Reality Echo

by James Axler

  “That may be true, but I’d like to keep that lead,” Kane told her. “If not, depending on how much time it takes to bring down your impostor, we’ll have Bres and his boys breathing right down our necks the minute we put her down. Especially if I have to use my rifle.”

  Epona frowned, then nodded in agreement.

  “So is there some special code that you can shout to instantly convince your tribesmen that we’re not psychopaths or phonies?” Kane asked. “Because if you don’t have that, things are going to get pretty awkward for a moment.”

  “Sorry. We’re secretive and paranoid of outlanders, but we’re not that well prepared,” Epona answered. “Awkward is an understatement. A dozen men with high-powered rifles…”

  Kane sighed. “I’ll think of something.”

  Epona rubbed her forehead, wincing at some internal embarrassment. “Hang on.”

  “You didn’t think of using your ‘familiars’ with your own people?” Kane asked.

  Epona shrugged. “I’m exhausted, hurting, and this root tastes like a petrified turd. Your concentration would be off, too. Besides, you were a shot in the dark. I tried because it’s been said that you have a sight beyond normal sight. I figured it was some manner of psychic sensitivity.”

  “So it wouldn’t work with someone who hasn’t been exposed to telepathy?” Kane asked.

  Epona took a deep breath. “I don’t know. What I do know is that you, thanks to repeated encounters with mental projections, have a trained ear for it.”

  Kane nodded. “I’ve been told that before. Even had a vision at an oracle temple once.”

  Epona raised an eyebrow. “No kidding.”

  Kane held his hand over his heart. “I’m not the lying type.”

  “You’re going to have to come back to the mountains and tell me more about that instance.”

  “It took only a few seconds,” Kane said with a shrug.

  Epona rolled her beautiful green eyes. “So perceptive, and yet thick as a brick.”

  Kane put his hand over his mouth to stifle an embarrassed laugh. “Oh. Come back later.”

  Epona winked. “Come on, Oracle. I’ve got magic to work, and you’ve got a Fomorian to beat the hell out of.”

  Kane checked the stone spear point lodged into the end of his cane. It was still strong and solid. He knew that he was going to need it.

  CILAIN HAD TAKEN to the role of Epona easily, thanks to the fact that she had also received lessons alongside the granny witch. Where Epona had been driven by her sense of duty, Cilain saw the benefits of the powers gained through the old ways. When Bres had whispered into her ear one dark evening, Cilain allowed herself to be swept up by his beauty and power. Let Epona trade in her strength in slavery to a tribe of mountain nomads; Cilain wasn’t going to let her powers make her a servant.

  Cilain was meant to be obeyed. Bres also promised her youth and strength beyond her sister in faith. If she had to wear Epona’s skin for a while, then it was worth it.

  Bres had layered muscle onto her, and her flesh and bone were three times as dense as a normal person’s. Cilain remained as lithe, as smooth, as perfectly formed as when Bres found her. Instead of haphazardly molding flesh and marrow onto her as he had done at the pleading of the Fomorians, Bres crafted a bride for himself, like the great Fomorian mothers of old, the voluptuous beings who were bedded by immortal Tuatha de Danaan.

  “Granny.” Erik, one of Epona’s scouts summoned her. “It appears as if the men of Cerberus do not return. Sooner or later, the Fomorians will come to us.”

  Cilain matched Epona’s frown of concern, even though she welcomed the slaughtering horde that would sweep down and cleanse the mountains of this small group of vermin. It hadn’t taken Cilain long to locate the back trail to the mountain folk’s new home. Only a few brief words of small talk were needed to cement the knowledge. She wanted to smile, to revel in the joy that would come when she walked among the primitive, superstitious thugs who had felt that a leader was meant to stoop the lowest, rather than demand that her minions stretch to the heights of greatness.

  They had chosen Epona because the deluded crone-in-training claimed a love for her people.

  “We must wait, Erik,” Cilain answered. “Grant promised us that he would return, and he would bring the force necessary to drive the Fomorians from the valley.”

  Erik’s brow furrowed as something fluttered in the night. Cilain tried to see what it was, and caught only a flash of wings that barely broke the darkness. Erik seemed as if he was suffering a headache, and Cilain took a step back from him. “What the hell?”

