Marcus could see that the man was dressed like a member of the senate.
But what would a member of our government be doing here?
The visitor came closer, seemingly unconcerned by the strangeness of the surroundings. As he did so, certain details Marcus had initially missed became manifest. The man’s gait was almost regal, as if he were someone used to wielding power. His clothes, although similar to that of a senator, were subtly different. Instead of the usual white toga dictated by law, this new arrival wore a textured robe of opulence. The fabric appeared similar to mother of pearl, and shimmered through all manner of pastel shades in the lantern’s light.
As mesmerizing as this was, Marcus gasped aloud when he caught sight of the stranger’s features. He’s not . . . he’s . . . How can anyone be that tall?
The man extended his hand, palm forward, in salute. The gesture conveyed a sense of camaraderie and open friendship. A kindly face smiled in welcome. The wisdom of ages was reflected in his countenance and aquamarine eyes which, along with an abnormally high forehead, gave the stranger the appearance of someone who had spent decades amassing knowledge.
But who is he? I’ve never seen anyone like him before.
As if replying to Marcus’s thoughts, the visitor inclined his head. “Greetings, Marcus Galerius Brutus. I am but an ambassador to those who desperately need your help. You may call me Gul Sariff, or simply Sariff. First Magister of Rhomane and representative of the Grand Senatum.”
“I don’t know you, Sir,” Marcus countered, “nor am I aware of anyone like you. You refer to Rome as if familiar with it, yet you mispronounce certain words.”
A chair appeared beside Marcus. Taking a seat, Sariff replied, “That’s because we’ve never met, Marcus. Nor have I been to the city you know of as Rome. In fact, I’ve never visited your world, although I am amazed by the many similarities between our two cultures.”
“My world?” Marcus was confused by the inference. “What do you mean? Who are you and where are you from? What is this place? And where are my men?”
“Please, Marcus, do not vex yourself. You have many questions and I assure you, I am here to answer them all. But first, I must help you understand the changes now taking place among the people you arrived with, yourself included.”
Sariff waved his hand in the air, and Marcus discovered he could move. Seizing the opportunity to do something of his own volition, Marcus sat up and kicked his legs over the side of the bed. Leaning forward, he attempted to grasp the mysterious messenger by the shoulders, demanding, “How did you manage–?”
He froze in shock as his hand passed right through Sariff. “What are you, Sir? A demon? A trickster sent by Mercury to torment me?”
The light of the lantern flared and as its radiance faded, Sariff reached out to clasp Marcus’s right wrist in formal greeting. Marcus jumped as he felt the strong and reassuring grip of his new acquaintance.
“Forgive me, Marcus,” Sariff sighed. “I did not mean to alarm you.”
Releasing his grasp, Sariff made himself more comfortable. “As you have correctly surmised, you are dreaming. I am a mere representation of someone who once lived here long ago. I have been sent to welcome you to your new home. Think of me as a portrait come to life. An animated sculpture if you will, dispatched to help you understand what has happened. Let me assure you, both you and a great many others are safe. They are likewise being instructed in things that are essential for your continued wellbeing. The experience of this waking dream allows me to assist you more speedily than would otherwise be possible.”
Marcus digested the implications of Sariff’s words in silence. He glanced about. How dire this place is. If only I could see my home, one last time.
The air shimmered once more, and Marcus was amazed to find himself in the kitchen of his house back in Rome. Neither his wife, Sophia, nor any of the family’s slaves were anywhere in sight. Regardless, the fire roared warmly in the hearth, and the smell of baking bread made his mouth water. He moved, and the stool scraped loudly across the floor.
This can’t be real. He rubbed one of his fingers along a knot of wood in the tabletop, and clearly perceived the difference in texture. Narrowing his eyes, he stared at Sariff. “You did that. Somehow you know what I’m thinking and . . . and want me to be happy. Relaxed.”
