The Shattering: Omnibus

by Van Allen Plexico

  “That’s enough,” Nakamura repeated—something he almost never had to do under normal circumstances.

  The clouds all around them were lit up now as if a miniature suns had taken up residence behind each of them.

  “It can’t be much farther,” groaned Keefe. “Can it?”

  “There!” called Torval, who had quit staring at his hand long enough to look up and see a glowing white circle of light just ahead. The others saw it and, relief washing over them, watched as it grew larger and closer. Now they could see the tether cables vanishing through it.

  “We made it,” Keefe sighed, grinning at Tamerlane.

  The white circle swallowed them up and spit them out back on the deck of the Monrovia. They all stumbled forward, unsteady on their feet in the different gravitational field.

  “I have returned.”

  Tamerlane smiled, glad to hear the Emperor speaking. He turned and saw then, to his surprise, that it hadn’t been the Emperor who had spoken. It had been the stranger in black who had come back from the other side with them. Tamerlane’s smile evaporated and he started to go over to the man and demand to know who he was and where he had come from—when suddenly it dawned on him that the army of technicians in the chamber were behaving in a very unusual and unexpected fashion.

  Something bad was happening.

  Instead of the happy and joyous shouts one would have expected with the rescue and mostly safe return of the party, the lab-coat-wearing men and women were crying out and racing here and there, madly adjusting the various banks of equipment attached to the portal machine.

  “What’s happening here?” Nakamura was already shouting, having picked up on it as least as quickly as Tamerlane. “What is the crisis?”

  “Energy overload,” called one of the techs as she ripped the cover off a console and began to attack the wiring inside. “Massive spike just as you all came through. The ship’s main systems are being affected. We’re overloading the entire grid.”

  “Dump it,” Nakamura yelled. “Discharge it into space! It could take out the reactor, and—”

  “That’s what we are attempting to do, General,” the chief technician stated sharply. “Of course, it would help if we knew why this was happening—what was causing it.”

  “I’m certain it is me,” said a voice from behind them.

  Nakamura and Tamerlane turned simultaneously and, to their astonishment, saw the Emperor apparently awake and aware at last. He was no longer leaning on anyone for support but was standing upright, with the golden sword he had been carrying held out before him. Lighting flashed from it, forking out to strike seemingly every piece of equipment in the chamber.

  Tamerlane grimaced as his awful headache flared back to life. A sword? The Sword? The Emperor had it with him—had brought it back out? How had he not known that? Tamerlane shook his head to rid it of the sudden cobwebs that seemed to be filling it. Wait—he had known—he’d seen—but then he’d…forgotten? How was that possible?

  No one dared speak—no one dared ask the Emperor a question—for at least two seconds. That was ample time for the overload to become critical.

  “The Sword of Baranak,” cried one of the technicians at that moment. “It’s creating an energy loop in the system! You have to throw it back through, or—”

  “Far too late for that,” said the man in black who stood at the Emperor’s side.

  Tamerlane’s eyes focused on the man, and he realized he had somehow forgotten him, too, for the last few moments.

  One of the crystal-armored Emperor’s Guard—the one in blue, just to Tamerlane’s right—raised a quad-rifle and shot the technician precisely between the eyes from twenty meters away.

  Tamerlane recoiled at this. As if in slow motion, he watched as each of the technicians, who an instant earlier had been frantically running this way and that, stopped in their tracks and stared in shock at the Guardsman, the Emperor and the sword.

  Nobody moved, nobody breathed.

  The lighting flared brighter—blindingly brighter.

  “Someone do something,” Keefe cried.

  “The reactor is overloading,” shouted a tech at the main control station. “I can’t—”

  The machinery, the room, and the spacecraft itself all exploded.

  BOOK TWO:

  THE SIEGE OF ADRIANOPLE

  1

  Fire.

  Fire and blood.

  Light and darkness.

  Cold, so cold—the cold of space.

  And something else. A presence, entirely unseen; a sentience speaking within a dream, but not a dream.

