Godengine

by Craig Hinton

  ‘There has been a sustained series of explosions across the base, Your Excellency. Preliminary reports estimate over two hundred dead and injured, and a considerable amount of collateral damage.’

  Falaxyr’s immediate reaction was one of boiling anger at himself. He was in no doubt whatsoever as to the identity of the perpetrator: it could only be that damned Adjudicator, and Falaxyr was to blame for his continued freedom. But Falaxyr hadn’t risen to the Eight-Point Table by indulging in self-recrimination. Anger was power, and he knew exactly how to channel it.

  ‘When this is over, Draan, I will have you fall on the Sword of Tuburr for your stupidity. Fortunately for you, I still require your meagre services. Continue your report.’

  Draan was clearly shaken by the threat, especially since it had been delivered in front of his own subordinates. But he continued anyway. ‘Communications are disrupted across the base, we are using emergency power, and...’ He hesitated. This meant very bad news, and Falaxyr hoped it wasn’t as bad as he suspected.

  ‘... and the auxiliary power feeds to the GodEngine have been severely damaged. Thankfully, the device itself is unharmed.’

  Just what Falaxyr needed. Had he spent seventy years preparing for this moment, only to see it fall around him because of one, single human being? ‘What is Hoorg’s estimation of the damage?’

  ‘Chief Technician Hoorg is among the casualties, Grand Marshal.’

  Falaxyr hit the wall so hard that he started another rock fall. His little game with the Adjudicator had now turned into in unmitigated disaster, and Falaxyr knew he had only one course of action.

  ‘Bring me the head of Christopher Cwej, Draan-Utt-Slaar.’

  Draan nodded and hurried off in the unblocked direction of the corridor. Falaxyr nodded at the two Warriors. ‘Inform Technician Sleeth that he is now in charge of the GodEngine project. Then bring all the prisoners here at once.’ The promise of one last game of combat with the Adjudicator had blinded him to his duty, and that had almost ruined everything. ‘It is time to end this charade.’

  Cleece was silent. He had been silent since Esstar had released him from her grip. Even the series of explosions that had rocked the room had failed to elicit a reaction from him.

  He had nothing to say.

  Despite their constant arguments, despite the animosity that burnt between them, Cleece had never doubted their relationship. Martians bonded for life: that was their tradition. Not just Warriors, but pilgrims, artificers, cooks... all of them pair-bonded early in life, and that bond was the nucleus of the family. From the family came the caste, and from the castes came the nests. The pair-bond was the foundation of Martian life.

  And then his mate, the mother of his unborn children, had told him that she wanted to dissolve their bond, that she wanted to perform the ceremony of Fass-jul-Aqq – the Sundering.

  ‘I have no feelings for you, Cleece, save ones of disgust and pity. For the sake of the seminary, I agreed to the bonding, hoping perhaps that you would moderate your intolerable ways, that you would embrace the teachings and beliefs of your adopted family. But your hankerings for the glories of war and bloodshed are too deeply ingrained, too fundamental, for you to change.

  ‘You are not fit to be the father of children, Cleece. You belong to an age which caused the rape of Mars, and I belong to a better future. As is my right and privilege under ancient law, I will humbly request that the Abbot perform the Fass-jul-Aqq, and dissolve this parody of a bond.’

  ‘So you can be with Sstaal?’ he had muttered numbly.

  ‘So I can provide a new life for my children, Cleece. What I choose to do, who I choose to bond with, cease to be your concern after the Sundering.’

  ‘To end this bond, you need a valid reason. The Abbot will not agree simply on your whim,’ he stated. Bonding was always for life, unless there was some reason which was acceptable to an Abbot. As far as he knew, Esstar had none.

  She had smiled, but it was the cruellest smile he had ever seen. There was no trace of love, of passion, only a cold emptiness tinged with pity. Pity for him. But that was only the precursor to a cruelty that he knew he could never forgive, never forget.

  ‘The Sundering will take place so that I can be with the father of my children, Cleece.

  ‘I want to be with Sstaal.’

  Now dressed in his armour once more, he sat and waited. But the armour afforded him no protection from the unimaginable agony that clawed within him, a pain that he prayed to Claatris would end. But it didn’t end, it just grew and grew and Cleece had no way of stopping it.

