The Complete New Dominion Trilogy

by Drury, Matthew J.

  At the top of the stairs, Queen Anacksu’namon emerged, accompanied by several young handmaidens. She was an incredibly beautiful woman, somewhere in her late thirties, with dazzling brown eyes and smooth black hair pulled back in waves, leaving space above her forehead for short, curly bangs. A large golden necklace hung above a stunning full length, metallic green dress with a plunging V-neck and back. She had an hourglass figure, and an ample bosom.

  Paramo blinked, taken aback by this woman’s fantastic beauty: he had heard much about her incomparable prettiness from others, but to see her in the flesh, here and now, was almost too much for words.

  “The prisoner, Ammold Paramo, as you requested, your Majesty,” spoke one of the Sentinels, bowing its considerable head.

  The Queen gazed at Paramo with a look of fascination as she nimbly descended the stairs toward him. He held her gaze as she approached, trying to ascertain her intentions. Her eyes were mysterious and unreadable.

  She glanced at the Sentinels. “Leave us.”

  Without question, the four robots bowed their heads, turned about, and marched out of the room. Anacksu’namon also turned to her handmaidens, who stood by her side, awaiting instruction. “A moment alone with my guest, please,” she said.

  The handmaidens withdrew, heads bowed, leaving Paramo kneeling alone before the beautiful Queen of Einek.

  He cleared his throat. “Your Majesty.”

  She looked at him studiously for a moment, half-smiling, walking slowly in a circle around him. The only sound came from her footsteps as they echoed lightly around the large chamber. Then, finally she stopped in front of him and said, “Rise.”

  He got to his feet.

  “Might I ask why the infamous Ammold Paramo decided to steal a Torot-class bioship from Einek’s fleet?” she asked. There was a sweetness in the tones of her voice that appealed to him.

  Paramo took in a deep breath of air. “With respect, your Majesty, the vessel had crashed near my home in the Shadowlands. There were no survivors, or any indication as to the origin of the vessel.”

  “So you helped yourself to the wreckage?” she asked.

  Paramo licked his lips. “Yes, your Majesty. As you may well be aware, I have been forced to scavenge equipment and supplies for many years, in order to survive. The life of an exile demands it. I had no idea that the vessel was Einekian in origin, at least not at first. It was not a crime intended against the Seventh Faction, I assure you.”

  Anacksu’namon looked into his eyes intently. “I understand. You were once a member of Lord Damarus’ Holy Guard at the Silver City, were you not?”

  “Correct.”

  She inhaled deeply through her nostrils. “It must have taken considerable resources to elude capture for all this time. I also understand that you have amassed a sizeable army, with numerous weapons caches and more of these… scavenged vehicles… across the world.”

  Paramo nodded reluctantly. “My reputation precedes me.”

  The Queen smiled. “It is my understanding that you plot against Lord Damarus, that you intend to dispose him. To your followers you represent an ideal – a world free of the tyrannical rule of the Silver City – do you not?”

  Paramo avoided her gaze. “It is my belief that Damarus is a false prophet, nothing more than an egomaniac driven by an insatiable lust for power, capable of unimaginable evil all the while our people attribute this undeserved divinity to him. He has fooled us into believing that he was sent by God, and despite his otherworldly appearance beneath the metallic mask he wears, he is no more divine than you or I. Your Majesty probably considers my words heretical, but there are many who believe them to be true.” He took a deep breath, slightly shaken.

  Anacksu’namon touched him lightly on the arm, drawing his gaze. She took a step closer to him, and began to speak in a whisper. “Do not be so quick to judge me, Ammold Paramo. I am on your side. You forget – that I was once a student of Damarus in my youth, and spent much time with him as you did. I know what you say is true, and there are many other members of the Holy Parliament who share the same viewpoint. There is much dissent growing, and whispers of rebellion…”

  Paramo blinked, surprised at what he was hearing. “There is?”

  “Yes,” she said. “There are those among us who are willing to form a resistance movement, a grand army, in order to oppose Damarus directly. We are only waiting for the right moment to strike. This is why I have brought you before me, Paramo. I have been looking for you for some time. I want you to join us in this endeavour. Your experience and resources would make you an invaluable member of the cause.”

