Interstellar

by Bob Mayer

  “Believe what you will,” Arcturus said. “Maybe they found it too difficult to rule the world and realized they had little need to do so to accomplish what they are here for? They have enough who worship them and the rest are so unorganized they pose no threat. And all pay the Tally or they die. One could say that as long as they have the Tally, they rule every human, do they not?”

  “What do you want?”

  “Once more, I must ask, do you mean in the immediate or the larger sense? It is difficult to conduct conversation when threatened by a weapon. Would you not feel the same?”

  “I do feel the same,” Bren said. “Tell your creature to heel.”

  “That is a decision she makes on her own,” Arcturus said. “But if it makes you feel any better, she’s moved off.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Do you not sense her absence?”

  Bren sniffed, nostrils flaring. Scanned the forest. She sheathed the sword and faced him, putting a hand on each hip. “Tell me what you will, old man, and spare me negotiating your word puzzles. I must be moving soon. Every minute we waste, they get farther away.”

  Arcturus smiled. “I like that. To the point.” He looked to the north. “You’ll track them. But would it not be better if we get to their destination ahead of them?”

  “It would be, if I knew who they were and where they were going,” she agreed.

  “Who did Markus anticipate meeting here, so far ahead of your army?” Arcturus asked. “Correction. King Cetic’s Great Alliance.”

  Bren didn’t respond.

  “Someone with critical information? Someone you hoped could help you breach the walls of Atlantis? Perhaps sneak in? Assassinate the Airlia?”

  Bren remained silent.

  Arcturus nodded. “Secrets. They are necessary in war. But it appears you and Markus were betrayed.”

  “Who killed Markus?”

  “Two warrior-guides, wargs as most call them, accompanied by a platoon of Shakur mercenaries. He made a good fight of it, killing four Shakur. But a sword has limited effectiveness against arrows. The Shakur dead were carried a short distance and in their people’s way, thrown on a pyre. Their ashes still smolder not far from here in a pit.”

  “You saw the fight?”

  “I heard, but was too distant to see.”

  “And your four-legged friend was also too far?”

  “She makes her own decisions in which affairs of men to meddle. Usually, that decision is to not do so.”

  Bren shook her head. “You said this isn’t chance. You being here. Now. Why?”

  “It is what it is.”

  “That means nothing.”

  “It means everything,” Arcturus disagreed. “Who was Markus meeting?”

  No answer.

  Arcturus spoke. “What do you hope to accomplish with your, correction, King Cetic’s army, other than humans killing humans? As things stand now, you’ll never get close to any of the Airlia. You’ll never get near Atlantis, never mind inside.”

  “Do you know how many were taken in the last Tally?” Bren asked.

  “Only the Airlia know.”

  “Where do they go?”

  “Only the Airlia know.”

  Bren spit into the mud. “Now you speak like a wedjat whose brain has been washed to serve as a priest. The Tally is coming more often. Twice in this generation. That never happened before. How long will we allow the Airlia to take our people away, never to return?”

  “The Airlia promise eternal life to some of those in the Tally. The Grail.”

  “Yet, no one has ever seen that happen.”

  The rain had finally ceased, but large drops continued to drip from the leaves of the trees.

  “That is the flaw in their promise if one peers closely at the reality,” Arcturus allowed. “Yet few do. Most believe what they want to believe. The Tally will happen as long as the people allow it. But if they don’t fulfill the Tally, their homes are destroyed and everyone dies in their Tally-zone. It is for the greater good, is it not, to comply?”

  “Do you believe that?”

  “It does not matter what I believe,” Arcturus said. “It is what it is.”

  Bren shook her head in disgust.

  Arcturus leaned forward. “Do you want to know where the wargs are headed with the sword and ka? Or do you wish to question who and what I am and why I am here? It matters not to me.” He reached inside his cloak.

  Bren went for her sword but relaxed as he produced a pipe. She indicated the road. “If there were wargs then it is easy to know where they are going. And the Lion’s Road ends in one place. Atlantis.”

