Laying spread-eagled on the floor, her gown hitched up above her thighs, she taunted him between breaths. “Come on,” she croaked. “Come on, you bastard. Stick it in. Stick it in, Lenton, that’s what you really want.”
His breathing intensified, and Lora closed her eyes while he had his way with her, trying desperately to blot it from her mind, to ignore his savage thrusts. When he was finished, he got up.
“I hate you,” she said, and a humiliating despair overwhelmed her. He punched her in the stomach, then walked into the bedroom without another word. She heard him turn the key in the lock.
Lora gasped for breath, tears running down her cheeks. The pain was intense… her entire body felt like it had been ripped apart. She tried to get to her feet, but felt too exhausted and collapsed. She lay there for a moment, weeping, a feeling of intense desolation thundering through her mind.
Help me, God, she thought. Don’t give up on me. Please. I ran away from this life because I thought you would help me…
Was God even listening? Was He even there?
Where are you, Lord? Please, please come back to me. I’ve been questioning you recently, and I am ashamed to admit it. Is this my punishment? I’ve been questioning your chosen Prophet, too. The role of Damarus in my life is being thrown into doubt by the events I’m being drawn into. Please, Lord. Guide me back onto the path of righteousness. Deliver me from this Hell…
Cristian Stefánsson knocked the door hard, three times.
After a moment, Lenton Yaka answered, looking somewhat confused and pissed off. He was a thin, dark man of medium height attired in a plain beige jumpsuit. He was apparently about thirty years old, with a sallow, olive complexion and fairly good features, but an abnormally high forehead. His black hair was well cut and neatly brushed, and he was clean-shaven though blue-chinned with a heavy growth of beard. He wore rimless spectacles with steel bows. He shrugged, stepping out into the corridor. “Now what is it?” he was saying. “Don’t you people realise what time it is? I’d like to get some kind of sleep tonight…”
“Where is she?” Cris demanded. He was not in the mood for small talk.
Lenton blinked, and his expression changed to one of suspicion. “What?”
“Where’s Lora?”
“Lora? I assume you’re talking about Lorelei Chen, my wife. Who are you?”
Cris gritted his teeth. “That’s none of your concern. Now, I’m taking Lora away from here, whether you like it or not. You can’t stop me…” He moved to step over the threshold, but Lenton shoved out an arm to hold him back.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Lenton hissed. “You can’t just barge in here and start making demands like this! Lorelei is my wife! And she’s in a fragile condition, I’ll have you know.”
There was a blur of motion from behind Lenton then, and Cris’ eyes glimmered. The lights were off in the apartment suite, but he recognised Lora’s silhouette in the light of the moon that streamed through the windows. Before Lenton could even react, she had slipped up behind him and grabbed him by the throat.
Startled, Lenton roared, “Lorelei, what are you doing? Get back inside at once!”
She was holding what looked like a serrated boning knife in her left hand. She brought it up to Lenton’s neck, her expression one of grim determination.
“Lora!” Cris said.
Lenton grabbed for her, but he was too late. She locked the bicep muscles in her knife arm and forced the blade across his throat, splitting flesh. He gagged, and staggered away from her, stumbling further out into the corridor.
Cris exhaled heavily, unable to quite comprehend what was happening. He stood there aghast, watching as Lenton began to bleed, profusely, from the wound. All he could do was manage to whisper, “Damn you…”
Then he collapsed, an inert mass of mangled flesh and blood.
Cris blinked, feeling a rush of adrenaline, shocked at what had just transpired. The man was dead, and it had all happened so fast. He turned toward Lora, and she dropped the knife and ran into his arms. Her head lolled against his shoulder and she wept, her arms hanging limp.
He lowered his face gently and kissed her hair. His voice was low and utterly heartbroken. “You’re not alone anymore. Lora, are… are you okay?”
It seemed like a rhetorical question, but she nodded. “Cris, you came for me,” she said. “Thankyou.”
Cris kissed her again. “Of course, Lora. I love you. I want to be with you.”
She looked up at him. “But… how? How did you find me?”
