Year of the Black Rainbow

by Claudio Sanchez

  “I would not know what that looks like, even were it there. Why? What do you see?”

  “Possibilities.”

  “For one who resists change as much as you, you seem rather obsessed with that notion,” said Ryan.

  “We all have our gifts, Ryan. A specialty that each of us alone wields. I, for instance…”

  He gestured and the air around Ryan began to sizzle. An instant later, a ring of fire leaped into existence around him. The flames crackled furiously, the tops of them flickering toward him, tauntingly, threateningly. Ryan observed them with detachment, as if he felt that whatever he was witnessing was surely someone else’s problem and not his.

  If Marth was waiting for some sign of alarm from Ryan, he was to be disappointed. Marth’s face, however, was inscrutable, giving not the slightest indication of what he was expecting other than to see a demonstration of his own prowess in conjuring flame from the air. His brow furrowed slightly and the flame evaporated. Ryan idly brushed some soot off his sleeves but otherwise did not seem the least incommoded by the demonstration.

  “But,” continued Marth, “that is not the limit of my abilities. I have another blessing, as it were. I see possibilities, Ryan,” he said, not waiting for Ryan to prompt him with another question. “I see aspects of the future that are closed to others.”

  “Do you.” Ryan remained unimpressed. “And I take it that I somehow feature prominently in that future which you and only you perceive?”

  “That you do. First, I discern your Red Army.”

  “I have heard rumors of them,” said Ryan dismissively.

  “As have I. Rumors that they are a force more tenacious than any previous Mage army. That they are expanding and gathering weaponry enough to destroy all the sectors. The other Mages are disinclined to believe in rumors, especially when the purported army has covered its tracks as deftly as yours. But you and I know differently.”

  “Do we.”

  “Furthermore, I discern blackness when I look upon you, Ryan. I perceive a road toward darkness and damnation, with you as the one setting us on that course. You noticed my painting, I presume?”

  “If you call that pathetic rendering that was hardly worthy of a child’s efforts a painting, yes, I did.”

  “Harbinger of doom and art critic. Your evil knows no bounds.”

  “Speak your piece,” Ryan said with noticeable impatience.

  “You may have noticed that the sky was bleeding. That was not meant to be literal. Instead, it is representative of what is impending for the Mages, and for the entirety of Heaven’s Fence. There will be blood, and all will share in its spilling. And there will be one who is going to be responsible for tearing a gaping wound not only in the minds and bodies of all living creatures, but possibly in the fabric of reality itself. All that we know will be threatened. Much of what we know will die.”

  “And that one who will commit these crimes against God and man will be me?”

  “I believe that to be the case, yes.”

  “Then why do you not warn the Mages against me?”

  “Because,” said Marth with the air of one who bears more of a burden than any should rightly have to deal with, “my gift is also accompanied by a curse, as the greatest gifts typically are.”

  Ryan’s eyes narrowed a moment and then a slow smile spread across his face. It was the single most unpleasant thing that Marth had ever witnessed. “They do not believe you. The Mages do not believe you.”

  “No. They never do. Even when subsequent events support the predicted outcome, they typically ascribe it to happenstance. My fate is no doubt punishment from on high for some transgression I committed at some point in my long existence.”

  “How comforting to be able to blame an unseen entity for whatever aspects of your life do not suit you.”

  “Actually, it is not the least bit comforting.”

  “Then,” and Ryan spread his hands wide, “if you truly believe your vision of what is to come, you have no choice but to try and stop me before any of it happens. The safety of the galaxy is resting on your shoulders. So what are you going to do about it?”

  “Do you suggest that I punish you for sins before you have committed them?”

  “If there is no other choice, I don’t see how it can be avoided.”

  “There is always a choice, Ryan. I choose to leave it in your hands. It is, after all, your fate that is to be determined. However,” and he raised a single finger, “one should always be aware of the potential consequences of one’s actions.”

  “Meaning--?”

