by Bob Mayer
Anubis was incredulous. “Humans defeated a Core?”
“Not defeated,” Horus hedged. “Reading between the lines it’s clear Fleet isn’t sure what happened. You know how those things are worded. But the bottom line is a Battle Core FTLed a retreat out of a system for the fourth time in history and Fleet losses were minimal compared to the past three victories. The Swarm never returns to a place they’ve retreated from. That is as much of a victory as we’ve ever been able to achieve. Because of this, Fleet wants to greatly expand the Teardrop program. Seed more worlds with humans. Up the Tally.”
“So good news, bad news,” Anubis summed up. “It took many, many generations of humans for us to supply enough for the Orion Teardrop. Did they use all the humans?”
“Yes. And all were lost.”
“I never thought it would work,” Anubis admitted. “Nevertheless, we are stretched to the limit with the Tally as it is. Repopulating while subjugating the humans is difficult. We have an army marching north that must be dealt with. Which will mean killing more humans.”
“The humans must keep fighting,” Horus pointed out. “Otherwise they would not be useful as warriors.”
“A perilous knife’s edge we must negotiate as we have since we’ve come here,” Anubis said. “Is that all?”
“No. A mothership is en route from Orion Fleet. They want an immediate Tally, not for warriors, but to seed another world. Split the population. They sent the numbers and parameters. I’ve downloaded them.” He shook his head. “It will not be easy to enforce or fill. But first we must stop this Great Alliance. The Hegemony army will ensure victory and then we will use most of them to fulfill this new Tally.”
“We’ll lose the allegiance of the Hegemony,” Anubis said.
“Perhaps, but they won’t have an army,” Horus pointed out.
Anubis looked around the duat. “We must wake Osiris.”
“We will,” Horus said. He glanced at the flask. “And more of that.”
HEGEMONY, EARTH15
Being on the move for so long was catching up to Bren. Orlock had led her via hidden paths and tunnels through, but mostly under, West Ridge, into the next valley, which was much wider. The far ridgeline was many miles over the horizon and the land between was sprinkled with lakes, forests and open fields.
Hegemony was a rich region, long unified under a single cooperative government which had never revolted against the Airlia. Thus, they had reaped the benefits of obedience. The government was a group of leaders representing all parts who screened and selected their successors, all of a like mind. They maintained a moderately-sized, professional, standing army, guarding all the passes east and west against the kingdoms and tribes in either direction. They viewed the Tally as an integral part of their life. Every woman was required to birth at least three children, more if possible and there were rumors that sometimes the Hegemony slightly inflated their Tally in order to curry favor with the Airlia.
Over the years, Bren and Markus had tried various methods to get Hegemony to shift away from their blind obedience but it had been a futile effort. The Airlia concept of using religion to cement control had taken root deep into the culture. Logic was not an argument that could be made. To sway people with emotion required something more powerful than the two Walkers had been able to generate.
Orlock wrapped the black cloth around his eyes and pulled his hood up as they exited a tunnel midway up the east slope of West Ridge. The door shut behind them. Bren took a moment to get oriented and realized they were closer to their destination than she had dared guess. Orlock’s mostly underground route had shaved considerable time off what was normally a long and arduous journey to the south, then west over a difficult pass and then north again.
“Can you access your ship in daylight?” Orlock asked.
Bren sat down, resting her legs. “Yes. It is below standing stones, one of which has a door like this—” she indicated what they’d just exited. “But you know where it is, don’t you? Arcturus said we’d been followed.”
“Isengrim,” Orlock said.
“His wolfram? I thought they were extinct.”
Orlock shrugged. “Arcturus is a strange person.”
“He keeps many secrets,” Bren said.
“He’s had to,” Orlock said. “Anubis, and those before her, constantly send spies all over the world.”
“I know that,” Bren snapped. “But—” she shook her head. “The standing stones have a mystical reputation among the locals and no one dares live close by.”