  “They are not going to Atlantis,” Arcturus said. “At least not immediately. Decide, Bren, sword-wielder, so I can decide whether I have time to smoke a bowl.”

  “There is little else on the road north. And how could we get to where they are going ahead of them since they are on the road?”

  “You, alone? Not likely, unless you know the ancient paths.”

  “What ancient paths? You speak nonsense. There is only one decent road from here up the Valley and you are sitting on it.”

  “Their destination is Wormehill Tower, adjacent to the North Wall.”

  “Wormehill is long abandoned,” Bren said. “The North Wall in ruins.”

  Arcturus appeared puzzled. “Why would that stop them from going there?”

  “How do you know that’s where they’re headed?” Bren demanded.

  “Believe me or don’t. Up to you. Should I pack my bowl and have a smoke now that the rain has stopped or do you wish me to lead you?”

  “Have your smoke, old man. I do not trust you.” Bren faced the north. “I will catch up to them on the Lion’s Road.”

  “And do what? One against many?”

  “If I see you again,” Bren said, “I will not be so forgiving.” She began a steady run and quickly disappeared into the dark shadows north on the Lion’s Road.

  Arcturus stared after her until she was out of sight and hearing. He put the pipe away. Whistled a complex series of notes. He went into the forest angling to the northwest through the trees. To his right, between him and the road, Isengrim shadowed his movement.

  LIONS HEAD, ATLANTIS, EARTH15

  “We serve for the promise of eternal life from the Grail. We serve for the promise of the great truth. We serve as our fathers have served, our father’s fathers, and through the ages from the first days of the rule of the Great Airlia who brought us up out of the darkness. We serve because in serving there is the greater good for all. We serve for the promise of eternal life from the Grail.”

  One hundred wedjat and two hundred warrior-guides prostrated themselves in front of the Red Sphinx, and chanted their worship. It had been so for every cycle for as long as anyone could remember. The wedjats and warrior-guides rotated for the honor of serving the Sphinx, from among the thousands of converted humans who were at work inside the innermost wall of Atlantis at various tasks.

  At the very center, perched on the high promontory of Lion’s Head, which overlooked the Northern Sea, was the golden citadel-tower, a mile wide at the base and reaching three thousand feet into the sky, topped by a red pyramid 20 feet tall and wide at the base.

  Lion’s Head was a wide, gently sloping mountain where the ridge lines converged. Its peak was a mile above the surrounding land and ocean. The Citadel-Tower was surrounded by seven walls, ranging from First just outside of the shield wall, outward to Seventh.

  The Northern Sea was the meeting point for the ocean to either side, the water surging and turbulent, dark and deep. The ice cap was hundreds of miles farther north, a desolate place no one traveled to. Only the best mariners could negotiate the Northern Passage. It took skill to make the entrance into the harbor that served Atlantis.

  The Airlia dwelled in the highest levels of the tower, but only the longest serving wedjats advanced to a point where they were allowed inside the Great Hall on the ground floor and just a
handful were sanctioned for the upper levels. Occasionally a sky-chariot of the Airlia, a silver disk thirty feet in diameter with a flat bottom and a semi-circular bulge on top that began ten feet from the edges, would go or come from an opening three quarters of the way up. Around the tower the air shimmered, the shield through which nothing could pass, the final defense for the Airlia.

  The Airlia rarely made appearances outside the tower but tonight was one of those. The Red Sphinx, facing south toward Lion’s Ridge, was in front of the tower, the rear of it built into the base of the Citadel-Tower and extending into the space between that and First Wall. It was three hundred feet long, the wide top of the head seventy feet above a stone paved semi-circular courtyard where the wedjats and warrior-guides chanted. The Sphinx was composed of scarlet stone. The eyes glowed red. The shield wall shimmered just in front of it, extending forward from the Tower.

