The Shattering: Omnibus

by Van Allen Plexico

  Iapetus hesitated, pursing his cruel lips. “No,” he said at length. “No—assuming he doesn’t already know. It is only a matter of time—hours, or even minutes—before our esteemed leader comes to us to beg for assistance. Given the possible threat this new development represents, I believe our position is even stronger than before. We dare not abandon the core worlds now. And I would prefer to have one more ace up my sleeve when the request to do so arrives.”

  Barbarossa frowned at this but nodded once.

  “In the meantime, ladies and gentlemen,” Iapetus continued, addressing all the officers now, “ready all our forces. Highest alert.” He clasped his hands behind his back and turned to where, moments earlier, ominous red streaks had filled the space along the edges of the galaxy. “We may not be going out to do battle on the frontier, but it looks to me as if the battle is very rapidly coming to us.”

  2

  General Marcus Ezekial Tamerlane stood laughing within a swirling cyclone of flame. His arms were raised like a conductor before a symphony and, in a way, that’s exactly what he was—a conductor, creating and controlling and shaping a symphony of blazing fire that roared all around him like some elemental flame spirit, ready to destroy anything in its path but somehow leaving Tamerlane himself untouched and unharmed at its center.

  The training room around him had been evacuated for this occasion, no one else safe from the power he intended to unleash. He wanted to test himself; to push his new powers to their limits and discover exactly what they could do—what he could do. Now the walls were hazy, rippling in his distorted vision, and he could hear alarms sounding as he pushed the levels of heat beyond even the precautions his engineers had taken in preparation. He knew he needed to back off—back the power level down—to keep from endangering the ship itself, and everyone else aboard. He knew that, and he wanted to do it—or at least part of him did. But another part of him exulted in the full exercise of his abilities. He could feel the fabled Power flowing into and through him, manifesting itself as sheets and waves of fire, surging from just beyond his fingertips; from another level of reality into this one.

  Through the thick transparent window set into the far wall he could see the technicians who had been assigned to monitor the test waving frantically at him, and he understood immediately what they meant, what they wanted. He was using too much power, creating too much fire, too much heat. He needed to stop. He simply didn’t want to.

  Water was spraying from nozzles set into the ceiling now, but it was evaporating to nothingness before it could come anywhere near the fire that swirled in a rapidly spinning vortex around him. He was the eye of a mini-hurricane; a hurricane of fire.

  Warning lights were flashing and the people behind the window were jumping up and down in their frantic fear. Slowly he forced his mind to pull itself back to reality, away from the mad reveling in serving as the conduit for so much raw power. He lowered his arms and, as if slowly turning a knob to shut down a mighty flow of water, he watched as the flames dissolved and dissipated to nothingness, as if they had never been there at all.

  No, not entirely so, he realized immediately. The metal walls of the room were scorched and some spots appeared half-melted. The ultra-dense transparent window separating him from the techs in the adjoining room looked to have become warped. His own skin was hot to the touch, and he felt flushed.

  Just then he felt the sting of water on his face and hands. He looked up and saw that the nozzles were still gushing water down into the room, and now it was actually being allowed to reach the floor without being evaporated first. It was reaching him, as well, and just as much steam was rising now from his own body as from the rest of the room.

  Lights on the walls slowly switched back from red to yellow. The door—a massive, thick, reinforced affair—slid open and two figures in silvery suits and helmets entered. They approached him, both attempting to meet his eyes, as if to ascertain whether he had lost his mind. He smiled at them and gave them a thumbs-up, followed by, “Sorry, folks. Sort of lost control for a minute there. I hope no harm was done.”

  They moved quickly past him. It struck Tamerlane that they looked at him as if he were somehow…inhuman.

  Perhaps the Taiko was right to assert our godhood after all—even despite saying previously that he wouldn’t, Tamerlane thought as he exited the chamber. Clearly we have become something more than mortal now. But—just how different are we? He frowned. Are we still human at all?

  Back to a normal temperature now but soaking wet, Tamerlane strode quickly down the corridor to his quarters. As he walked, he reflected on how quickly Nakamura had reversed his position on their alleged “godhood” and, publicly, at least, come to embrace it.

