The Hate Parallax

by Allan Cole

  Then— “On we go!”

  There, there, forward, forward, leaping through the hot air, jogging over the hot ground, crossbow alert. Heart pumping the blood through the lungs. And there— Vlad knew— a horde of tiny creatures was busy, enriching his veins with oxygen.

  All of the Brown Bears could cover one hundred meters distance in less than nine seconds. But Vlad could do it in six.

  He sprinted forward, quickly outdistancing the others.

  Suddenly the village leaped into his view. The gray curtain vanished, pierced by fireballs from the Brown Bears’ crossbows.

  Vlad heard a triumphant growl from one of the BattleSpirits inhabiting his weapons.

  “Prey ahead, Master!”

  Yes, it was prey. Not demons, but human prey!

  Vlad saw a village of a dozen small cottages. All wooden, all spell-protected. And damnably well-armed. Human traitors manning those weapons. The cannon tower on the edge of the village spat green fire. The earth was blackened, as if a full scorcher’s charge had been emptied.

  He fired a bewitched bolt and the hungry host of BattleSpirits savaged the defenders.

  The Brown Bears rushed into the village. The humans were firing in vain. The commandos were too fast, too cruel. Swiftly, never losing time, the Bears covered the single street, casting a dead eternal silence on any who tried to fight back.

  Vlad wondered who these people were. Allies of the damned Amers, no doubt. So who would care what happened to their dirty souls? Vlad hated all Amers. But he hated the traitors more.

  When Brand Carvaserin and his team arrived all was done. Twelve defenders were slain. Others, including women and children, captured. And, most important, the Charm was in the hands of the Brown Bears.

  Vlad gave it to Carvaserin. The wizard’s eyes narrowed.

  “Nice work, major,” he grudged.

  Vlad looked at him, making no reply.

  Carvaserin… Full of powerless wrath. Outwardly he was as always— smooth and impervious. But deep under that cold mask Vlad felt the hate.

  Vlad was unmoved. He didn’t bother to make a pretense of fear— breaking one of the Church Of The Sword’s key Commandments: “Never let those who demand to be strong know you are stronger.”

  Rule or not, the opinion of a Wizard-in-Chief was of no interest to him.

  After the prisoners were escorted to the Ring of Power and magically sent to the nearest RGF outpost, Vlad let the Brown Bears mop up. The village was finished in an instant.

  As much as he hated the traitors, Vlad had to steel himself against the villagers’ plight. The prisoners wept. Children trembled. But no one pleaded for mercy. Everyone knew quite well there would be no mercy from the Brown Bears. As for what would happen to those people afterward— well, Vlad would never know, although they would haunt his dreams forever.

  As for the result, even the poker-faced features of Carvaserin displayed delight. The escaped demon was recaptured. His human allies punished. The stolen SelfGuard Charm returned before the rebels had a chance to use it.

  The mission was complete.

  But as Vlad left the burning village he caught a strange glance.

  It came from nowhere and everywhere and it was filled with hatred. He couldn’t tell its source— human, fiendish, some Other Thing?

  There was no Force in this glance— only the hatred. Eternal hatred.

  It came from the earth, from the black sky filled with strange stars and constellations. From the flame that devoured the wooden houses. And even from the cries of the captured renegades.

  The hatred was all around and above. And there was no shelter.

  An evil voice hissed in Vlad’s ear: “We’ll meet soon enough, softskin!”

  And suddenly all was gone.

  Vlad grinned. More fiendish enemies only resulted in more interest in life. And for Vlad, life without enemies was like pork without sauce. A man like Vlad required an enemy, like others require food and air.

  How many were there? Who gave a shit? All those ogres, spirits, ghosts, vampires, even devils, who conspired to suck out his soul. To hell with them! They had no reason to be.

  And in the end Father Onphim’s blessing would reduce them to nothing more than trophies in Vlad’s personal Hall of Fame.

  Or was it shame? Well, best not to think about that.

  Okay, he’d apparently been presented with a new enemy. So be it. Vlad shook his head, throwing the thought away. An enemy who broadcast his threats did not deserve consideration.