  Beyond the worship plaza was a tiered amphitheater cut into the rock of Lion’s Ridge that could seat forty thousand. First wall was built into the rear of it. Above and behind the amphitheater, as part of First Wall, was a grounded talon warship, upright on its base, the curving tip facing outward two hundred meters above the highest row. Sleek and black it had been there as long as any could remember, a symbol of the power of the Airlia.

  The amphitheater was currently packed with the citizens of the outer rings of Atlantis, ordered here in the middle of the night.

  Large, bright lights shone down from the tower, spotlighting the Sphinx. On the top of the head was a six-foot high wooden X. The echo of the chanting faded and silence reigned. The lights went out, and all was dark except for the Sphinx’s eyes which glowed with an inner fire. This lasted twenty seconds, then a single spotlight illuminated the top of the Sphinx’s head. Two figures robed in black flanked the wood cross. Both were over seven feet tall with pale skin and red hair. The one on the right, Horus, had a sheathed sword on an ornate belt around his waist and a short spear in his other. His sister, Anubis, held a scepter as tall as she with a curved hook at the top. Each wore a gold crown which peaked in the front, where a stone was placed, an inch and a half in diameter. Horus’s crown had a red stone that glowed while Anubis’s crown featured a glowing green stone.

  A ripple passed through the crowd in the presence of the Airlia. All the humans dropped to their knees, hands held up in supplication and a moan of fearful ecstasy rippled from their throats. It was almost comprehensible, thousands of people whispering “Airlia” over and over, mixing together, a chant of loyalty, fear, and reverence.

  Horus raised a six-fingered hand and all was quiet, but the humans remained on their knees with their hands up, heads down. Six wedjat wearing the red robes fringed with black indicating they were of the highest rank, marched up the stairs on the back of the Sphinx’s neck, in step with four wargs who held a weakly struggling man between them.

  The man was naked, his skin bleeding, his body bruised. There was white flesh where his castration had healed years ago, part of his initiation into the first level of being an acolyte of the wedjat. He was blinking hard as he was brought into the circle illuminated by the spotlight. The warriors pinned the man, arms and legs akimbo, to the cross, tying him tightly in place with rope around wrists and ankles.

  A high wedjat marched to the front of the Airlia, bowed deeply, then about faced. He raised a hand, pointing at the bound man, while he addressed the crowd. “Behold the price of rebellion. Behold the price of betrayal. Behold the price of disobedience. This traitor once held the trust of the Airlia as an acolyte. He was blessed to be given the opportunity to serve inside First Wall and held a sacred bond. He betrayed that trust. He was selling information to a Southren criminal gang, threatening the peace of our world. Threatening all of you. He has been judged by the Airlia. This is his punishment.”

  Two more wedjat came onto the top of the head from behind. One carried a large bucket of water, the other an armful of leather straps an inch wide. The bucket was placed in front of the prisoner. The two wedjats went to work, dipping a strap into the water, soaking it, then wrapping it around the arms and legs, working from furthest out, inward. They left two inches between each strap. After a few minutes of work, they were done, the limbs covered. They took the bucket and remaining straps and scuttled into the darkness behind the head.

  The high wedjat repeated his obeisance to the Airlia, then faced the crowd. “Behold the price of rebellion. Behold the price of betrayal. Behold the price of disobedience.”

  He clapped once and the crowd returned the chant, word for word.

  The Airlia turned away and at that moment the lights went out. The two disappeared into the Citadel-Tower.

  The humans waited in darkness and silence for dawn and punishment to be completed.

  NORTH VALLEY, EARTH15

  Bren was tired, soaked, worried about Markus, confused about the Arcturus fellow and his animal, and it was still dark. All those dulled her senses so it was at the last moment she sensed danger. She came to an abrupt halt. This saved her life as the first arrow whistled by her ear, missing by two inches. The second arrow hit on an angle, piercing the bedroll, through it, and the barbed point cut a narrow groove along her lower left side.

  She dove off the Lion’s Road into the narrow drainage ditch, landing in six inches of muddy water. She drew her sword and kept her head down, replaying the arrows as best she could, trying to determine from what side of the road the ambush had been initiated.