  Early on, the Taiko had maintained that these flame-based powers he and Tamerlane had gained during their journey into the alternate dimensions of the Above and the Below were simply that—powers; abilities. Like suddenly being able to juggle or walk on one’s hands. General Iapetus, who famously took great exception to anyone claiming to be a god, was mollified by Nakamura’s words to that effect. Thus the transition from the royal Rahkmanov regime to Nakamura’s new military government was made smoother. Within weeks, however, rumors had begun to spread across the worlds of Man that Nakamura and Tamerlane had, like the late Emperor and his guardsmen, been possessed by demons, and that their flame powers came as a result of that unholy investiture.

  Soon riots and rebellions were erupting on dozens of worlds across the Empire. They were focused in part on these rumors about possession, but were fed as well by anger and grief over the fate of the Emperor and fear of the many enemies now laying siege to the Empire’s borders and worlds. In response, Nakamura had suddenly reversed his stance. In an official statement released to the media and the churches of the Empire, he had claimed for himself and for Tamerlane divine heritage, and presented their new abilities as a natural manifestation of their inherited godhood. Shocked at first, Tamerlane had never liked this idea but he had, thus far, gone along with it. So had the Inquisition, of late Nakamura’s strongest ally in the Imperial bureaucracy. The Empire’s official church, the Holy Ecclesiarchy, had accepted Nakamura’s and Tamerlane’s proclamations of divinity as well; surprising, perhaps, but not as shocking when one considered that most of their leadership had been replaced in the days following the transition of power to the Taiko, and that the new crowd in charge there was trying desperately to find favor with the new leaders of the Empire.

  It all gave Tamerlane a headache to think about. Barely a year ago, he had been a colonel working on the fringes of the galaxy. Now he commanded I Legion and held nominal authority over the other two—and the Empire’s Church called him a god. It made his head spin to consider it all—so he tried very hard not to think about it, whenever he could avoid it.

  As it happened, there was plenty else for him to be concerned about at the moment.

  Entering his luxurious cabin—a cabin befitting the military figure second in rank only to the Taiko himself—he stripped off his sopping and scorched clothes and toweled off, then donned a fresh dress uniform—the deep red and gold of I Legion, the Lords of Fire.

  A chime sounded within his Aether connection and he noted that it was almost time for his meeting with Nakamura. At last. It feels as if he’s been ducking me for days. Frustration welled up inside him. But this time I’ll make him confront the reality of our situation. The dire reality we face.

  He paused to glance in the mirror and run a brush through his still-damp black hair. I don’t look much like a god, he observed. But then—what does a god look like? I’ve never met one before. “Those Who Remain,” we call them. There aren’t many left, and even fewer that ever turn up in public.

  Out the door and back down the corridor he went, saluting the ship’s officers he passed along the way. It seemed to him that some of them gazed back at him with awe, others with simple respect, and a few with overt fear. Is this what it feels like to be seen as a god? he wo
ndered. I’m not sure I like it. Not at all.

  As he neared the bridge of the new Imperial flagship, Ascanius, he sent ahead via the Aether link to make certain Nakamura was there and was ready for the meeting. To his immense consternation, the reply came back from the Taiko’s executive secretary that he was unavailable and that they would have to reschedule.

  Tamerlane paused as this news arrived, standing stock still just outside the doors of the bridge. Then, slowly shaking his head, he inhaled deeply and moved forward. The doors slid open and he entered.

  Sure enough, Nakamura was nowhere to be seen.

  The bridge stretched some forty meters in every direction ahead of him, rounded across the front with massive windows that revealed the depths of space ahead of them. Techs and officers worked at recessed stations along either side. At the center of the room rose a broad, elevated platform partially surrounded by railing with various control panels situated around it—an area for the command crew to stand as they worked.

  As Tamerlane strode the length of the bridge, the ship’s captain, Harras DeQuoi, noticed him and saluted. “General—how can we be of service?”

  Tamerlane turned right and stopped before the door that led into the captain’s office. “He’s in there, isn’t he?”

  “I—I’m not certain who you are referring to, General Tamerlane.”

