“It appears so,” said Vladimir, reaching to gently close Milorad’s unseeing eyes.
“My own people,” said Jack, his head lowered.
“Your own people,” echoed the vampire.
“And the Palliation . . . the werewolves will launch it.”
“Yes, and that werewolf exile will certainly try his best to make sure you are killed.”
“I’m already under a death sentence,” said Jack, tentatively touching the back of his neck, feeling the bump of the scar where his termination chip had been implanted.
• • •
Having just emerged from the Pilgrim wormhole, Flaktuckmetang stood beside the towering Alpha praetorian and stared with disgust beyond the rusting steel walls of the Pilgrim compound. They looked out over a desolate landscape, the pall of pollution obscuring the sun. The dull, yellowish light revealed the dead trees and the craters that littered the bare ground outside the compound. The Alpha snorted, trying to expel the foul stench of the planet from his nostrils.
“They did this to their planet.” Flaktuckmetang shook his head. “And they expect to become the dominant species on Thera. We should destroy their aperture after this is over.”
“Perhaps,” said the Alpha distractedly. He had turned his gaze downward, staring with grave reflection at his praetorians arrayed below the tower.
They stood in a Circle of Honor around one of their dead comrades, chanting the ceremonial Ode to a Fallen Warrior. The chant complete, the praetorian priest moved to the werewolf’s corpse, and pulled out a gleaming combat ax. Holding it high, he uttered the benediction, and with a powerful stroke, severed the head.
From a crowd of Pilgrims watching the werewolf ceremony came a shocked, collective gasp, punctuated with sounds of retching.
The head rolled away from the body, where the chaplain retrieved it and placed it in a preservation sack. It would normally have been sent home, to be displayed with honor in the Hall of Heroes. But now the werewolves were marooned from their world, the hated Therans having destroyed their only way home.
As the circle re-formed around another body for the next ceremony, the Alpha turned to Flaktuckmetang, his expression furious.
“These soldiers will not have died in vain,” he declared. “We will go forward with this cleansing of that enemy planet, so that at least our exiles and the remaining praetorians will have a livable place.”
“And the humans?” asked Flaktuckmetang.
Before the Alpha could answer, a voice behind them replied, “We are prepared.”
They turned to see the short, squat Pilgrim leader, Christopher. He continued. “Our colonies on Thera report that they have completed hardening their systems against electromagnetic pulses. And those not in colonies have either retreated to safe shelter or returned here.” He gestured across the compound at a line of refugees streaming from the building housing the Pilgrim wormhole. They exited the compound gates, to a village of tents erected outside the walls.
Christopher gestured at two middle-aged humans, who stood behind him staring with unabashed anxiety at the werewolves.
“This is Nathan and David Clark. They are our liaisons with the Pilgrims on Thera. And they will work with you to help as you wish with the Palliation.”
“We need no help,” said the Alpha curtly. “Our engineers are with us and have the trigger codes and the necessary expertise to use them.”
Nathan stepped forward, offering a hand, which the Alpha did not take in his claw, staring distastefully at the pale, fleshy human appendage.
“We are so sorry that the Therans destroyed the portal to your planet,” he said. “Is there anything that we can do for your . . . men?”
“No. Our mission was to enable the Palliation. We will carry it out. We only need access to orbit.”
“Good. Very good,” said Nathan. “I’m sure the other Mythicals opposed to the Palliation may present problems. So—”
“Nothing we cannot overcome,” said the Alpha. “The outcome of the Palliation . . . a healing planet . . . will eventually persuade them.” His attention shifted to a load of long, slim cylinders the Pilgrims were now hauling into the building housing the wormhole.
“Are those weapons?” he asked the Alpha, gesturing to the containers. “Why do you need weapons?”
“No, they’re not,” said Nathan, shaking his head, a gesture mimicked by his brother. “Those are final shipments of hardened electronic equipment . . . radios and so forth . . . that we are sending through to our colonies for communication.”
