by Richard Fox
The two breach men stood at the door, flabbergasted.
“Weak.” Pyth grabbed a handle on the ram and tested his grip. The two breach men jumped over the side of the stairs as he hurled the ram like a spear through the frosted glass of the door.
A high-pitched whine stung Pyth’s ears. He and the rest of the police shied away from the noise, but it lasted only a few seconds.
“Ah…that some sort of Linker security thing?” the lieutenant asked as he wiggled a fingertip in an ear.
Pyth charged up the stairs and popped the door open with a bump from his shoulder. He stepped over the threshold and drew his pistol.
For all the years he’d known Clay, it suddenly occurred to him that he’d never been inside the living space of the house, only the office on the ground level. The foyer was normal, with a shrine to the gods in an alcove where it should be and black-and-white checkered floors.
“Clay! Get out here,” Pyth called up to the ceiling. A bitter aroma tickled his nose. He moved deeper into the house and into the kitchen. On the table was what looked like a square plate, but there was an image dancing on it. He picked it up and almost dropped it in shock when it exploded with color and strange text ran up and down the length of it.
It was like he held a tiny, almost weightless television in his hand. He turned it around, looking for the power cord, but there wasn’t anything.
There was a crack from the windows. Snowflakes of white grew across the glass, and the view of outside flickered and died into a flat grey.
Pyth shoved the plate into his uniform top and then drew his pistol.
“Clay! Clay, what is this?” He readied his pistol and backed out, stopping next to a mirror mounted beside the main door. Electric lines ran around the outer edge and his reflection flashed with color. The reflection froze, then the mirror disintegrated into a wave of coal-colored dust and collapsed onto the floor, covering his boots.
A hunk of the ceiling fell next to him, crumbling into dust just like the mirror.
Pyth turned and ran. He got out the door and knocked an officer over the side railing by accident as he went down the stairs as fast as he could manage. He hit the damaged police car and whirled around.
The Clays’ house rotted away, hundreds of years seeming to pass within a few heartbeats as everything crumbled into coal-colored dust that the breeze carried away. The ground floor collapsed with a hollow whoomph and a wave of dust billowed out, inundating Pyth and the rest of the men in darkness.
Pyth coughed and a bitter taste filled his mouth. The dust burned away like dew beneath morning rays, leaving Pyth and the rest clean.
The Clays’ home was gone. A few utility pipes jutted out of the concrete foundation where everything had just been.
The police stared slack-jawed as the last wisps of the house vanished into the air.
“Constable,” the lieutenant said, offering him a radio, “they…they want to talk to you.”
“I…I’ve got nothing.” Pyth took the radio, ignoring the rather stern questions coming out of it. He felt the press of the plate he took from the kitchen in his jacket then stared at the radio, words failing him.
Chapter 29
King Menicus stared at his desktop, which was covered in glossy photographs: the dead Myrmidon, the wrecked nuclear storage facility, airborne images of streaks of light from unknown aircraft escaping into orbit, and autopsy photos of Julia Hower. The dusty remains where the Clay residence used to be.
His cabinet stood in nervous silence. Fastal was there with Hawn’ru, both warriors in fatigues, sidearms on their hips.
“They took…every warhead?” Menicus asked.
“Yes, sire,” Fastal said. “I failed your orders.”
The King shook a hand at him and sank into his chair.
“Using those weapons against the Slavers was a mistake, and the gods have punished us for it.” Menicus hunched over, dejected. “Could it be that…that these ‘people’ are agents of the gods? Punishing us even more for keeping the cursed technology?”
“Sire, that…that doesn’t fit with everything we know,” Ciolsi said. “The body we found in the plains, these Clay Linkers…I expect the gods to act with a bit more unity and clarity—but I’m no priest.” He turned to Osuda, who reclined in his bowl-shaped padded chair, a cup of tea held in trembling hands.
“My communion was difficult,” Osuda said. “I felt the presence of each god, but they were at odds with each other. The spirits were silent and the great mother did not speak to me.”