  He just wanted the universe to end.

  ‘My people were not responsible for your unbearable loss, Antony; terrorism has never been the way of my race. The Warriors of Mars would never stoop to such despicable behaviour.’

  ‘They found Martian ideograms carved into the wreckage,’ he growled. ‘It must have been you.’

  Sstaal shook his head. ‘Even hidden on Mars, we observed events on your planet. We learnt of many atrocities that were committed in our name by your own people, yet we could do nothing to prove our innocence for fear of revealing our presence.’

  McGuire peered at Sstaal through bloodshot eyes, and realized that he wasn’t looking at the hated face of an enemy who had haunted him for the last five years. Instead, he was looking at a young Martian monk, no more than a teenager in human terms, who understood more about humanity than McGuire ever would. Aklaar’s wisdom came through centuries of experience, but Sstaal’s came through innocence and faith, a faith that McGuire had lost amidst the twisted wreckage and smouldering carnage of the Montreal monorail system. If Sstaal was right – and something in the pilgrim’s manner demanded that he be believed – McGuire had spent five years of his life hating the wrong enemy. He felt the final, hard, unyielding shackles that had chained his mind to single-minded hatred begin to fall away – the result of a process begun by Aklaar, but completed by his follower, Sstaal.

  Sstaal asked, ‘But if you hate my race so much, why did you come to Mars? Surely that can have only served as a constant reminder of your loss?’

  How could McGuire explain what had happened? How he had lost his job as a psychometric assessor at IMC because he had become hooked on Vraxoin just so that he could cope with the agonizing struggle of going from one day to the next? How his gradual decline into apathy and certain death had only been halted by an uncle who had realized what was happening and had stepped in just in time?

  But he tried; he owed Sstaal that much. ‘After my family were killed, life was pointless, just a constant battle to stay alive. What did I have to stay alive for? I lost my job, my self-respect... I just didn’t care about anything any more. But one of my relatives whose finances had survived the Great Crash – that was when the Earth’s economy collapsed – was looking for me – some sort of family business. What he found wasn’t much – a hopeless, worthless drug addict who had completely given up – but he pulled me back.’ McGuire shrugged. ‘God knows how. I can’t even remember that period of my life. Thanks to him, I managed to claw back my dignity. He suggested that I start a new life, away from Earth and all the memories, so he found me a position in Jacksonville in one of his companies.’ He sighed. ‘I know it sounds absurd – moving to Mars when I thought you were responsible for what had happened to me – but it was a chance of a new life. Besides, Jacksonville was a self-contained human colony; I could have been anywhere in the solar system.’

  Sstaal frowned – he had removed his helmet and armour some time ago – and raised an ungloved finger. ‘But that doesn’t explain why you would lead an expedition to the North Pole. Surely you realized that you would have to deal with my people if you wanted to share any supplies that you might have found?’

  McGuire nodded. ‘Of course I did. That’s why I approached the Mayor and suggested the expedition after Vince had detected the energy readings. After three years here, three years of pent-up anger and hate, I wanted to face up to the people that I
blamed for the mess that was my life. I had to. I needed to know what would happen to me. I needed to know whether I could forgive.’

  ‘And now that you have faced up to us, Antony – how do you feel? Has the pain subsided, or will you allow it to consume you for the rest of your life as well? Or perhaps you have become comfortable with it?’

  The answer was simple, a tenet over two hundred years old.

  ‘I can forgive, Sstaal. But I can never forget. If you’re right, though, I haven’t anything to forgive you for.’ He reached out and grabbed Sstaal’s hand. ‘But can you forgive me for my hatred?’

  Sstaal squeezed McGuire’s hand. ‘I can only do that once you have forgiven yourself. And that, Antony, is going to be the hardest thing of all.’

  The door opened, and a Martian entered. He gestured to them. ‘You have five minutes to ready yourselves,’ he hissed. ‘You have an audience with the Grand Marshal.’

  McGuire looked over at Sstaal. ‘Grand Marshal? What the hell’s going on?’