  The enemy to fear was one who fixed your face in crosshairs, not curses. An enemy to respect was one who spoke only to himself— one, two, three, fire!

  The first announcement of hatred should come only when the bullet steals your life.

  Like Bush!

  Yeah, George Bush.

  And may God damn his Amer soul!

  Immediately, Vlad’s chest muscles clenched as he remembered the hit.

  George Herbert Walker Bush. The forty third president of the United States of America. Son of a president. Descendant of a noble American family. Much like Vlad’s own family, whose lineage went back to the days of the Czars.

  Fear and shame trembled through him. What did you do, Vlad? What did you do?

  Never mind that.

  Put it away, far away.

  But, God, God, God, why in the hell did they pick me? I didn’t want to be a hero. And what the hell is the worth of being a hero if you live forever and just keep killing, killing, killing?

  Ten thousand men— and yes, even women— in a thousand years. What soul could bear it?

  But remember the hate, yes, the justified hate. The Amers wanted nothing more than to eliminate every Russian in the Galaxy.

  Some said if they had the chance they’d even kill unborn children who still resided in a Russian woman’s womb. They’d rip them out, slicing the mothers’ bellies, those fucking Amer’s, and hoist the trembling infants on the points of their bayonets.

  Past sins collided with present hate and Vlad had to call on all his resources to calm himself.

  Never mind that.

  Back to the expedition.

  Two more months to mop up the fiends. Filthy work, but never mind that.

  Vlad was home.

  Home, sweet home. With Brosha, Bick and his other fiendish friends.

  In his apartment— a personal gift from the Lord Emperor, himself. Near a direct tram line to Nadya … and only a few moments away from the most pleasant of evenings and a much more pleasant night.

  Well, he had to finish showering first! Nadya would not be pleased with his sweet smell. Registration was complete.

  Now he, Vlad Projogin, could rest for a while. In the shower, beneath the hot streams, Vlad closed his eyes. In his imagination Nadya was standing in front of him in a short girlish checked skirt, looking at him impatiently. And he rushed forward to seize her…

  But Brosha’s voice was first:

  “Urgent message, Master Vlad! Very-very urgent, sir!”

  “Heaven and Hell, Brosha!” Vlad growled, again stepping out of the shower and covering his hips with a towel. “What’s this? Can’t it wait?”

  “Do not blame your faithful servant, my son,” came a soft, disembodied voice. “He tried his best.”

  Vlad gaped. The computer screen was shot with color, giving no face to the man who spoke. But he knew who it was.

  “Father Onphim!”

  “Nice to greet you, my son,” came the deep voice, a boom resonating from the speakers and through Vlad’s very bones.

  “I’m glad you’re back again, Vlad. Do not be so anxious. Finish your ablution. I’ll wait.”

  Vlad quickly dried himself and threw the crumpled towel into a corner. While he dressed, Brosha rushed to snatch up the towel. The brownie seized his prey and was off. Urgent messages were urgent messages. No one dared to be near Vlad at such a time.

  “I’m ready, Father.”

  “Ill tidings, my son, ill tidings.
An Amer starship was somehow exterminated in The Frontier Zone.”

  Father Onphim was speaking very soft and calm. But it frightened Vlad much more then a dozen master wizards. A direct contact like this from his mentor could only mean real trouble. For Farther Onphim, for the whole Russian Galactic Federation, and for Vlad, himself… But…

  “Sorry, Father. But what’s so important about this starship? Did the Amers dare to cross our borders!”

  “The incident is worse than that, my son,” his mentor said. “Much worse. This liner was a civilian ship. Many innocent people were slain. We must investigate immediately. The Sword Church Conclave is quite alarmed by what has happened.

  “We need you, my son. I’ll take you with me. There you will receive orders.”

  “I’ll be ready in a second,” Vlad was already stuffing clothes in a bag. “Where must I be, Father?”

  “At our common place, my son,” the priest said. “At our common place. The Church is waiting.”

  “I’ll be there as soon as I can, Father!”

  “Good for you, my son.”

  The computer speakers crackled. The screen went back to ordinary fire.

  “I’m off, Brosha!” Vlad shouted, rushing toward the door..