“Their gaze is upon us,” the King said. “They’re watching to see if we do the right thing. ‘One is not worthy if he follows blindly.’”
“You know the mantras.” Osuda touched a section of knotted cord where that phrase was recorded in his caste’s peculiar writing system.
“The people will realize that something significant is happening very soon,” Ciolsi said. “The loss of the astronauts, the mountain…then this mess in your city.”
“You said you could keep it quiet.” The King looked up, one corner of his mouth tugging at a sneer.
“An attack on our most secret military installation with dozens of casualties and then a building in the commercial district just…crumbling is not something I can tamp down with ‘broken’ radio relays and arresting witnesses for a few days. The witnesses to the Clay house were police,” Ciolsi said.
“What of these Clays?” The King sat back and swiveled his chair to a Linker in expensive clothes and with jewels braided through her hair.
“Sire, they…they hailed from the Tamboosi tribe from the far east. Their home city was destroyed by Slavers during the war. Most of the records were lost,” she said, “but their service to the great family was impeccable.”
“They had the right face and the right credentials,” Ciolsi said, “and they emerged from the chaos of the war…perfect way to infiltrate.”
“Where are they?” the King asked.
“I’ve tracked them to a hunting lodge at Hawk Fall,” Ciolsi said, “which is strange, as it is reserved for Royals.”
“Bring them in,” the King said. “Alive. No mistakes.”
“As you wish.” Ciolsi went to a phone mounted on a wall.
The King stood up. “General Fastal, I remember you from when I was a child. My father spoke very highly of you and your service. You were the only one that spoke out against using the nuclear weapons against the Slavers…and then you were the only senior member of my father’s war effort to survive more than a few months after the war ended.”
“If your father had not ordered me into retirement, I’m sure I would have suffered the same fate,” Fastal said.
“And then you survived the attack on the bunker.”
Fastal held up bandaged hands. “They tried, sire. Those monsters were…not like anything I’ve ever fought before.”
“They executed the one he injured,” Marshal Hawn’ru said. “This was not the way of the gods. The Blooded fight beneath the gaze. That is something we would never do—not even the Slavers were so barbaric.”
“Then you believe that what’s come from Kleegar are not of the gods?” Menicus asked.
“No, sire. These are some kind of different Tyr. Perhaps of different stock than ours when the gods placed us here to—”
“The will of the gods is my business!” Osuda snapped. “Do not try to interpret our past so simply.”
“Before this spirals too far down the whirlpool,” said Matron Virid, stepping out of the crowd and approaching the King’s desk, “we have the summit with the heretics to discuss. Just how much should we tell them…what’s that sound?”
She cocked an ear to the ceiling as a high-pitched whine grew.
Ciolsi rapped his handset against the phone.
A light burst from the overhead glass dome and Close Guard rushed to the King, three forming a shield with their own bodies as the dome shuddered. A glowing disk lowered from the ceiling, blades of broken glass sus
pended in the air around it, twisting on unseen currents.
Fastal darted between the King’s desk and the disc as it settled into the middle of the room. He drew his sidearm and aimed it into the center of a thin column of light forming above the disk.
Tyr mashed against the walls as an invisible force pressed against them, sending their clothes and hair flapping without any accompanying wind.
A humanoid figure formed in the light, a golden being that resolved into Zike, large enough to be well over the head and shoulders of any Tyr in the room. Zike wore a space suit, the helmet ring at the base of his neck smooth and glittering in the light.
“I come in peace.” Zike raised his hands.
Fastal squeezed his finger against the trigger, cocking the hammer back.
“I come in peace…and I must receive peace in return.” Zike smiled and Fastal felt a chill in his heart. “The gods gaze upon us all. Let us act as such.”
“This is the prophecy!” Osuda clutched a length of knotted cords and tried to hold them aloft, but managed to lift up the front of his shirt in the process.