  “Please. You know precisely who I mean. Open the door.”

  The captain—an older man with gray, thinning hair and a dark complexion, appeared uncertain of what to do. “I—I—”

  “Let’s say you’ve done your part, Captain. You’ve tried to arrest me, you’ve sicced your officers on me—you’ve even tackled me yourself, but I slipped loose. So—no bad reflection on you. Now—let’s skip past all that and just open the door.”

  The captain dithered another few seconds, torn between two sets of conflicting orders and his own conscience. Fortunately for him, he was absolved of the need to make a decision, as at that moment the doors opened of their own accord.

  “Ezekial. Well. It would appear there’s no avoiding you today.”

  Tamerlane looked inside and beheld the Taiko—Hideo Nakamura— standing in the captain’s office. At first he wasn’t entirely sure it was Nakamura; the man had clearly gone days without shaving and perhaps without showering. His short hair was matted and his uniform stained and wrinkled.

  “Taiko? Are you not well?”

  Nakamura waved a dismissive hand. “I am fine,” he said, his voice hoarse and almost raw. “What do you want?”

  Tamerlane fought the urge to rush to the older man’s side and hold him up; he looked as if he might collapse at any moment.

  “The strategic situation has grown precarious,” Tamerlane replied, “and I wasn’t sure you were receiving all the reports.”

  Nakamura looked back at him through bloodshot eyes. “Precarious,” he repeated. “Meaning what?”

  “Meaning that our empire is besieged from every direction. The other human states—the Chung, the Riyahadi, even DACS now—rush in to take advantage of our weakness. And with the alien powers on the march as well—”

  “I am aware of the many enemies we face,” the Taiko replied, cutting him off. “Do you not realize I have dispatched all of our available armies to meet them in battle? To defend the Empire?”

  “Yes, of course,” Tamerlane said. “But even so, the numbers of the enemy and the number of separate conflicts have become so vast, I’m afraid we are about to be overrun along at least two or three of our fronts, and—”

  “And what?” the older man demanded, a bit of fire appearing in his eyes now.

  “And we must take action,” Tamerlane stammered.

  “Action. Yes.” The Taiko nodded. “And do you know of any other secret armies with troops and weapons available to us, that I am not aware of?”

  Tamerlane stared back at the older man for a long moment, his eyes narrowing as he sought to detect any hidden meanings. Then he shook his head. “No.”

  Nakamura nodded. “I thought not. So—what would you have me do, then? Our forces are perilously extended. Our enemies are at the doorstep. Our stewardship of this realm is failing as we watch.” He gazed back at Tamerlane, his face pale. “What would you have me do, Ezekial?”

  Tamerlane was for several seconds at an absolute loss as to how to respond. Hideo Nakamura was the closest thing he’d ever had to a father. The man had practically raised him—had moved him up through the ranks rapidly. Conflict between them wasn’t just distasteful to him; it felt utterly wrong. And yet the entire Empire—and possibly the fate of all Mankind—was at stake.

  Tamerlane inhaled deeply, exhaled, and responded: “I would have you act, Taiko. I would have you remind everyone, friend and foe alike, of why you first rose to become the supreme commander of all our forces. I would have you deploy and direct our forces in a careful, considered, and above all strategically smart manner—not just throw everything we have at our enemies in every direction at once, willy-nilly, as we do now.”

  Nakamura took this in and he reddened severely. “You believe I am mismanaging this war?”

  “With respect, sir—yes,” Tamerlane replied.

  The Taiko glared at him for a long moment, and flames actually popped into existence along his arms as he did so. Seeing them, he frowned and concentrated, causing them to vanish. The air seemed to go out of him after that. He slumped against the hull, bringing one hand up to his face. He had begun to sweat profusely.

  “What can I do, Ezekial?” he asked in a ragged voice. “Our Empire finds itself at the heart of a maelstrom. I fear we cannot win this time.”

  “The Hideo Nakamura I knew would never succumb to defeatism,” Tamerlane snapped back. “He would never give up before the battles have even been decided.”

  “Then what—?”