Sariff’s face broke into a broad grin. “Excellent! You are most perceptive for one from your era.” He became serious. “But please, allow me to introduce a companion. Time is precious, and as leader of a great host, I need you to understand what’s at stake. Like me, my friend is only a representative of someone we call the Architect. Do not be alarmed by his appearance, for together we will help you understand what you need to know.”
Sariff gestured to one side, as if ushering in another guest. “Marcus, please meet a sentinel. You will find his insights most revealing . . .
“. . . Sentinel?”
A ball of light appeared in the air between them, thrumming with power. Before Marcus could say a word, a cheery voice rang out. “Greetings, Marcus Galerius Brutus. I am a custodian of the Architect. It is a pleasure to meet you.”
Marcus lurched backward, knocking his stool over. “It speaks!”
“Of course I do,” replied the construct, gravitating toward him. “Like Sariff, I am but an instrument through which our two cultures can communicate in fellowship and understanding. I apologize if my appearance shocks you, but I find it suits my function rather well. Now, as Sariff has inferred, time is pressing. May we begin?”
Marcus was lost for words. Looking between the image of a man long dead and a wraith come to life, he clamped his jaws firmly shut and refused to give in to the madness he felt sure was trying to devour him. Nodding mutely, he thought, why not?
“Excellent,” replied the sentinel. “Now, although you will find this difficult to comprehend at first, you are, in fact, within the fortified city of Rhomane on the world of Arden. You were transferred . . .”
*
A jumbled maelstrom of conflicting images and energies stormed about Lex. So overwhelmingly powerful were those sensations, he didn’t know which way was up or down. Neither could he comprehend where the hell he was, nor what was happening to him. The only thing he felt sure about was that he was falling from an obscene height, and plummeting to certain death.
His mind tumbled with him, the thoughts cartwheeling over and over. He shot me! The bastard actually shot me. One of his own men. In cold blood. And he’d sided with the enemy, too. Rebelled against the government. I can’t believe he shot me.
Unadulterated fear skittered along his spine as the terrifying drop continued. His skin burned like ice and it felt as though his stomach were endeavoring to burst free from his throat. He clamped his teeth shut in an attempt to keep the bile from rising, but that only increased the pressure in his chest.
Am I actually breathing?
Without knowing how, Lex sensed something change around him. It was almost as if someone had strummed an immense chord, and an incredibly deep tone was now throbbing through the ether. An overwhelming desire to relax infused his psyche.
I might as well. I’ve been falling for so long now, there’s no way I’ll survive when I hit the ground. Oh well, here goes nothing.
Willing himself to obey the compulsion, Lex went limp. Almost immediately, the relentless spiraling began to lose its rabid ferocity. A sound like babbling water gushing over rocks rushed toward him. He thrilled to a cool surge of vitality that washed across his skin.
His perspective sharpened, and the added clarity allowed Lex to gain a degree of control over his equilibrium. Although the plunge still dominated his world, he became detached from it, as if he were a spectator in a circus watching himself perform. He was sure that any moment his nose-diving doppelganger would somersault like a trapeze artiste, and land lightly on his feet to thunderous applause.
As if responding to his thoughts, the medium through which he was traveling thicke
ned. Something pressed into him on all sides, and Lex felt his ears pop. His world spun and he found himself sitting on a log in front of a roaring campfire in the dead of night. So abrupt was the change that Lex tottered forward, almost tipping into the flames.
“Whoa, young man!” a friendly voice cried. Strong hands gripped his arm, pulling him away from danger. “I just made that. Pity to waste it, eh?”
Eh? I’m holding a cup of coffee. Where the hell did that come from? Lex jumped up and only just saved the scalding liquid from spilling down his pants.
“Thank you. That would have hurt a —” The words choked off in his throat. His jaw dropped open. The mug clunked to the floor.
“Here, let me get you another one,” his companion offered. “It’s a cold night, and I think you’ll be needing something to warm you up after the shock.”
Lex couldn’t help but stare at the person next to him. Although he was dressed like a cavalry general, he obviously wasn’t. Some of the minor details in the insignia and cut of the uniform he was wearing were off. Additionally, he was just too darn tall.