  Sstaal appeared as disturbed as McGuire felt. ‘I don’t know, Antony. But I am not reassured. If we needed further proof that this is not the religious nest that the Abbot expected, that is it. Grand Marshals are only to he found in military nests.’

  As Sstaal hurriedly dressed himself in his armour, McGuire glanced at the Ice Warrior in the doorway, and realized that he didn’t hate him. He was one Martian amongst many, and McGuire didn’t have the right to condemn an entire race for the crimes of a select few – whatever he thought.

  He knew that he was learning. He just hadn’t expected that the education would come from a Greenie.

  In a way, he was glad it had. It was the sort of poetic justice that convinced him that there was a God after all.

  ‘You idiot, Chris!’ shouted Roz, punching him gently in the stomach. He grinned, almost unable to believe who he was seeing. Without thinking, he grabbed her in a bear hug and spun her around.

  ‘Roz – you don’t know -’

  ‘I do,’ she replied curtly. ‘And before you ask, the Doctor’s here as well, although he’s safely under lock and key.’

  ‘What are the Ice Warriors running here – some kind of penitentiary for refugees?’ And then he remembered his primary mission. ‘I’m after two people who arrived here with me.’

  ‘From where?’ asked the woman with long dark hair who was standing behind Roz.

  Chris frowned at the unfamiliar voice. ‘Who’s this?’

  ‘Christopher Cwej; meet Adjudicator Carmen Santacosta.’

  ‘Adjudicator?’ How had Roz managed to team up with another Adjudicator? Then again, what the hell had she been up to since the destruction of the TARDIS?

  Roz grinned. ‘A long story. Did the TARDIS dump you on Mars as well, then?’

  He shook his head, but he was unwilling to go into too much detail. They were too visible, too vulnerable. ‘No, on Charon.’ And then, relishing the odd looks he received: ‘Another long story. We’re about three hundred metres from the subspace manipulator chamber where I think the other two are being held. I suggest we grab them, and then attempt to free the Doctor.’

  ‘And the others,’ added Roz. ‘An expedition from Jacksonville and a party of Ice Warrior pilgrims.’

  Chris snorted. ‘It’s never simple, is it? Okay, okay, explanations can wait. Time for the Guild to come to the rescue.’

  ‘The Bureau,’ corrected Santacosta.

  ‘The Guild,’ corrected Roz emphatically.

  Chris didn’t care. His life was coming together again. And he couldn’t remember the last time he had felt so exhilarated.

  The Doctor, Aklaar and the others were standing before Draan’s desk once more. But Draan himself was absent. Four Warriors stood at each corner of the large room, disruptors trained on the travellers.

  ‘Any idea what this is about, Abbot?’ whispered McGuire.

  ‘None, Antony. I am sorry to confess that nothing has been as expected since we arrived at the Cauldron of Sutekh.’ Not as expected, he thought. But as suspected was a different matter.

  A grinding noise alerted them to a door opening at the back of the room. Aklaar knew that the others were probably expecting Draan to make his entrance, but Aklaar suspected otherwise. Just as he suspected that the entire pilgrimage was nothing more than an elaborate trap sprung b>y a very old enemy. A trap which he had blindly fallen into.

  And, as the figure entered the room, Aklaar saw that he wasn’t mistaken. With a twisting, nauseating feeling of hateful, vile memories being stirred from their enforced sleep, he recognized the gold and purple armour of a Supreme Grand Marshal, the ceremonial uniform only worn by the privileged: the eight rulers of the planet Mars.

  Falaxyr, one of only two survivors of that same Eight-Point Table that had led Mars into bloody, futile war against mankind, the Eight-Point Table that had accepted ritual suicide as atonement for the consequences of that war – all except two. One was Falaxyr the coward; the same Falaxyr who cast his gaze across the group. When his attention reached Aklaar he paused. And smiled.

  ‘As you probably realize, I am in absolute command of this base. Any deviation, any questioning of my orders, will be met with immediate execution. None of you is indispensable. Am I understood?’

  ‘Perfectly,’ muttered the Doctor. ‘Typical black-or-white thinking.’