  Paramo swallowed. The Queen’s words were admirable, but the idea was folly. “A full-scale attack on the Silver City would require a military force such as the world has never seen,” he said. “My own forces, despite their number, combined with those of the Seventh Faction, would still stand no chance against their defences.”

  “The Supreme Commander of the Eleventh Faction has already pledged his support,” Anacksu’namon told him. “And the Kings of the Second and Third Factions stand ready to join us. I have good word that the Nommos people will join our cause in time, also. When our forces are combined with theirs, we will have an army greater than any in the history of the world.”

  Paramo’s eyes glimmered, then narrowed. “What of those Factions who remain loyal to Damarus? Would the world not be plunged into another global war?”

  She narrowed her eyes and watched him for a moment. “War is coming, Paramo. This cannot be avoided. However, there is a plan that could avoid unnecessary bloodshed. Tell me, have you ever heard of the Galatea project?”

  He shook his head. “No, your Majesty.”

  She nodded. “I didn’t think so. It was initiated more than twenty years ago, by the order of Lord Damarus himself. A top secret, faster-than-light travel project to be developed jointly by the Twelve Factions, due to the high costs involved.”

  Paramo nodded, unsure of where she was going with this.

  “The ultimate goal of the project was to investigate the Tau Ceti star system, chosen by Lord Damarus as a potential site for human colonisation. The fruit of the project was the Alcubierre-Sel’varis Drive, effectively a hyperspace jump drive, a culmination of hundreds of years of scientific theory. It is a fact known only by a handful of people in Holy Parliament, that a prototype ship capable of hyperspace travel now exists at the Silver City, sitting unused in one of their vast facilities. It is my proposal, therefore, that should the over throw of Damarus cause our society to split in two, that one group relocates to the resource-rich worlds of Tau Ceti, in order to start again, far from the other group, who would remain here on Earth.”

  “What you propose could be construed as treason,” Paramo said. “You walk a fine and dangerous line, your Majesty.”

  “I have your support then?”

  Paramo considered his options, and took a deep breath. It was a well-conceived plan, but there was great risk involved. He nodded.

  “Excellent,” she said, and smiled. “All we need now is our prophesised saviour, and we are guaranteed victory.”

  “Your Majesty?”

  “As it is written in the Book of Zemont: “In the time of greatest despair, there shall come a saviour. Born of ancient times, a sleeper of old,” She laughed. “I’m joking, of course. You are welcome among my court now, Paramo, but we will keep your existence here a secret, for now.”

  Paramo nodded. His thoughts turned to Cristian Stefánsson then. Could Damarus really have prophesised this man’s coming? What part did he have to play in events to come? Only time would tell.

  11

  Cristian Stefánsson slept, a deep, restless nightmare.

  He could hear unfriendly voices in the dream, a distant overlay of ghostly sound wound among shimmering and frightful images of strangers standing over him, probing him, examining him.

  “Oos-ya? DAn’t fi’ket wik zA!”

  “W'-exùn å nûy getten en’tin
oosen dis iagnaran kiad wile tAg kurrap.”

  A large undulating door swung wide, somewhere unseen, creaking loudly. A kind of… presence oozed through. Cris couldn’t see it clearly…

  Pain.

  There was pain all over his body; excruciating, like burning. There was the sound of charged whistling in the air as something horrific slashed across his skin, and a sensation of boiling followed, as if his flesh were being consumed. The taste and smell of blood.

  “W'-exùn hat nA ch’oyc 'ban gAr'-eduketan zA tong.”

  “Ah tinke zA å weret.”

  Cris was frozen. Couldn’t even turn away as the strange figures bent toward him, brandishing their strange instruments. He opened his mouth to scream…

  “I believe the implant has been successful… well, I suppose time will tell.”

  “We should let him rest. If there is any information to be gained from this man we will find out soon enough.”

  Cris slept, but it was not rest.