Ignoring him, the officer retrieved Lex’s cup and busied himself pouring some more coffee. Then he stood up. Jesus! He’s towering over me, and I’m six feet tall. So what does that make him? Lex looked closer. And look at his eyes. No one I’ve ever seen has eyes that color. Come to that, his face is . . . is. . . ?
“What’s up, son?” The mystery soldier grinned and slapped Lex heartily on the arm. “Cat got your tongue? Never seen a stranger like me before?”
“Er, I apologize . . . Sir? But you’re not from around these parts, are you?”
Lex turned to study the sky. He recognized many of the familiar constellations, and the half moon cast sufficient light for him to distinguish the open plains about them. But exactly where these parts are, I couldn’t tell you. Something about them is . . . I don’t know. Strange?
“My name is Beren. Sol Beren,” replied the imposing figure in front of him, “and in answer to your question, Lex . . . Yes, I am a Sir. By your references, a general. Although not one you’d find in any of your armies.”
“So who do you serve, General? And how did we wind up in this place?”
“Ah, the answer to that is quite complex. But it’s why I’m here.” Extending a huge hand back toward two logs positioned side by side, Beren said, “Come. Let’s sit down and talk. I know you’ll have a huge list of questions, and my associates and I will be happy to answer them in a way that will help you come to terms with what’s happening.”
As they made their way to their seats, Lex asked, “Before I . . . before all . . . this, I was with some friends. We were in an ambush. Do you know if any of them survived?”
“Oh, you mean your commander and the native people of that prairie you were snatched from? Yes, many of them are quite safe.”
Lex almost dropped his mug again. “What? Do you mean Captain Houston is here?”
“Of course. As are your fellow officers. What were their names again? Smith? Yes, that’s it, Wilson Smith. Samuel J. Clark, too. A charming surgeon with a most cordial manner. Oh, and quite a number of those indigenous folk. Their chieftains are quite remarkable. Do you know, they’ve remained calm during the entire relocation process? My colleagues are quite impressed.”
Chieftains? Does he mean Snow Blizzard and his cronies?
“I see,” Lex mumbled. Slumping down, he vented a huge sigh of frustration. Then he cursed himself for forgetting the obvious. “And what about the young woman we were escorting? And her uncle? Please tell me they made it?”
“Lex! Relax. The process involved in bringing you here was quite complex. Let me assure you, almost your entire platoon survived the transition without incident. The young native girl and her protector included.”
“Thank God!” At least I didn’t screw that aspect up. He gazed into the flames. I wonder what other surprises I’m going to get tonight.
A ball of lightning appeared above the fire.
Lex managed to retain a firm grip on his coffee cup until it spoke.
*
Mac soared. Blinding white light engulfed him, burning him as it purified his soul. Transformed, he was lifted ever higher into the heavens.
So this is what it feels like to die. Strange, I thought it’d be over before I knew it. Still, this isn’t so bad.
The light dimmed. As his sight returned, he dared to peek between eyelids that had been squeezed firmly shut. A frantic, kaleidoscopic rush of conflicting impressions rushed past. They were followed by a deafening roar that threatened to swamp him. He screamed, only to discover no sound issued from his lungs.
I must be riding the leading edge of the shockwave.
Mac thought back to a previous time in his career when he’d been caught in a car bomb blast. On that occasion, he had been swatted away from the source of the explosion as if he were an insect in a gale. As the initial surprise receded, he had found himself sailing serenely through the air, as if swimming in a water-like medium. The trauma of the incident had turned everything into a torpid, slow-motion drama, and Mac remembered how weird it was to see every detail of the incident unfold around him so lethargically.
But this was different.
This experience was like being trapped in a wind tunnel, bowled along by a hurricane that was straining to overtake him. It overpowered his ability to think straight. Yet he hadn’t managed to qualify for Special Forces without being resilient.