  “Dinner! What about dinner, sir?” Brosha’s faint cry reached Vlad on the stairs.

  “No time!” Vlad shouted and then the elevator swallowed him and he was gone.

  The Church of The Sword could not wait.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The great somber hall was dim, scarcely lit by a small chimney fire.

  Flame danced madly behind the black iron fender as if trying to escape, to squeeze between the thick rods and rush forward, never mind where, only to … freedom.

  The hall corners faded into deep gloom. The dark walls appeared to be covered with a thick soft cloth, like velvet or brocade. Between heavy curtains tall marble columns with carved Doric heads could be seen.

  Here and there were the faint contours of huge lamps— now dead, without light, without life. In the center was an immense round table with eight ebony armchairs placed about it— high straight backs inlaid with cunning encrustations, gold upon black.

  The great table was empty, the surface marked only by a strange emblem— crossed bolts of white lightning.

  The floor was of smooth raven-black stone. Faintly gleaming golden sparks were scattered here and there across its agate surface.

  It was in this dank chamber that the Council of Eight had met for many centuries now, plotting their terrible deeds.

  There were no doors or windows in that room, so how the man appeared could not be easily explained. He did not enter, he merely popped up near the chimney.

  The man was short, bow-legged, and wore a leather vest over bare skin and a Scots kilt.

  He stoked the fire with a set of huge bronze tongs, then served himself a flamepiece for his short black pipe, which had a carved fist for a bowl. He puffed the first gray smoke-ring.

  “Nice to meet thee, Infeligo,” came a soft, menacing voice from behind. “I have heard thy last hunt was a great success. Congratulations.”

  The bow-legged man called Infeligo did not turn.

  “Still joking, Mamri?” he said softly, but it came like the low rumble of a beast.

  The man shrugged. “What else do we have to do but jest?”

  The newcomer came closer to the fireplace. He was tall, with a thin nervous face cut by several deep furrows. The rest of his face was smooth and healthy, but the deep lines made him seem foreboding.

  Mamri was dressed in a gray business suit. The white corner of a handkerchief peeped out of the breast pocket. The suit appeared expensive. The vest pocket was decorated by a thin gold watch-chain. On his middle finger he wore a large platinum ring with a dark polished stone crossed by white lighting.

  It was the same emblem that was on the table.

  “Jokes,” Infeligo complained. “Nothing but jokes. That’s what we always do. And what do we have to show for it?”

  “We have what we have. Canst thou turn Time itself? Or block the Rooskie’s missile? If not, thou hadst best stop that noise generator in thy throat.”

  “Grrr!” answered Infeligo, making an evil face in mockery.

  “What sounds, Mamri! What words! Didst thee swallow too many souls last month, perchance? Launched that pretty raid— and thy precious rebels burned three towns in the Wild Frontier! Thou must have had thy fill! Thy maw— is it satisfied?”

  Mamri’s sharp face jerked. “That’s nothing of thy business, my good and noble Infeligo,” he said. “None of thy business at all.”

  Infeligo shrugged his mighty shoulders. “Thou mayst repeat it over and over,” he said. “Thy words are as empty as a coward’s skull rolled by waves!”

  “The Council hath not gathered in order to discuss my deed!” objected Mamri, nervously twisting the elegant white triangle of a handkerchief in his pocket.

  “Perhaps.” Infeligo released a thick puff of blue smoke from his pipe.

  Mamri lit an expensive cigar with a golden crown and a brown cover.

  “The Council will discuss the starliner incident. But there’s no reason not to raise another question. And I shalt do this, indeed I shalt.”

  Mamri’s pale lips turned into a thin white line.

  “Thou art speaking so because those Free Zone Rulers art under thy protection? And thou hath planned the extermination of those unfortunate rebels? Breaking all guidelines and agreements? Putting flames into those vile places?” Now it was Mamri’s turn to mock.

  Infeligo’s face darkened.

  “Well, well, well,” came a third voice, a pleasant baritone. “Mamri and Infeligo! Good neighbors quarreling? What is going on, my friends?”

