Parallel Worlds- the Heroes Within

by L. J. Hachmeister

  It was little more than a large room with a bare concrete floor. A couple of worn boxes sat in the corner with assorted odds and ends scattered around, the sorts of things a homeless man not entirely right in the head might collect. They probably belonged to that poor fool outside.

  The crystal took on a vague gold outline. The creature wasn’t here yet, but it would be appearing soon. Thomas wiggled his fingers in a simple ritual, and the crystal dimmed and cooled. He stuck it in his pocket and drew his own sword. All they could do was wait. As the seconds stretched to minutes and then to half an hour, Thomas found it difficult to retain a full state of alertness. Dmitri’s stance never wavered, though, and his eyes continually scanned the warehouse. Though he never would’ve admitted it, Thomas admired the other man. Of all the Unnamed, he was probably the rudest and least likeable, but few would deny that he was one of their best.

  The ground trembled, sending adrenaline through Thomas. He tried to force down the fear forming in his throat. Cracks spidered through the concrete, and the middle of the warehouse floor bulged upward. Dmitri motioned to him, and they got on opposite sides, prepared to come at the dragon from two directions as soon as it appeared.

  The stone exploded upward in a shower of dust and rocks. A growl that sounded more like a dog than a dragon came from the rubble. When the dust cleared, a reptilian head was rising out of the hole, swiveling back and forth to take in the room. Thomas and Dmitri charged, each swinging in a wide arc. The creature’s slitted eyes looked at Thomas just as he drove his blade at its head. The monster didn’t even blink as Thomas hit it. The force of the impact sent pain shooting through his arms. He drew back and gaped. The creature didn’t have a mark on it. Dmitri delivered two other slashes in quick succession, but each strike was just as ineffective as the first.

  The thing lashed out at Thomas, but he was already out of the way. Thomas gasped as it climbed the rest of the way out of the hole. Its serpentine head was about five feet long. Then, its scales gave way to orange fur dotted with black spots and a lean feline body. Its legs ended in cloven hooves. Thomas cursed. Dmitri kept his sword between him and the creature while he slowly circled around it.

  “That’s no dragon,” Dmitri said.

  It was a hundred times worse than a dragon. A thousand times worse. Dragons had been fought and killed by heroes throughout the ages. It was never easy, but it could be done. This thing, on the other hand...

  “That’s a questing beast.”

  “I thought they killed that thing at Camelot a thousand years ago.”

  “They tried.”

  Its head shot at Thomas, but he caught its long teeth on his blade. A clear liquid dripped off its fangs and splashed on the ground. Its rotting breath almost made him gag. Thomas forced his sword up hoping that he’d be able to cut into the soft flesh inside its mouth, but even that was too strong. Dmitri dashed in and thrust at its body but succeeded only in cutting away a thick tuft of fur. Both men backed away, and the creature hissed.

  “How do we kill this thing?”

  “The eyes?” Thomas ducked under another attack.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Not even a little bit.”

  “Right. I’ll be the bait.”

  Before Thomas could respond, Dmitri charged with a battle cry on his lips. The beast’s head turned to him. Thomas drew his dagger and stabbed in the same motion. It sunk into the creature’s left eye. His dagger steamed. Blood spattered on his hand, and his skin sizzled.

  The creature roared so loud Thomas thought his head would explode. He pulled back, leaving the dagger embedded in its face. He tried to shake the blood free of his hand, but it ate a small pit into his flesh, cauterizing the wound as it sank in. A second later, the dagger’s hilt fell free. The blade had melted. The beast turned its lone eye to Thomas. He could practically hear its teeth grinding. It started to move, but Dmitri ran up behind it. He held his sword in both hands and thrust downward as hard as he could. The blade didn’t go in, but a patch of blood no bigger than a fingernail spread from the point if impact.

  “So you’re not invincible,” Thomas said under his breath.

