“But I cannot let you…”
“And I do not want to go back,” she interrupted. “Having known you, having loved you, having felt your arms strong about me…I do not want to let go.”
He lifted her, holding her in his arms and thinking that her body felt as light and fragile as a bird’s. He turned back toward the dark heart of Yzankranda. If returning her to her people meant she would not perish, he was willing to chance death.
“No, Sergeant Felix,” she murmured. “Living without you would be a death I could not endure.” Her voice faded. “Please.” A soft breath. “Take me with you.”
Gritting his teeth, fighting tears in his eyes, the Martian turned toward Port Victoria, his precious burden clutched tightly to his chest. His feet pounded dully, one quickening step after another, till he was running flat out, bowling over anyone not quick enough to get out of his way. He did not stop running until he was in the consulate compound and she was taken from him by a doctor and two nursing sisters.
He sat alone by a window, watching the gloom of dawn.
Chapter 13
Daraph-Kor stood motionless in the shrouded alcove, staring into the Black Mirror’s depths. During these increasingly frequent periods when the Entity within held silent communion with the others of its kind still trapped in the angles of dimension, his mind was let go. His body was still held in thrall at these times and he could not do anything to effect an escape, but his mind was free of shadows. For a little while, separated from the mental control of the Entity, he was just a humble Martian of the lowlands, a trader of note who loved his wife, his family and the romance of the past.
Now, of course, he loathed ancient Mars, hated the tales that had helped make his mind pliable and receptive. As he understood it, the Entity in the black mirror had searched long aeons, ever since the banishment, for someone who not only could hear the song, but who was weak enough to answer it.
All the proper weaknesses and strengths had met in him.
He was the one Martian in all the thousand billions who had lived and died, the proper tool in the proper place.
Daraph-Kor would have reproached himself during this time of individual introspection, but he had worn out that argument long ago. He had been a fool, but there was nothing he could do about it, not now – the Entity was too strong.
What the Entity did during this time was entirely unknown to the Martian. While he was vaguely aware of the Entity’s actions and thoughts when in motive control of his voice and body, these periods of communion were quite different. But, the truth was, he did not want to know what the Dark Gods spoke of and planned and schemed in their own counsel.
He sensed the meeting coming to an end as the shadowy presence of the Entity flowed back to take full control. He would have sighed at the profound sense of loss and despair, but his actions were not his own, and he could no more express his regret than he could stop the malevolent smile that curved his lips.
The Entity brutally shoved aside Daraph-Kor’s wistful and melancholy thoughts, battered them as a bully might repeatedly kick a small puppy, and for similar reasons. The Entity was repelled by the weak thing once known as Daraph-Kor, whose name it still used for the convenience of those who served its will, whether they worked willingly to bring about the end of all flesh or though easily manipulated avarice. Were the Entity free to express its true nature, it would have destroyed the mortal frame, drunk its blood and siphoned off its life-force for the sustenance of its own. It enraged the Entity that the body of Daraph-Kor had to be maintained, for the Martian was important to their plans – if anything happened to this receptacle, another age might pass before another was born, and though the Entity and its cohorts has been imprisoned in the dark dimensions for long aeons, none of them had ever developed the virtue of patience.
The Entity finished its final resumption of Daraph-Kor’s life and stepped from behind the shrouds, a bit dizzy from peering into the seething Black Mirror. It yearned for the day when it would be free of this loathsome flesh, its limitations and frailties, and regain its true form of dark matter.
Before that could happen, though, they needed to release the life-energy in the meat-cattle’s blood, to set more of its kind from their long imprisonment.
They needed worshippers.
If the Entity had doubted the need to first topple the British Empire, it did not do so now. The setbacks on Mars and Venus were serious, but, of the two, the Venus debacle was the worst. The primal fear of the Nagas would have generated much of the energy that animated dark matter.
A knocking sounded soft and tremulous upon the door.