  Cilain scanned, expanding her consciousness, and she picked up the thing that had intruded. It was an owl that had sliced through the night, leaving only a hushed breeze in its wake. She reached for the nocturnal predator, but was rejected as the owl was already being used.

  “Something’s wrong,” Cilain said out loud. “It has to be Epona at work….”

  Erik squinted, his hand dropping to the knife in his belt. “Her? But why? What do you mean?”

  “She is Bres’s queen, and she has the power to influence your thoughts,” Cilain said. She wished that she’d thought to have familiars on hand in the camp to provide her with a means to ward off any attempts by an escaped Epona to influence the scouts.

  It was too late to be concerned with measures that should have been taken. Obviously the scouts had no clue as to the true limits of a granny witch’s power. She had to fill Erik with fear, and the only way to do that was to lie and play upon his ignorance.

  The owl flashed closer again, and Cilain reached out to grab it, physically this time. A game of wills would be too slow and costly, when the death of the meddling bird would cut Erik off from Epona just as readily. As her fingertips brushed the owl’s soft down in a flash of speed she summoned from the depths of her being, something else loomed in her peripheral vision.

  “Get away from her!” Kane bellowed, charging at Cilain with his spear.

  The stone point stabbed at the witch’s side. While the razor-sharp rock carved through her furs easily and even drew blood by slicing Cilain’s skin, her six hundred pounds of muscle and sinew served to be as spear-proof as a log. Kane grunted as he stopped cold, pinioned on the haft of his own weapon as Cilain growled angrily.

  “Kane shows his true colors.” Cilain continued to lie. She grasped the shaft of the spear and twirled it away from her. Kane, jammed against the other end of the weapon and still clutching it from his battle charge, was lifted like a doll and flew along with the improvised lance.

  Erik looked at Cilain, slack-jawed. “Epona was never that strong.”

  Cilain sighed. “Stupid little boy…”

  The owl flashed by her again, a flurry of wings and talons exploding in her face. Cilain swatted the bird aside, irritated by all of the interruptions. If the Fomorians were going to drag their feet so that Kane and Epona could reach the mountain folk first, then the bride of Bres had to take matters into her own hands. She grabbed Erik by the upper arm, her fingers closing down like the jaws of a bear. Bone snapped under enormous pressure and the scout screamed in agony.

  Kane’s walking stick crashed across Cilain’s face, and it broke into splinters and chunks of useless wood. Still, it had jarred the Fomorian woman enough that she released her victim.

  Cilain shook shattered wood out of her hair, then glowered at Kane. “Trying again?”

  “I don’t like bullies, witch,” Kane returned.

  Cilain reached for Kane, but this time the Cerberus warrior was ready for her strength and speed. Her fingers clutched only empty air, and Kane powered a kick into her midsection. Both Kane and Cilain were surprised that the blow actually lifted her off her feet, Cilain because she was aware of her five-hundred-plus pounds of weight and Kane because it felt as if he’d kicked an armored blast door. The Fomorian woman toppled to the dirt and cursed loudly as she rolled into the campfire.

  Other scouts had come, alerted by the
sound of battle, but Erik, his arm dangling uselessly, threw himself between the Appalachians and the battling pair.

  “It’s not Epona!” Erik called out.

  “Protect me!” Cilain shouted. “This madman—”

  Kane knew that he needed more concrete proof that Cilain was not what she appeared to be. That meant he had to go as savage as possible. He hurled himself at the Fomorian impostor feetfirst, both of his boots crashing into her face. The effect was threefold. First, it shut Cilain’s mouth. Second, it made Kane feel as if he’d taken a hammer to his own knees. And third, when almost two hundred pounds of man drop-kicked a woman who looked to be half his size in the head, and he bounced off as if he’d struck a wall, the mountain scouts shouted in dismay, drawing their rifles.

  “She’s Fomorian!” Kincaid, a second scout, spit in dismay.

  Cilain rose to her feet, glaring at Kane. “You miserable little monkey.”

  “Shoot her!” Erik shouted.

  “No!” Epona shouted from the edge of the forest.

  Kincaid lowered the muzzle of his scout rifle, looking at the real Epona in confusion. “But—”

  “No shooting,” Epona hissed.

  Cilain chuckled. “The Fomorians are tracking you, and if you start a gunfight, they’ll home in on us.”