“A reputation you contributed to?” Orlock asked.
“Of course.”
“Are you tired?” he asked for the first time as she drank deeply from her bota.
“I can keep going,” Bren said, getting to her feet.
“You did not have my kind on your world?” Orlock asked.
“Not that we knew of.”
“There weren’t some in the Duats underneath their Citadel-Tower, for the Airlia to feed off of?” Orlock asked. “That is what we are bred for.”
“We destroyed the Citadel-Tower, and the Duats below it with nuclear weapons,” Bren said. “We never had a chance to explore either. The God-killers who did that mission perished in the blast. We didn’t know humans and Airlia were genetically compatible.”
“So there probably were Nagil, you just never saw them. They died when you destroyed the Citadel-Tower.”
“Everyone on my planet died a long time ago,” Bren said. “We knew when we left that those we left behind were doomed.” She tapped the side of our head. “It’s hard to understand the big picture. But your daughter’s death?” She reached out and put a hand on Orlock’s chest. “That touches your heart in a way your brain will never be able to deal with. I am sorry. I know what you are feeling. Everyone in my life before coming here is dead. But what you can do is avenge her death.”
“She must have thought she had a chance of killing one or both of the Airlia,” Orlock said. “Or she felt—” he didn’t finish whatever he was about to say. “Are you ready?” he abruptly asked. He didn’t wait for an answer before setting out.
SWARM BATTLE CORE, INTERSTELLAR, FASTER THAN LIGHT TRANSIT
Kray’s arms were trembling from exhaustion, the woman seemed heavier with each passing moment. The mass of humanity was moving slower as they approached the drop off. He wanted to look down, check how she was, but the Swarm parasite wouldn’t allow it. He shuffled forward, step by step, toward the screaming cauldron.
Suddenly, he dropped the woman, his rescue effort over-ridden by the parasite. As he was forced to step over her, he realized she was dead. He noted that the floor was strewn not just with bodies of those who didn’t make it, but armor. Which the parasite proceeded to have him contribute to by removing his helmet with fumbling, uncertain fingers.
But then he stopped and remained still, even as everyone else around him continued to strip down. As soon as each was naked, they continued their stagger forward toward the drop off twenty feet away. Those following parted around Kray.
He couldn’t move but he could see and smell. The stench was awful, the smell of excrement, blood, fear and something pungent that he couldn’t identify. The screaming was so loud, from many people, it was a solid roar.
He noticed something: he was the only one in red armor. Everything strewn on the floor and on the crowd still coming, was black. A dragon winged by overheard, gently banking as if surveying the horror below. Then it came straight at Kray. Taloned feet snatched him by the shoulders, digging into the armor, lifting him off the floor.
As he was flown away, he had a quick glimpse of an endless sea of reddish-gray goo, filled with naked people. Arms, legs, heads, were sticking out of it in some grotesque collection of humanity. He saw parasites of various lengths on the surface all about the people. As he watched, they began to dissipate, breaking down and becoming part of this strange solution they were immersed in.
Many of those in the biological soup w
ere pushing through, trying to get back to the shear ledge they’d fallen off of. That was a fruitless task as the goo had a strong, slow current to it, pulling in the other direction. Also, the wall was smooth, allowing no hand or foothold to climb. Those closest who tried to fight their way back were struck by the next waves of humans falling in. The sound of bodies striking each other added to the cacophony of terror. The sea extended as far as he could see, with the surface flat and undisturbed in the distance as the people were consumed.
As the dragon turned, Kray could see that the ledge extended as far as he could see in either direction. He still had no control over his body and the pain from the vice like grips on his shoulders seemed distant.
Kray prayed for all of the people to travel on through to All-Life with joy in their soul.
Oddly, he didn’t pray for himself as the dragon flew into a passageway a quarter mile in diameter, lined with red, living Core.
