A’eiio interjected, “That might overwhelm the generators’ defenses!”
Nodding his head in realization, the defense minister issued an order to the engineers, who turned to their controls, taking on the urgent task of programming a multiple-warhead missile to home its payloads on a single target.
Another dot blossomed on the screen, marking another country attacked.
“Do other countries have the multiple-warhead capability?” asked Jack.
“Not sure,” said the defense minister tersely. “Nations keep their technology secret.”
“But you can tell them what we’re trying, right?”
“And give them classified information?” The defense minister shook his head decisively.
E’iouy laughed derisively. “You’re worried about secrets when your planet is under attack? Minister, you have a responsibility beyond your own country.”
Scowling at E’iouy for a long moment, the minister finally turned to his communication officer and instructed him to transmit globally the data on the multiple-warhead plan.
“The programming is done,” announced the chief engineer. “But for now, we can only target one of several generators over our country.”
“Launch what you can then!” exclaimed the minister.
Within moments, a view screen showed the fiery blast of a large intercontinental missile bursting from its silo in a roiling cloud of vapor and accelerating skyward.
Another screen showed its target, an orbiting EMP generator, ominously with a wormhole hovering alongside it.
“They’re targeting us!” exclaimed an engineer, closely scrutinizing the image. “I see a figure at the wormhole, preparing to come through!”
Silence shrouded the control room, as the screen showed the missile vaulting upward, an onboard camera showing ejection of the broad nose cone that was its payload. That payload separated into a dozen warheads. First, one of the warheads disintegrated, then another, as the phalanx sped toward the generator. But then two warheads penetrated the generator’s defense, exploding it into a myriad shimmering pieces that spun away into space.
The room erupted in cheers, stopping only when Steve, who had been crouched over a console, typing furiously, waved his gnarled hand and grunted loudly for attention.
“I think I have the codes!” he exclaimed. Ryan the elf emitted an emphatic screech, signaling his agreement.
“Only one way to find out,” said Jack. “Try them!”
Steve activated a wall screen showing a map of Thera festooned with black, werewolf-skull icons.
“Those mark the positions of the werewolf soldiers,” said the troll. “The warriors with active termination chips.”
“But they are all on the planet,” said the defense minister. “None in orbit. We must target those . . . the engineers . . . not the soldiers on the planet.”
“The engineers are out of range, on the other side of the Pilgrim aperture,” said Jack. “Their positions wouldn’t show. They have to come through. Just wait. They’ll come.”
“Then take out whoever you can,” said the minister coldly.
• • •
The Pilgrim wormhole sped through space toward the orbiting EMP generator, periodically adjusting its course to rendezvous. The generator’s large parabolic dish was aimed at the daytime face of Thera below, with its blue oceans, wispy clouds, and continents tinged with green and brown.
The hole halted instantly, as would an aperture in space-time that possessed no mass, no inertia. A space-suited werewolf praetorian emerged from the hole’s shimmering surface, floating, trailing a safety line, propelling himself with a precise shove from the exit ladder toward the generator’s control panel.
“Skip the system check,” commanded the Alpha over his suit communicator. “They might launch more missiles. Just trigger the generator so we can escape.”
“Yes, Alpha,” said the praetorian, his gaze warily sweeping the planet’s surface for approaching missiles. Using the wrench strung on his wrist, he deftly opened the control panel, revealing the keypad and red button that would trigger the generator.
“This will be perhaps the most satisfying of all,” said the Alpha. “The Confederated States have been our most annoying adversaries.”
Hanging onto the cylinder with one hand, the suited werewolf laboriously punched in the activation code, a task made difficult by his bulky suit glove. But even as he completed keying in the code, his movement suddenly ceased, his hand hovering motionless over the red button. The other hand released its grasp on the cylinder, and the werewolf floated inertly in space.
“Push the button,” commanded the Alpha from the Pilgrim control room on the other side of the hole.
The suited werewolf did not move.
“Push the button!” he commanded even more forcefully.
Still no movement.
Then, to his lieutenant, the Alpha growled, “He must be hesitating because there are Mythicals down there he may know.”
“But he’s dead!” exclaimed the Pilgrim pointing to a display of the praetorian’s vital signs. The line registering the heartbeat was flat.
“Dead?” asked the Alpha in surprise. But after only a brief pause, he waved his claw in casual dismissal. “Perhaps a suit malfunction. Send another. He was a praetorian. He will be honored in death. His clan will be proud.”
The dead engineer was hauled in by a space-suited Pilgrim from within the wormhole. The engineer’s face was a mask of death, droplets of blood floating inside the helmet.
Outside the outer airlock of the Pilgrim chamber, another praetorian climbed into a suit. Given the fate of his comrade, he meticulously fastened its seals and rechecked them. He stepped through the door into the airlock chamber, and after it depressurized, moved through the inner door into the airless vacuum surrounding the wormhole. He pulled himself up the ladder and pushed off through the hole toward the generator.
“Alpha, I am now—” but then the second engineer went limp, floating inertly past the generator, tugging his safety line taught.
“What is happening?” exclaimed the Alpha. “Check the suits for sabotage! Send another!”