  The third man to enter the hall was gigantic. Nearly seven feet high, with broad shoulders and a royal carriage. He was dressed in a strange antique suit— a sleeveless jacket of black velvet with a broad white collar made of fine Venetian lace.

  A slender rapier sporting a rich garde decorated with sapphires, gold and diamonds; a belt studded with numerous blue stones; high black jackboots. He looked like a marquise or a noble from the Renaissance.

  Both Mamri and Infeligo bowed with great respect.

  “Discussing our neighbor’s minor deeds, Simionte.”

  “My legions are ready,” the giant newcomer said. He grinned. “If anyone needs help…”

  Simionte let the offer fall, unfinished. After a short, dramatic pause, he nodded and then went to the great ebony table in the center of the hall. Mamri and Infeligo looked after him with hard envy.

  “Doest thou see? Simionte!” once again hissed Mamri. “He organized such a nice tyranny on those Chinese colonies in the Frontier! Such a nice, sweet tyranny! Such big donations to the Council Treasury!

  “And lo!— look how he’s standing now! That vulgar suit. No manners! How can he?”

  “Um-hum,” Infeligo grumbled. The quarrel with Mamri was already forgotten. “Simionte’s behavior is unbearable. We must do something!”

  “Good thoughts come simultaneously to good heads.” Mamri gave a sugary smile. “Dear neighbor, we must discuss this in more detail…”

  He took Infeligo’s arm. They went to a far dim corner and immediately started whispering.

  Simionte seemed quite untroubled. He sat in an ebony armchair, stretched his legs and crossed his hands upon his breast. He looked like a man with a lot to do who was being forced to participate in events of little importance.

  Soon Mamri and Infeligo joined him. Now three of the eight chairs were occupied. A few moments later the others arrived to fill the empty seats. The men just stepped out of the darkness, as if giant elevators were hidden in the immense shadows.

  Five men, already far from youth but not yet close to old age. They were dressed in fantastic suits— leather and furs mixed with up-to-date bright synthetics.

  Each had a great platinum ring on the middle finger of his right han
d. A ring with a huge black stone, smooth and polished, crossed with white lighting bolts.

  “Auerkhan! Pilyardock! Syrr! And— Apollion…”

  The smiles were broad, the greeting warm, the bows polite and low.

  But in all eyes there was envy.

  Apollion, who looked a little older than the others seemed the most relaxed.

  Simionte rose from his armchair to greet the newcomers. He’d been quite arrogant just a minute ago with Mamri and Infeligo, but now he bowed to Apollion with enormous respect. And did not dare to take a seat again in Apollion’s presence without permission.

  Apollion looked rather common. He was dressed in a black leather jacket and blue jeans. Old-fashioned spectacles, the only spectacles in the whole company, gleamed faintly red from the chimney’s fire.

  He had the air of an old University lecturer. The great hairless skull and high forehead only enhanced that impression.

  He sat, nodded to all the others, as if welcoming them to take their places, and fished a small piece of cloth from a pocket.

  Apollion removed the spectacles and began to clean them— quite carefully.

  The other members of the company moved the armchairs closer, as if competing for his attention.

  The wall behind Apollion bore a strange black-and-red emblem, stretching slowly out of the gloom across the soft velvet waves covering the walls. It was a portrait of a black eagle and a red snake tearing and striking at one another.

  The emblem framed Apollion, enclosed him, lifted him, adding to his obvious importance.

  Now and again odd shadows crept over the emblem, which seemed partially carved yet also partially woven, so one might take the huge beasts on the wall as living things.

  The eagle’s eyes were gleaming red. The snake’s were translucent, revealing many levels of deadly night.

  “Gentlemen!” Apollion finally said. His fingers slowly caressed the carved edge of the table. “You all hath heard the sad tidings. I’m speaking, of course, about the incident which occurred on the border of Sir Auerkhan’s and Sir Pilyardock’s sectors.”

  Simionte shrugged his mighty shoulders, interrupting the speaker. The other men stared at him with some astonishment.

  “Sorry to speak my mind so rudely, noble Apollion. But I wonder if thou must think we all are blind? And without hearing as well? Canst thou not tell us plainly what thou might require from us?”