Cerulean Dreams

by Dan O'Brien

Armon flashed an angry look.

  “I realize that. It hurt on the way in.”

  Susan hid her smile. She could not help but feel some satisfaction at the hurt that was pasted across the assassin’s face. Though they were kindred in many ways, she hated his sect of the Children: the blind, focused devotion that cost lives. He winced as the combined effort of several men pulled the blade free. A fountain––and then a river––of new blood covered the old.

  “Have you sent anyone into the desert?” he questioned as one of the medics jabbed a cylindrical chamber, affixed with a thick needle, into the center of the wound. He gurgled from the pain as the shrouded medic released a foaming fluid that filled the wound, stopping the blood flow.

  “We were assessing the damage upstairs. We didn’t know what happened to Marlowe and the girl. You said you would take care of that, remember?” she returned, slight venom in her voice. With the cover of a squadron of CDCC at her back and under her command, she feared his wrath less. “Without any communication, we had no idea how to proceed.”

  “Dr. Crowne?” queried the flat voice of a soldier behind her.

  She wheeled. “What is it, soldier?”

  He shifted uncomfortably and pointed toward the rotund exit door with his rifle. “There is a problem with the atrium exit,” he responded stiffly.

  Armon pushed himself to his feet, standing beside the radiant doctor. “What problem?” he chimed in, echoing her thoughts perfectly.

  “We can’t get it open.”

  Susan felt her blood boil. “You cannot complete the simple task of opening a door? This proves too difficult for your feeble mind,” she replied, fuming. “Do you not know how to operate a door?”

  The soldier straightened, his features hidden beneath a black helmet. The grimace and dissatisfaction he felt was not reflected in his voice. It remained monotone. “No, ma’am. I am capable of opening a door. However…”

  She sighed loudly, pushing past him and grasping the massive ring at the center of the door and pulling. She strained and perspired before she rounded once more on the same soldier who had followed her to the door. “What is the matter with the door?”

  She commanded a swift answer.

  Armon moved closer, holding his hurt hand wrapped in the other. “Perhaps opening a door is too complicated for even a doctor,” he responded, his smile returned. The soldier snickered, but straightened once more as her gaze fell upon him.

  “I want this door opened. Our prey has fled.” When it had begun, she saw Marlowe as a benign creature. She now felt the frustration of his continued flight.

  The azure light flashed on Armon’s arm, drawing his attention. He looked at it, meeting Susan’s gaze. “Please continue with the parting of these gates, doctor. I want a squadron outfitted for the desert ready the moment I am capable of travelling. Do you understand, Ms. Crowne?”

  She nodded soberly. The flashing light at the assassin’s arm meant a call that neither of them wished to answer. The sounds of soldiers congregating and the exchange of various ideas for opening the doors were lost to Armon as he moved out of sight into an adjoining area of the scarred atrium. The glow enveloped the room, painting Armon’s mocha features in a haunting blue light.

  “Lord Niehl,” he spoke. He resisted the urge to kneel.

  The shrouded head nodded slightly, but otherwise it seemed more a caricature than a living being. “I was monitoring your vitals, as well as those of your prey. What news do you have for me?”

  Armon swallowed, he rarely failed as completely as he had in the atrium. “He has fled, Lord Niehl, into the desert in pursuit of something that I cannot comprehend. He is quite mad.”

  Niehl’s voice was crisp as he spoke to the assassin. “Brother Armon, I fear that what he seeks is something of importance, and significance. He seeks the Tower.”

  Armon felt his skin prickle, as if a cold breeze had passed over him. “No one can find the Tower, Lord Niehl. It is beyond the desert, beyond anything that a creature like Marlowe is capable. He does not know how to find the Tower,” replied Armon, unconvinced.

  Lord Niehl’s tone shifted to indignation. “I fear that you are mistaken, Brother Armon. There is a map. An ancient path to the Tower that one could find if one knew where to look.”

  Armon’s eyes darkened. The silver glint was sharp. He recalled the ravings of Marlowe as he, Armon, lay prostrated. He had spoken of writings on his arm, of following where it took him. “Then he has that map,” spoke Armon.