“Enter,” he Entity called, settling completely into the persona of Daraph-Kor.
“Almost all the others have arrived, sir,” Savas reported, not raising his gaze from the floor.
“Whom do we lack?” Daraph-Kor asked.
“Black Ray,” the Turk replied.
“Has he sent a message?”
“No, master.”
Daraph-Kor gazed calmly at the large human and thought about reaching into his mind, clawing at his thoughts and memories like a ravenous sand-cat. He waited, holding silent, finding some small measure of gratification in the man’s high nervousness, his fear which expanded like a blown-upon coal the longer the silence endured. But it was a pleasure without purpose.
“We cannot wait further for Black Ray,” Daraph-Kor finally said, sensing both the other man’s relief at the breaking of the silence and the increase in his animal sweat. “Tell the others I will join them in fifteen minutes.”
“Yes, master,” Savas acknowledged, grateful for the opportunity to flee. He wanted to run for the door, but he forced himself to walk.
“Savas?”
“Yes, master?”
“Did the policeman from London ever give us any useful information?”
“No, master, but it was not for lack of…”
Daraph-Kor silenced him with a casually raised hand. “Keep at it. Force him to speak, but ensure he is not killed till I am fully satisfied he is of no further value.”
“I will do my best, master.”
“Ensure he does not escape,” Daraph-Kor cautioned. “If I find him in here again I will destroy him, then you.”
“It will not happen, I swear.”
“Yes, I am sure, Savas,” Daraph-Kor said. “Go.”
This time Savas practically flew out the door, not giving his master time to issue another delaying countermand. He had planned on waiting till the dawn to once again interrogate the very stubborn Englishman, but now he thought it best to resume his efforts this night. Deep down, however, he felt little hope. The detective might know as little Savas himself or as much as the master himself, but it was clear even to Savas that he was going to divulge nothing. And if the Master could not fillet Slaughter’s mind with a touch, what hope had he?
After Savas departed, Daraph-Kor smiled derisively. Fear was a delicate emotion, one which had to be cultivated to achieve an effective balance – too much, and the organism withered and ceased producing the invigorating emanations; too little, and there would germinate within the organic being nodules of doubt and rebellion, which were not only non-productive but dangerous in that they might serve as a source of resistance. When that happened, the only remedy was a physical death, a quick satiation, and, of course, the inevitable hunger for more.
Daraph-Kor moved to the window overlooking the domes and spires of Constantinople to the southeast. The buildings were tinged with the last gold of the setting sun and the first stars of evening appeared in the purpling sky, glimmering like eyes. He stared into the gathering darkness, casting his memory across the rolling black leagues, thinking back to a time when he and his kind had held sway upon this primitive world, just as they had on the other worlds of this Solar System.
So very long ago, even for beings like us, he thought, the wistful memories of those giddy blood-soaked times turning bitter and cold as he recalled the Expulsion. And all
that remains of that time of wonder and feasting is a black stone encased in yonic silver, worshipped by benighted animals who have no idea what it truly is.
Daraph-Kor turned violently from the picturesque sunset city, disgusted by his own mawkishness…not his own, he reminded himself, but that of this worthless creature, this maudlin Martian who yearned for twin moons in a velvet sky and fragrant arbours in rooftop gardens. Enraged, the Entity, lashed again at the small ember of Daraph-Kor’s mind, then departed for his meeting.
When Daraph-Kor entered the dim-lit chamber below ground level, all murmurs ceased. Eleven of his twelve commanders, representing the various planetary races, were seated at the long table. He looked upon their apprehensive faces without any appearance of emotion and took his seat at the head of the table, beneath the enormous image of a red disc surrounded by black flames.
“Report,” Daraph-Kor said, looking to the sub-commander nearest him.
