Godengine

by Craig Hinton

  Carefully, quietly, they had crept along the deserted tunnel, coming within metres of the brightly lit junction that led directly to the cells before the long shadow had fallen in front of them. Before they could react, the Martian was standing right in front of them. That was what made it so infuriating; they had got so close without seeing a single crukking Greenie.

  Chris tapped her on the arm. ‘Try this.’ He held out a small lump of circuitry. ‘It’s not got a lot of charge left, but it might work.’

  ‘What is it?’ asked Santacosta.

  ‘A scrambler: it reacts with their cybernetics. But you have to get up nice and close.’

  She smiled. A one-shot chance, that was all she had wanted. ‘Watch me.’ Santacosta stepped forward, her hands raised in surrender. The scrambler was clutched in the palm of her right hand.

  ‘All right, all right; we’ll come quietly.’ She kept moving towards the Ice Warrior, slow, steady, unthreatening steps. Behind her, she heard Cwej and Forrester also start walking. More importantly, they provided two more targets.

  As soon as she was within half a metre of the Ice Warrior, Santacosta leapt; as she did so she held out her hand and slapped the scrambler against his armour. The reaction was immediate; the Martian starting to convulse, and Santacosta stepped back to avoid being crushed as the giant green form toppled to the floor. The warbling whine of his disruptor squealed, but Santacosta was pleased to see that the shot went wide of her, although it only missed Chris by centimetres.

  ‘Not too shabby,’ said Roz, looking down at the fallen Warrior. He was still twitching feebly.

  ‘Thanks,’ replied Santacosta. ‘Good piece of work, Cwej.’

  ‘Yes. An excellent piece of work. The fabled resourcefulness of our Amber Marshal.’ Whatever that meant. But the voice wasn’t human. They looked round in unison to see the cloaked figure come forward from the shadows, flanked by two Warriors. It was Draan. ‘It has been a good fight, Adjudicator, but it is over. As much as I enjoy the games of combat, this one has run its course.’

  Santacosta looked back at the others. ‘We haven’t got a lot of choice, have we?’

  Draan smiled. ‘No, you haven’t.’ He walked over to Cwej and stroked the Adjudicator’s chin with his clamp. Santacosta was impressed by the way that Cwej stood his ground unflinchingly; it was nice to know that the best traditions of the Adjudicators’ Bureau would survive into the future. ‘You are a worthy opponent, Adjudicator Christopher Rodamonte Cwej, but even you must bow to the glory of the Martian military.’

  McGuire watched as the two Marshals took their positions, only now noticing the similarities between them. He knew that the Abbot had claimed that he only wore the armour of a Martian Lord because of the protection it had afforded against the harsh terrain and vicious fauna of Mars, but did Aklaar feel more comfortable in the cybernetic carapace and helmet of the Warrior caste, or the tunic and long robes of an Abbot in the service of Oras that he had described to him earlier? McGuire tried to imagine Aklaar in the same purple and gold armour as Falaxyr; as Aklaar prepared himself for battle, McGuire found that it wasn’t difficult.

  Aklaar lunged first, a swift, arcing sweep that Falaxyr nimbly side-stepped. In return, the Grand Marshal brought his own Sword up and caught Aklaar’s sword, knocking it upwards. But the Abbot’s grip didn’t waver; he spun to his left in a display of agility which belied his great age, bringing his sword back and parrying Falaxyr’s next blow with practised ease. McGuire was impressed; at the onset of the duel, he wouldn’t have given the Abbot a chance of winning against Falaxyr. But now? As Aklaar danced around the Grand Marshal, never allowing the other a moment’s advantage, McGuire wasn’t so sure.

  Realization coldly tempered his hopes: who was he kidding? Even if Aklaar ran Falaxyr through and left the Marshal bleeding green blood on the smooth amber floor, they would still all be prisoners in the Martian nest, and the Martians would still have a weapon capable of incinerating the Earth.

  The Doctor sidled up to him. ‘The quintessence of the Martian race, eh, Mr McGuire?’

  The Doctor’s untrusting attitude irritated McGuire, even though it was one that he had shared until the truth had been revealed. ‘The Abbot’s fighting for our lives, Doctor.’

  The Doctor cocked an eyebrow. ‘Is he? Somehow, I suspect that the feud between our two Grand Marshals is a lot older and a lot more personal than that.’