  “We must regroup,” Tamerlane said. He pressed on quickly. “We have to rally our forces, reassess our strategies, and redeploy our legions in the most effective manner possible.” He turned and gestured toward the forward windows of the bridge, and the sparkling arm of the galaxy arrayed beyond. “And we must call upon every legion to step up and do its part. Every legion.”

  When Tamerlane turned back to the Taiko, he became aware of another presence. A figure in dark red robes now stood at the older man’s side, apparently having followed him out of the captain’s office. A hood concealed its head and features in shadow.

  Nakamura was blinking, still mopping at his brow. He stood up straighter, his eyes seeming to focus intently on Tamerlane for the first time.

  “Ezekial?” he whispered. “What—?”

  Moving as smoothly as a cat, the new figure stepped close to the Taiko. As Tamerlane looked on, puzzled, slender hands with red nails reached up and drew the hood back to reveal a woman’s pale white face and long, dark hair.

  “Who—?” Tamerlane started to ask. Then he realized who she was. The recently-appointed new Ecclesiarch—head of the Holy Church of Those Who Remain.

  “Teluria?” he said, staring at her with a puzzled expression. “Why are you here?”

  The woman ignored his presence and leaned over to whisper in Nakamura’s ear. The Taiko nodded once, nodded again, and the woman moved away. In the time it took Tamerlane to blink his eyes, she was gone.

  “I appreciate your words, General,” Nakamura said a moment later, “and I will take your suggestions under advisement.”

  “What?”

  “That will be all,” Nakamura said. He turned and walked back into the darkened office.

  “Taiko?” Tamerlane called after him. “Hideo?”

  The door slid closed in Tamerlane’s face.

  Several seconds ticked by before he could move. Slowly at first, he turned away from the blank gray doors and faced the sprawling bridge. No one was looking his way. Very intentionally, no one was looking his way. The captain was standing behind one of the seats at the navigation station, quietly discussing something with a tech.
For a split second he glanced up at Tamerlane. Then he looked away again, seeming very busy with ship’s business.

  Tamerlane considered what had just happened. The Taiko had at least talked to him. For a few seconds, he’d even seemed to be listening—to hear what Tamerlane had to say. To take his concerns into consideration. But then something had happened. Something...

  Had there been someone else? Had someone...?

  No, that was ridiculous. Who else could there have been?

  Yet a little voice buried deep in Tamerlane’s subconscious continued to nag at him, trying to remind him of...something. Someone.

  Shaking his head, Tamerlane stalked across the bridge and around the lift to the strategium chamber that filled the space behind it. The tech on duty looked up at him and saluted. “Can I help you, General?” the young woman asked.

  Tamerlane nodded. “Indeed you can,” he told her. “I need an Aether link to Second and Third Legion command bases.”

  Wide-eyed, the young officer scrambled to obey.

  “I’m calling a meeting,” Tamerlane added, his hands clasped behind his back. “A meeting of the Hatamoto—the top leadership.”

  “Of course, General,” the tech replied. She manipulated the bank of controls before her and a holographic haze began to form throughout the circular room.

  “We will act,” Tamerlane added, his voice low and aimed only at himself, “even if the Taiko himself refuses to do so.”

  3

  The man to Arjan Dev’s right screamed, his right arm shorn off just above the elbow, even as the sentry to his left exploded.

  The volley of blasts came seemingly from nowhere. A moment earlier, the scene had been one of busy but calm preparation, as legionaries of the Golden Phalanx—better known to most as the Kings of Oblivion—dug trenches and set up mounted weapons and carried supplies and ammunition here and there. The sounds then had been benign: Servos whining softly from the gleaming white Deising-Arry Mark V plate armor some of the officers were privileged to wear, as it increased their muscle power and enabled them to do the work of a half-dozen or more normal men. The low murmuring of a thousand well-trained veteran soldiers discussing the myriad things men of war talked about—some meaningless chatter, some the exchange of vitally important information—in the hours before an expected battle. Orders being passed from trooper to trooper, bickering over slights real or imagined, and good-natured banter. The smells had been of the churned earth, the forest, engine exhaust, machine lubricants, and sweat.