  Distracted by Epona’s arrival, Cilain was unprepared for Kane’s next attack. If guns were out of the question, and she’d taken his best kicks and still could walk, it was time to return to a more primitive assault weapon. Kane jammed his AK bayonet hard into Cilain’s throat, putting every ounce of his weight into the stab. The tough steel blade tore the Fomorian woman’s skin, creating a three-inch cut, but the force of the blow bent the knife. Coughing, Cilain backhanded Kane, hurling him to the ground.

  “When’s it going to be my turn to have my density increased?” Kane grumbled.

  “How about I just crumple you into a ball the size of an orange, Kane?” Cilain asked, walking toward him.

  Kane speared his feet between the Fomorian impostor’s shins and rolled, using leverage to knock her off balance. She crashed into the dirt and Kane continued his twist, untangling his legs from hers and jamming the heel of his boot into her right eye. The blunt, hard sole provided more of a cushion, and since the impact was farther from her neck and shoulders than the previous drop kick, it actually snapped her head back. Skin tore and Cilain screamed as she felt her eyeball burst under the pressure of the impact.

  Kane tried to withdraw his foot, but fingers like iron talons wrapped around his calf. It would only be a moment before the Fomorian witch would brace his foot and proceed to snap his leg like a twig. Kane folded and shoved the barrel of the AK deep between Cilain’s breasts, the spoon-shaped muzzle spearing into her skin. Kane hoped that Cilain’s body would absorb most of the noise from the rifle’s muzzle-blast as he pulled the trigger. The weapon wanted to jump under recoil, but snagged in superdense flesh, it was pinned solidly. There was no flash of light, no crack of thunder, only a gurgling growl as thirty steel-cored bullets punched through a chest wall of solid muscle and reinforced bone. It took the first third of the magazine to shatter enough of Cilain’s toughly armored flesh and sinew to get into her internal organs.

  It was then that Cilain’s spiteful growl turned into a torrent of bright red blood pouring from battered lips. Her grasp on his lower leg loosened and she slumped in the dirt.

  Kane dragged himself away from the Fomorian woman, his calf throbbing from the pain of the enormous pressure of her fingers. He had to test his toes and ankle to be certain that she hadn’t fractured his shin with only the strength of one hand.

  Taking a deep breath, he tried to stand up, and despite a searing ache in his calf muscles, his leg didn’t fold beneath him.

  “Did it make a noise?” Kane asked.

  Epona looked, shocked, at her slain doppelganger.

  “Did the rifle make a sound?” Kane demanded.

  “No, it was muffled by her body,” Kincaid said. “It was hardly a rustle.”

  Kane nodded, sighing in relief. “Epona…”

  The Appalachian witch knelt by Cilain’s body. “Sleep well. Your torment is done, sweet sister.”

  Kane grimaced, not in the pain inflicted by Cilain’s fists, but in regret over Epona’s loss. Somewhere in the past, the two women were friends, family. He’d taken away any chance of reconciliation, and he could feel that his victory and survival had taken on a dark, hollow shame.

  “Do not blame yourself,” Epona said, her voice rough with sadness. In the firelight, he could see her cheeks glistening with tears. “Cilain brought this on herself. She danced with the devil, then slept in his bed.”

  Kane frowned. It was with sick reluctance that he had to break the silence. “We have to get ready for the Fomorians. They still are a half an hour behind us, and Balor is with them.”

  Kincaid and Erik looked at each other in horror. Kincaid spoke up. “We could try to run, but Balor is faster than any horse, even over this terrain.”

  “And to fight…how many are there?” Erik asked, his words raspy with pain.

  Kane tore his gaze away from the mournful Epona. He wondered how he could minimize the impact of his words, but he couldn’t. He only had the truth. “All of them.”

  Erik clenched his eyes shut. “We can’t fight that.”

  Kane strode over to Erik’s rifle and picked it up. “Then I’ll slow them down so you can get away.”

  Kincaid shook his head. “That’s suicide.”

  Kane worked the bolt on the rifle, checking to see if it was loaded. Satisfied that the weapon was ready for war, he leaned it over his shoulder and regarded the Appalachian men before him. “No. That’s saving your lives. I don’t intend to die. I intend to stop Bres.”