“Get off me.” The King struggled out from under his bodyguards, the golden light reflecting off his face, a look of fear and wonder captured in the wavering shine. He kept one hand on the desk to steady himself as he came around to the front with Fastal, knocking photographs to the floor in the process.
“You may call me Director Zike, and I have come to bring great wealth to your people.” Zike looked to one side, his attention elsewhere for a moment before looking back to Menicus.
“Wealth?” The King put a gentle hand on Fastal’s forearm, and the general lowered his aim. “Why do the gods need to bring us wealth? What happened to our astronauts? Quboth and Nixazar?”
Zike was silent for an uncomfortable few seconds, his golden, semi-opaque form wavering like a TV channel with degrading reception.
“I come in peace. To make sure I am received as the gods demand, certain precautions were necessary,” Zike said. “Meet me at the Obsidian Dolmen in two dawns. My connection to you is failing, as the gods will. The Obsidian…en…”
Zike’s image vanished with a pop. The disk hovering several inches off the ground slammed against the carpet and crumbled into dust, a bitter smoke rising from the ashes as it evaporated into nothing.
Menicus collapsed against Fastal, weeping. “I’m not…I’m not worthy of this,” he sobbed.
Fastal, both arms wrapped around the King to keep him upright, looked over the rest of the cabinet as they watched in horror as the device that brought Zike into the room burned away, leaving a dirty smudge in the carpet.
They weren’t ready for this, Fastal realized, and if the most powerful Tyr in the kingdom were rendered down to panic and fear so easily…all the Tyr were in incredible danger.
****
“What the hell was that?” Zike ripped off a clear earpiece and threw it at a pair of technicians at a control station. He stomped off the holo projection platform and snapped his fingers at Argent, who rushed over with a glass of fizzy liquid.
Hower and Hulegu stood against the bulkhead of a converted storeroom aboard the Leopold. The zoologist had his face in one hand. Hulegu looked bored.
“There was…some sort of atmospheric interference,” a tech said. “It drained the onboard power supply faster than we’d projected and—”
“And what? Now the timetable is delayed—again—because I can’t get the damn indigs to start moving off the construction sites.” Zike tossed his hands up. “Hower! You told me they’d capitulate so long as I pretended to be one of their saints or something.”
“You had to appear with the gods’ countenance,” Hower said, gesturing at his face, “but your holo was…was as is.”
The techs’ eyes went wide and they tapped at their controls. “I thought you were supposed to engage the filter,” one hissed at the other.
“Ms. Argent, prepare a sanction notice for both of them,” Zike said.
“But it doesn’t really matter, as you went off script,” Hower said. “The gods are supposed to return and render a final judgment on the Tyr, not bring them money and wealth.”
“And I told you that is not value-added.” Zike wagged a finger at him. “How is impersonating their deities going to get them off the colony sites if we’re here to bring about the Rapture or Ragnarök or whatever the indig equivalent is supposed to be? They’re advanced enough to appreciate wealth.”
“Director,” Hulegu said, raising his chin slightly, “this leaf-eater gave you a format that you could use to order the Tyr off the colony sites. That was supposed to be the ‘gods’’ judgment. Now you’ve…what has he done, Hower?”
“I’m a xeno-zoologist. Anthropology isn’t my specialty. I’ve made that clear, yes?” Hower asked.
“Constantly.” Argent tapped a slate. “You’ve had me annotate that at every meeting.”
“Why don’t we just stop with the pretense and go with the ultimatums?” Zike shrugged. “How long until the Matsui is within range for orbital bombardment?”
“I can start hitting targets now, but if you want pinpoint accuracy, I need another twenty-four hours to get my ship in close enough.” Hulegu’s hologram wavered slightly.
“There’s still time.” Hower held his hands up. “There’s still time to get the Tyr to do what we want. I had the director request a meeting at the Obsidian Dolmen, which is where the Tyr expect the gods to come back and give their judgment. The situation is salvageable. The timeline is just a bit more compressed, is all. Let’s hold off on the course of action with mass death and destruction, yes?”