He took a deep breath, his eyes scanning the corridor around them, growing paranoid. “It’s kind of a long story. Lora, I think we should get out of here before somebody sees this guy…”
She stared down at the motionless body of Lenton Yaka, feeling very little in the way of emotion. No sadness. No regret. Nothing. “Yes,” she said. “If somebody finds him, we’re going to be in big trouble. Do you have any transportation?”
“Yes, a bioship,” he told her. “I’ll explain everything on the way to the Silver City.”
That got her attention. “We’re going to the Silver City?”
“Yes,” he said. “Like I told you, it’s a long story. Now come on, this way.”
13
The lifeless expanse of the Great Plain stretched away to every horizon. The Soęt’ia River was some twenty kilometres to the left, surrounded by the craggy, blackened remains of some ancient city. High clouds of dull green stood against the dark orange-red sky, as the huge flying battleship Ballog thundered its way in a north-westerly direction across the landscape, its destination: the floating island of Laputa.
Ammold Paramo stood on the open upper deck, leaning himself against the cold ivory-like railing, contemplating the events of the past few days as his breath slowly condensed into the cool evening air. In the distance, the fading sky looked like an eerie blanket of stained cotton draped over the dusty horizon. He admired the familiar scene, and sniffed at the rancid air. A storm was coming, that much was certain.
“They say the dead look back at us from mirrors, don’t they, Paramo?”
He turned round with a startled expression on his face. He saw Anacksu’namon standing behind him, examining her complexion in an elegant compact mirror fashioned from gold. Despite her immeasurable beauty, her eyes seemed heavy and troubled on this night.
“That they do, Your Majesty,” Paramo nodded. Clearly, the prospect of the battle ahead was weighing on the Queen’s mind. And who could blame her? The outcome of the impending war was far from certain at this point. “The road ahead will not be easy,” he told her. “As I understand it, Damarus has already amassed a huge army, supported by Mechs and MAWLR units, not to mention the aerial battleship, Malevolence.”
“MAWLR units?” Anacksu’namon breathed. She took a few steps forward and stood beside him at the railing, staring out at the passing landscape. She closed the compact mirror and shook her head, deep in thought. “Then we’ll have no choice but to meet them on the ground. Unfortunately, we have only four regiments of Ares-class, 135-ton Mechs at our disposal. Even combined with your mercenary units, this will be difficult, to say the least.”
Paramo nodded. “Indeed. General Hiryu has been tracking their progress since we left Einek, as you instructed, Your Majesty. They are about an hour away, now. Damarus has sent them ahead of Laputa. Obviously, he intends to keep the battle away from the Silver City itself.”
Anacksu’namon frowned. “Perhaps he feels confident that we can be suppressed by this army without much effort on his part. I’m afraid he is mistaken. Damarus will never achieve his twisted plans to control the world as long as there is the flying battleship Ballog.”
“I agree,” Paramo said. He took a deep breath, and blew it our wearily. “Our numbers may be less, but our resolve, our expertise, will see us through. I am sure of it.”
“The Nommos people promise their aid. I only hope their arrival is not too late.”
&nb
sp; A holographic screen flicked into existence a couple of metres to Paramo’s left. It was a ship’s scanning report which showed, in ghostly blue and in front of its leading edge, a vast army of men – some mounted on floating biotransports, most on foot – marching along the wastelands, all raising dust into the toxic air which drifted slowly away to the south-west. Behind them, the dying sunlight glittered off the edges of dozens of vast walking war machines, both bipedal and quadrupedal in configuration, controlled by AI. The smaller, bipedal machines ranged in height and mass, yet all shared a similar design: a torso that could rotate to either side independently from the chicken-walker legs, powered by fusion reactors. The four-legged “quad” MAWLRs though, were vast, easily two to three thousand tons, and while they lacked the flexibility and speed of bipedal designs, they were considerably more deadly; crab-like, missile-spewing monstrosities with top-mounted railguns. Banners and flags of the Silver City swayed above the army, and from a certain perspective it looked like a single organism inching darkly across the ragged landscape. On its way to war. And finally, behind them, the looming spectre of the vast battleship Malevolence, thundering in the air overhead.