  The creature turned around and reared. It slammed its hooves into Dmitri, sending him to the ground. His sword slid across the floor and clattered against the wall. Thomas moved to help, but the beast anticipated his maneuver and rounded on him just in time to catch his sword in its teeth. It twisted its head, and the blade was torn from Thomas’s grasp. Its jaw shifted, and the sword broke in half, releasing a dim flash as its magic dissipated.

  “No!”

  A loud boom drowned out Thomas’ shout. He looked up and saw the shotgun in Dmitri’s hands. The other man pumped it and fired again. The creature twitched and looked at him. It roared and charged. Thomas could only watch as it barreled into Dmitri. It brought its hooves down on him, and Thomas heard a sickening crack.

  “What’s going on here?” an unsteady voice asked.

  Thomas turned to the door. The beggar stood there, leaning against a wall and breathing heavily. The beast looked up. It roared even louder than it had when Thomas stabbed it. It thundered toward the beggar. Thomas cursed and threw himself at the creature as it passed, but he bounced off it with no effect. He picked himself off the ground and ran to Dmitri’s sword, but it was too far. In horror he watched as the questing beast neared its new prey.

  The beggar reached into his beer-stained jacket and pulled out a shining sword with a jeweled hilt. His legs were spread wide, and he held the sword steady like a man who knew well how to use it. Thomas froze and stared as the man sidestepped the creature’s charge, slashing as it passed. His sword cut a long line down the monster’s flank. It reared, but with a quick slash, its front legs came off. The beast tried to stand, but the stumps couldn’t bear its weight, and it crashed to the ground. It lashed out, but the beggar moved like a cat and had no trouble avoiding its attacks. He let out a long breath and shook his head.

  “You never fought with me last time,” he said. “Just with Pellinore, Palamedes, and Percival. I always wondered what would happen.”

  The monster growled and tried to bite him, but the beggar flicked his blade in an almost casual fashion. Its head came free of his body, a pool of blood spreading on the ground. The man sheathed his sword and looked at Thomas. For a second his gray eyes and sharp features made him look like a soldier in his prime, but then it was gone, and only the beggar remained. His gaze wandered to Dmitri. The other Unnamed was a bloody mess. Thomas was sure he was dead until he groaned. Thomas rushed to his side. He knelt down and looked at the beggar, but the man had already turned and was heading for the door.

  “Mer’s not here yet.”

  Dmitri coughed. “What did I tell you? Legends are awakening.”

  He continued to mumbled, but Thomas couldn’t make anything out. Suddenly, it all came together in his head. The questing beast. That sword. Pellinore, Palamedes, and Percival: the names of knights who had been dead for over a thousand years.

  “Mer,” Thomas said, not daring to believe what he was about to say. He spoke louder. “Merlin? You mean Merlin? Arthur?”

  Arthur looked over his shoulder. “Mer’s not here yet. He was supposed to be here when I woke up, but he’s not.”

  Dmitri groaned, drawing Thomas’ attention. He tore his shirt to make makeshift bandages and called to command.

  “It wasn’t a dragon,” he said after he’d gotten through security and requested aid for Dmitri. “It was a questing beast.”

  There was a stunned silence on the line. “You killed a questing beast?”

  “Negative, it was some guy off the street. I think-” his words caught in his throat. “I think it was Arthur. King Arthur.”

  The voice on the end of the line sputtered. “Say again.”

  “We were saved by Arthur Pendragon.”

  “Is he there with you?”

  Thomas looked around, but the factory was empty. “No, he’s gone.”

>   “You have to go after him.”

  “Nine-five-seven is...”

  “Go,” Dmitri said between labored breaths.

  Thomas looked into Dmitri’s eyes. The fallen man was obviously in pain but just as obviously meant what he had said.

  Thomas nodded at his wounded companion. All Unnamed had sworn to give their lives if need be. Arthur had built a shining bastion against the darkness once. Maybe he could do so again.

  Thomas rushed out of the door just as the response team had arrived. He uttered a silent thanks that Dmitri would survive. He scanned the area but saw no sign. In desperation, he ran around the warehouse, peaking into every nook and cranny he could find.