ARMIES FORM
NORTH STONE, EARTH15
Drusa knelt next to the decomposing body, ignoring the smell and maggots.
“Is it him?” Cetic asked.
“Yes.” She looked at the hole in the bone in the chest. Then the side of the skull. “These were done after he was dead. I wonder why?”
“When you’re dead,” Cetic said, “what does it matter?”
Drusa stepped out of the shallow grave. “Someone did it for a reason.”
“Any sign of Bren?” Cetic asked.
Drusa shook her head. “But someone dug him up. And made those marks. I would assume that she did. Then she set off after his killers.”
“Why would Bren put a hole in his head?” Cetic asked.
“Looking for something,” Drusa said, more to herself than the king.
“Why didn’t she rebury him?” Cetic wondered. He was momentarily distracted as a messenger ran up to him. The warriors of the Great Alliance were trudging by on the muddy Lion’s Road, a long line of men, and a number of women, armed with a variety of weapons.
Cetic took the report and dismissed the messenger. He pointed at the North Stone. “Four Shakur bodies were burned in a pit not far away. Three hundred fighters from the Bodaca of the Wilds are coming along the trail from their villages.” He gave a wan smile. “We grow stronger.”
“A king must show confidence,” Drusa said.
“Markus is dead,” Cetic said. “Bren has disappeared. Without them and the secrets they promised, what chance do we have?”
“Yet others come and join you,” Drusa pointed out. “Our strength has doubled since we began in Southren. It is a sign of how disaffected the people have become. How much they hate the Airlia. And how much they respect you as leader. Remember, they know nothing of the Walkers other than the usual rumors.”
“Par-rom knows of them,” Cetic pointed out. “As do some of the other leaders. They think they are sorcerers.”
Drusa indicated the line of fighters. “Look at the people. Few are true warriors. You have farmers. Fishermen. Tradesmen and women. All sorts. They would rather fight than continue the Tally.”
“I’m surprised at so many women,” Cetic admitted.
“They give birth and then have to give their children up to the Tally,” Drusa said. “No woman wants to lose their child.”
“Yet many, such as Hegemony, still prefer the Airlia,” Cetic noted.
“There will always be those who choose the yoke,” Drusa said. “Those who join you do not.”
“I am responsible for all these people,” Cetic said. “Their lives are in my hands.”
“You are responsible,” Drusa agreed, “but each one made the decision to be here.”
Cetic changed the subject, embarrassed to have shown weakness in front of her. “It will be dark soon,” he said. “I’ve passed the order for the halt. I must see to our defenses.”
He shouted orders and began the process of consolidating what could only loosely be called an army for the night.
Drusa walked through the burgeoning camp as the sun descended in the east. She found Par-rom near the northern edge, with his village’s warriors. They were putting up a barricade of brush and downed trees for the night, a precaution ordered by Cetic just in case the Airlia launched a surprise attack. It seemed redundant given that a line of scouts was positioned to the north across the valley, but Cetic hadn’t survived this long without being cautious. He also had guards posted to the south, east and west.
“How is the arm?” Drusa asked Par-rom, even though she could see his work had opened the wound and blood was seeping through the bandage. She led him over to a small fire, while the rest of the men worked on the barrier.
“It’s just a scratch,” Par-rom said.
“A scratch that can kill if it festers,” Drusa said. She put her hand out to check. “May I?”
Par-rom reluctantly nodded.
Drusa unwrapped the bandage. “The wound is still clean.” She pulled a fresh bandage out of her pouch along with some ointment, but Par-rom stopped her before she could apply it.
“Will it leave a scar?”
“Not if it heals properly,” Drusa said, but she knew what he meant. “I will make sure there is a scar but no infection.”
Par-rom raised his arm.
Drusa applied the ointment, then wound the bandage tightly. “Do not remove it for three days.” She was startled as Par-rom swiftly drew his sword.
“What—” she began but he slashed, the metal whistling by her ear and clanging loudly as it blocked the blade that had been swung horizontally to behead her.