The Alpha gave Flaktuckmetang a suspicious sidelong glance, and he nodded at the unspoken signal that the cylinders were to be investigated further.
Flaktuckmetang, as a seasoned politician on Thera, also knew to deflect the issue, to allay any suspicion by the humans.
“This human, Jack March,” he said quickly. “He has done considerable damage to your cause.”
David Clark moved up beside them, gesturing in agreement. “We will take care of him.”
“No, we will,” said Flaktuckmetang emphatically. “We just want to inform you that he will be killed. He is one of you, but he has become an enemy.”
“Killing him will be difficult,” said David. “The Mythicals protect him.”
“Not really,” said the Alpha. “He has a termination chip. We were the ones who developed that technology for the Mythicals. We know how to circumvent the safeguard system that required a unanimous vote of the Wardens. Once we’ve launched the Palliation, he will be terminated.”
Jack struggled to contain his nausea at the scene in the huge hall, his stomach roiling. Whether he was reacting to the sight of the grisly funeral ceremony taking place there, or the profoundly disturbing smell of cooked vampire flesh, he could not say.
Sam took his arm, and A’eiio placed her calming hand on his shoulder.
They looked out over the expanse of round tables, all occupied by black-suited vampires, poised with their forks aloft holding small bits of flesh.
At the center of the hall, on a raised platform, lay Milorad’s body covered with a red silk sheet, only his face showing. But the sheet was not draped over the familiar bulk of his round body. Rather it sagged over a sunken form, as if covering a skeleton.
Which it was.
Jack stifled a gag reflex and managed to gasp out, “They’re really eating him!”
“Their custom,” said Sam quietly, as the vampires took the morsels of Milorad the vampire into their mouths. They chewed solemnly, as a vampire choir began to sing a melodious hymn, their rich voices filling the hall.
“Why?” asked Jack.
E’iouy moved up beside them to answer. “Well, as you may have gathered, they revere flesh. They believe it to be sacred. And, they believe the flesh of their loved ones to be especially sacred. It’s their way of honoring him by incorporating bits of him into their body.”
Jack took a deep breath to recover. “Well, if they don’t mind, I’ll honor him in my own way, with a good bottle of his favorite liquor.”
“Well, they don’t drink liquor in the ceremony,” said E’iouy. “On the table there, you do see the glasses of—”
“Dear!” interrupted A’eiio, rather emphatically. “I do think Jack has had quite enough of vampire customs. We need to tend to much more urgent matters. The Palliation. The werewolves have only been set back temporarily. They will no doubt go ahead with the effort.”
Having mourned Milorad as much as Jack could stomach, they left the hall and drove quickly to the presidential mansion, a marble edifice fronted with massive pillars sitting on a broad, manicured lawn. Entering the main hall, occupied by heavily armed soldiers, they joined Steve the troll, Mike the ogre, Ryan the elf, and Wendy the angel.
A uniformed aide led them to a conference room, where they met President Eller. Standing beside him was science adviser Balin Litt; and behind them a cadre of dark-suited security men, holsters visible under their jackets. They eyed the Mythicals suspic
iously, especially the hulking ogre. They glared pointedly at Mike, who had decorated his testicles with glimmering lights for the occasion.
E’iouy, his wings wafting slowly behind him, chuckled at the armed security. “So do you feel safe with all that firepower against a few Mythicals?”
Eller did not smile. “The urgency of the situation has dictated that I accede to your requirements that all these . . .” He seemed not able to find the word “. . . well . . . that they all attend. Shall we discuss what is to be done?”
Eller sat down at the head of the conference table, and the others took their places. The fairies and the angel tucked in their wings as best they could against the backs of the tall armchairs.
Litt tapped briefly on a tablet computer, then handed it to the president, whose impassive expression evolved into a deep glower.