  By the time he was done, others had started to arrive. Though Dmitri had been the only other soldier nearby when Thomas had made the call, the Unnamed had dozens of other agents in the area, and they spread out through the city like a flood. It was well after midnight before the search was called off. King Arthur was gone.

  “But you’re out there,” he said to the night, “and we’ll find you.”

  BIO

  Gama Ray Martinez lives near Salt Lake City, Utah. He moved there solely because he likes mountains. He collects weapons in case he ever needs to supply a medieval battalion, and he greatly resents when work or other real life things get in the way of writing. He secretly hopes to one day slay a dragon in single combat and doesn’t believe in letting pesky little things like reality stand in the way of dreams.

  LINKS

  Author Website: http://www.gamarayburst.com

  Amazon Author Page: https://www.amazon.com/Gama-Ray-Martinez/e/B00LVU5CYW%3Fref=dbs_a_mng_rwt_scns_share

  Prisoner 141

  L. J. Hachmeister

  Red lights flashed on the smooth black surface of the bomb, but 141 didn’t pay attention, concentrating on exposing the sensitive innards. Wires spilled out, but she batted them aside, crawling underneath and flipping onto her back to get a better look.

  Twin suns, bright enough to penetrate through the swollen brown clouds, afforded her enough light to see the alien inscriptions on the internal circuit boards, but she couldn’t tell the difference between the routing wires. Once triggered, Pri’al bombs had to be disarmed in under ten seconds, a feat few Sentients—let alone humans—could accomplish, especially in the hazardous wastelands of Torrus Prime.

  Seven seconds, she thought, her internal clock counting down. She wiggled her gloved hand inside the exposed underbelly of the explosive, feeling for the subtle texture variations in the energy chambers.

  Five—

  The red warning lights stayed on, growing brighter as she fumbled to identify the corrugated edging to the transfer conduit.

  Damn these biohazard suits, she thought, frustrated by the thick gloves that blocked her sensitive touch.

  Four—

  141 ripped out her arm, tossed aside the glove, and shoved her hand back in. Even inside the bomb her skin burned from the polluted desert air.

  Three, two—

  Fingers grazing the ribbed lining, she thrust upwards, pushing her head and shoulder into the bomb to reach her target. Not that it mattered much. If she failed, everything in a fifty-kilometer radius without an active shield would be blown sky high.

  One—

  “Ahhh,” she cried, grabbing the fragile transfer conduit connector and yanking as hard as she could.

  Red lights sputtered, then shut off.

  One down, she thought, removing her abraded fist. Red oil and serum mixed with her blood, giving it an iridescent sheen. Two hundred more to go.

  Chucking the connector aside, she wiped her hand on her biohazard suit and thought about whether to even bother putting her glove back on. None of the other two hundred organic-tech bombs would be any easier, and with the cheap suits issued by her employer, the venerable Intergalactic Corrections and Containment Coalition, or IC3, she doubted that asking for better equipment would get her anything more than some quality time in an isolation cell.

  The thought made her stomach knot. Being alone didn’t bother her, nor did any physical punishment, but a night without sleep medicine did.

  Movement near the bomb’s gutted innards caught her eye. Nothing could have survived the attack on the planet. Still, she couldn’t help herself, and carefully moved aside one of the broken tubes.

  Where’d you come from? A rodent of some sort, small and emaciated, shivered under the wires, staring at her with beady pink eyes and a coat covered in red sand. It ducked when she brushed away the wires, but didn’t run when she offered her injured hand for a smell.

  You look like a chibi mouse.

  Tiny whiskers tickled her finger. The delicate touch surprised her, made her forget herself for a moment, as if something important—something forgotten—tried to draw her into the sensation.

  It’s not like it’s going to make it out here, she tried to tell herself. Not with the pollution, the radiation hazards, and God knew what else. And the Warden certainly wouldn’t allow a rescue onboard. Still, she couldn’t bear the hungry look in its eyes, or the way it trusted her not to swipe it up for an easy meal.