  “Did you see the map? How could you possibly know that?”

  Armon’s gaze was distant. He had dismissed the words as idiocy, but he had missed something crucial. Marlowe was connected somehow. He had found a way to see what could not be seen. “He spoke of it,” replied Armon. “I did not believe him.”

  Niehl sighed, the hood shifting. “You must pursue him. You cannot let him reach the Tower. It would be the end of everything. Cerulean Dreams. Babylon. Everything we know would be wiped from existence if he were to reach the Tower.”

  Armon nodded drunkenly. “He knows already, but he cannot see it. It is there, written in flesh, but he has yet to understand the importance of what he sees.”

  Lord Niehl’s tone sharpened.

  “You are not making sense, Brother Armon.”

  Armon’s face was sweating profusely. He could feel the pulsing of his blood through his wound. “You scanned us as we battled, did you not?”

  Lord Niehl nodded.

  “He is powerful. His strength, agility, it will only continue to grow. You warned me that he would be powerful un-tethered, and you were not mistaken. He will only grow more powerful. Even if I were to reach him, I might not be able to stop what he has become.”

  The visage of Lord Niehl was incapable of emotion. But if it was, it would have sunk alarmingly. “That is very defeatist of you, Brother Armon. Surely, a great warrior of Babylon can silence a single Orionian.”

  Armon could hear the heavy hydraulics of the outer door. They would soon have it open––a day’s start is what Marlowe had, as well as the benefit of not travelling with a battalion.

  “He is not a mere Orionian. He is something else.”

  *

  Marlowe opened his eyes and still saw darkness. He reached out and felt his surroundings, but the unevenness of the rocks beneath his touch was of little comfort. Shaking his head, he used the jagged walls to stand. Daring not to move for he did not know what lay about him, he simply stood, blinking. His mind swum; pressing a hand to his skull, he felt wetness––blood.

  He tried to recall what had happened. There was thunder upon the desert, a white wave of sand, and then nothing else.

  “Dana,” he called out.

  The word echoed into the darkened air. A cavern, he reasoned, would possess the acoustics for such an echo. “Dana, are you here? Are you hurt?” he called out again.

  Taking a cautious step forward, he made certain there was even, stable ground beneath his feet. Step by step, he moved forward.

  Using the rocks to balance himself, he stumbled blindly through the darkness as his eyes adjusted. He felt his body with his hands, searching for a weapon, some object of luminance.

  His blade was still affixed to his back.

  The empty holster at his side was torn.

  The rifle had remained in place. His back hurt around the outline of the metallic monstrosity. He pulled it from around his shoulders, finding comfort in the grip. Marlowe switched on the guiding light atop the rifle, the pinpoint of light darting around the room as he swung the rifle. He touched his chest, the lesser body armor was still in place, cracked and worn from the assassin’s attacks.

  The cavern was unremarkable. Darker patches of stone where water had filtered down lay together in small sections. The gurgle of water in the distance informed Marlowe that there might yet be an underground resource of water that flowed through the caverns.

  “Dana,” he called again.

  He stepped carefully ove
r the terrain. With the gun in his hand and the light to guide his way, he moved forward in haste. Jagged outcroppings were littered about his path. He picked his way through the throng of thin rocks with deliberate steps.

  Stopping occasionally to look up, he heard whistling. Air trapped and blowing through the cavern had originated somewhere. This thought kept him moving forward, searching for the source of the cavern, an entrance perhaps. His body was warm. The body armor marked his path as he shed broken pieces periodically. The warmth of the caverns made his mind swim.

  “Marlowe….” The voice was a whisper, but it crawled across his skin. He swung around his weapon, the light searching the wall. Swallowing the hard lump in his throat, he felt paranoia skitter up his spine.

  Their forms started out slowly, moving across the walls. Their fingers cracked against the stone, splintering nail and bone. He couldn’t see them, but he knew they were there: the faceless beings trapped in some macabre death scream. He moved the light across the wall as he started forward again. It flashed across with a halo of light.