Zike clicked his tongue and took a sip from his drink. “Argent, what’s the algorithm’s projection on immediate force vis-a-vis indigenous compliance?” he asked.
“With a slight delay,” Argent frowned at her slate, “even with a few local days before the Tyr evacuate the Azure Islands…ninety-three percent customer satisfaction. With projections on damage to the natural rock phenomena and extensive cleanup efforts…thirty-seven percent.”
“Doubtful,” Hulegu said. “The cult likes the smell of death and a little bit of urban blight. Lets them feel like they’re in control.”
“Let’s adjust that lower projection up five percent,” Zike said. “Hower, I am less than pleased with your expert advice thus far.”
“You had a script,” Hower pointed a finger at Zike, then snapped his hand back, “sir. You had a perfectly good script and all you had to do was read what I wrote for you.”
“Bahadur-Getty doesn’t want talking heads as project directors,” Zike said. “But a minor delay for a better customer satisfaction result is acceptable. Perhaps, Mr. Hower, you can explain your rationale to the client when they arrive in system.”
Hulegu chuckled.
“That…that won’t be necessary,” Hower said, shying away.
“Then let’s have less disagreement and more unity of effort toward getting this project done on time and on schedule, yes? Ms. Argent, let’s get me over to the foundry and have me fit for a synth layer. Can’t risk another holo filter failing again, yes?”
He made for the doors and Hulegu blinked out of existence as he cut his feed.
“Double sanctions,” Zike said to the techs and they both went pale.
Hower scurried after the director and his assistant as the two techs did quick mental math and realized that they’d both owe the company money after this assignment.
Chapter 30
Daniel shut the drapes over a window, blocking the dawn light filtering through the glass, yellowed from age and with small bubbles from imperfect manufacture. He did a double take at his reflection just before they were covered. His markings were of the Royal caste, not the Linker visage he’d worn for so many years. He touched his face and felt small air pockets where his synth had been adjusted to change his looks even further.
A cold draft hit his shoulders and he looked up at where the wall met the ceiling. A gap h
ad been built into the original stone construction of the castle for air circulation, but had been filled with insulation and fans since the place had been converted into a hunting lodge/hotel.
Sarah sat in a chair next to a small table, a pile of newspapers before her, while Michael lay on the room’s large bed, watching a TV set.
“There’s nothing here.” Sarah rustled a newspaper. “Hagiography of the two lost astronauts, ambary yields, the usual horror stories of degeneracy and squalor coming out of the land controlled by the heretics. Maybe we went the wrong route with the warnings; should’ve leaked straight to the press.”
“Too many censors in the newsrooms. If we’d tried that first, the shadows would have fought the idea of an alien invasion as some sort of heretic conspiracy,” Daniel said, taking the seat opposite his wife.
“We have…” She pulled a small piece of paper with the hotel’s seal at the top out from beneath the stack of papers. On it was a hand-drawn diagram of the planet, the two moons, and a course for the Matsui. “We have another twenty hours until Hulegu’s in range to hurt the planet with any kind of accuracy. Maybe. Too many factors involved—how much immunity serum they pulled from Hower, what they can produce using the two astronauts.”
“Why are you doing this on the back of the envelope? Michael, give us your slate, please,” Daniel said.
Michael pulled the covers over his head.
“He left it at home,” Sarah whispered. “Besides, doing the math by hand helps clear my head. But let’s try and get ahead of Zike’s decision-making process. If they want the Azure Islands first, then they’ll need to—”
There was a knock at the door.
Daniel looked over to his suitcase where his carbine and pistol were stashed away. Sarah dashed over to their bags and began closing everything. Michael put his shoes back on while giving his father a worried look.
“Who ordered food?” Daniel asked a bit too loudly, but loudly enough for whoever was on the other side of the door to hear him. He adjusted his Royal caste garb of a silk cravat and jacket and opened the door.