  She rolled onto her back and pulled the arrow out of the bedroll. The markings indicated it was Shakur, which was to be expected, since leaving an ambush on the backtrail was a basic tenet of raiding.

  She slithered backward in the ditch trying to get out of the kill zone. That was her second mistake. This time she sensed the attack a second before a Shakur mercenary leapt out of the dark, spear in both hands, striking downward. She spun, the spear barely missing, and slashed at his ankles. The bright metal went through both with ease and he fell next to her, screaming in pain and shock.

  She rolled over his body and jumped up as three mercenaries came at her, spears out-ranging her sword, but slower. One lunged and she sliced off the tip of the spear. She did the same as the other two attacked. They dropped the useless spears and drew their swords, spreading out. She heard something behind her and glanced over her shoulder as a loop of rope dropped over her, a lasso tossed by one of the archers. She had a micro-second to react, severing the rope with her sword, but as she did so, the other archer also dropped a rope and pulled tight, pinning her arms to her side and tumbling her into the ditch.

  The sixth, footless, Shakur, was moaning in pain next to her and one of his fellows went to him. The wounded man held up a hand, pleading. “No, Tom-man. No!”

  Tom-man slammed a sword into the wounded man’s chest. Done with that detail, Tom-man shifted his attention, sword dripping blood. As Bren got to her knees, a second rope was looped over her by another Shakur and pulled tight.

  “You must be Bren,” Tom-man said. “Your man died with that name on his lips.” He wiped the sword across her cheek, smearing it with blood. “For your sake I hope it was you and not some other wench. Men say strange things as they die. Strangely, they often cry out for their mothers. Some call out for the Airlia.” He laughed as if he’d told a great joke. None of the other Shakur joined in. They were soaked and their faces lined with exhaustion.

  “What is the thing that was in your man’s chest?” Tom-man asked. “The wargs knew it was there and cut it out. They didn’t allow us to see, even though we did the dirty work of taking him down.” He tapped the tip of his sword against her chest. “Do you have one? The wargs paid us a considerable sum to escort them and it must be because of that as they didn’t want to take him prisoner. The prize was his sword and whatever they pulled out of him.”

  “You are traitors to mankind,” Bren said.

  Tom-man laughed. “Not at all. We serve money. We want more. That is true loyalty, not like thos
e brain-slaved wargs or the wedjat. The actual traitor who was supposed to meet your friend? I imagine he isn’t having a very pleasant time, if he’s still alive. Probably on top of the Red Sphinx for all to see. There be rumors there’s an army of rebels in Southren under Cetic, that old fool. The God-suckers seemed a bit worked up when we left. Gonna be another war? Lots of folks slaughtered? Got to happen every couple of generations it seems. Good pay in that for folks like us fighting for the Airlia or whichever faction they want us to support.”

  “You’d rather go in the Tally?” Bren asked.

  He smacked the flat of the sword hard into Bren’s left hand, causing her to drop the dagger and stopping her stealthy attempt to flip it in her hand and cut the ropes.

  “Another reason we work for the Airlia,” Tom-man said. “We’re exempt from the Tally.”

  “They’ve been happening more frequently,” Bren said.

  She was referring to the ‘tax’ of able-bodied men and women by the Airlia. When a Tally was announced, every village, town, state, kingdom, etcetera was given a quota to supply. The quota had to be met, and with the right type of personnel, young and able-bodied, or else that locale would be blasted off the face of the planet by a talon warship. Those Tallied were required to make the journey to Atlantis carrying the taxed tribute in food and goods, where Airlia cargo ships gathered them and took them away. Where? No one knew and no one had ever come back.

  “Fifteen years since last one,” Tom-man said. “Not likely for a while.” He laughed. “Got to restock the meat. Me and the boys have a fine time doing our part. You’d be a tasty bit, but I sense you be too much trouble.” He hit her other hand, knocking the sword from her grasp. He picked it up and examined it.

  “As fine as the weapon your man carried. This will fetch a fine price.”