Infinite Day

by Chris Walley

  “Vero?” Nezhuala said. “Him? He overreached himself. He tried to assail me in my realm. So I killed him and took his form. It was an easy trick.” The tone was one of pure contempt. Merral stared at him.

  Vero never made it. Vero is dead.

  Then anger surged and Merral leaped at Nezhuala. But even before he touched him, he was thrown down onto the floor. Something like flames of fire ran up and down his muscles, and he found he could barely move.

  Nezhuala smirked. “I will not kill you outright. I want you to watch.” He made a gesture toward the shadows.

  With extraordinary effort, Merral pulled himself up to a sitting position. Anya crouched next to him, holding his shoulder.

  As he sat there, the pain ebbing away, he saw two figures emerge from an access door in a corner of the chamber.

  One was a weird character who walked with an odd shuffling gait. At first glance, he appeared to be a man, but he had a translucent glass bulb over the rear of his head. Behind him rolled, apparently of its own accord, a large box on wheels. And behind that, walking in a rather mechanical way, was a tall man in a dark gray military uniform.

  Merral stared at him. Anya gasped.

  Lezaroth.

  Nezhuala turned to Merral. “Let me make two—no, three—introductions. The first is Ape; I forget his real name. His enhanced brain understands the way the surfaces of the universe work, and he is going to be very busy shortly.”

  He made an almost frivolous gesture to the figure in armor. “This is Margrave Lezaroth.”

  “He’s dead!” Merral said, staring at the harsh face and the hate-filled eyes.

  “Ah, Commander, today is the day for the overturning of all certainties. Yes, you killed him. But I had a spare body on hand as a medical resource for my margrave, and I summoned his soul into it. I can do that. He is, though, still mute. But he wants revenge.”

  Merral was aware of Anya taking his hand. All is failing, tumbling like a rotten tree in a storm. Disaster mounts on tragedy to an extent that I can barely even begin to grasp.

  Nezhuala was staring at Merral. “We have had some surprises, haven’t we, today? And they have not ended. Not yet. Now, I said three introductions.” His gaze lifted and he stared at Ethan and Andreas. “I have not introduced myself properly.”

  He reached up to the side of his head and pressed his gloved hand to it. A slice of flesh seemed to fall away to reveal a delicate metal network over soft gray tissue. There has been a massive wound there.

  “Forester Merral D’Avanos—the so-called great adversary—do you know who I am?”

  “No.”

  “And you, Dr. Andreas Hmong? You who are allegedly a Custodian of the Faith?”

  “I fear you are the long-prophesied man of sin.” The words were defiant.

  “Hah! And you, Chairman Ethan Malunal? Can you tell me who I am?”

  “No. But I know what you are.” The voice was firm.

  Nezhuala gestured upward with outstretched hands. “My name is William Jannafy.”

  “What!” It was Andreas; there were other gasps.

  “It was I who was the bane of the Assembly’s dawn; it is I who now summon its ending.” He gazed around. “I was expelled from Earth over eleven thousand years ago. And now I have returned.”

  For one moment, Merral didn’t understand what he was hearing. “J-Jannafy is dead,” he spluttered. “Centuries ago.”

  The ancient images from Ringell’s helmet cam flooded back to him. Silent, apart from the crackle and hiss on the comms channel, he saw the helmet cracking, the blood bubbling out into space, and in the background, the blackness of space and the gleaming arc of Centauri.

  “I was dead and now am alive.”

  “It can’t be,” Merral said, but as he said it, he knew he meant the very opposite.

  “I was in shadow when I was shot. I froze. Oh, it hurt. My crew saved my body. Then, over years without end, the others that dwell deep in the Nether-Realms made me well with their powers. That debt I will shortly repay.”

  Nezhuala walked over and bent down. Merral braced himself for more pain as the black-gloved finger reached down around his neck. He caught a foul odor of decay.

  “You wouldn’t want to die before you see what I will achieve.” The fingers grabbed the identity tag. He tugged sharply and the disk flew free. Nezhuala held it up and swung it before Merral’s eyes.