  The explosion of a pulser blast drowned out Ryan’s single-word question. It struck the ground immediately to Ryan’s left, leaving a scorch mark on the surface of the symbolic star. Ryan stared down at it, no longer any hint of derision upon his face.

  “At this moment,” said Marth coolly, “you are targeted by one of my men.”

  “Vielar Crom, I assume?”

  “Possibly. He is currently staked out at a high point—perhaps in a tower, perhaps in one of the surrounding mountains. He has you targeted. He could blow out the back of your skull with a single squeeze of his trigger finger.”

  “Are you informing me that he is going to be watching me in perpetuity?”

  “Obviously not. I am saying, however, that you would be well advised to have a care in your actions over the next century or so.”

  “Sound advice. So sound, in fact—” There was another pulser blast then. It was slightly higher pitched, indicating that a different weapon was the source. It struck the star to Marth’s immediate right, and this one actually created a small hole in the paving. A wisp of smoke arose from it, drifting lazily skyward.

  “—that I would extend it to you as well,” finished Ryan.

  Marth stared down at the small hole. “Deftinwolf, I assume.”

  “That would seem a reasonable guess.”

  The two Mages stared at each other over what seemed a chasm.

  “This will not end well,” said Marth.

  “If that is your foresight speaking, perhaps it will comfort you to know that I believe you.”

  “It is not…and it does not.”

  Ryan bowed slightly. “It will be an honor to serve with you, my new brother.” Then he turned abruptly on his heel and walked away.

  Marth looked heavenward and imagined that he could actually see the beginnings of blood dripping from the sky.

  “No,” he said softly, “not well at all.”

  Never had he felt more alone.

  Chapter 3

  Guns of Summer

  For a time, Wilhelm Ryan ruled over Sector 6 peacefully, but eventually the rumors of the Red Army became tangible, the threat moving from abstract concept to reality. The Mages saw it as an offensive move towards their power. All that was required was for matters to reach a tipping point that would send them spilling into a full-blown Mage war.

  Eventually Ryan decided he would take over Sector 10 and its six territories. Ryan abruptly demanded an audience with the other Mages who then witnessed his assassination of Mage Rolander Gurash, governor of Sector 10. Later known as “The Gurash Example,” this would serve as Ryan’s declaration of war. Sector 12 was subsequently conquered, and its Mage, Litan Boss, was also murdered in cold blood by Ryan. Mage Althaddeus Favor, overseer of Sector 1 and renowned for his stronghold of House Atlantic, would become an ally of Ryan’s, seeking to join forces with who he saw as the strongest of the Mages, as opposed to Ryan’s most relentless opponent, Covent Marth.

  The war dragged on, leaving sectors scorched in their wake. Ryan’s Red Army moved on to the eastern territories, where Mages Hanthon Jo Seph and Malvas Limbi of Northern Sectors 2 and 3 surrendered to Ryan. Only then did Ryan realize the potential of an imprisoned Mage, and the Mages themselves became as valuable as the Sectors he worked to overtake. He tested out a new tactic by flooding Sector 5 with Red Army military who were solely concerned with taking Mage Bran Wilsinger hostage. The str
ategy was unexpected and successful and Ryan had no problem repeating it with Xi Tolendar of Sector 7. Simultaneously, his slow assault was setting the stage for a smaller civil war known as the War of the Western Third. This would be a desperate attempt by remaining western Sectors 8, 9 and 11 to break away from the union and maintain a coalition. They would bravely fight back as a single entity to stop him. And they would nearly succeed.

  Nearly.

  Instead, Ryan would barely escape death, alive but wounded for the first time in the Wars. Instead of venting his rage towards the Mages responsible, he channeled it into new assaults that netted him Mages Chu Valentar and Beirut Akara. Mage Grave Minetoter of Sector 9 vanished, eluding Ryan’s subsequent search for him. Rumors would circulate for centuries about the missing Mage, speculating as to whether he had narrowly escaped where no other had, or simply ended his own life on his own terms.