Straining against the gale, Mac twisted and turned as hard as he could in an attempt to check on the welfare of the men under his command. Nothing! I can’t see a damned thing.
An overwhelming compression blossomed behind him. Mac felt as though he’d been impaled on a thousand red-hot needles. His skin bubbled and blistered. The burning sensation sank into the pit of his stomach, and he doubled up into a fetal position. Just when he thought he might burst, his senses shattered. Before he knew it, he found himself in open free fall.
What . . . What the hell?
Surprised by both the transformation and the abrupt cessation of pain, he tumbled out of control. Over and over he went, cart wheeling at an ever faster rate as his speed of descent increased. A thrill surged through him. Familiarity gained from thousands of hours in the air filled him with sudden confidence. This, I know how to do!
Reining in his panic, Mac adjusted his position, managing to slow the spin sufficiently for him to lean into the dive. Seconds later, he was on the hill and accelerating to terminal velocity. Yeeeeeeehaaa!
The sheer exhilaration of the experience temporarily wiped his dilemma from his mind. Arching his body to achieve the perfect stable position, he did his best to take stock. Where on earth am I?
Using his hands and feet, Mac began a very slow spiral and surveyed his surroundings. Blue sky, as clear as a lens, and cotton-candy clouds stretched off in every direction. Although he appeared to be bathed in glorious sunshine, he couldn’t actually pinpoint the sun anywhere above him. When he looked down, Mac was also unable to see any sign of land. And that was a paradox. If I can’t see land, that means I’m so high I shouldn’t be able to breathe. I’d be on the edge of space. And I’d be freezing to death. But I’m not.
Then he noticed he wasn’t wearing a parachute.
He accepted the situation stoically. Okay! Actually, this helps. There’s no way it can be real. I was on an oil rig and a nuclear bomb had just gone off in my face.
He glanced around the endless vista. So. I’m either dead or dying, and on my way to goodness knows where, or I somehow survived and am in a hospital. Whether in a coma, on drugs, or a combination of the two, I don’t know. But this isn’t real. So what —
“An excellent deduction, Alan,” a voice out of nowhere announced. “Or would you prefer Mac?”
A shadow flashed past and before he knew it, Mac was buddies with an unknown, fellow skydiver. Someone, he noted, who also wasn’t wearing any equipment. Nor, if he was seeing things right, did he
appear to be entirely human.
Mac suppressed a snort. Looks like I’m suffering from severe head injuries, too. Where am I getting this stuff from?
“Oh, you’re not suffering from hallucinations, if that’s what you’re worried about,” his mystery companion said as he maneuvered closer, “but, as you have correctly surmised, neither are your current surroundings authentic. They are, in fact, a fabrication. Think of them as a lucid dream-like reality, through which we can communicate safely.”
“Okaaay,” Mac replied. “Say I buy what you’re selling. Who are you? What is this place and why am I here?”
“A man who likes to get straight to the point,” the stranger countered, with a smile. “Very well, this may save a lot of time in the long run. My name is Psi Calen. Just call me Calen. Like you, I’m not really here. I am part of a very sophisticated AI program left behind by the residents of the planet you now find yourself marooned on. And yes, before you ask, you really are on an entirely different world than Earth. A fact that will be proven to you very shortly.
“My image belongs to one of the leading scientists of the people who once populated this place. Through him, we hope to explain why it was so necessary to bring you here against your will.”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously, my good friend. Here, let me demonstrate.”
Calen waved his hand, and they both began to rapidly decelerate. Coming to a halt in midair, the avatar pointed to one side. “Observe. Thankfully, you come from a time period sufficiently advanced for you to grasp many of the concepts you are about to see.”
The air rippled in front of them, and Mac found himself peering down on a vast chamber. Although the lighting within it was subdued, illumination was provided by a large number of very complex-looking monitors lining the walls and arranged in ranks through the center of the room. A cushioned therapy platform was positioned in front of each console, and a multitude of patients lay sleeping on the beds beneath them.
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