  When he finally awoke, Cris gritted his teeth and roared through pain. His entire body ached like he’d been in a car accident, and a migraine headache thundered through his brain, blurring out any sense of where he was or how he’d gotten here. Intense nausea followed and he vomited, though his stomach was empty and little more than bile emerged from his throat. He coughed, subconsciously adopting a foetal position on the cold, hard floor.

  Shivering. Frightened.

  Minutes passed, and slowly the pain began to subside, slipping away like a receding tide. He blinked his eyes open, taking his first look at his surroundings. He was in some kind of prison cell; completely bare concrete walls, a heavy, metallic door with a barred window and an air vent securely closed near the top, a mattress with a blanket and one pillow on top of it. A commode made from some plastic-like material and a single roll of wipes.

  Exhaling heavily, he pulled himself to his feet. He was wearing some kind of brownish jumpsuit that was slightly too big for him. He’d temporarily lost all feeling in his left leg – having laid on it the wrong way, he supposed, but he soon felt the blood supply trickle its way back down, feeling a rush of muscular pain as it did so. He dragged himself to the commode and relieved himself, grunting, feeling like absolute shit. It stank.

  When he was done, he went to the barred window and tried to look out, wiping sweat from his brow. An empty, featureless corridor outside gave him no clue as to his whereabouts. Just in case, he called, “Hello?” It sounded more like a croak.

  There was no reply. He sank into a sitting position against the wall, trying to figure out what had happened to him. His memory of the last few days was hazy at best … a blur of nightmarish images, feelings of pain. Torture, perhaps. The last thing he could coherently remember was being arrested by the Sentinels, hit by their lethal shockwhips, and carried away into their bioship for transportation to Einek.

  Einek.

  Logically, he had to assume that was where he was. Imprisoned… having been tortured? It certainly felt like it. He winced, reaching a hand up and caressing a tender wound at the back of his head. It was then he realised that his head had been shaved completely bald…

  A knock on the door shook Cris from his confused state. He blinked, and got to his feet, eager to get some answers. The door swung open, and a man dressed in a plain blue jumpsuit stepped into the cell, holding a cube-like device in one hand.

  “Prisoner Six-Five-Six-Two,” the man said. “You’re free to go. The order to release you was sent down from the Silver City – by Lord Damarus himself. You must be pretty important.”

  Cris swallowed dryly, and frowned. He shook his head. “Wh…What?”

  The guard had a look of impatience on his face as he turned to face Cris directly. “That’s right,” he said. “Lord Damarus has ordered us to release you immediately. So you’re free to go. Oh, and he sent this for you.”

  The guard held up the cube-like object, and Cris took it from his extended arm, his expression puzzled. “What is it?”

  The guard chuckled. “You’re not from around here, are you? It’s a holocube. It contains holographic recordings, computerised instructions, interactive maps, and the like. It’s programmed to only respond to its intended recipient, namely you – so I have no idea what’s on it. Must be important though, if Lord Damarus sent it. What’s he like, by the way?”

  Cris licked his lips, and stared at the holocube in fascination for a moment. There were no external markings or glyphs on the device; a simple cube-like structure with a clear crystal set within the centre, light purple in colour. He blinked. “I have no idea, I’ve never met the… man.” He frowned. “Are you sure you’ve got the right person here?”

  The guard, named Kor, raised his eyebrows. “You are Cristian Stefánsson, are you not?”

  “Yes…”

  “Then there’s been no mistake. If I were you, I’d be thanking God. You probably weren’t going to survive much longer in this place.”

  That got through to Cris. Suddenly, he realised he could understand what the guard was saying. He was speaking in the modern tongue, yet Cris could understand him – and speak back fluently. “I can understand what you’re saying,” he blurted.

  Kor nodded, and gestured to the back of his head. “Yes. You were implanted with a natural language processor. It releases genetically-engineered microbes which colonise your brain stem and translate language for you. The High Interrogator wanted you implanted to make… questioning you… a little easier.”

  Cris shivered, fingering the wound at the back of his head. It felt a little strange, but he welcomed the ability to communicate with others without the need for Chen’s translation. “Where’s Lora?” he asked then, feeling like somebody had just punched him in the gut.