“I have the after-action report from our military,” he said darkly. “It reports that our missile destroyed the werewolves’ portal to their planet. It also reports that the werewolves were rescued by yet another wormhole. Am I to assume that means that other creatures are supporting them in this attack?”
Jack stood, his hands gripping the table, steeling himself for what he was about to reveal. “Not Mythicals. There is another group of aliens that you have not been made aware of. They are called Pilgrims. They—”
“The Pilgrim cult?” asked Litt. “They are aliens?”
“Yes. They are from a parallel planet, called Earth. Its species are called humans. They have been infiltrating Thera for decades, with a view toward colonizing it. And, Mr. President, I have been informed since we last met that I am one of them. I am human, not Theran.”
Eller leaped to his feet and launched an enraged tirade, with Jack and the Mythicals trying to convince the president and the science adviser that Jack’s actions had proved his loyalty to Therans and his sincerity in preventing the Palliation.
Finally, Eller sat down, his expression one of smoldering anger. “Perhaps you are not a traitor to us; but you are certainly a traitor to your own species,” he said.
“I didn’t even know my species until recently,” said Jack, holding his hands wide in a placating gesture. “Mr. President, let me continue to help Thera, to help the Mythicals. Let me continue to prove myself.”
Litt, who had been staring coldly, analytically at Jack through Eller’s tirade, said quietly, “Prove yourself by giving us actionable intelligence. For example, did closing the werewolves’ interdimensional aperture prevent them from launching their attack?”
Jack shook his head emphatically. “Not at all. We have to assume that they made sure they had the technicians on this side to launch the Palliation.”
“Can we jam any triggering signal?”
“Probably not. We have to assume they engineered the orbiting devices to be triggered manually, to avoid such jamming.”
“Then we must immediately launch our missiles to destroy the generators,” declared the science adviser.
“It’s worth a try,” said Jack. “But again, the werewolves are excellent military strategists. We have to believe they will have defensive mechanisms in place.”
“Our missiles are fast enough to penetrate any defenses,” declared Eller, beckoning to an assistant. He instructed her to pass on his order to the military to organize a global missile attack on the orbiting generators.
“My generals have told me it will take about a day to target the missiles, and coordinate a simultaneous worldwide attack,” he said.
Ryan uttered a series of raspy screeches, which Sam translated as, “He says that the missile attack shouldn’t happen just yet. We still have six more days left on the ultimatum the werewolves gave. We should use that time for another approach to stopping the Palliation.”
“Surely, the werewolves will not honor their deadline,” said Eller.
“You can be certain that they will,” said A’eiio. “Whatever you think of their barbarity, they live by a code of honor. And their leaders have pledged to give Thera time to decide to implement the Remediation. You must reconsider your decision against it.”
“We will not,” said Eller coldly. “We will not suffer the huge political and economic damage of such a drastic change in our energy sources. And as you well know, the Remediation includes oppressive social strictures that we can simply not abide by. We will manage our future as we see fit.”
The president stood, preparing to leave, signaling that the discussion was closed. “I know that my colleagues around the globe feel the same.”
“It’s your planet,” said A’eiio. “We can only help you escape its destruction by other Mythicals. Your own fate is in your hands.”
“As it should be,” said Eller. “Now, let’s say our missiles are not completely successful. They will—”
He was interrupted by a loud complaining grunt from Steve. The troll hauled his squat body onto the conference table, and faced the president.
“The human Jack March has told you it will not be successful,” he rumbled. “And the elf would tell you the same, if you could understand him.” Ryan the elf made a high-pitched creaking sound in assent. Steve continued. “We have gleaned what knowledge we can about the structure of these generators. They are hardened. They are protected. Your race will die, unless you do something besides send your primitive rockets at them.”
“Primitive? I hardly think so,” said Eller. “They will be successful. Besides, there is no other way.”
During the arguments, Jack had sat with his head bowed in thought.
