“Just finish,” grumped the Alpha. To emphasize his impatience, he flicked a claw at Flaktuckmetang.
“I am ready to monitor the activation,” answered Flaktuckmetang, a touch too much eagerness in his voice.
“No,” said the Alpha. “You are to go through to Thera. You are to report to the commander of our camp. You are to coordinate any necessary surgical strikes on any Theran missiles.”
“Sir, I could offer—” began Flaktuckmetang, but the Alpha cut him off by turning away and signaling that the werewolf engineers should be fetched.
They appeared immediately, and the lead engineer began donning the pressure suit, while the others checked its fittings and attached the tools he would need.
Careful to keep his scowl to himself, Flaktuckmetang obediently entered the chamber and made his way through the hole to the Theran side.
“All right, all right,” said Christopher. “We are ready. Give us the coordinates of the first generator.”
The lieutenant stepped forward, handing a tablet computer to the wormhole’s pilot. The Pilgrim typed in the coordinates, and on the view screen, the Theran landscape instantly fell away, as the wormhole leaped into the sky, speeding into space.
An involuntary grunt arose from some of the observers, both Pilgrim and werewolf. They could not avoid feeling the sense of vertigo from the stunning acceleration of the hole in the other universe, while their side remained still.
After mere minutes, one shining, star-like object appeared in the obsidian, star-filled sky on the view screen. It quickly grew and resolved itself into the large cylinder of an EMP generator, its solar wings spread, its parabolic dish pointed at Thera.
The Alpha allowed himself a smile. “Now, we can begin to cleanse this planet,” he said.
• • •
“I am going in,” whispered Meri, pushing through the thick brush toward the distant sounds of snarling werewolf speech.
“Okay, you’re fine,” said Jack gently in her earpiece. He had been enlisted as communicator, since Meri had been so anxious about working with any Mythicals. So, she heard only in the background the gruff voice of Steve the troll.
“Tell her the camera is working fine and to hurry it up,” said Steve. “She’ll get caught.”
Meri touched her ear to make sure the earpiece was snugly inserted and not visible. Then, she touched the tiny camera attached to her dress. “Tell me where to go,” she said, almost pleadingly. “I don’t know where to go.”
“Don’t worry,” said Jack. “These Mythicals know enough about werewolf camps to direct you.”
She had taken a dozen steps forward, when a massive figure loomed before her, a praetorian sentinel. She gasped and shrank back against a tree, as the armored soldier raised his rifle, aiming it at her chest.
“Tell me why I shouldn’t shoot you and drag your body into the woods,” he said in accented, guttural Theran. “Even make a meal of you.”
“I’m an Ally!” she exclaimed.
“You mean an indenture. Who is your master?”
“Your Alpha. He’ll want to see me.” She took a deep breath to steady herself; to make her commands sound authoritative. “Let me through.”
“He is not at the camp. So, we will put you in with the other indentures until he returns.”
“Call him. Tell him I have returned with intelligence he needs.”
“He is on the other side of a wormhole . . . out of range.” With that the praetorian grabbed Meri by the arm and lifted her off the ground, turning toward camp.
In her ear, she heard Jack say, “You can’t be imprisoned! You need to be free! Tell him something!”
As she was being dragged through the brush, the pain from the praetorian’s vice-like grip lancing through her arm, Meri thought furiously, then declared, “He has an assignment for me that requires me to get information from others in the camp.”
The guard stopped, held her up to his fanged face, and demanded “What assignment? What is it?”
“I am not to divulge that.”
The guard shook her violently, snapping her head back and forth. “What assignment!” He smiled, perhaps at the enjoyment of threatening the Alpha’s indenture.
Breathless with fear, Meri managed to stammer out a retort that she hoped would stop him. “I am instructed to tell no one . . . especially an ordinary praetorian. Shall I tell the Alpha that his commands were not honored?”
The praetorian’s eyes widened slightly, his fanged grin disappearing. He knew that countermanding an Alpha would bring summary disembowelment and discarding of his corpse, including his head—the ultimate shame to his clan. He lowered Meri to the ground, giving her an annoyed shove toward the camp.
She stumbled to the ground, hauled herself up, and turned back to the guard, saying submissively, “Thank you, sir. I shall tell the Alpha that you aided my assignment.”
“Clever girl,” she heard Jack say. “You may need him later. Now just walk through the camp. We’re with you all the way. We need to find the communications center. That would have the controls for their termination chips.”
Meri entered the camp, a collection of several dozen huge, gray inflatable airdomes, some glowing from the lights inside. The paths between them were crowded with praetorians hauling equipment, cleaning their weapons, or lounging in front of their airdome barracks watching a blood-feud battle between champions of two rival packs.
She passed several other airdomes, peering into each one. Jack and Steve examined them through the camera and urged her on, the impatient troll muttering, “Go! Go! Keep looking.”
She passed the armory dome with its racks of assault rifles, and finally the feeding dome. There hundreds of werewolves gathered according to their pack, around large carcasses, tearing at the raw meat, squabbling, and growling. The combined odor of flesh and the musk of male werewolves exuded from its doorway.