  “Who?”

  “Lorelei Chen. The girl… she would have come here on the ship, with the Sentinels, and Paramo…”

  Kor shook his head. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, sir. I’m sorry, I’m just a prison guard.”

  Cris’ heart sank.

  “Now, I understand that you may not be ready to travel quite yet,” Kor continued. “I’m going to give you one hour to get yourself together, before I escort you off this facility. Then I have to prep this cell for the next batch of arrivals coming on the prison ship later today. Do you understand me? One hour.”

  Cris nodded, taking deep breaths. “Okay.”

  The guard left, leaving Cris standing alone in the cell. The door was unlocked and wide open, but he was in no rush to go anywhere right now. Where would he go, anyway? What would he do? He had no idea what the City of Einek was like outside these walls, so it was potentially very dangerous for him.

  He looked down at the motionless holocube in his hands. So this thing had been sent from Lord Damarus himself… what the Hell? How did this Damarus even know of Cris’ existence, let alone where he was? It was deeply puzzling, and Cris could think of no likely explanation. Presumably, the answers would be contained within the memory banks of the device itself. Sighing, he twirled the device in his hands, trying to figure out how it worked. Then, as if responding to his curiosity, the device started to move, twisting into a new pyramidal alignment.

  Cris almost dropped the thing in surprise. It felt warm in his hands, and began to emit a light blue aura. A moment later, a hologram jumped to life, projected by the crystal in the centre of the device. A monochrome, three-dimensional representation of a very familiar person.

  He gasped in disbelief. It was a holographic projection – of himself! It was Cristian Stefánsson, yet – older, somehow. Scarred, with hollow circles beneath his eyes, as if he carried a great burden within his soul.

  “Hello Cristian,” the projection spoke. “You may be wondering how you recorded this message without remembering it…”

  Cris watched, fascinated.

  “The truth is, I’m you… six months in the future. Relatively speaking, of course.”

  Cris laughed heartily, though he was more
frightened than anything else. “No shit,” he said.

  “It would take too long to explain everything, and time is short,” the recording continued. “If you want to live, you must follow my instructions carefully.”

  Cris grimaced wearily. He wasn’t comfortable with this whatsoever.

  “Now, in order to rescue Lora, you’ll need to get to the Lazarus Spaceport first, not far from your current location, and get yourself a bioship. It will take too long to reach it on foot so use the airbus service. This holocube has been programmed with full clearance by Lord Damarus, so you’ll be able to take possession of a Meta’thron-class vessel without any opposition once you get there. But be careful, that’s my life you’re playing with, and there are people out to kill you…”

  “Great,” Cris muttered sarcastically.

  “Now this is the plan. Once you have the bioship, take it to the north-western edge of the city, to the Sendaya district … the coordinates are already programmed into the holocube, so just feed them into the ship. Rescue Lora from her husband Lenton… he’s keeping her prisoner in their own home. Trust me. Just do what I tell you, and you’ll nail that son of a bitch. After that, get yourself to the Silver City. Lord Damarus is expecting you, and believe me, you have much to discuss.” There was a slight pause. “I’m counting on you, Cristian. Don’t let me down.”

  The hologram faded, leaving Cris in a somewhat stunned silence, staring at the holocube in fascination and dread. A million questions and concerns filled his mind, and for a moment he felt helpless, like a rat stuck in a maze. He sat there for a long time, not moving.

  When the guard returned, Cris was ready.

  “Time’s up,” the man said. “I hope you have someplace to go. You can’t stay here.”

  Cris nodded, holding the holocube close to his chest. “Lead the way,” he said.

  Clad in black, chitin-like armour that was somewhat outdated by the more modern Rãvier unit, burned from countless impacts, but still undeniably effective, the assassin stood easily on the ledge, a hundred stories and more up from the Einek street. She wore a black veil fashioned from silk over the bottom half of her face; rather than a statement of modesty or fashion, it served more as a practical implement, used to hide her aging features, should anyone happen to recognise her. That was something she couldn’t afford, not right now, not in this time…