Drusa spun about, stepping out of the way as Par-rom engaged the would-be assassins. Another man dressed in black leapt into battle with his partner. Oddly, the two were making no attempt to take out Par-rom, but were focused on getting past him to Drusa with a single-minded focus that tagged them as wargs.
This gave the king’s son an advantage, which he exploited. He ran his sword through the first one. The second dashed past him toward Drusa. She threw a handful of powder from an inside pocket of the cloak at the assassin’s face. The powder blinded him and he staggered past, swinging wildly at where she had been.
Par-rom brought his blade up to finish him.
Drusa interceded. “No! We need to interrogate.”
Men ran up, having heard metal on metal. They quickly disarmed the surviving assassin.
“A warg,” one said, seeing the dead look in the man’s eyes as he blinked the powder out of them.
Drusa faced him. “How many are you?”
He struggled in the arms to attack her with the focus of the converted. Drusa reached up and put a hand, fingers splayed, on either side of his head. “How many are you, my friend?”
The warg blinked, the slightest bit of humanity breaking through in response to the overwhelming empathy emanating from Drusa, the core trait of her people. “Six,” he managed to gasp.
Then he collapsed, dead, blood streaming from his nose, eyes and ears as his brain suffered a massive stroke.
“There are others,” Drusa said to Par-rom. “Your father is an obvious target and—” before she could finish, Par-rom was running toward the main camp where his father’s tent would be set up.
*****
Cetic squatted alone in the dark, the back of his thighs on a log, beset with the soldier’s curse: diarrhea. There was rustling in the bushes nearby.
“Go away,” Cetic growled. “Find your own log.”
The rustling approached and he saw two cloaked figures coming through the trees, fifteen feet away.
Cetic cursed as he sprang to his feet, not done with old business, but facing new as he managed to loop the buckle on his belt with one hand and draw his sword with the other as they arrived. He blocked their first strikes, but their joint assault knocked him backward over the log, prone on his back, in his own shit. They leapt up on the log and prepared to thrust their short spears into him.
One of them grunted as air was punched out of his lungs via a sword
through his back with so much power it came out of his chest. Par-rom used both hands to twist the impaled warg into his partner, knocking both off the log.
As the survivor struggled to get to his feet, other warriors who’d followed Par-rom swarmed him under, their swords puncturing the warg dozens of times.
“Enough!” Cetic said as he stood. “They’re dead.” He looked at his son. Stuck his hand out. “Well done.”
Par-rom glanced at the hand, which was smeared with shit, as was his king’s back. He shook it. “There were two more. They tried to kill Drusa. They failed.”
Cetic let go of his son’s hand. “You stopped them?”
“Yes.”
Cetic smiled. “Three red daggers. A good night’s work.”
“I only killed one of them,” Par-rom said. “Drusa questioned the other and he collapsed dead.”
“Two red daggers them,” Cetic said. “But even one is enough. You are no longer Par-rom. You will be known as Paric, a killer among our people, from this moment on.”
Drusa spoke up from behind the circle of fighters. “King Cetic, before he died, he said there were six wargs.”
“Find the last two!” Cetic ordered. He finally realized his back was covered in his own filth. “Where is the closest creek? And bring me a change of clothing and armor.”
LIONS HEAD, ATLANTIS, EARTH15
Amun was not happy but Anubis didn’t care. The newly awakened Airlia shambled about in the duat, trying to shake off the effects of deep sleep. Anubis had given him a flask of precious nanite blood and he’d downed the contents greedily and asked for more, which she’d refused. He was having a hard time catching up on recent events.
“I don’t understand,” Amun said for the third time.
“I’ve told you all I know,” Anubis said. “You need to stay in the Tower, in the control sphere. Excalibur will be your responsibility. The humans should never get close to Atlantis, but there has been an incident here. You need to keep watch.”