  “Lucas Ringell.” He spat. “I only regret that he is beyond my reach. Do you know, Forester, I thought once you might indeed be him returned? But there is no resemblance. None.”

  The gloved hand closed around the disk and tightened, and a moment later a trickle of gray powder fell from between the clenched fingers.

  “Now stay still, Forester; there is more to come. Much more.”

  Nezhuala raised his hands and whispered something in a harsh tongue.

  What seemed like a breath of stinking wind blew across Merral’s face. He was looking toward a window embayment and saw, in the curve at the top, the darkness thicken into something solid and threatening, something with the form of a giant insect but the head of a reptile.

  A spasm of fear caught hold of him. He saw Jorgio crouch down on the floor as if trying to hide.

  Andreas gasped. “What creatures of the pit are these?”

  Merral looked painfully around to see similar forms hanging in the five other embayments. He glimpsed Betafor, her tunic sides now blank, cowering next to Ethan.

  “Baziliarchs,” he muttered. “The six.”

  “Exactly,” Nezhuala said. “They have come to witness what is to happen.”

  A sadness seemed to ooze into Merral’s mind—a sense of final horror, a feeling of uttermost loss and defeat. All is ended.

  Then from nowhere came the faint cracking sound of something breaking. At the sound, the darkness in Merral’s mind seemed to lift, as clouds blown away by the wind.

  Next to him now stood a tall, unyielding figure clad in a long black coat and hat. For the first time, though, the envoy’s face was truly visible. It was a dark, smooth, utterly hairless face, which might almost have been made out of black marble. Neither male nor female, it seemed the very embodiment of perfect beauty and strength.

  From high in the six embayments came angry rustling of wings and crackling of limbs.

  The darkness in Merral’s mind lifted further. There was still pain and loss, and although no hope remained, the utter despair had gone.

  “I too have come to witness what is to happen,” said the envoy, his voice ringing out clear in words that seemed imprinted on air, “to bring messages, and to lift a little of the misery these six have brought.”

  “Ah, an angel attends my hour.” Scorn rang in Nezhuala’s words. “Envoy, we have met before, but here you cannot intervene.”

  “I know the rules,” the envoy said. “To intervene would be to rebel against the Most High. And in rebelling, I would become one of your party.” He gestured to the six around the walls.

  Nezhuala bowed. “There is, in fact, a gap in the ranks of the baziliarchs. You may join them and me if you act quickly. When my master emerges, it will be too late.”

  “I do not rebel.”

  “You could have come earlier, Envoy,” Merral whispered.

  “Commander, my rules are set.” A hint of impatience hung around the words. “I cannot act outside them, least of all at this moment.”

  Nezhuala motioned to the forms in the shadows. “Let me ask one of my advisors to speak.”

  To Merral’s right, a strange voice boomed out, and he thought of the last moments of the Battle of Ynysmant. “But you are tempted, aren’t you?”

  The envoy was silent.

  “It makes no sense,” the baziliarch continued. “He cares so much for these little folk with their soft skins and short lives, their blood and their hormones.” Hatred and pride filled the voice. “Have you seen how they breed? Obscene. No, we are the ancient ones; we were there when the cosmos flowered into lig
ht. We have primacy. We should have been the firstborn. Yet he loves these things of blood and slime. He became one himself. Come stand with us.”

  Again the envoy was silent, but Merral saw that his head was bowed as though it bore some awesome weight.

  A terrible rattling shook the air, and the baziliarch continued. “We know you struggle with the burden of serving them.”

  “No.” The envoy’s voice was suddenly clear. “No. I obey.”

  After another silence, the envoy raised his head. “I have passed my test,” he announced, and Merral heard a lightness in his voice.

  The words All will be tested came to Merral, and beyond his grief and pain, he understood what had happened. “Good for you!” he muttered.

  “As you wish,” intoned the baziliarch. “Await your destruction.”

  Nezhuala spoke. “That was a diversion. This is a moment of history. First of all, I have come to claim what is mine.” He pointed a finger at the erect form of Lezaroth. “Now, my margrave, take your sword.”