One after another praetorian engineer was dispatched through the hole, each immediately dying, until the vacuum chamber became piled with the dead bodies of five suited praetorians.
“You shouldn’t send any more, until we figure out what is going on,” suggested the Pilgrim operating the wormhole.
“Contact our surface force,” instructed the Alpha. “They may know what is causing this problem.” The Alpha paced the control room, muttering darkly.
An antenna was extended through the wormhole. After a long moment, the lieutenant looked up from the comm station, saying, “I have received only one reply,”
“Who?”
“Flaktuckmetang. He says all the others are dead. He says their termination chips were somehow activated. He says he was spared because his had been destroyed in the first EMP experiment.”
• • •
The werewolf once known as Senator Warren Lee—what seemed like a lifetime ago—stood stunned amid hundreds of corpses of his species. The foul stink of death rose from the jumble of furred bodies. Some still clutched weapons, ready to enter the Pilgrim wormhole once it returned from its mission. Now, they were a battalion of the dead. Others had been hauling crates of explosives and had collapsed silently beside them.
How dishonorable a death! thought Flaktuckmetang. How cowardly were these Therans, this human Jack March, to mass-murder his fellow warriors in such a despicable manner! They had not died in battle. Their clans would not honor them. Their heads would not be displayed in the Hall of the Fallen Warriors.
True, he was no warrior, but he would avenge this perfidy. Someday, when he had died a natural death after a long and richly rewarded life, his valor would be remembered. Somehow, he would navigate the network of Mythicals wormholes back to his home planet, and would die there, his head to be severed and
displayed.
He made one more reconnoiter of the camp to make sure that all the praetorians were, indeed, dead. Then, he returned to the control dome, where the image of the furious Alpha was projected on the wall.
He made his report, and the Alpha replied, “The Therans are targeting the generators with multiple warheads. You must stop the missiles. We cannot return through the aperture, so it is also up to you to avenge the cowardly act of killing our comrades.”
Flaktuckmetang shifted uneasily before the large image. He didn’t want to appear anything less that stalwart. But he had to ask an obvious question. “How shall I proceed, given that I am only one?”
The Alpha glared at him for a long moment, then said, “You are bordering on insubordination to even ask that question of your superior. But I have an agreement from the Pilgrims. There are two brothers on the planet, the Clarks. They are sending Theran mercenaries to your site. They will aid you in your mission.”
“Excellent! Excellent!” declared Flaktuckmetang with renewed eagerness. “I apologize for the presumption, Alpha. I should have known you were making strategic plans that would lead to glorious success. I can—”
“I have also begun communication with the Mythical Wardens,” interrupted the Alpha. “I am seeking to persuade them that the human Jack March has committed a capital offense against the Alliance by participating with the Therans in the mass-murder of our praetorians. I am asking that they supply the termination code for him, so that you may end his life as ignominiously as he did our brave comrades.”
Flaktuckmetang grinned, showing his fangs. This would be a marvelous revenge! He saluted the Alpha and moved quickly out of the control dome, past the dozens of bodies to the prison dome. There, he walked down the rows of isolation cells, where prisoners were kept in pitch dark and sensory-deprived silence. All the werewolf prisoners were dead. But the Theran was not. She would be his way to glory.
He opened the door to see, laying inert on the plastic floor, the indenture Meri. She remained unconscious from the beating he and the other werewolves had administered. He hauled her up and clasped her bruised, puffy face in his claw, shaking and slapping it, until her less swollen eye opened, staring at him dully.
“Where is Jack March?” he demanded. “Where can I find him?”
Her head lolled forward, and she mumbled something he did not understand. He leaned closer.
She took a deep breath and spit in his face.
With a roar of rage, he slammed his claw into her head, lifted her up, and flung her over his shoulder. He did not notice her small ear piece dislodge itself and fall to the floor. Nor did he notice the camera that had ripped away from her dress and was also on the floor.
“I will bring you around,” he declared. “I will make you tell me what I need to know.” He stalked out, with her body hanging limp, swaying with each step, like a rag doll.
“The werewolves were not . . . shall we say . . . as cooperative as we would have liked,” said the rotund Christopher, settling his bulk into a chair in Nathan and David Clark’s log-home mansion. He took a sip from the glass of very expensive, well-aged Theran liquor, as Nathan Clark sitting on the couch across from him did the same.
“You mean they were too untrusting to give you the trigger codes for the EMP generators,” said David, sitting beside his brother, swirling his drink around in the glass, contemplating its rich amber hue.
“I tried to convince them. I pointed out that if their troops on Thera were compromised . . . or their engineers . . . they could not trigger the Palliation,” said Christopher. “And that is exactly what happened. The Mythicals obtained the codes for their termination chips. We watched the werewolf ground troops die. We watched the engineers die in orbit. Now they cannot transit from Earth to Thera without being killed.”
“Hmph. Mythicals,” muttered David, taking a sip, as if to rid his mouth of the taste of the word.
“We need the generator trigger codes,” said Christopher. “How will you accomplish that?”
