The Shattering: Omnibus

by Van Allen Plexico

  Iksander shrugged again. “You’re the brains of the operation, sir. I just wait for you to point at targets, and then I shoot them. Or chop them down. Or punch them. Or whatever works.”

  “Even if that target lies...shall we say... somewhat close to home?”

  “I’ve never heard a syllable of treason from you or anyone else in Third Legion—not even just now,” Iksander stated by way of reply. “I simply do as I’m told. I find it works better that way.” He snorted again. “Better for everyone involved. I’ve never had any desire to be any smarter than I already am.”

  “You’re smarter than you let on,” Agrippa told him. “You’re proving it now.”

  “No idea what you’re talking about, sir,” the dark-haired soldier said, shaking his head. “Now—can we get on with this?”

  “By all means.”

  Iksander screamed bloody murder and lunged with his sword at the colonel. Agrippa blocked his blow—it was a new attack from Iksander, or at least one Agrippa hadn’t encountered before, and very creative—and spun about. In one very quick and continuous move he shoved his old friend to the side, smacked him on the ribs with the flat of his blade, and took up another defensive position—one he had honed to perfection in uncountable sparring sessions with his best troops.

  “Ascanius first,” Agrippa whispered to himself as a sort of solemn pledge, as Iksander charged again, “and then, yes—then we shall see what we shall see.”

  6

  “You will stand aside. Now.”

  Grand Inquisitor Stanishur, resplendent in his black robes, loomed squarely in the doorway that led out of the medical facility. To either side stood his two acolytes, Brother Chopra and Sister Delain, hoods up over their heads and hands crossed at their waists. Behind them waited General Nakamura and Colonel Tamerlane, noticeably ill-at-ease to be in a situation where they had absolutely no control over what was happening, and had to depend on someone else to determine their fate. Facing them on the other side of the threshold was a veritable battalion of Ecclesiarchy soldier-priests in stainless white uniforms and body armor.

  “With apologies, Inquisitor,” the white-clad man in the front of the crowd said, “I cannot allow those men to leave.” He wasn’t holding a weapon—none of them were, yet—but from his stance and the tone of his voice it was very apparent that violence was well within the realm of possibility. He was tall, though not quite as tall as Tamerlane and not nearly as tall as Stanishur, and in his mid-twenties, with very short, brown hair and pale skin. The eight-pointed golden star on his lapel, one of the primary insignia of the Church, was echoed by a tattoo onto his left cheek. His blue eyes blazed as he glared at the Inquisitor.

  “Your name?” Stanishur asked him.

  “Father Reichenbach, disciple of Malachek,” the young man replied instantly and formally.

  “Reichenbach,” the Inquisitor repeated, nodding. He smiled at the man. “Well. I had not been informed that the Emperor had chosen yet another new Ecclesiarch.”

  The man was taken aback. “I—excuse me?”

  “Or that he had selected you for that role.”

  Now the man was utterly flummoxed. “I—Inquisitor, I’m afraid I don’t understand what you are saying. Why would you think that I—”

  Stanishur spread his hands. “Well, my dear fellow—as you are attempting to tell me what to do, I can only assume you are the new Ecclesiarch.” His mouth parted into a chilling smile. “Because no one of lesser rank would dare do such a thing.”

  The man swallowed with some difficulty.

  “Or—am I mistaken, somehow?”

  The man started to speak, but Stanishur interrupted him. “As a disciple of Malachek, I would further assume you possessed the common sense—let alone the wisdom of that very god—not to bar my way.”

  The man, Reichenbach, faltered, momentarily wrong-footed. He moved backwards a half step.

  That was all Stanishur needed. He swept through the doorway, brushing past Reichenbach, closing the space between himself and the rest of the arrayed troops in an instant. The others hurried after him.

  “No—wait,” Reichenbach cried, recovering his wits and scrambling to catch up. “Don’t let them pass,” he shouted to the troops.

  The nearest Ecclesiarch soldier-priest stepped out of formation and grasped the Inquisitor by the upper arm.