“Good,” she heard Jack say. “It’s feeding time. That may give you access. Just stay calm.”
She came to two interconnected domes that had three guards posted at the entrance, and they glared suspiciously at her. A praetorian emerged with a tablet in his hand, scrutinizing its screen.
“That could be it,” said Steve. “It’s a big one, and they’d want that for the control center.”
Jack added encouragingly. “You did it! Can you get closer?”
Trying to show an air of confidence, as if she were really on assignment from the Alpha, she walked toward the dome entrance.
The guard praetorians, moved to block her way, glaring down at her from their imposing height.
“Keep moving, indenture. You have no business here.”
Meri stopped, not sure what to do next. Luckily, Jack’s voice in her ear gave her a way in.
“Tell them you have information about the Palliation for the controllers.”
Meri drew herself to her full modest height, declaring, “The Alpha dispatched me among my people to gather information on their response to the ultimatum. The controllers will want to know what I found. The Alpha will need the information when he returns.”
“You are not to enter,” declared the guard.
Now, Meri decided, was the time to use their low opinion of her. “Do I look like a risk to you . . . to the controllers?” she asked, in a soft, vulnerable tone. “Me? An indenture? I only want to please. To fulfill the terms of my agreement.”
One of the guards shifted slightly, which Meri took as a sign of their uncertainty. She stepped tentatively forward, and the two behemoths finally gave a dismissive wave and let her through.
“Great!” said Jack. “Now, you’ll want to make yourself as inconspicuous as possible . . . and try to find the control console for the termination system.”
“What does it look like?” she asked.
Now, she heard Steve’s voice, but her adventure had made her confident enough that she was no longer frightened of the troll. “It’ll have a view screen showing maps and icons where all
their soldiers are,” said the troll.
Meri entered the dome, scanning the inside surface. It was covered with a profusion of projected maps, video images of praetorians, and other data.
The dome was also crowded with uniformed werewolves, who sat in an outward-facing ring of throne-like, control-studded chairs. Through the camera and microphone on Meri, Jack and the others could tell they were intently monitoring werewolf patrols around the planet and dispatching commands. The dome was also redolent with the cloying musky odor of werewolf bodies.
Despite the disquieting aroma, Meri breathed a sigh of relief. Nobody was looking at her, a mere indenture. Their attention was on the displays, as they went about their duties.
“Scan the dome with the camera,” instructed Steve. “Let me see the projections.”
Moving slowly, trying to look as casual and inconspicuous as possible, Meri slipped past werewolves standing in the dome and to the dome’s center. Now with the full dome and its projections visible, she slowly turned a full circle, hoping that none of the soldiers noticed the strange behavior.
“There!” exclaimed Steve. “There’s the projection from the termination system.”
“What do I do now?” she asked.
“Try to figure out which of those beasts is paying attention to that specific display,” said Steve.
Meri scrutinized the werewolves occupying the chairs. She finally saw that one of the controllers, an obese, gray-furred werewolf, had his eyes riveted on that display. Periodically, he would touch a button, or wave his claw in the air, to zoom in on one map or bring up another, apparently tracking the movements of the praetorians.
“I see him,” whispered Meri, turning so that the camera was aimed at the controller.
“Yes, that’s him,” said Steve. “Get yourself into position. You have the comm-chip ready?”
“Yes.” Meri fished the fingernail-sized chip from the pocket in her dress and clutched it tightly.
“I’ll tell you where it needs to go. Just stay low. Get as close to the control console as you can.”
Meri scanned nervously about, looking for a way to get near the monitoring chair. A way presented itself when one of the controllers heaved himself out of his chair, and trundled away, scratching between his legs and growling. That left two chairs empty.
“I can get between those chairs into the center consoles,” said Meri.
“Do it!” exclaimed Steve.
Waiting until as many gleaming yellow werewolf eyes as possible were aimed in the other direction, Meri ducked down and crawled between the empty chairs. She managed to nestle herself next to the huge collection of cylinders that were the werewolves’ master control computers. An electronic warmth emanated from the computers, heightening the musky werewolf-smell in the dome.
“I’m there,” she whispered.
“I can see that,” said Steve. “Now try to make it around to the computer just behind the controller who’s monitoring the termination chips.”
Meri crawled slowly past the empty chair, then taking a tremulous breath, crawled behind those occupied by controller-werewolves. Fortunately, they were intent on their work, emitting only an occasional guttural growl.
She reached her target, holding up the comm-chip that would enable Steve to remotely tap into the computer and download the termination codes.
“What do I do?” she asked, pleadingly. “I don’t have much time.”
“Aim the camera toward the computer. I need to see the access panels.”
Meri did as she was told.
“Now, you see the small panel on the left side? Pull it open.”
Meri did so, revealing a confusion of wires and electronic circuit boards.
“That’s it!” exclaimed Steve. “See the circuit in the middle? See the chip slots? Put the chip into the lower slot next to the red light! Hurry!”
Meri found the slot, and shoved the chip into it. She quickly snapped the cover back into place.
“Wait!” commanded Steve. “You didn’t let me test the link!”
“Well, I had to—” began Meri. But then she began to scream, the sound quickly stifled by a claw clutching her neck. Strangling, she was dragged from behind the chair out into the dome.