  Eventually Ryan sought out Althaddeus Favor in the confines of House Atlantic. The specifics of the encounter were never known, but Favor was never heard from again and Ryan took over House Atlantic. It was said that Favor was imprisoned along with the other missing Mages somewhere within the dark corridors of House Atlantic, the victim of some unholy experiment of Ryan’s, but no one knew for sure.

  Most did not want to know.

  And still Covent Marth remained elusive, and eventually became the last hope of stopping Ryan’s plans.

  In the meantime, the collateral damage of the Mage Wars was reaching a level that most found unacceptable.

  And they were beginning to protest.

  Loudly.

  * * *

  Leonard Hohenberger’s life came to an end on an otherwise ordinary day.

  Which is not to say that he died that day. Nevertheless, his life—or at least his life as he knew it—came to a violent and bitter end as a result of circumstances that he could not possibly have anticipated and certainly not desired. These circumstances, in turn, would lead to the eventual destruction of everything he loved and believed in, and changed the arc of Heaven’s Fence.

  He did not know any of that when he awoke that morning in his home on Apity Prime. He yawned and stretched and yawned once more, looking over to the left side of the bed and seeing the empty space that had been occupied by his wife, Pearl, during the night. She was up and out early, as was typical for her. Once upon a time that might well have annoyed the hell out of him. He was old fashioned and was enamored of the notion of his wife being there to wake up to. He had long ago come to terms with the fact that his beloved Pearl was—God help him—one of those people, i.e., a morning person. Once he had loathed those types, those damnable morning people. Now he chose to find it charming as far as his wife was concerned.

  Hohenberger took a full minute to stretch, as was his wont. Pearl kidded him that most men are satisfied with a fart and a belch before staggering out of bed. Not Hohenberger. His lifelong study of every aspect of human biology served to remind him that most heart attacks take place first thing in the morning. So he always made sure to take the proper amount of prep time in getting his body started. First he would wiggle his fingers and toes, and then methodically stretch every muscle in his body until he felt his pulse rate was properly up to speed. Then, and only then, would he consider the day to have started.

  A hustling form moved quickly past the open door of the bedroom, so fast that Hohenberger almost didn’t spot it. He did, however, and his mind operated quickly enough that not only did he know who it was, but was quite certain he knew where the individual was off to. “Joseph!” he shouted.

  The young man who had just been summoned froze where he was and slowly backed up. He looked abashed. His lanky brown hair was hanging in his face; he knew that drove his father nuts, so he shoved it out of his eyes.

  “Yeah?”

  Noting that his son was fully dressed at an unusually early hour of the morning, and also noting the young man’s haste, Hohenberger did not have to be a detective to know what was going on.

  “Joseph, you’re not—”

  “Dad, I have to…”

  “Joseph!” He did not need this aggravation first thing in the morning. He rubbed the bridge of his nose and said with a low moan, “Joseph, we’ve gone over this…”

  “‘Gone over this’ makes it sound like we’ve had some kind of discussion. Telling me repeatedly that I can’t do something isn’t a discussion. For God’s sake, Dad, I’m seventeen.”

  “You say that as if that’s supposed to impress me. Your mother will—”

  “She doesn’t need to know.”

  “Joseph, come on.”

  “Dad, I promised the guys!” He fumbled for words that would somehow persuade his father as to the rightness of his cause. “There’s not going to be a problem!”

  “It’s a demonstration!”

  “It’s a peace demonstration! Come on, Dad! Anyone with half a brain knows what’s really going on, and you’ve got way more than half a brain.”

  “Flattery will only get you so far, but go on,” his father said with a half-wink.

  Joseph stared at him intently, and Hohenberger was struck—not for the first time—how much of his mother’s attitude and looks he had.

  “Dad, all those years you spent telling me the importance of standing up for what I think is right. Was it all bullshit?”

  “Language,” Hohenberger said stiffly.

  “Were they just words, then? Cheap talk that could just be tossed aside when things got tough?”

  “Apparently so.”