  “Who’s there?” he roared as he swung the gun around, trying to follow the form. The sound of the water dripping echoed through the cavern as he waited. His heart thudded in his chest. Blood pulsed, throbbing rhythmically as he watched the wall for something.

  “Marlowe. Marlowe….” came the voice again, drifting through the darkness. His head felt heavy, his eyes widened.

  And then the thunder came again––louder and louder like the footfalls of a giant. Marlowe started to run then. His legs churned as he catapulted across the uneven rocks, taking strides like a great runner. The thunder grew louder with each step.

  He was chasing the darkness.

  XVI

  D

  ana trembled as the thunder came again. “Marlowe,” she screamed. The thunder redoubled. The white sands swirled angrily. “Marlowe.” She whimpered as she crashed through the sands.

  Falling, her hands dug deep into the hot whiteness of the desert. She hung her head, sweat-soaked strands of hair falling across her vision. The pack felt heavy on her back, but she would not leave it behind. Marlowe was gone and the pack had her only weapon, the pistol that she had carried inside Orion.

  She twisted her body so that she could grab a hold of the pack. Tearing it open with ferocious force, she dug into it, searching for the cold steel of the weapon. Ignoring the heat of the day as it beat down on her back, she dug through the pack.

  The desert shook.

  The clear skies above reflected only brightness. Thunder rumbled. The ground was a massive vibration that rebounded in her ears. She nearly cried out when she found the gun. Pulling it from the pack, she pointed it forward. Dana stood, looking around as the ground trembled. She saw a darkened form darting through the columns of bleached sand.

  She fired.

  A dimple of sand exploded far to the right of the dashing figure. She backed away, pulling the straps of the pack with her.

  She fired again.

  It was closer now.

  Muscular, tanned legs churned through the sand. Feminine grace unhidden, Dana leveled the weapon again. The woman dodged to the left, the sand absorbing a round once more to the right.

  The tackle dropped Dana to the ground.

  Darkened hair dangled in Dana’s face as the woman pressed her shoulders into the sands with a strength belied by her demure appearance. “You are in great danger,” spoke Sephes, the thunder closer.

  Dana looked at the woman incredulously.

  “You just knocked me to the ground.”

  Sephes looked at the desert as it rumbled, her eyes focused on the swirling mounds of sands. “That was because you were shooting at me. I was defending myself,” she answered.

  Dana tried to strike Sephes.

  The woman was much more agile. She caught Dana by the wrist and lifted her from the ground with her as she stood. “We need to leave this place, find shelter,” she warned.

  “You took Marlowe,” cried Dana.

  “What is Marlowe?”

  Dana hung her head, her fight gone. “He is my friend, my protector,” she answered dismally, feeling suddenly lethargic and weak. “You took him. The thunder. The sand wave. You did it.”

  Sephes’ eyes softened. “I did not take your friend. The Mimic has claimed him.”

  “Mimic? What are you talking about? The thunder came and took him. You came with it,” she reasoned sharply, twisting free of the woman’s grasp, but only because Sephes let her.

  “No.” Sephes shook her head. “I saw the Mimic from the distance. I came running to help. Icarus is above it.”

  She pointed at the skies.

  Dana looked, shielding her eyes with her hand. The shadow of a bird circled in front of the sun. “That bird? That bird is Icarus?”

  Sephes nodded. “He is my friend. And he watches the Mimic, shows us where it is. It is close now. We must find shelter.”

  Dana watched the bird, the straps of the pack falling from her grasp. He hovered just above the swirling sands in the distance. The piercing cry of his call turned Sephes. “We must go now. The Mimic is moving again.”

  Dana shook her head.

  “No. No. We have to find Marlowe…”

  Sephes grabbed her by the arm and pulled her forward.

  “We haven’t much time.”

  Dana swung her arm out, so that Sephes let go. Dana’s eyes were flooded in tears, her voice a near-shriek. “No. He said he wouldn’t leave. He said wherever he went, I went. Wherever I went, he would be there.” Her lip trembled. “He is supposed to protect me.”

  Sephes watched the girl with sadness.