She was surrounded by snarling, slavering werewolves, but only one face mattered.
Flaktuckmetang held her up struggling before him, his fangs bared, his face so close she could smell his fetid breath. “What are you doing here!” he growled. “What treachery are you committing?”
“The picture is dark!” exclaimed Geniato. “The picture is all dark! What happened?”
He stood with Jack and the Mythicals in the control room of the Theran military command, staring desperately at the large screen. It showed nothing. As the werewolves had dragged Meri from their control dome, the view screen had shown the camera attached to her dress gyrating wildly. The speakers in the control room had reverberated with her cries for help. But now the screen was dark, the speaker silent.
“They could be smashed! She could be dead!” exclaimed Geniato.
“Or, she could just be in a dark place . . . a cell,” said Jack. “She could be all right.”
“We can’t worry about her now,” said Steve. The troll feverishly waved his gnarly fingers in the air to manipulate the virtual symbols—attempting to decipher the termination codes he had managed to steal from the werewolves’ computer. As he worked, he muttered to himself in the gravelly language of trolls.
Ryan looked over the troll’s shoulder, his elfin, goggle-covered eyes fixed on the screen. He squeaked some suggestions, which were translated by Sam into troll language. The troll answered with an occasional grunt, and continued.
“Do you have the codes?” asked Jack.
“He’s not sure,” said Sam. “The werewolves could have detected the spy chip and fed him false codes. Or, the codes could be outdated by the time we try to use them.”
The Theran defense minister—a spindly man with an angular face and a bush of gray hair—interrupted, pointing at another wall-sized screen. It showed the blue and white ball of Thera hanging in space. The orbital space surrounding the planet was festooned with blinking red dots marking the EMP generators.
“We’ve now pinpointed all the generators,” said the minister. “We can see their image in both visible light and microwaves, to detect any pulse they produce. Couldn’t we scan them to find the Pilgrim wormhole and destroy it the way we did the werewolves’?”
“Not likely,” said E’iouy. “Nobody . . . at least no Theran . . . has tracked a wormhole in flight. They’re stealthy; very little electromagnetic signature. That’s why wormholes could remain undetected for so long.”
“But you closed the werewolf aperture,” said Jack.
“They were stationary. Easy, visual target. They had no idea what we were planning.”
On the screen, a shimmering cone of light erupted from one of the blinking dots, coursing downward to splash a blood-red circle on the planet’s surface. The circle turned black.
“NO!” shouted the defense minister. “THEY’VE TRIGGERED ONE!”
A frightened clamor echoed through the center, as the Theran engineers urgently scrutinized their console screens for clues to the target.
“Aslandia is struck!” exclaimed one of the engineers. “It is devastated. All signals lost.”
“Well, if we can’t destroy the wormhole, we must target the generators,” said the defense minister. “Can we launch?”
One of the engineers tapped a key on his console to bring up on the wall screen the image of the activated generator. The gleaming cylinder was suspended against the blackness of space, its solar panels extended. Next to it lurked the glowing wormhole. “It’s stationary! We can target it!” exclaimed the engineer. “Aslandia’s neighboring country has a missile targeted.”
On another screen, a white missile streaked aloft on a pillar of smoke and flame from a desert base into an azure sky.
Within minutes, the screen depicted the missile homing on the generator and wormhole.
“On target!” exclaimed the engineer.
The missile exploded—a silent, blast that spewed an expanding cloud of debris.
“Got it!” exclaimed Jack.
But A’eiio’s expression remained grave. “No, we didn’t.”
Sure enough, the generator remained as before, intact.
As if in answer, the screen displaying the globe of Thera showed yet another red dot abruptly expanding, transmitting another cone of death onto the planet below.
“Bajanta is hit,” declared one of the engineers grimly.
“Population ten million,” said the defense minister, slumping into a chair.
“As I thought,” said A’eiio, her wings sadly wafting back and forth. “The generators have protective mechanisms . . . some kind of high-energy beam that can detonate incoming missiles before impact. And we can’t possibly target the wormhole. We can’t detect it when stationary. And since it has no mass, it can instantly accelerate far away, after a generator is triggered.”
Another dot blossomed on the screen, to cries of despair. The burst targeted Tralia and surrounding countries, announced the engineer, putting his hands to his face in despair.
A screen showed another missile arcing upward from a launch pad near the country, only to detonate ineffectually far from the generator.
“We’re helpless,” said A’eiio. “Unless we can get the termination codes, we can only watch the planet die, country by country.”
“Maybe there is something we can do,” said Jack, turning to the defense minister. “I remember when I did a piece on missile technology, that your defense directorate was developing new, multiple-warhead targeting capability.”
“Well, yes,” said the defense minister, his brow furrowing. “The missiles were originally meant to aim at separate ground targets. But it was decided to upgrade their capability to hit multiple targets in space, in case we had to take out, for example, a collection of satellites. But these EMP generators are too far apart to use that technology.”
“No, you don’t target the separate generators with a missile. You target one generator with multiple warheads, including the dummies that I believe are on each booster!”
Mythicals Page 23