  Quickly—so quickly the eye could barely follow it—the acolyte on that side, Brother Chopra, struck the man with a series of martial arts blows that left him a crumpled mass on the floor.

  Wide-eyed, Tamerlane caught Nakamura’s attention and gave him a look that carried a clear message: Impressive!

  Nakamura’s expression in return was one Tamerlane had seen before, and he instantly understood it: Now what?

  He had no answer, at least for the moment. These people in white were Imperial troops, the same as Nakamura and himself; they simply served the Church instead of the First Legion. He had no desire to fight them—to hurt them. Better to talk their way out.

  In short, this was Stanishur’s play, at least for now.

  The Grand Inquisitor was helping the soldier up that Chopra had beaten down. “I apologize for my aide’s…over-enthusiastic reaction,” he told the man with a tight smile. “But, you see, he has been trained from childhood to protect me. No one is permitted to lay hands upon an Inquisitor—and certainly not upon the Grand Inquisitor.”

  The leader moved back into Stanishur’s path. He now held a blast pistol in his right hand. “That’s enough,” he said, still shaken but now embarrassed and angry.

  “Oh, my dear Reichenbach,” the Inquisitor said, tsk-tsking. “The only thing worse than laying a hand on my person is brandishing a firearm in my presence.”

  Brother Chopra started forward again, but this time Stanishur held up a hand, restraining him.

  “Wait. Before events escalate beyond our abilities to control them,” the dour Inquisitor said directly to Reichenbach, “I suggest you simply let me and my party pass. We intend to return to our ship and depart this system immediately.”

  “You and your servants are free to go, of course, Inquisitor,” the Ecclesiarch soldier stated with a slight bow. “But, as I said before, I cannot permit you to take these two men with you.”

  Stanishur’s face creased into a look of utter incomprehension. “Again, father, you seem to labor under the extremely false impression that you can issue orders and directives to me.” He leaned down over the man, eclipsing him in shadow. “I have urgent business with the Emperor himself. And I am indeed taking these two men with me.”

  Reichenbach glared back at him, fists involuntarily bunching.

  “If you have a problem with that, father,” Stanishur went on, “you have a problem with me. And with the Holy Inquisition itself.” He regarded the man with seemingly genuine curiosity. “Is that the case?”

  The violence that erupted mere seconds later seemed to indicate that the answer lay in the affirmative.

  Reichenbach raised one hand and dropped it sharply, signaling his orders. The white-clad soldier-priests immediately responded, surging to the attack. Pistols came out of their holsters, and the color and intensity of the energy discharge indicated they were set to “stun”—but to the more powerful, vicious, debilitating “stun” setting that generally left targets hospitalized at least briefly.

  The Inquisitors gave them no opportunity to target them. The two acolytes became twin swirls of dark, blurred motion, slicing through the white-suited soldier-priests like small tornadoes, their hands deadly weapons. Stanishur, meanwhile, drew matching, antique-looking pistols from his robes and opened up on the crowd in white, blasting away rapid-fire.

  Behind them, Nakamura and Tamerlane looked on in surprise for a split-second, once again taken aback by the resourcefulness—and the resources—of the Inquisitor. Then they joined in, punching and kicking their way into the crowd.

  For nearly two full minutes the battle raged, with several of the Ecclesiarc
hy troopers falling but none of the opposing five injured. Such a situation could not last forever, though—particularly within the narrow confines of the spacecraft corridor. Sister Delain was the first on that side to be struck by an energy pulse, and she fell at Stanishur’s feet, half-paralyzed. As the remaining four were momentarily distracted by her plight, a soldier in white managed to get a clear shot at General Nakamura and clipped him in the arm. He spun about, shocked, his arm growing numb.

  Seeing this, understanding how the battle inevitably was going, given the numbers and the constricted nature of the arena where they fought, the Inquisitor held up a hand. “Cease your fire,” he called out, his voice loud and commanding. “Everyone.”

  Tamerlane wasn’t sure what the old man had in mind. Surrender? Some clever stratagem he’d inexplicably waited this long to enact? And indeed he would never find out for sure. For at that moment, General Nakamura stepped forward, pushing past the Inquisitor, his functioning hand—the one that hadn’t been stunned—outstretched and raised before him.