  Looking back at the duellists, McGuire understood what the Doctor meant.

  ‘You are a coward, Falaxyr,’ grunted Aklaar in the High Tongue, as his face came within inches of the Grand Marshal. ‘The rest of the Eight-Point Table accepted their fate and died honourably. You scuttled away like a spider-lizard, hiding in this nest of evil.’

  ‘A coward?’ Falaxyr hissed. ‘I never turned my back on my heritage, my bloodline – it shames me that we grew from the same clutch.’ He tried to parry, but it was easily defended. ‘What place has a Supreme Grand Marshal amongst the terrified and spineless Order of Oras? The Order is an abomination to all that is Martian.’

  Aklaar stepped back to compose himself. ‘All that is Martian? Look at what we have left, Falaxyr: on Mars, a handful of populated nests, hidden from the sun. Then there is the frightened colony beyond far Arcturus, too ashamed to announce its presence.’

  ‘We also have the GodEngine.’

  ‘Which you have traded with the callous beings who have enslaved Earth. With the GodEngine and the help of the humans, you could free Earth and gain the everlasting gratitude of those we once called enemies. But no; all you seek is to further this vendetta until all of our people are dead. If you use the GodEngine to destroy the humans, they will hunt us out and exterminate us. They will find the secret colony and wipe us out to the last clutchling.’

  ‘How?’ gasped Falaxyr. ‘They will all be dead.’ He leapt at the Abbot, taking him off guard. Aklaar tried to parry, but the blow that caught him was driven with all of the Grand Marshal’s enhanced strength – and the purple armour of a Grand Marshal was superior to the green of a Lord. The serrated blade of the Sword of Tuburr tore into Aklaar’s armoured tabard and ripped deep into the scaly flesh beneath. With an involuntary cry, Aklaar sank to the floor, the faux sword clattering away.

  Falaxyr straightened himself and sighed. ‘And so falls the Butcher of Viis Claar.’

  ‘Finish the duel,’ Aklaar urged. ‘Kill me, my brother!’

  Falaxyr shook his head. ‘A duel of honour with a traitor? I shall let your life ebb away as befits one such as you.’ He turned his back on the fallen Abbot, wiping the green blood from the Sword with his cloak before handing it to Sleeth.

  ‘The distractions are over,’ he announced to the others. ‘Now we will begin.’

  He looked up as the doors to the GodEngine chamber were thrown open. It was that idiot of a subordinate, Draan, but Falaxyr was gratified to note that the Adjudicator and the other escaped prisoners were in his custody.

  But Draan did not appear happy with his prize. His gaze was fixed on Cleece, standing in what should have been his position behind the Grand Marshal.

  ‘What is this?’ he roared, leaving his charges with the others. ‘What is this pilgrim doing in my place?’

  Falaxyr raised his clamp. ‘Cleece is no longer a pilgrim, Draan, just as you are no longer my adjutant. The blood of Warriors flows through him, just as the thin, incompetent blood of Slaar flows through you. He has earned his place at my side by delivering the Sword of Tuburr to me, while you were hopelessly searching the complex for our Amber Marshal.’

  He turned his back on Draan; his once adjutant was nothing more than a waste of flesh. ‘Sleeth: ensure that Jacksonville is still targeted.’

  ‘No!’ It was Anders, the human scientist that Draan had caught. Falaxyr neither knew nor cared how she had escaped her conditioning, but his suspicions fell on the Adjudicator: one more reason to dismiss Draan as the fool he was.

  ‘No, you mustn’t,’ Anders insisted. ‘The GodEngine
isn’t designed to focus on that small a target. If the subspace lenses hold, you’ll probably take out half of Mars; if they don’t – which is more likely – the GodEngine will explode. With the energies that it’s barely harnessing, that’ll send Mars spinning into the sun – or worse.’

  ‘The GodEngine is our creation, Professor Anders, the pinnacle of Martian technology. Do not presume to lecture me as to its operation.’ But he was still concerned enough to beckon Sleeth over.

  ‘Does she speak the truth?’ he whispered.

  Sleeth shook his head. ‘She underestimates Martian engineering. All will be as you have ordered, Your Excellency.’

  Falaxyr never noticed the smile of dawning realization on the Doctor’s face.

  ‘Of course,’ muttered the Doctor. He beckoned Rachel over. ‘Professor Anders? The head of the ill-fated Charon research project?’