  Chapter 19

  Cerberus

  With the redoubt blacked out, operating only on emergency lighting and its communications systems completely disabled, Brigid Baptiste knew that she was running a fool’s errand as she pursued Thrush-Kane through the hallways. Cerberus staff was either working to open locked doorways, or wandering in confusion. No one had been shot, though Thrush-Kane had no qualms about inflicting injury on people who interfered with him.

  Brigid wished that she had time to run to the armory, but those doors were probably locked, as well. Still, given that the doppelganger showed no discomfort even after injuries that would have left even the strongest man hobbled over in agony, Brigid had no idea what kind of weapon could rob the false man of his ability to do harm. A bullet to the forehead only produced annoyance, and not even from discomfort.

  A soft squelch vibrated up Brigid’s jaw and she paused, touching her Commtact plate.

  “Brigid, are you there?” Bry asked.

  “You’ve got the radios up!” Brigid exclaimed with relief. She broke into a jog again, following a trail of bewildered Cerberus staff, and pried open doors. For now, it appeared that Thrush-Kane had been taking a random path through the redoubt, more to lose Brigid than approach someplace directly. “Bry, tell Grant and the others that we have confirmation that Thrush placed an infiltrator in the redoubt.”

  Bry sighed on the other end. “What gave you that hint? The communication blackout, the power-down or the blast doors isolating entire sections of the base?”

  “Any of that could have been done from the outside,” Brigid replied.

  “So how did you confirm it?” Bry asked.

  “Bitch shot me in the forehead,” Thrush-Kane interrupted. “Yammering biological trash!”

  Brigid couldn’t resist a smile at the frustration evident in the impostor’s voice. “Party line, Bry. Can you cut him out of the loop?”

  “We’re not doing this through central communication,” Bry said. “Just booster antennas.”

  “Like you think you can stop me?” Thrush-Kane asked.

  Brigid slid to a halt at a corner and saw the tall silhouette of the infiltrator standing in the shadows. She held her tongue, know
ing that the false Kane not only was at least as strong as the original, but was armed with a handgun. Brigid hadn’t even picked up a butter knife from the cafeteria.

  “Just counting all the invasions we’ve had here at Cerberus,” Bry chided. “An Annunaki armada. A Tuatha de Danaan utilizing an ancient weapon glove. Energy beings. We’re still here, Tinkertoy.”

  “But why would you want to stop me?” Thrush-Kane asked. “I’m here to go after Enlil. You’ve got my vast intellect and obvious physical superiority to lead you once and for all in a campaign of extermination that will rid the Earth of the Annunaki threat.”

  “Extermination,” a deep voice boomed over the Commtact web. It was Grant. “Yeah, I’m a fucking idiot for thinking you could be the real Kane.”

  Thrush-Kane sighed. “Grant, welcome to the conversation. Now shut up and let the people with brains do the talking.”

  Brigid sneered at the cyborg’s dismissal of her partner. Unfortunately, she didn’t have the means to wipe the arrogance off Thrush-Kane’s face. Grant snorted in derision, and Brigid whirled to see him moving stealthily up the hall.

  “Right,” Grant answered the cocky impostor. “I’m the dumb one. You couldn’t even hold on to your disguise for an hour after we physically cleared you.”

  Grant reached into his gear bag and handed Brigid her .45 pistol and holster. Brigid nodded in thanks for the weapon and slid it into the shoulder harness. The big ex-Magistrate handed her a Copperhead submachine gun, as well, and the archivist took the compact weapon. No need to assume it was unloaded—Grant was a professional, and responding to a crisis in the depths of Cerberus. All Brigid had to do was work the safety switch on the side of the Copperhead, and that was a silent click.

  “What else could I do?” Thrush-Kane asked. “You were going to jump out to the Appalachians and find the real Kane. But that’s the joy of this plan. I’ve broken up your perfect trinity. He’s fighting for his life against Bres and sixty rampaging mutants, and you’re trapped in this redoubt with me.”

  “We’re trapped with you?” Grant asked. He was sub-vocalizing as he bantered with Thrush-Kane, so his voice wouldn’t carry around the corner. The big man had his Sin Eater out, ready to launch a torrent of thunderbolts against the cyborg. Brigid shook her head, then pointed to her forehead. Grant raised an eyebrow as Brigid made a gun with her fingers, pantomimed a shot and tapped her forehead hard.