As the human began her report on activities in Egypt and elsewhere, Daraph-Kor settled into a passive but attentive frame of mind. Though he was taking in and processing all that was being said, it required only a portion of his mind. As she finished, the next sub-commander reported upon the actions of operatives upon British Mars, another taking over when it came to detailing operations in the Martian zones controlled by other nationalities. One by one, he learned of the many setbacks and few gains made on the planets and moons of the Solar System, and he began to frown. The reports continued, and his frown deepened.
The speakers reluctantly, but honestly delivered their reports since they knew any attempt at deception, no matter the reason, would be instantly detected by their master. All of the assembled sub-commanders had long ago abandoned the notion, and the hope, that Daraph-Kor was just another Martian. They had all been drawn into his service through the offering of gold, as well as the promise of power and favour under the coming new order.
There was not a one of them who did not, at one time or another, regret the decision to serve Daraph-Kor, to work for the advent of a new age that none of them truly understood anymore. But they knew the futility of any attempt to escape the darkness, for others had tried, and the lucky ones had died.
Just as the last sub-commander finished his report, Black Ray eased open the door. The blackamoor pirate was garbed in the back-and-silver attire that engendered his name; he glanced at everyone, except Daraph-Kor, with the savage glare that had made his name a curse from one end of the Solar System to the other. He made his way to the vacant seat, sat down and started immediately upon his own report.
“We have been very successful in smuggling quantities of dream-spice to Earth, Mars and the Outer Moons,” Black Ray said. “So far, none of our transports have been captured or destroyed by the Royal Space Navy or any of the native defence guards; we have also been successful in transferring the drug to the local contacts, so expansion of usage should be continuing apace.”
The others who had looked to Black Ray for relief from their own reports turned away.
“What?” Black Ray asked. “Has something happened?”
At a glance from Daraph-Kor, the European sub-commander said: “The main dream-spice chamber in London was destroyed and others raided by Scotland Yard.”
“Our captive have anything to do with it?” Black Ray asked.
“That has yet to be determined,” Daraph-Kor. “Inspector Slaughter is proving to be a difficult subject for Savas’ methods.”
“If anyone can get information him, it’s Savas.”
“Still, even if Slaughter had anything to do with the debacle in London, it does not shed light on the other problems,” remarked one of the Venusian agents.
Black Ray shrugged, then was told how the recruitment of the Nagas of Venus had been sabotaged beyond immediate repair, how the outworlder authorities had raided dream-spice dens in the old cities, and searched out the clandestine ones established in the ports of trade in the British, German, Dutch and Chinese spheres of influence, which also mirrored like raids on Mars where the Martian Princes worked with the colonial powers. When his fellow sub-commanders finished, Black Ray sat back heavily.
“Why were you late?” Daraph-Kor asked mildly.
The others tensed, feeling in the Martian’s soft tone the most deadly of intent.
“I apologise for my tardiness, sir, and beg forgiveness, but I was contacted by one of my pilots operating near Venus,” he said.
“It was valuable enough to justify your lateness?”
“I leave that for you to decide, sir” Black Ray answered. “From what I gather, our efforts to usher in the new age were going along well till the Cydonia incident?”
Daraph-Kor gave him a small nod.
“How could anyone know how very unstable Thoza-Joran was, how his hatred of the British would manifest…” a Martian started to say.
Daraph-Kor made a small sound in his throat.
The sub-commander fell to sudden silence.
“Not long after that, the British officer involved in that mishap, Captain Folkestone, was ordered to Venus, along with his assistant, a Martian,” Black Ray continued. He looked to the Venusian sub-commander. “They figured in what happened on Venus, from what I understand.”
“Indeed they did,” the Venusian snapped. “Not long afterwards, the Martian was captured and ineffectually interrogated, then managed to survive a clumsy assassination attempt in a dream-spice den.”
“The agent in charge has himself been eliminated,” Daraph-Kor murmured.
Black Ray nodded. So he had been informed just minutes earlier by another of his contacts. He had known Sabu slightly, but had held the youth in low regard. In Black Ray’s trade, or at least the trade he had followed before being recruited into Daraph-Kor’s service, neither birth nor pocketbook, neither bloodline nor influence counted for much; in the trade of space piracy, the only measure of a man was his character.