Anacksu’namon glanced at the screen, and swallowed dryly. She was nervous, but she wasn’t scared. She had picked the right moment for this, and the people who served her were the very best. She knew that General Hiryu, the Einekian military leader she had hand-picked for this war, was an experienced warrior, and she was confident in the man’s ability to lead the forces of this Resistance against the enemy. Silent in contemplation for a moment, she looked at Paramo. “Shall we?”
“Merely say the word.”
Anacksu’namon looked back at the screen, took another deep breath and nodded. “Very well. Let’s do this. Deploy.”
Paramo nodded, and whispered gently to the holographic screen. A signal was transmitted to General Hiryu on the Main Bridge, and the screen disappeared. “Our forces will be prepared for ground assault within twenty minutes,” he told her. “Will you be remaining aboard the Ballog?”
She nodded. “Yes. I will be overseeing the operation from the Main Bridge.”
Paramo opened his mouth to say something in reply, but a bright flash in the corner of his vision distracted him. “Your Majesty!” he roared suddenly, thrusting out one arm and pointing excitedly. “Look! Look!”
Anacksu’namon turned, and gasped. To her surprise, she found herself looking at an unusual phenomenon gliding across the orange-red sky. Several red dots, resembling stars, were moving rapidly through the atmosphere and finally disappeared behind a mountain on the horizon. The dots made no noise whatsoever, and were gone as quickly as they had appeared. Too fast for any kind of ship.
Paramo blinked, concern flaring within him. “What was that? I’ve never seen anything quite like it before.”
The Queen shook her head, and blinked. A memory stirred in her mind. “No,” she muttered to herself. “No, it can’t be. It has to be a coincidence…”
Paramo looked at her. “Your Majesty? What are you talking about? What’s a coincidence?”
She frowned, unable to speak at first. She stared over the railing, at the remains of an ancient city passing far below them, protruding uncannily above the rocky sands as parts of a corpse may protrude from an ill-made grave. Buildings were still visible, crumbling and inarticulate, walls and broken roads nearly hidden by the sands of four centuries.
“So then shall evil things be done unto me by my people,” Anacksu’namon spoke, reciting the words of the Third Testament. “They shall raise an army against me, but I shall not be swallowed up. On that day, the red stars, sent from Heaven, will traverse the sky, and Behold, I shall reap the harvest. Go thou not unto the transgressors, for they shall be destroyed. I, Damarus, the divine Prophet of our Lord, triumphant with happy victory, will not be carried away.”
Paramo recognised the verse. “The Book of Admission,” he said, nodding.
Anacksu’namon met his concerned gaze. “Chapter Four, Verse Twelve. It speaks of a great battle, an attempt to kill Damarus, preceded by something very similar to what we just witnessed.”
Paramo wasn’t entirely convinced. “Are you seriously suggesting that Damarus can predict the future? The Books of the Third Testament are the ramblings of a powermonger, nothing more. Those red dots could have been anything.”
“Maybe so,” she said, “but let’s not forget that Damarus is far from human. The true extent of his powers remains unknown. It is possible he was able to… see … certain events. This only adds to my anxiety.”
Paramo gritted his teeth. His thoughts turned to Damarus’ other prophecy, of a ‘saviour, born of ancient times, a sleeper of old’, who would rise up during this time and defeat a powerful darkness. Could that possibly be a reference to Cristian Stefánsson? And if so, what role did that man still have to play in all this? What exactly was going to happen?
“I control my own destiny,” Paramo said. “Now if you will excuse me, Your Majesty, I must change into my Rãvier. There is a battle to be won.”
Lorelei Chen blinked her eyes, unable to believe what she was hearing.
“…get yourself to the Silver City. Lord Damarus is expecting you, and believe me, you have much to discuss. I’m counting on you, Cristian. Don’t let me down.”
The holocube recording ended, and faded away. Chen leaned back in her seat, her eyes glazed slightly, taking deep breaths.