  She nodded. Who was this odd-looking little man? ‘And you?’

  ‘I’m the Doctor. Chris’s friend.’ He gave Chris a sharp look. ‘When all of this is over, Chris, you and I need to have a stern talk about the web of time.’

  Chris looked slightly bashful. ‘I know.’

  ‘Apart from that, I am very glad to see you again. That was a very nice bit of terrorism.’ The Doctor turned his attention to Rachel. ‘Are you sure that the subspace polarizers aren’t up to the task?’ he asked. ‘This is very important.’

  She frowned, trying to remember the specifications that she had been forced to read. ‘Felice did most of the work, but I’m pretty sure. The minimum resolution of the beam is at least ten times the focal width that Falaxyr’s trying for.’

  ‘Excellent,’ said the Doctor. ‘Let us hope that there’s a big bang, then.’

  ‘What?’ She couldn’t believe what she was hearing.

  ‘Doctor – I don’t want this device damaged.’ It was Santacosta, still clinging onto her pipe dreams of using the GodEngine to free Earth.

  He smiled. ‘If everything goes according to plan, there won’t be so much as a trisilicate diode left after this is played out.’

  Santacosta pulled out the scalper. ‘I mean it.’

  He gave the weapon a look of disgust. ‘Oh dear. The last refuge of the incompetent. Listen to me, whoever you are -’

  ‘Adjudicator Carmen Santacosta – Oberon Special Operative.’

  The Doctor looked from Chris to Roz and then back to Santacosta. ‘Another one? What is this, a Ravens’ convention?’ He sighed. ‘The GodEngine is the product of Martian belligerence and Osirian technology. It has no place in this time. Neither you nor the Martians – nor the invaders, come to that – has any right to it. This must end, now. And if you cannot see that, then you will have to shoot me.’

  She didn’t get the chance. One of the Warriors guarding them must have seen Santacosta’s scalper; he reached out and snatched it from her hand with his clamp, before crushing it into a broken ruin of polymer fragments.

  ‘Finished?’ said the Doctor rhetorically. ‘Good. Then stand back and watch the fireworks. This should be quite spectacular.’

  McGuire overheard the Doctor’s pronouncement and joined the group, accompanied by Esstar. Sstaal was kneeling beside the dying Abbot, presumably administering the Martian equivalent of the Last Rites. McGuire wanted to pay his respects, but knew that none were needed; the Abbot would die, knowing that McGuire had finally understood.

  He addressed the Doctor. ‘You’re just going to stand here and let that bastard destroy my home?’ he growled.

  ‘Please, Antony.’ The Doctor laid a restraining hand on his arm. ‘It might not come to that.’

  ‘Might not? Might not?’

  Esstar laid a clamp on McGuire’s other arm. ‘In his own way, the Doctor is as wise as the Abbot, Antony. Have faith in the strength and word of Oras.’

  He smiled weakly, but his stomach was threatening to burst. And when he looked at the prone figure of the Abbot, he wondered how much faith Aklaar had put in Oras.

  On the far side of the chamber, Sleeth had completed his second set of preparations. He nodded to the Grand Marshal, who once again inserted the Sword of Tuburr – this time, the true Sword of Tuburr – into the GodEngine assembly.

  The reaction was immediate. As well as the increase in noise from the banks of controls, a tingling, grating screech erupted from the GodEngine.

  ‘That’s the sound of subspace being torn apart,’ muttered Rachel. It wasn’t something McGuire wanted to hear.

  The Doctor leant over to Roz and whispered conspiratorially. ‘In about thirty seconds, you will see something which you recognize very well. When that happens, I am going to need a diversion. Anything, as long as it gives me a chance to reach the GodEngine.’

  Roz shrugged. ‘Anything you say, Doctor.’

  McGuire shook his head. From what he had heard, he had a ringside seat for oblivion, and there was nothing to do but wait for the inevitable.

  Vastitas Borealis. The Cauldron of Sutekh. The Martian North Pole. Three names for the same cold high pinnacle of Mars. With the Martian trait of building their cities underground – the main reason why their race had remained undiscovered by humanity until they chose to be found – the thin layer of ice and frozen carbon dioxide had been undisturbed for millennia, a freezing white expanse of rolling dunes, silent save for the tinkling sound of wind through ice crystals and hoarfrost.