  Demons. Fire and demons.

  No. The horror! No!

  Too late—it’s too late—they’re already here. They’re going to—

  Awake.

  Ezekial Tamerlane sat straight up, his eyes snapping open.

  His thoughts and dreams fled as reality reasserted itself. One last fleeting sense tugged at him— the sense that something very important had been revealed to him, in the moments just before he’d awoken. But what it had been, he had no idea.

  Reality was back. He was awake.

  He was sitting in a bed—one of many in a long, high-ceilinged room. The walls and high, curved ceiling were white. The other beds extended into the distance on either side of him and opposite him. Some held patients, others did not. An army medical facility, then. Had he been hurt?

  “Colonel!” came the voice of a woman from off to his right, sounding surprised.

  He tried to look up and see who had spoken, but it was difficult at first. His eyes didn’t want to quite focus, and they were scratchy and raw. Blinking and rubbing at them, he was able to see well enough to recognize that she was a doctor—a woman of early middle age, with a dark complexion and her hair tied up in a bun.

  “At last,” she went on, approaching, a smile playing across her face. “We were beginning to think none of you would ever wake up.”

  “None of us?” Tamerlane frowned at this. He was still groggy, his mind a whirl of confusion. Looking around, it came to him that he was not alone; the beds on either side of him were occupied—several in either direction— by blanketed figures.

  “Something happened,” he said, making it as much a question as a statement. Then, “None of whom?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “You said you thought ‘none of you’ would wake up. Who else was hurt?”

  She regarded him with a mix of concern and pity. “I’m sorry, Colonel—you don’t remember what happened?”

  Frowning more deeply, he closed his eyes, then rubbed at them with his fists.

  “No,” he finally said. “No, I don’t.”

  She gazed down at him, concern etched on her face, but said nothing.

  “How long was I—asleep?”

  The doctor started to reply but then seemed to think better of it. She hesitated, looking back over her shoulder, as if a supervisor were lurking, waiting to censor her.

  “How long?” he demanded, anger welling up inside him. “I’m a colonel in the Imperial First Legion and I have a right to know!”

  Others in the long hall were looking their way now, and the doctor was clearly aware of it. She bit her lip, then leaned in close and said in a low voice, “You were in a coma for seven weeks, standard time.”

  Tamerlane heard her but couldn’t register the words. “What? What did you say?”

  “Seven weeks,” she repeated, appearing almost ashamed at the news. “I’m sorry, Colonel.”

  “Seven...” He couldn’t quite fathom it. “I was asleep for seven weeks?”

  “Not just you,” the doctor replied. “Your entire team.”

  Tamerlane stared back at her, astonished. “Who—who else was with me?”

  “They’re here, in this room,” she said. “You’re the first to awaken.”

  Tamerlane sat up higher in the bed, straining to see around him. Other beds stretched off in both directions, but he couldn’t see the faces of
the people in them. He rubbed at his eyes again, then, “The Emperor,” he said, a faraway look coming over him. “I remember... something... about him...” He looked at the doctor. “The Emperor was with us—me and my team—and something happened. Right?”

  “You will be relieved to know that the Emperor is fine,” the doctor replied, not exactly answering the question. “As are his bodyguards.” A more somber expression moved across her face. “His Eminence, the Ecclesiarch, passed away soon after you all were rescued—likely from the strain on his heart. I can only imagine there must have been a tremendous amount of…excitement.” She brightened. “Many of the others, though, survived—and most of them recovered almost immediately. Of those that weren’t killed, all have recovered and been released from care—except for your team.” She shook her head in wonder. “Given what happened, it’s miraculous.”

  Tamerlane was attempting to process this information. His head throbbed painfully and much of what the woman was saying wasn’t clicking for him. He raised a hand. “Hold on. You said, ‘Given what happened.’ What happened? Who was killed?” He chewed his bottom lip. “I mean—I remember some sort of explosion…?”