So, why, when you were offered gold and jewels and power by this Martian, he chided himself, did you ignore his character?
Black Ray glanced from the Venusian sub-commander to their leader, and quickly tucked his rueful thought into a dark corner of his mind. He did not like Daraph-Kor’s watery gaze.
“It was not a smart move, what Sabu did,” Black Ray said rather awkwardly, turning back to the Venusian.
“I should say not,” the Venusian retorted. “The Martian was able to direct British authorities to the den, Sabu let slip many facts about or operations and…”
Daraph-Kor cleared his throat. Instantly silencing the tirade of the Venusian. “The reason for your tardiness, Black Ray…”
“According to my operative, Captain Folkestone and his Martian assistant are returning to Mars in two days’ time,” the space pirate answered. “They will be transporting official documents that reflect our activities on Venus, information deemed so important as to not be trusted to aether-facsimile transmission.”
Daraph-Kor scowled, and though it was a disturbing sight to all, for all had seen the results of a scowl from the Martian, it was a relief not to the recipient of such a scowl, as the result could range from a mild headache to death or worse.
“You did well, Black Ray, and you would all do well to follow his example,” Daraph-Kor said. “We have suffered too many setbacks, too many blunders.” He suddenly smashed his fist into the table-top, causing the hard wood to actually crack. “We will have no more failures – do I make myself clear?”
Nods and murmurs of assent flowed around the table.
“You have received treasures, and you have been promised power in the times to come,” Daraph-Kor reminded them. “You have been brought into my Inner Circle, have felt the powers that the Dark Gods can channel through you.” He swept his icy gaze around the table. “However, do not, for even an instant, think you are irreplaceable, that there are not others yearning to move into the seats you hold.”
The sub-commanders nodded, all of them pale at the leader’s suggestion, even th
e powdery Venusian.
The Martian looked back to Black Ray. “You have details of Folkestone’s departure?”
“I’ll get the precise departure time and trajectory after I leave this meeting,” the space pirate reported. “But I already have the name of the aethership.”
Chapter 14
“The Princess of Mars?” Sergeant Felix Hand murmured, shaking his head. “Whoever named her is pretty bloody ignorant about Mars.”
Geoffrey Argent looked up curiously from his never-ending paperwork. “Why do you say that?”
“Ever been to Mars?”
The Consul’s secretary shook his head. “No, but I wouldn’t mind being posted there.”
“There are no princesses on Mars, just princes,” Hand said.
“If a girl is born into a royal family, what do they call her then?” Argent asked.
“There are no real royal families on Mars,” Hand explained, “not like there are on Earth…” He looked to Argent quizzically. “And on Venus too?”
“Oh my yes, I should say so,” the young man replied, “but it is extremely complex. For example, that young girl you…”
Hand glared.
“Well, uh, it is…it’s quite complex, and…you were saying something about there only being princes on Mars?”
“There are seven inhabited regions of Mars, each controlled by what we call a derak, but the closest translation is ‘prince’ in English,” Hand resumed. “Unlike princes on Earth, these blokes are not born to the purple, as the saying goes.” Then he frowned and inclined his head. “Except maybe the Purple Prince.”
“Ah, yes, I do recall something about colours,” Argent said. “Is the chap who works with us…er…the Red Prince?”
“Yeah, that’s right,” Hand said. “In addition to him and the Purple Prince, we got Blue, Black, Yellow, Orange, and White.”
“Is there a significance to the colours?”
Hand nodded distractedly. “Yeah, but the meanings don’t quite jibe with what you’ve always…” Hand sighed. “Anyway, it’s been a donkey’s years since I went to temple catechisms as a nipper so I doubt I could really do it justice. Anyway, some are so vague and confusing even the priests do not like going into it.”
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