“Maybe there is,” he said. He stood and turned his back to the group, reaching up to lift the hair on his neck to reveal a small pink scar. “The Mythicals Wardens inserted this chip into me. A termination chip, so they could kill me anywhere, anytime. Do the werewolves have such chips?”
“They do,” said the troll. “In fact, we adapted their technology for the chip that you and other unmanageable Mythicals . . . like me for instance . . . have.” The troll turned his head and lifted his mop of stringy white hair to reveal a similar scar in his leathery brown skin.
“Could we somehow activate their chips?” asked Jack.
“No chance,” said the troll. “The codes are in the high-security control center . . . impossible to access by anybody but a werewolf . . . and a werewolf controller at that.”
The elf skrittered in agreement.
“But there is a chance,” said Jack, tapping his fingers emphatically on the table. “I know how we might get those codes!” He turned to Wendy, smiling.
“I can’t,” sobbed Meri, shaking her head in despair. “I just can’t! They will kill me. They will kill my family! They will kill him.” Nestling against Geniato, the fragile-looking young girl wiped her eyes, and Geniato put his arm around her.
“You could cause Meri’s death,” Geniato declared. “And you are asking her to risk the lives of her loved ones. She is not equipped to do this. She only became an Ally of the werewolves because she stumbled on one in the forest taking off his disguise. She did not put herself in this terrible position. They call her an indenture, lowest form of life, and they would kill her with no thought.”
He looked up with a pleading expression at Wendy the angel, who had only months earlier invaded his cramped apartment, upending his life and recruiting him as an Ally.
Wendy protectively folded her white wings around the two of them as they sat on the couch, and regarded them sadly.
Across from them in the hotel suite sat Jack, Sam, A’eiio, and E’iouy. Not present were the more frightening Mythicals—the troll, the elf, and the ogre. And certainly not the vampires, whom Meri had witnessed cold-bloodedly killing a cadre of indenture werewolves in Jack’s apartment. Those Mythicals’ presence would have thwarted the plan to enlist the timorous Meri.
“We know we are asking you to risk everything,” said Wendy gently. “But this would save Thera and all the people in it.”
Jack leaned forward and took her hand. “Th
e termination codes that you could take from the werewolves could stop the Palliation. You understand what a catastrophe the Palliation would be. You and all your loved ones . . .” Jack raised his hand in an expansive gesture, “. . . all our loved ones, would perish.”
Sam sat beside the diminutive girl and embraced her. “You are strong, Meri,” she said gently. “You have endured working for those beasts. You can do this.”
All of them tacitly decided that silence was the best persuader—that simply letting the enormity of the Palliation sink in would bring the girl around.
Meri leaned forward, placing her hands over her face, shaking her head. Then, after a long moment, the shaking stopped. She looked up, tears welling in her brown eyes, her hands trembling.
“I will try,” she declared, her voice quavering. “I will try.”
• • •
The werewolf praetorians towered over the humans, as they stood at the controls of the Pilgrim wormhole in the battered, cavernous hangar on the Earth side. As they piloted the wormhole, the view screen showed the thickly wooded landscape of Thera passing beneath. They brought the aperture to hover just above the forest floor, in a clearing outside a Pilgrim colony. They held position, as the humans transported through the airlock and to the colony the last cylinders containing what the Pilgrims described as hardened electronic equipment.
Flaktuckmetang could not resist a veiled insult aimed at the Pilgrims.
“It is such a beautiful planet,” he said. “Fortunately, that one will remain so.” He curled his black lips and pointedly glanced around at the ruined building surrounding them. Out a large window in the building rose the scarred steel wall of the Pilgrim compound, a reminder that this was a last bastion, under constant siege, of a species that had ruined its own world.
Christopher ignored the taunt. “You are prepared, I take it,” he said tersely.
The Alpha praetorian answered just as coldly. “Of course. Complete your tasks quickly. We must trigger the generators before they figure a way to stop us.”
“I thought you were confident in your engineering,” said Christopher. Now it was his turn to taunt.
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