  Undisturbed until now, that was. The crystal chimes of the ice were suddenly drowned out by a deep growl that seemed to come from the ground itself, heavy reverberations that began to shake the virgin ice fields. Huge cracks started opening, splitting the ice-sheets with black chasms that rapidly widened into a network that criss-crossed an area over two kilometres wide.

  The cracks weren’t empty. From the depths of the Martian crust, titanic objects thrust their way to the surface, gigantic gold and silver pyramids that were hundreds of metres tall, their polished faces adorned with ancient hieroglyphs that would have been familiar to any human Egyptologist.

  It took less than a minute for the group of pyramids – over thirty of them in total – to finally complete their journey above ground; yet once they stopped moving, they did nothing. They simply stood there, relics of an age that was shared by Man and Martian alike. The age of the Osirians.

  Together, the pyramids formed the external emitter array of the GodEngine: Falaxyr’s seventy-year project was finally complete.

  ‘External assembly now fully extended,’ Sleeth informed Falaxyr. ‘Subspace meniscus penetration at sixty per cent.’

  ‘I hope your gods revile you for an eternity, Falaxyr,’ came a thin, raspy voice. It was Aklaar, still clinging onto life with remarkable tenacity. Or was it his faith in Oras, McGuire wondered.

  ‘Revile me?’ said Falaxyr dismissively. ‘Our descendants will consider me a god in my own right. Now die, Abrasaar, and leave the future to the victors.’

  Sleeth turned from the control bank. ‘Penetration at one hundred per cent, Your Excellency. Primary subspace manifold created.’

  Five hundred million kilometres away from Mars, within the unimaginable incandescence of the solar core, the fabric of the space-time continuum began to ripple and dissolve, as a funnel of subspace materialized from beyond its weakened meniscus. After tentatively emerging into reality, the funnel stiffened; it immediately grabbed trillions of tonnes of core matter – superheated plasma – in its poly-dimensional folds and pleats, before twisting in countless directions, none of them even slightly Euclidean.

  But all of them resolved in the vicinity of Olympus Mons – Jacksonville. In scant moments, the subspace manifold would convulse, accelerating the captured plasma to superluminal velocities before unleashing it on the unsuspecting human colony.

  ‘This is it; this is definitely it,’ muttered the Doctor. ‘Remember, Roz – keep your eyes peeled for an old friend.’ She could barely hear him above the whine of the GodEngine; it was now a throbbing, pulsing roar that was physically uncomfortable, as
ancient Osirian technology and Martian know-how joined together in their deadly pursuit.

  Roz had her suspicions over the identity of the old friend, and – seconds later – she wasn’t disappointed; indeed, she was rather impressed. As Sleeth indicated to Falaxyr that the GodEngine was now ready to unleash its stolen plasma on Jacksonville, movement came from all around the chamber, unexpected movement that burst through the walls. The phantom blue shapes that appeared automatically brought a broad grin to the Doctor’s face, and Roz couldn’t really blame him.

  Roz counted at least twenty of the translucent police boxes, majestically floating through the amber walls towards the pyramid of the GodEngine.

  ‘Now, Roz!’ shouted the Doctor.

  As if the arrival of twenty TARDIS ghosts wasn’t distraction enough, she thought.

  After the Doctor’s instructions, she had co-opted Santacosta and Chris into the scheme. In addition to Draan – apparently sulking in the corner, his visored gaze fixed firmly on his usurper, Cleece – there were five other armed Martians in the GodEngine chamber. But by co-ordinating their movements, the three Adjudicators could, with luck, evade being shot, and provide the Doctor with the distraction he needed into the bargain.

  Not that the Martians weren’t currently preoccupied themselves; the phantom TARDISes were doing a good enough job of that anyway. Roz noticed that another wave of them was now emerging through the walls. But a plan was a plan. On cue, the three Adjudicators ran in three zigzagging directions.

  The Doctor reacted as immediately as the Adjudicators. Running at breakneck speed, he reached the GodEngine pyramid in a matter of seconds. Searching in his pocket, he extracted the small black sphere which Roz, momentarily glancing back, recognized as the Transit-web nucleus that the Doctor had picked up earlier.

  ‘Grab Felice!’ he yelled at Chris as he squeezed the sphere. As it began to extrude its black filaments, he threw it into the air like a bolus. It helicoptered upwards as it expanded, hovering momentarily above the apex of the GodEngine before dropping onto the golden summit.