“We can persuade the creatures,” answered another voice. It was from a bald, muscular man in green fatigues and wearing a black machine pistol as a sidearm. “Even these animals’ pride won’t last long with our methods of persuasion,” said Allan Roberson. The mercenary leaned forward in the leather chair beside Christopher.
Christopher grunted sarcastically. “You Therans believe that torture is the only way. That really is your style, isn’t it?”
“You pay, we give results,” said Roberson matter-of-factly.
“And, indeed, we are happy to procure your services and those of your fellow Theran soldiers,” said Nathan. He turned to Christopher. “Captain Roberson and his security group have served us well in past missions, and I am sure they will serve us well this time.”
“And I need to get my men into the field, to begin the mission, to meet the animals,” said Roberson. “So, I need to know the parameters of that mission.”
“Certainly,” said Nathan, rising to stoke the fire in the massive stone fireplace. “First of all, you are to give the creature who is your contact . . . the werewolf with the absurd name . . . Flak-something . . . the impression that you have been dispatched to aid him in his quest. You are to help him obtain the codes from his leader so he can trigger the Palliation. And failing that, you are to obtain the codes by whatever means, so we can do it ourselves.”
“I require a sufficient force,” said Roberson. “I have recruited a thousand men . . . all professional, all battle-hardened. You will pay?”
“Whatever you require; whatever equipment you need,” said Nathan.
Roberson turned to Christopher. “And I expect my men to be in command of sufficient forces from your own human colonies.”
“Agreed,” said Christopher.
“So, then, I need you to explicitly state our mission,” said Roberson.
“As you know, the beasts have orbited several hundred electromagnetic pulse generators,” said Christopher. “They are capable of obliterating the infrastructure of the nations they target. They have already struck several regions. Your mission is to take whatever steps necessary to make sure that their so-called Palliation is successful, and that Thera is cleansed.”
“Cleansed?” spat Roberson. “So, you are asking us to ensure the destruction of our own people?” The mercenary now rose to tower over the group, his hand on his pistol, his eyes moving from man to man, as if deciding whom to target first.
“Yes,” said David coolly. “And you and your men . . . and whatever companions and family they wish to include . . . will be fully protected from any danger. Either evacuated through our wormhole to Earth or safely housed in our colonies here. And once the Palliation has run its course, you will be offered wealth beyond any you have ever conceived of. And you will be among those leading the rebuilding of your civilization . . . the power elite . . . oligarchs.”
After a long moment staring impassively at them, Roberson took his hand off his pistol and folded his arms. “Hmm,” he said, a faint smile now rising on his face. He cocked his head in satisfied assent. “Well, then, I will speak to my men, and I’m sure that they will agree to those terms.”
“And those who don’t?” asked Christopher.
“I guarantee security. Accidents happen,” said Roberson.
Nathan leaned against the fireplace, ruefully shaking his head. “I see that Therans are more like we humans than I had appreciated.”
“I understand there is more to the mission,” said Roberson.
“We have secretly transported about a hundred thermonuclear surface-to-air missiles to our colonies,” said Christopher. “We will use them to close the Mythicals’ wormholes. When targeted to those apertures, they will also devastate the terminals and the cities on the other side.”
“And you want us to launch those missiles?”
“Yes, just after the Palliation and when the Mythicals’ wormholes have arrived at the planet surface, to return their creat
ures,” said Christopher.
“Leaving this planet to humans.”
“And to select Therans such as you and your men.”
Roberson laughed sarcastically. “And, of course, if anything goes wrong, we are giving you humans deniability. It will have been those ‘monsters’ the Theran mercenaries . . . us . . . who attempted this heinous act.”
Nathan waved his hands dismissively. “But nothing will go wrong, we trust, given your expertise, and given that you have the incentive of immense wealth and power.”
“Incentive doesn’t aim missiles,” said Roberson. “I know enough about these wormholes to know that they have never been tracked.”
“Until now,” said Christopher. “An engineer in one of our colonies has identified a characteristic electromagnetic signature of the wormholes. He has developed a targeting technique. Even now, our missiles are being programmed with the necessary targeting data.”
“And you’re sure it will work?”
“The missiles will target the wormholes, they will penetrate them, and the blast will close them and devastate the other side.” Christopher poured himself another drink and took a healthy sip.
• • •
Flaktuckmetang braced himself against the vicious gale buffeting his body and let it blow away all the frustration and disappointment that had seemed to engulf him like a shroud. Standing on a ledge, he peered out over the wind-blasted landscape of the ogre planet, with its thick mat of low vegetation that had evolved to resist the constant winds.
He grinned, showing fangs. This was exactly the punishing climate he needed for the Warden Council meeting; and since he had requested the meeting, he was allowed to specify the location. The crushing gravity, the winds, the deluges of pelting rain, and the smothering heat would all be highly uncomfortable for those puny Mythical species that had been the werewolves’ most implacable opponents—notably, the fairies, pixies, elves, angels, and leprechauns.
He had arrived earlier to prepare, and now the wormhole approached that brought those species to the planet. It paused before the yawning entrance to the vast subterranean city excavated into the mountain range that was the ogre’s regional capitol. The ogres were diggers by nature, and over the eons they had tunneled far, creating a planet of subterranean metropolises.
Mythicals Page 24