“You see?” Cris said with a weak smile, coming to stand behind her. They were on the bridge of the Meta’thron-class bioship he’d procured from the Lazarus Spaceport, currently hurtling in a north-westerly direction at some extreme velocity. “Now you know as much as I do.”
Chen licked her lips, staring blankly, unsure of what this all meant. Damarus was expecting Cris? But how did he even know of his existence? Was this proof of his divine nature?
“This is all happening so fast,” she said finally, massaging the bridge of her nose with one hand. Another deep breath. She turned to look at him. “I just don’t know what to think about him any more.”
Cris frowned. “What do you mean?”
“It’s my faith,” she said, leaning towards him. “It wavers. Just a few days ago, I was a firm believer in the teachings of Damarus. I… believed in him, as a Prophet of the Lord.” She lowered her gaze. “Then all this started to happen. You, Paramo.” She shook her head. “Lenton. What I did to him… Everything I’ve been raised to believe in since childhood has been thrust into doubt over the past few days. But this recording… I… I don’t know.” She shook her head dejectedly.
He gave her shoulder a light, empathic squeeze. He could tell by the way she trembled that she was in a lot of emotional turmoil. “I understand,” he whispered. “I’m as confused as you are right now, believe me. But the answers to our questions, and more, should be revealed once we reach our destination.”
“I hope so,” she muttered, looking strained.
There was silence for a moment. Cris watched out the main viewport as the bioship sped across a large mist-strewn expanse of frothing water. Personally, he had always doubted whether ‘God’ had even existed, at least in the anthropomorphic sense of the word. Everything he had come to learn from the Bible during his youth had seemed pretty silly and archaic at the time; wise words, for sure, but based on an outdated interpretation of the world. Anyway, he preferred to believe in something that was beyond human understanding, something unreachable, unattainable. Something beyond concept. He had always thought of the theistic religions as arrogant, in that respect. At the same time, his soul almost felt empty, like it was lacking something. Whatever the case, his natural assumption here was that Damarus was some kind of imposter, rather than a spiritual know-it-all.
A strange, insistent noise suddenly jarred him from his thoughts. He hadn’t heard a noise quite like it before. It sounded like a metallic, rasping animal call. Frowning, he noticed a soft green light blinking on and off atop the main bulkhead. The
light and sound were coming from a seashell-like object, which seemed to be opening, reconfiguring itself so that it created a kind of spiky ball with the green light pulsating at its heart.
Cris sat down in the chair beside Lora, anxiety building within him as a massive shadow cast itself over the ship, blocking out the sunlight. “What’s happening?” he asked.
“We’re coming up on the island of Laputa,” Chen told him, her eyes scanning the ship’s instruments.
Cris watched with fascination as a vast, airborne landmass swept across the viewport in front of them. A huge, circular floating island… easily four or five miles in diameter, and five or six hundred yards thick, hovering in the air like a jagged, impossible zeppelin.
“Holy shit,” he blurted.
The bottom, or under surface, of the floating island appeared to be artificial; fashioned from one even, regular plate of some glittering metal, raising up to the height of about two hundred yards. Above it lie the natural, mountainous base of the landmass itself, coated in deposits of precious minerals, and dotted with manmade waterfalls which flowed into small rivers toward the island’s centre where they were emptied into four large basins. And there – in the very centre of the island, was the Silver City itself, in all its gleaming and technological splendour.
“It’s beautiful,” Chen observed, a single tear flowing down her left cheek. “Just as I always imagined it would be…”
The bioship roared toward the gleaming, jewel-like spire of the Sacred Palace at the heart of the Silver City, passing over the dome-shaped residential arcologies on the very outskirts, then the more bizarre constructions closer in. Cris stared, awestruck, at the mastery of levitation displayed in the inner city’s architecture: for this place was not only built from the ground, but in the air. Buildings shaped like vast silver monoliths floated, and moved, horizontally and vertically, like titanic antigravitic machines dancing in precisely calculated, mathematical symmetry. The entire place was like an abstract, alien, and fluid work of sculpted art such as he’d never seen before.
The Complete New Dominion Trilogy Page 11
