. It was travelling high above his head until it dipped down about three hundred metres to go. It sank hard into the humid air of the valley and barrelled straight for my target. A smile tugged at the corner of my mouth as I revelled in how near the shot was going to land. Through my scope I saw his perplexed face still looking around in absolute awe at his surroundings. The shot dipped with gravity and humidity pulling at it. It dipped, and dipped more. It kept falling until it was aiming strait for his head. He took his last moment to look right at my house, almost like it was right into my eyes before the bullet shot straight through his throat. He stood for a moment, even more dumbstruck than when he figured he was lost. The back of his neck plumed scarlet and his eyes flared bright white. He fell on his knees and put his hands to his neck in a futile attempt to control his blood loss. He coughed a solid mouthful of blood, tried to take one deep breath before coughing another, and that’s when the shock kicked in and he died, alone, in the middle of nowhere, struck down from a half a mile away. He was struck down, by my hand, and he had no idea from where and no idea why. He was dead before he heard the shot.

I cried my shame into my arms just then. I just killed the only person I had ever seen in my own lifetime that was not my own dear father. He would be so ashamed. But what was I supposed to do? The good Christian thing and offer food, water and a roof over his head? I scoffed at that and imagined myself walking over to him, arms open and welcoming, with a smile on my face like the saviours of old, and chanting my holy words to him. I kept my eye on him, almost hoping he’d wake up and dust himself off, not that he looked like he cared the welfare of his clothing. He obviously stayed resigned to whichever afterlife he thought he belonged to. I left out what felt like the last breath I took before pulling the trigger and took my leave of the window. This day was over. 

Day One

I’m the last man alive. I have been fifty miles in every direction of my own home. I have mapped each and every inch of the lands around me. I have examined every square foot of every room. I have not seen anyone since my father died all those years ago. I have seen everything from human corpses with revolting appendages, grown from mutation, to dogs unchanged by the skyfall, and this is what disturbs me the most.

There is a footprint in my garden.

And it’s not mine.

I know this because I walk the same route to my derelict fence every morning, never deviating. The footprint is in the shape of a bare foot, very small and feminine, meaning no shoes. I wear boots. I could not have left that print. Someone is out here, and I’m determined to find them.

I saw this print after leaving my house for what felt like the millionth time. It’s funny how when you see the same scene every day of your life, you notice when there’s something insignificant that has changed. What changed then was my whole life. My whole attitude to living was to survive, and to thrive on what I could find, kill, cook, eat and drink. Now all I wanted to do was find whoever this woman was. I left the pathway to take a look at the print. Shallow, slightly smeared, and more imprinted towards to front of the foot. She was running, and knew how to run; driving herself with her forefoot, never leaving her heel hit the ground properly. She skipped my fence like it was nothing.  Hurdling was an old sport before the war, taking set height obstacles at a run, but the way her foot skimmed over the earth illustrates the sheer speed that which she was moving, and continued to move. She was used to running.

That poses the questions; why was she running so quickly, where has she run from, where is she running to, and what is she running away from. Noone runs that quickly unless they are being chased, followed or late. There aren’t many things to be late for this weather, so I assume she was being followed. Now I have multiple individuals to account for. Who was chasing her and why?

My head spun at this new exercise of unsolved mystery. I was used to solitary activity; reading, hunting, music and my latest distraction; meditation. For the first time I was thinking about how I could not be alone.

 I slung my rifle over my shoulder and strapped my goggles over my eyes. I stepped over my gate and took in what I could from what I could see. I judged from the footprint that she was running west, the direction my house faced, and it was last night. I knew nothing about her, her size, stamina and weight to imagine how far she may have gone or come from. Outside my gate there was no soil, only hard shattered concrete that left no footprint. I looked to the direction she ran; assuming she kept a good bead in that direction it put her in the valley. My house sits facing a valley from the west, and has a rough and rapid drop to the east. She climbed up the rough cliff face and ran west. So far so good. I was heading west today anyway.