  Her white skin had freckled in the sun. The silver glint of her eyes was familiar to the desert scout. She had seen a woman with similar eyes before. “If he is your protector, then he will find you again. If he is what you believe, then not even death will stand in his path.”

  Dana looked at the woman, her words a strange comfort. “You really think so?”

  Sephes nodded, thinking of Icarus. He was her friend. “I think that if he is meant to protect you, then he will return.”

  Dana pushed herself from the ground, wiping at her eyes. She threw the pack over her shoulder with a grunt. “Then let us find shelter.”

  They picked their way across the sands, Sephes in the lead and Dana following close behind without comment. The white sands climbed and then dipped. Their footfalls traced a line through the sand, though it was more from Dana than the nimble steps of Sephes.

  The thunder continued behind them, but as time passed so did the resounding reverberations that had caused Dana such grief. The gray caverns were hidden beneath a great white mound of cascading sands. The rock was carved in swirling patterns from the winds and desert creatures, creating a collage of spheres and cylindrical carvings.

  “Here,” commanded Sephes as she pointed to a shaded opening in the rocky walls. Dana nodded and followed her into the cool interior, the dark walls dripping with condensation.

  “What is this?” queried Dana as she crouched against the wall. The thunder had grown closer again, like the steps of the gods. Sephes backed away from the entrance as a shadow passed in front of the cavern entrance.

  Mammoth and imposing, the shadow waited. The massive head of the form swung back and forth, the distortion in the shadow evidence of its size. Dana shrunk away, a scream rising from deep in her throat.

  “What…”

  Sephes clamped her hand hard over Dana’s mouth, her other hand holding her shoulder resolutely. She looked at the paler girl and shook her head, her lips tight. The shadow turned again, great thunder accompanying it as it muscled one way and then the other. And then as quickly as it had come, the thunder departed.

  Sephes’ hand slipped away and she backed against the wall, craning her neck slightly out of the cavern opening. “That was the Mimic,” she stated, not looking back at Dana.

  Dana’s mouth hung wide open, her eyes wide and dil
ated. “What is the Mimic? That shadow was immense. I have never seen something that would cast a shadow such as that,” she murmured, allowing the pack to slip off her shoulders.

  Sephes sat against the cavern walls.

  “There are few things as fearsome and monstrous as the Mimic. It is said that none who see it face to face return the same. There is a man in my village that happened upon the Mimic in the desert one night. He is now blind. His eyes swim in shadow. He cannot feed himself and he never sleeps.”

  Dana inched closer to Sephes.

  “Is that what took Marlowe?”

  Sephes shrugged, looking through the entrance at the sunlight that filtered into the narrow valley. “If it did, then I fear your protector is in greater danger than either of us could have imagined. You said a great sand wave consumed him, yes?”

  Dana nodded, watching the valley.

  The wave was easily a hundred meters in width.

  There was no telling how far the white sands wove. The sheer mathematics of it frightened her. “We heard the thunder and the sands were disturbed. A white wave of sand collapsed on him. When the sands settled, he was gone.”

  Sephes held out her arm, the leather guard marred with talon strikes. The hawk’s cry as it dove into the canyon startled Dana. Icarus swooped in on great wings, his shadow a grain of sand compared to the horror she had witnessed.

  Icarus watched Dana carefully, his head tilted. “He does not know you. He can be very suspicious,” warned Sephes.

  Dana swallowed hard and nodded.

  “The Mimic does not attack him?”

  Sephes laughed, the sound drawing the attention of Icarus. “My friend flies far too high for that creature. He is too smart for such a creation as the Mimic.”

  Dana nodded. Her face was sweaty; her eyes pooled in fear and fatigue. “Can it find us here?”

  “I think that you saw it cannot,” she returned as she pet Icarus’ stomach gently. The hawk opened his beak and nibbled at her hand playfully. “If the Mimic takes you, it is then too late to worry. During the day, it is rare that it comes out. The Elder says that the Mimic eats sin, greed, consumes the fears of modern man. If that is so, then let us hope that your guardian is a man unburdened by such things.”