  Falaxyr gave a thin smile. ‘But that is the way of the Martian military. Isn’t it, Abbot Aklaar?’ The words were sharp and pointed, designed to cut away at him.

  No, Falaxyr. Not this time. Aklaar made a decisive step forward. For nearly seventy years, he had been the wise old Abbot of an ancient and respected seminary, the spiritual leader of his followers in Oras. Now all that was lost, gone for ever, because Aklaar hadn’t recognized that he was leading his pilgrims into a calculated trap. That fact only served to fuel his current anger.

  ‘Make your point, Falaxyr. Dramatic performances were never your style.’

  ‘Or yours, old friend.’ Aklaar could hear the whispers behind him, and feel the curious glances burning into his back. But there was nothing he could do. This was the moment that had only come to him in nightmares before now, excruciating, agonizing nightmares that had been his constant companion for seventy years. But no more.

  Falaxyr continued. ‘In another life, you too preferred the direct approach.’

  ‘What other life?’ asked Esstar. ‘Abbot Aklaar, I do not understand. Do you know this barbarian?’ There was a nervousness in her voice, indications of the gentle dawning of a hideous truth. His pilgrims were clever, but were they clever enough to understand why?

  Falaxyr placed a too-friendly clamp on Aklaar’s shoulder. ‘The Abbot and I are old and dear friends, although I knew him by another name.’

  Before Falaxyr could say it, before Falaxyr could delight in the death of Aklaar’s dreams and the realization of his darkest nightmares, the Abbot knew what he had to do. He still had his pride, and he owed his pilgrims the truth from his own lips, not through the twisted lies of a coward like Falaxyr. He straightened his aching body with a vigour unknown for centuries, and faced the Grand Marshal squarely and without intimidation.

  ‘Falaxyr and I have a history forged in blood, my friends,’ he announced. ‘But he indeed knew me by another name: he called me Abrasaar, also known as the Butcher of Viis Claar...

  ‘The last survivor of the Eight-Point Table.’

  Chapter 11

  The atmosphere in Falaxyr’s chambers was colder than the hoarfrost of the North Pole that lay five hundred metres above them. Everyone, humans and Martians alike, was staring at Aklaar. Or Abrasaar. Or whoever he was.

  McGuire’s stomach was clenched tight in unbelieving shock as he pondered the Grand Marshal’s inferences and Aklaar’s own confession. Over the last five days, McGuire’s admiration for the ancient old Martian had grown; in a way, he saw him as a wise mentor, one who transcended hatred and those baser emotions that McGuire had embraced, and fervently believed t
hat one man – or Martian – could make a difference. Aklaar had spoken of a new destiny for Mars, a new role for his people that would bury the crimes and injustices of the past and bring new glories of peace and understanding. McGuire had bought into those dreams.

  Except that Aklaar was Abrasaar, the notorious and reviled Butcher of Viis Claar, the war criminal hated by humanity and disowned by the Martians. McGuire could tell from the others’ expressions that the magnitude of that title wasn’t lost of any of them.

  Viis Claar was the Martian name for the Valles Marineris, a deep, wide valley near the Martian equator. It was also the name of the only significant defeat for the human forces in the Thousand Day War. Earth Intelligence had discovered that there was a heavily guarded Martian weapons dump at the eastern end of the valley, and UN Central Command knew that the dump had to be captured before the Martians could relocate their weaponry. One of the elite teams – General Burkitt’s King’s Fusiliers – had been put on standby waiting for an assault window.

  Finally, after weeks of patient monitoring, a transmission had been intercepted and easily decoded; the Grand Marshal responsible for the dump – Abrasaar – informed the Eight-Point Table that his forces were being redirected to a nearby city that was currently under siege. Burkitt had taken that as the signal to move in, and fifteen thousand troops had Transitted in and advanced on the weapons dump, expecting only minimal resistance.

  They hadn’t expected ten thousand Martian Warriors.

  The engagement lasted three days before culminating in the annihilation of the dump in an explosion that was visible unaided from the southern hemisphere of Earth. Although the contents of the dump would no longer be able to further the Martian war effort, the confrontation at Viis Claar had cost fifteen thousand human lives – over a third of the final death count – and severely dented Earth’s sense of invulnerability.