I checked my bag for anything I might need. I had my usual gear with me. My rifle, an old British service rifle from another age, slung over my shoulder. My knives, two that served me different purpose, one for killing and one for the work after, were strapped to my waist. My telescopic sight I had for the rifle lay in my bag. I had a water bottle that always remained half empty; I usually try and fill it when I pass some kind of pure source. My “chow” as my father called it, dried dog meat that I can chew when I get hungry, or can’t find anything to kill. Ten bullets for the SMLE, and a foot-long bayonet that I liked more for antiquity sake then for anything else lay in the side pouch of my bag. I heaved the bag up onto my shoulder and over my back and set out west.

I make a habit of being loud. Walking, talking to myself and whistling, singing, often quite tunelessly, and working the bolt of my rifle to make sure there are no predators around. It served a double purpose today, which was to let that woman know I’m here, though I did leave the bolt of my rifle alone, wrong impressions and all that. The smell of my house faded. A mixture between old sodden wood and a smell I can’t describe. Every building or room has a smell. Soon after I hit the valley I was aware of a smell that was new. Pungent, and unbearable. I pulled up my scarf over my nose and carried on. The smell was carried on the wind, which was moving against me, which hinted at activity up ahead. The rocks all around me shaped into a deep corridor, I dared myself to go in there, as I was hemmed in and easily surrounded.   As I moved towards the smell I caught sight of movement ahead. My heart raced and my breath quickened; the wrong thing to happen if I need to start shooting. I dropped to one knee and breathed heavily, forcing my heart rate to drop, and myself to calm down.

I moved quietly over the rough ground and knelt next to a small pile of rocks, concealing myself. I poked my rifle over the top of the rock, taking aim through the tiny sights, and slowing my breath even further. The longest shot I would have to make here would be about a hundred feet, but I was taking no chances.

“Who’s there?” I shouted. The shout echoed throughout the valley and came back again so late that I was afraid it was someone else. My voice so strange to me, so aggressive that I shouted a second time to make sure it was still me.

“I’m not going to hurt you. I just need to see you.” The sheer absurdity of my comment made me smile strangely. My hand was shaking, and my eyes were watering with nerves. I didn’t fear for my own life, I feared I would kill the only person that I had met in nearly fifteen years.

A shape darted from one rock to another. I followed it with my sights. It moved back the direction it came, and as it moved I couldn’t see exactly what it was.

“Show yourself! I have nothing to give you!” My panicked shout was such that it embarrassed me to no end. I decided enough was enough. I stood and walked to the open, arms open, rifle down by my side.

“Look! I mean no harm. I just want to talk.” I stood there in silence for more than a minute. The shape, whatever it was stopped darting, and remained behind a rock face. I stepped forward and raised my rifle to my waist. I looked down to the ground and noted my shadow. The sun was in front of me, and was blinding. It left me in an awful spot to defend myself. I prepared to go on the defensive. I’ve never had to defend against a human before, let alone one so obviously quick. I move back to the rocks where I took aim before, and sat there waiting. A tense few moments passed which felt like a lifetime, until I saw my adversary for the first time. Out from the rocks, as if nothing had taken place, padded a dog.

I let out an immense sigh that deflated me entirely. I took quick, sharp aim and put a bullet through the eye of the dog. The recoil kicked hard in my shoulder, and the bullet exited the dogs head with a pink splash. Dead before he hit the ground. I took my smaller knife from my belt, and set about my work. I had done it a hundred times before and it gave me time to think. The smell of the air was dry and bare. There was no one else here. I could taste the solitude of my life in the dry air, and it made me gag. I finished up with the dog. Small strips of skin and the larger muscles of the hind quarters made for meals to go for a few days. Enough was enough for this afternoon.

When I made it back to the house I sat in my chair facing out my window. The window overlooked the back of my house, which stretched on over mountains and the remains of whatever was there before the war. At the sight of the ruins, I always let my eyes flick to my books. My most treasured possessions, and the ones that taught me almost all that I know. My father taught me the rest. I lay back and endured the heavy weight of my eyelids upon themselves and prepared for a decent rest.

Excerpt from my latest writing project.

It all starts with a young man, who holds the position of first officer on a civilian merchant ship, working for his home nation, of the Order of Chaladon. This young officer finds himself in the middle of a savage pirate raid on his own ship, and has to hold out while waiting for assistance. Out of nowhere, a group of Chaladon Ships appear out of the clouds and make short work of the pirate vessels, performing incredible tactical manoeuvres, while working as a unit to assault the bandit raiders.