  Wordlessly, the man pulled a silver blade out of the scabbard. Nezhuala walked to the throne and picked up the scepter with his right hand.

  “Blasphemer!” Ethan snapped.

  Heedless of the accusation, Nezhuala took up the golden crown with his left hand and seemed to weigh it.

  “I demand to be crowned king and lord of the Assembly. It seemed to me, Chairman, that you were the ideal person for that. Which is why I summoned you. Now, crown me, or I will have you slain. If you fail to oblige me, then I will find someone else.”

  Aware of Anya’s fingers digging into the palm of his hand, Merral turned to look at Ethan.

  “That I will not do,” the chairman said, his voice quiet and thin but unshakable. “You are not he to whom that title or those symbols belong.”

  Lezaroth stepped forward and swung the sword back.

  Nezhuala gave a shrug of indifference.

  Merral looked away. There were the heartrending sounds of a swish followed by two separate thuds. He felt he had reached such depths of grief and despair that no further horrors could add to his burdens.

  “Dr. Andreas Hmong. As theologian, will you do the honors?”

  The answer was a snort of derision. “I have spent my life trying to write elegant theology; let me shun elegance now. Just know this: whatever you do here and now, the Lamb will triumph.”

  Merral caught the sharp movement of the sword and looked quickly away. He heard the same terrible sounds and was aware of the pain of Anya’s nails in his flesh.

  He looked at the envoy. “Why didn’t you—”

  “Intervene?” The voice was patient. “Please. Wait and see. In the meantime, do not lose faith.”

  Nezhuala was looking at Merral. “We seem to have ruled out the two most obvious candidates. Fortunately, I have a spare official.” He turned to the side door and beckoned with his finger.

  Slowly, with some hesitation, the dark-robed figure of Prebendant Delastro walked through the doorway.

  “Him!”

  The bony face bore an uneasy look and Merral saw that the green eyes passed quickly over the bodies on the floor.

  Nezhuala looked at Merral. “I offered the prebendant an arrangement. He found it satisfactory.”

  Delastro’s gaze ignored Anya and Jorgio but seemed to linger over the envoy. He turned to Merral and gave him an almost apologetic look. “Commander, these powers answer us.”

  Nezhuala, seating himself on the throne, summoned the prebendant over.

  Merral turned to the envoy. “But how can he? Delastro would have done anything to destroy them!”

  “That is the point. It’s one of the oldest tales of your species. At first, that man sought power in order that good might triumph. But in his quest for power, he let the good slip, so that before he knew it, he began to seek power for power’s sake. The means indeed became the end.”

  “I see.”

  Merral was aware that Delastro was holding out the scepter.

  “Envoy,” he asked, “isn’t this blasphemy? Shouldn’t you stop it?”

  “The blasphemy began earlier, and these are only symbols. As for stopping it it is not time. Sadly, the wickedness is not yet complete.”

  Delastro raised the crown above Nezhuala’s distorted head and spoke in a rapid mumble. Finally, though, the words became clear. “You are Nezhuala, the most high over men, the most high beyond men. I now crown you king of the Dominion and the Assembly.” He lowered the crown onto the head.

  Lezaroth applauded, as did the man-thing called Ape. A second later, Betafor joined in with faint claps. On her tunic now shimmered the fluid coil of the Final Emblem.

  Merral saw that Anya was shaking, but whether out of defiance or fear he could not tell. Jorgio just sat there with his head in his hands, rocking mournfully back and forth.

  “Lloyd was right,” Merral murmured as he stared at Betafor. “She was not to be trusted.”

  The envoy made no comment.

  Nezhuala stood up from the throne, looked up to the sky, and shouted mockingly, “No response? No denial? No challenge? Not even a tiny earthquake, God? Are you asleep? Or do you no longer even care?”

  He paused, gave a theatrical shrug, and walked toward Merral. Anya began to rise as if to protect him.

  “Oh, sit down, woman; I’m not going to kill him—or you—yet. The living are more fun to play with than the dead.”

  Then he bent down to stare at Merral. “I’m sorry, ‘great adversary.’ This must have been another disappointment. No lightning bolts; no fire from heaven. It’s not your day, is it?”