  “You know what the Colonel and I are capable of,” he called to the Ecclesiarchy soldiers. “You’ve all seen what happened on the planet’s surface by now, I’m sure.” He raised the hand higher and flames danced all along his fingers and up his wrist. “Move aside—clear the corridors and allow us to pass—or I will burn you all where you stand.”

  For a moment, no one reacted at all—though individuals on both sides of the confrontation frowned and looked to others for some kind of guidance.

  Tamerlane moved up alongside the general and raised both of his powerful arms up over his head, where all could see. Flames flickered over his limbs as well.

  “This man is General Nakamura, the supreme Imperial military commander,” Tamerlane barked, his eyes flickering from one white-clad soldier-priest to the next.

  “And he carries with him the holy fires of the Above,” Stanishur added in reverent tones. “He has been touched by Those Who Remain, and now embarks upon a holy mission in their name!”

  The soldier-priests exchanged nervous looks, growing uncertain.

  “He means to depart this ship,” Tamerlane continued. “You will not hinder him. Am I understood?”

  Slowly, very reluctantly, the Ecclesiarchy troops pulled back, clearing an open path down the corridor.

  “What are you doing?” Reichenbach squawked. “We have our orders! They are to remain in our custody until further notice!”

  Again the white-clad soldier-priests hesitated, torn in two directions, yet for another instant the avenue of escape remained open.

  The three Inquisitors and the two Legion I officers wasted no time moving quickly along it. Stanishur led them, calling back to the others, “My ship is docked this way. Come along!”

  Just like that, they were past the troops and jogging along an empty corridor toward the docking area.

  “We will shoot you out of the sky if you attempt to disengage your vessel,” Father Reichenbach shouted at them, as defiant as ever.

  “No, you will not,” Stanishur replied.

  “You are violating the direct orders of the Ecclesiarch,” Reichenbach retorted, hurrying along behind them. “I will have every right to do so!”

  “I’m not arguing that you won’t try,” Stanishur countered. “I’m simply pointing out that you will not—that you cannot—succeed.” He paused before rounding the last corner that led to the docking port for his ship. “My acolytes were not idle while I spoke with your prisoners here,” he went on. “Particularly Sister Delain, who enjoys a close working relationship with starship computer systems—especially those using the coding language of Ecclesiarchy machines.”

  Reichenbach’s eyes widened. He hurried along after them. “What—what do you mean by that?” he demanded.

  Sister Delain worked her magic on the airlock controls and Brother Chopra tugged the hatch open. As the others quickly filed through and onto the ship that lay beyond, Stanishur looked back at the chief soldier-priest one last time. He chuckled.

  “I mean that, were I you, I would be extremely careful about believing anything my ship’s computer systems told me for the next, oh, thirty hours or so. And especially careful about firing any weapons—no matter what direction you might believe them to be pointed in.”

  Cursing, infuriated, Reichenbach whirled to face his own people and began screaming orders, including the command to inform the Ecclesiarchy of what was happening here and where the prisoners were headed. He’d scarcely begun when reports came at him from every direction of the local network. “What do you mean, the long-range Aether connection is down?” he asked, incredulous. “And the hyperdrive, as well? How can that be?”

  The Inquisitor clambered aboard his small vessel and the hatch clanged shut behind him. He nodded to his acolytes and they hurried to the forward area of the ship, climbing into the pilot’s and navigator’s seats. They manipulated a few controls and the ship broke loose and streaked rapidly away from the Ecclesiarchy cruiser.

  Nakamura and Tamerlane settled into the surprisingly comfortable seats in the passenger compartment; the upholstery was black with gray trim and silver metal fixtures. In reply to their question, Stanishur grinned his skeleton smile. “Never fear, gentlemen,” he said. “Sister Delain assures me that, due to the virus she introduced into their computer systems, Father Reichenbach and his ship and crew will remain trapped here, unable to talk to anyone or go anywhere, for at least the next twenty-four hours. That should be more than sufficient to see us safely to Ascanius, without any sort of alarm being raised.” He paused as the young woman in black leaned in, whispering something further to him. Then he laughed. “She adds that, should Reichenbach or his friends prove so foolish as to actually attempt to fire on us…”

  At that moment, a bright flash filled the rear viewscreen. A second later, a shockwave briefly rocked their ship.