Following the skirmish, the young man meets with the commander of the ships, Commodore Salvadore, and the two strike up conversation about the battle. Salvadore tells our hero that the Order could use someone like him, and informs him that if he sells his own ship, and any salvage that the pirates leave behind, he could afford his own military vessel, and tell him to meet him at the docks, back in Garla, the trade port city on the coast.

Purchasing his own ship, and gathering a crew, our hero enlists in the Order’s Military, and is sent off to join a garrison at a remote outpost, on the border of the Fjord Baronies. After arriving, he finds the outpost is quiet, and actually in a form of peace between the two fleets who are supposed to be contesting it. Striking up a quick friendship with one of the “enemy” captains, they all learn about each other’s cultures, and how they aren’t so different in the grand scale of the world they live in. However things take a turn for the worse after one of the Baronies’ higher up officers finds out about this unofficial truce. Sending a new Commodore to lead an attack, both sides have no choice but to fight it out and try and survive. A moderate skirmish ensues, and in the midst of it all, our hero’s Pyramidion Vanguard rams the Commodore’s Command Mobula, and both ships tumble to the ground. After a small ground contest, our hero and his crew are captured and set to be executed on the spot by the Commodore. None other than our hero’s new found friend is ordered to commit the act. In a spur of treason he chooses to shoot the Commodore, and the friends unite once more, taking out the remainder of the “loyalists”.

Following this act of rebellion, the remainder of the crews decide to embark on a life of privateering, and take up a post working with the Mercantile Guild. A series of adventures follow, with all the action one could expect from air combat, wanderlust and all the shenanigans implied therein.

A few years pass and his ever growing fleet becomes rather famous, or infamous to some. News emerges that a supposed inventor apparently has the means to cure the “Red Death”. Located in an old civilian outpost deep in the Burren, our hero is assigned to escort the task force sent to retrieve him. Arriving at the location, other empires appear to have heard the same news, and have sent their own respective task force which creates tension among the ranks. The last empire delegation to arrive is the Chaledonians, who spark the conflict, causing a massive free-for-all with each task force trying to find the man they are looking for while keeping the other nations from doing the same. Our hero ends up finding the inventor, convinces him to trust him, and in the heat of it all, leaves the other nations to fight it out, escaping with the majority of his own fleet.

On the return journey to the Mercantile Capitol, our hero decides that an “Official” release of the cure would not be beneficial. The Guild would most likely prioritise its own people, and slow the general release down. Even more likely, the Guild would use the fact that they have the cure, to increase their own power in an immoral turn. Our hero is convinced to take the inventor to an Old World facility, where he can manufacture the cure, and distribute it to the common people. Upon arrival, it emerges that the inventor is a member of an Old World group of fanatics, who manufactured the Red Death, among other atrocities, in order to purge the human race who they believed were not worthy of living on the earth, after destroying much of the earth in the Great War. The fanatics populate the old facility, which is hidden underground and is heavily fortified. Once they arrive, the inventor intends rather not to cure the disease, but release it in its full form, which will wipe out the human race as they know it. After they find this out, the protagonists group succeeds in overpowering the forces in the facility, but upon contact with his fleet outside, the rest of the nations have arrived in force, and waging a full scale battle outside with the defending forces. The forces, numbering close to a thousand ships against our hero’s two dozen plus the defending garrison, are engaging in a free for all, which lasts several hours, during which a parley between the nations is established to combat the fanatics incoming reinforcement fleet, with numbers to rival the combined nations forces. An even larger battle wages on, while our hero destroys the weaponized disease. After succeeding, our hero slips away while the combined nations finish off the fanatic fleet, and discover for themselves the true purpose of the facility.

A few weeks later, a peace summit is underway, as each nation realizes none of them possess enough military force after the battle to continue a war. Our hero abruptly joins the meeting, uninvited, and after a heated discussion with the assorted leaders, an uneasy peace is established, and our hero leaves to rebuild his forces, and dedicate himself to finding and destroying the horrors from the old world. He forms the “Sons of Icarus” who dedicate themselves to unearthing the wonders from the old world, and protecting the new world from the old.