  Nezhuala stood up. “That’s the problem with your God. He is very unreliable. He often doesn’t answer at all. That’s what Delastro found. Haven’t you found that, D’Avanos?”

  Merral stared at the deformed face leering at him from beneath the crown. “Even if he doesn’t save me, I’ll still follow him. Better to be dead . . .” But at that point all his losses overpowered him and he could say no more.

  “Better to be dead . . . than follow me,” completed Nezhuala with a lifeless smile. “I will soon oblige there.” Then his eyes swept on beyond Merral to Jorgio, who was crouched on the floor, and the smile faded.

  “You! The crooked, ugly, old man.” The dark lips twisted in puzzlement. “I know nothing of you. I don’t know why you are here. I ought to have my margrave straighten you out with his sword.” Then he shrugged and made a spitting noise of dismissal. His gaze fell on Betafor.

  “Your tame Allenix.” He gave a cruel laugh. “You served them.” Merral saw her quail. “I ought to destroy you.”

  “I serve you now, Lord-Emperor and King,” she pleaded.

  “Of course you do. Allenix always serve the victors.”

  Nezhuala walked back to just in front of the throne and raised the scepter high. “Hear this, my first act as king: I dissolve the Assembly of Worlds. It is no more.”

  The envoy spoke, his voice strong and unyielding. “So you say. Now, listen to me. I have two messages, and I give the first of them.”

  “If you must.”

  At that instant, the envoy seemed to become even taller and his presence even more massive, as if he were carved out of stone. “The Most High has let the Lord’s Assembly be tested. I now announce the High King’s verdict: the Assembly has passed the test.”

  The loud and solemn words seemed to reverberate round the great chamber.

  “Pah!” Nezhuala snorted.

  “Do not interrupt me!” the envoy replied in a voice of almost physical force. Nezhuala reeled at the rebuke and took a step back. Merral saw Delastro, his face as white as flour, slip behind the throne.

  The envoy spoke again. “Your master, the great serpent, was allowed to test the Assembly. He tempted them to become like you and seek to use power your way, but they refused. They did not betray their calling. The light dimmed, but it never became darkness.” A gloved hand pointed at Nezhuala. “There was a deadly peril, but you wer
e never it. No. Not even your master believes in you, or in that shabby, frightened collection of worlds that you call the Dominion.”

  “You lie,” Nezhuala snapped back, but Merral sensed doubt.

  “I do not lie. Listen, while I tell you the real truth. What your master hoped was that your attack would frighten the Assembly into denying what they were called to be. His hope was not the triumph of the Dominion, but the rise of a fallen Assembly. An Assembly of hatred and malice; an Assembly of men and women like Delastro, prepared to use any means and any power to win. He sought the Dark Assembly.”

  As he pronounced the last words, Merral had a brief but intense vision of an immense marching army clad in somber armor, and beyond his current sorrows he felt a terrible dread.

  The envoy turned to Merral and Anya. “It was a real danger. Delastro shows how real the risk was. When good fights evil, the very worst result is not that good loses but that, in waging the war, good becomes evil.”

  “So, they won the moral argument,” Nezhuala said with a contemptuous shrug. “That is irrelevant. The Assembly is ended. We have inherited all that it was.”

  Merral cried out, “It will never be your Assembly. You cannot take away what we have been.”

  “Oh, Commander, brave words, but you fail to understand. Even at the last. When, in the next hour, the realms are united, I will start to replace the past. I will rewrite history so thoroughly that no one will ever know it was otherwise. In our history, the Rebellion—as you call it—will succeed. Lucas Ringell and all the rest will be swept away. All your achievements will become ours. There will be no other version of history, no single other voice to say it was not so. There will have been no Assembly; only the Dominion—past, present, and future—worlds without end.”

  Silence reigned. Merral tried to move but found that from his waist downward his muscles remained immobile.

  “I have listened to you too long,” Nezhuala said and raised the scepter again. “Ape, begin the machinery. Now, the rest of you, watch as I summon the night.”