  Stanishur shook his head mournfully. “I told them. I warned them not to trust their instruments—not to fire.” Then he looked up at the two First Legion men. “Allow me to revise my previous statement, gentlemen,” he said. “We are now safe from the ship we just departed… for an indefinite period of time.”

  Tamerlane gazed up at the image on the screen of the rapidly expanding fireball that seconds earlier had been the Ecclesiarchy cruiser. He didn’t find it as humorous as the Grand Inquisitor seemed to—that much was certain. But he did feel a very definite sense of relief, mixed with a sickening depression. To have spent his entire adult life—and a fair amount of his childhood—serving with the Imperial military, the very thought of any of the Imperial institutions being arrayed against him, and actively trying to capture or kill him, left him almost physically ill.

  “We will rendezvous with the Inquisition mothership in precisely twenty-seven minutes,” Stanishur reported a few seconds later. “From there, it’s straight on to Ascanius—and the Emperor.”

  7

  Major Arani disembarked from the transport Endymia alongside the rest of her company, but new orders arrived via the Aether the moment her booted foot touched the surface of Ascanius.

  She strode out onto the broad, flat, concrete plain and gazed out at the sea of spacecraft parked almost nose-to-tail for as far as the eye could see. Waves of heat rippled and distorted the horizon as she turned, taking it all in. Yet the immense array of starships was only the second-most amazing sight to see on Ascanius—as she herself realized only a moment later. When she had rotated halfway around, she gasped and slowly moved her eyes upward, readjusting her mind to comprehend what she was seeing.

  The great Church of the Reliquae towered over her—over the ships, over the entire plain. Its dome, topped with a tall spike of a steeple and gleaming white in the sunlight, loomed a kilometer up into the blue, cloud-flecked sky. It was one of the two or three most visually-impressive structures in the entire Empire, and seeing it in photos or even in holo scarcely did it justice. It was immense and imposing and powerful.

  Sh
e came back to reality as the rumble of other descending spacecraft and the roar of atmospheric fighters washed over her, physically moving her with their backwash like waves in the ocean. One in particular was nearly blotting out the sun for the moment, as it dropped toward a reserved space very close to the front of the church complex.

  “Wow,” exclaimed one of the troopers coming down the ramp behind her as he stared up at the dome. “Never saw it in person before.”

  The sound of another person’s voice served to bring Arani back to reality. Ignoring the man behind her, she replayed the orders that had arrived via her link and nodded to herself, not surprised in the slightest. She was being dispatched to sniper cover duty in the upper levels of the church complex—a job that meant she would be all alone. A perfect place for some accident to befall her.

  She hurried across the concrete plain to the nearest hover-tram, climbing aboard with others from her unit to be ferried across the kilometers of landing field to the complex itself. A few minutes later she was back on her feet and passing through the broad double-door entrance on the east side of the church; security forces obviously were not making use of the ceremonial main entrance, an arched doorway that looked to have been constructed for the use of giants.

  Into the grand old edifice she went, moving alone, making her way up flights of stairs and along narrow corridors. The Aether presented her with a map of the complex in her virtual vision, her assigned position highlighted clearly.

  Eventually she emerged onto the balcony that was to be her domain for this mission. It was small—only four elegant chairs occupied most of it— and as she moved out onto it and peered over the railing, she saw that she had climbed higher than she’d realized. Her head swam and she actually had to grip the railing to keep from losing her balance; she was perched something like a quarter of a kilometer above the marble floor of the gargantuan main hall.

  She studied the space beneath her carefully, comparing it to images she’d called up via her link. The altar and other religious artifacts normally present in the center of the main hall had been moved aside, and now a long, broad table of rich, dark wood and inlaid stone filled the center space. Thirteen very fancy chairs sat behind the table, the center one tallest and inlaid with gold and jewels.