  “And what other things did you teach me growing up that I can just ignore when it’s inconvenient, huh? All that, y’know, stuff about morality and hard work and fidelity to a wife and ethics and—”

  “I get the point, Joseph, but…”

  “But what?” Joseph lowered his voice as if concerned that someone was spying upon them. “Come on, Dad. You know we’re on the same side. You hate this whole war and what the Mages are doing, not only to each other, but also to whatever bystanders happen to get in the way. Hell, the Mages themselves have to know that we’re not just going to roll over and take whatever they feel like dishing out. Someone—a lot of someones—have to stand up and say, ‘Enough!’ Someone has to say, ‘You’ve been given all this power for a reason. That reason is to serve and protect the rest of us who don’t have such power. It has to be used for the common good, as part of your mandate in overseeing the twelve sectors. We need full disclosure…’”

  “Full disclo--?”

  “There are rumors, Dad. You’ve heard them. Rumors that most of the Mages are dead or…” He hesitated. “Or worse. That Wilhelm Ryan is out to take them all down. That he wants to seize control of everything for God knows why…because he’s power mad. Whatever. Look, everybody knows that the local governments just pave the roads and make sure the great machines keep running smoothly. That they do all the work the Mages don’t want to be bothered with. But the affairs of the Mages are running roughshod over the people. And if the government isn’t going to step up and stop it, then we’re going to. In the only way that matters.”

  “By what? A show of force? Do you seriously think you’re going to take up arms against the Mages? Or the Mages’ armed forces?”

  “It’s not about taking up arms! I’m a pacifist, remember? It’s about showing the Mages that there are always alternatives to war. That displaying an organized show of will and desire can be a guide to a better way of living. We don’t want to lead by force of arms. Arms and fighting and wars are a negative example. We want to show a positive example! We want to say, No more wars. We want to say, Power for the people, not against the people. And—”

  “All right, all right. It still sounds a bit nebulous to me, but—” The doctor shook his head. “God, just like your mother.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing. Just hold up a few minutes; I’ll come with you.”

  “No way.”

  “Joseph—“

  “It’s go
ing to be really crowded there, Dad. You know how you are with crowds, and if I have to worry about you, then we both might be in danger. Besides, what are my friends going to think if my dad has to tag along with me?”

  “Fine, fine,” said Hohenberger. “Look…just be careful, all right? Just be extremely careful, and stay out of harm’s way.”

  “Absolutely. Thanks, Dad.” Joseph said with a grin, and even tossed off a salute as he hurried away and out the front door of the house.

  Not even out of bed and already I’ve likely screwed up the day, Hohenberger thought.

  He rose, stumbled to the bathroom, showered and pulled his shoulder-length, jet-black hair into a damp ponytail. His fellow researchers loved to tease him about his long locks, joking that he looked more like a poet than an award-winning scientist. For Hohenberger, his hair length was less about looks and more about the hour he couldn’t bear to waste getting his hair cut every month. Instead, he opted for the requisite trim once every six to eight.

  He carefully stepped into his clothes. He had five pairs of identical slacks, shirts and jackets hanging in the closet. This way he did not have to waste any brain cells on trying to decide what to wear when he went into his laboratory.

  Hohenberger strode into the kitchen and absently tossed some cereal into his mouth, followed by a glass of milk. It struck him as a more efficient way to consume the food than mixing one with the other beforehand. He stared thoughtfully into space, thinking about nothing in particular. He had found that it was during such “voids” that some of his best ideas took place.

  He reached for his pad on the far edge of the kitchen table, dragged it over to himself, and began sketching on it. Nothing concrete at first; just an assortment of formulae that he hoped would lead to something. His thoughts had been triggered by some of the vids he had seen lately resulting from the Mage Wars.

  They were nothing official, of course. Officially, the Mage Wars were typically referred to as “internal disputes” among the Mages. “The Great Debate” was the official term, as if the Mages were all grouped around a table discussing the issues of the day rather than trying to annihilate each other, steal their respective powers, turn them into…well, he wasn’t sure what. There were rumors, certainly, but that was all. Still, anyone with half a brain had to know that there was more going on than anyone in an official capacity was willing to admit to.