  Stupid mouse, she thought, anger and frustration eclipsing her mind as it sniffed her bloodied fingers. What was this rodent to her? Besides, it’s not like she had anything to spare. Her crappy protein bar ration wouldn’t even last her the long hours ahead.

  “Screw it,” she whispered. She produced the bar from one of the pouches on her belt and offered the creature a chunk. The little rodent took it without hesitation, cramming it into his cheeks.

  It won’t live, her rational voice reminded. Not here, on this forgotten wasteland. Or would it? Maybe her sacrifice gave it the chance it needed.

  Sacrifice. Chance.

  Another more dangerous word lingered in the back of her mind, but a gruff voice, drowning in static, rang into the bud implanted into her ear: “Prisoner 141, come in.”

  The rodent scampered off as she scooted back on her elbow. Already dreading what the Warden wanted, she responded with a grunt.

  No answer.

  Crawling out from underneath the disarmed bomb, she faced north toward the skeletal remains of a city, hoping to get a better signal to the dropship two kilometers away.

  What’s that? she thought, wiping sand from her helmet’s visor.

  A sleek, gray ship, three times the size of the prison carrier orbiting above, hovered near the drop site.

  That’s probably the source of interference, she inferred.

  Not recognizing the curved wings and seamless design, or the glyphs on the hull, 141 braced herself for the only two possibilities: an alien attack, or Warden Cooley making another unsanctioned deal.

  She wished for the attack.

  Looking over the ruined landscape of broken steel and consuming desert, she spied a dozen more bombs poking out from the canted slabs of broken street in her immediate radius. If she returned to the dropship to reestablish contact, she’d get in trouble for leaving her assignment, but if she continued without acknowledging the call, she’d be accused of disobedience.

  She regarded her injuries with a distant loathing. The pain didn’t bother her, nor the skin hanging off in ribbons. Staring at the mix of blood and oil brought heat to her chest, an agitation she could not acknowledge, one that wouldn’t allow her to quit without disarming all two hundred or more bombs in the desolate city before returning, even if it took all day, at the cost of her hand, or her life.

  She moved on.

  As the first sun slid behind the muddied southern horizon, she heard a battlefield drone buzzing through the wreckage. Without pausing, she pulled out the innards of her ninety-seventh bomb and went through the disarming process, disregarding the chirps from the drone.

  “A hundred and three to go…” she muttered, rolling out from underneath the dead bomb. As she stood, she held her shredded hand to her chest, not wanting to look at the white bone peeking out from the lacerations across the wrist. Exhau
stion weighed down her movements, but she paid no attention to the aching protests of her body.

  Finish the job.

  Then, maybe relief. Or so she had told herself for the last nine years.

  The drone, waiting a good distance away until she completed her task, zipped toward her, antennae zeroing in on her position. Why its designer made it look like the upper half of a human with an insect head always incited conversation amongst the other duds, but not her. The drones did their job, and that’s all the mattered.

  Hovering above the ground to meet her at eye-level, the drone stuck out its three-fingered hand and projected a green-lit, holographic message from its palm. Warden Cooley’s ugly mug appeared in three dimensions, greedy excitement in his eyes.

  “Prisoner 141, return to the dropship immediately, priority 1.”

  Another job, she thought, gazing out to the setting red suns. Of course it would be dangerous, illegal, and fatten the Warden’s pockets with more cash than she could know in a lifetime. If he lost prisoners in the process, he’d falsify a report, just like he’d done a thousand times before. After all, disarming bombs on war-ravaged worlds was hazardous, and there was plenty of opportunity for an unfortunate event to take the life of one of his many unwanted charges.

  Maybe this will be the last one.

  She bristled, uncomfortable with the idea, but drawn to it all the same.

  The drone withdrew its hand and whistled as a small platform lowered out from the base of its glowing anti-grav pods.

  He must really want this, she thought, surprised he sent a drone with transport capabilities. Under normal circumstances, Warden Cooley didn’t care if she worked ten days straight without returning to the dropship, nor would he send out a drone to bring her back after a long slog.