  “That’s right,” she said, her brows knitting and lending her the unmistakable air of someone who is discussing something they don’t feel entirely comfortable speaking about. Why that should be, Tamerlane had no idea.

  “Generals Beyzit and Attila were there, and both survived,” the woman added. “In fact, all the military officers pulled through. Their smartcloth uniforms must have protected them just long enough for the support ships to swoop in and rescue them. As I said, they’re all fine.” She looked down. “The crew members and support techs weren’t so lucky. They were all beyond help by the time their bodies were recovered.”

  “What exploded?” Tamerlane asked—and then quickly supplied his own answer. “The Monrovia. The ship itself.”

  She nodded.

  “We were there,” Tamerlane recalled, eyes widening, “and somewhere else, too. Yes—we were coming back from our rescue mission, and—”

  “It exploded,” the doctor told him, her expression darkening. “That’s all we know. You are all lucky to be alive. As I said, it’s miraculous.”

  “But—how did it explode? Why did it explode?”

  She waved away his follow-ups. “I will defer to the experts on that sort of thing, Colonel. It’s not really my area of specialty.”

  Tamerlane felt his anger and frustration growing, and he sought to meet her eyes. “Doctor,” he said, “I apologize for my directness, but—why do I sense a degree of evasiveness and hostility from you? Is there something you’re not telling me?”

  The doctor wouldn’t meet his eyes for a long moment, and Tamerlane’s sense of alarm only grew. Finally she returned his gaze and said, “Colonel, all I can tell you is that people are concerned.”

  “People? What people?”

  “People in positions of authority,” she said. “After all, the others who survived are fine, and have been for weeks, while your group has lain comatose. Some are questioning exactly why you’ve all been in those comas.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  She shook her head. “I’ve said all I can say on that score.”

  As she said that, he noticed the armed guards stationed at the doors. He started to ask her about them, too, but decided there was little point—she wouldn’t answer, or she wouldn’t tell him the truth. So, “Alright,” he said, mainly to end the conversation and get rid of her.

  “My job is simply to get you back on your feet as quickly as possible,” she added, flashing an uncomfortable smile.

  “Speaking of that,” Tamerlane said, happy to change the subject. He was already sitting up, and now he turned to his right and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He tried to stand.

  “Be careful, Colonel,” the doctor warned, hurrying forward to catch him as he stumbled. “Your legs will still be weak, despite the artificial stimulation we’ve been administering to the muscles all this time.”

  Chastened and somewhat embarrassed, Tamerlane allowed the doctor to help him back onto the bed. He felt like he could walk if he needed to, but the stiffness in his legs had caught him by surprise.

  “Can I leave?” he asked.

  “Soon,” the doctor replied, not looking at him.

  “What is it?” He eyed the guards at the doors again. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing, exactly,” she said. “No specific problems...”

  “Then what?” he demanded, catching her eyes. “What aren’t you telling me?”

  “We simply need to keep you under observation, now that you’ve come out of the coma, to be sure everything is okay.” She paused, then went on in a much softer voice, “As I said, we aren’t exactly sure why all of you were comatose to begin with. Some people are concerned about it. That’s all I can say.”

  Tamerlane nodded. “Very well. I need to contact General Nakamura.” He paused, then, “You did say the officers all survived—yes?”

  The doctor motioned toward a bed two down from Tamerlane on the right.

  “He’s there.”

  Tamerlane’s eyes were clearing, finally. He looked, recognized the inert form of his commanding officer, and nodded. Slowly he struggled to pull himself back off the bed and this time he managed to stand. The doctor moved to stop him but he brushed her back.

  “I’ve got to try to talk to him.”

  A pause from her, then, “Alright.”

  He shuffled on increasingly steady legs over to the head of Nakamura’s bed and gazed down at the older man. Then he looked back at the doctor. “Alone,” he said.

  The doctor frowned at this but nodded and strode away.

  “General,” he whispered, leaning in close over the man’s face, noting that despite his coma Nakamura still appeared burdened with every care imaginable. His blunt features were creased with worry. Perhaps, Tamerlane mused silently, his dreams are troubling him.

  “General,” he repeated, speaking quietly, “I need your help. I suspect something has happened. Something very serious. And the doctor is being evasive.”

  Nakamura continued to lie there, his face occasionally contorting slightly, eyes moving beneath the lids.

  “I’m starting to remember what happened. I don’t exactly know why, but I think the Emperor may be in danger.” He paused, then, “To be honest, I’m not entirely sure how he’s still alive. Or how any of us are.”

  Still Nakamura lay there. Tamerlane stared down at him, nearly overwhelmed by feelings of concern for his general—this man who had basically raised him, made a man of him, from a punk kid orphan—and frustration for the developing situation.

  “Alright, General,” he said at last. “Get some more rest. But come back to us soon.” He patted the general’s hand. “ I need your hel—”

  A flame sprang to life, covering his hand, then spreading rapidly to the general’s.

  Tamerlane cried out and snatched his hand away. The flames vanished as instantly as they had appeared.

  General Nakamura gasped, and his eyes snapped open.

  2

  “I didn’t imagine it,” Tamerlane said for the half-dozenth time.

  Nakamura was sitting on the edge of his bed as the last of the doctors to look him over finished his work and retreated, as puzzled as the others had been. He smiled at Tamerlane and chuckled. “Whatever happened, Ezekial,” he said, “it woke me up. Got me out of that coma. So let’s just be grateful and leave it at that for now.”

  Tamerlane reluctantly nodded.

  It had been an hour since Nakamura had suddenly awakened. A battalion of orderlies, nurses, and several doctors had thoroughly examined both men before Nakamura was allowed to rise. Now he climbed down from the bed and tested his muscles as Tamerlane stood ready to help him. As it turned out, the general could stand just fine. Moments later, the two of them were stretching their legs walking the length of the medical hall.
Along the way, Nakamura noticed the armed guards standing at all the exits—just as Tamerlane had very quietly pointed out to him a short time earlier. Nakamura pursed his lips at this, clearly concerned about it, but did not address it, and Tamerlane decided to leave it alone for the time being.

  Nakamura halted as they passed before the bed of one of the soldiers from the rescue mission, Lt. Keefe. He gazed down at her comatose form, then looked back expectantly at Tamerlane.

  The colonel got the message instantly. Might as well give it a try—see what happens. As Nakamura looked on, he moved forward, reaching out and clasping the lieutenant’s hand.

  Nothing happened. No flame, no nothing.

  He looked back at the general and shook his head.

  Nakamura appeared mildly disappointed. He gestured toward Ling’s bed nearby. “Care to try it again?”

  “Why not?”

  Tamerlane rounded Keefe’s bed and moved toward where Ling lay. Just before he got there, Nakamura called out, “Ezekial. Wait.”

  The colonel turned and looked back. Nakamura was helping Keefe to sit up. She rubbed her eyes. “General? Sir? What happened?”

  “How do you feel, lieutenant?” Nakamura asked her.

  “Like I’m hung over from the worst drinking binge in my life, sir,” she replied groggily. “But I’ll pull myself together. Where are we?”

  Nakamura held up a hand, motioning for her to wait a moment, then nodded to Tamerlane. “Want to go for three, Colonel?” he asked, pointing toward Ling.

  “This is crazy,” Tamerlane replied—but, as Nakamura and Keefe looked on, he reached down and touched Ling’s hand.

  3

  “Crazy,” Tamerlane repeated. “Have I become a faith healer?”

  “It didn’t seem to require any faith at all, Ezekial,” the general responded. “You simply did it.”

  “I didn’t do anything, except touch them. And you.”

  The two of them were moving slowly along the central walkway between the rows of beds. Occasionally they would stop so that Tamerlane could touch another patient, but nothing came of it—it had only worked with the members of their expedition. But with them it had worked every single time.