The Shattering: Omnibus

by Van Allen Plexico

  And then, as he always did, Rameses started to forget his concerns. They simply receded, faded, slipped out of his mind, leaving him slightly muddled but overwhelmingly pleased. Pleased, and anxious to get on with whatever Zahir would have to do in order to make the transformation happen. And he knew it would happen—that Zahir could make it happen, could transform him into a god, because...why?

  He could feel the man’s dark, haunting eyes upon him again. He glanced to his right and saw that he was correct. He offered a half-smile and a nod, suddenly somehow anxious to earn the vizier’s approval—which was absurd of course, except... What had he been thinking about, again?

  For Zahir’s part, he watched this internal conversation play itself out on the governor’s face. It was all so obvious; the man could hide nothing from him. His mouth tightened in a somewhat camouflaged smile. Everything was transpiring as his master—his true master—had planned.

  After another minute or so, one of Zahir’s servants crept quietly onto the balcony and whispered into the vizier’s ear. Zahir nodded, then turned to Rameses and gestured toward the double-doors that led back into the palace. “Preparations are complete, my lord governor,” he said with a broad smile. “At last we can begin.”

  Rameses found himself standing beside the golden basin that now occupied the center of the massive throne room. Flames—flames of many different colors—danced in the bowl, though there was nothing burning at the bottom. The effect was almost hypnotic, and Rameses lost all track of time as he watched the flickering tongues of fire.

  “We begin the treatments that will make you what you long to be,” the robed and hooded vizier intoned. He gestured with one clawlike hand and the flames burned hotter, faster. Moments later they had transformed into a column of pure light and energy, erupting up out of the bowl and flowing, geyser-like, high up into the air before curving back down and falling back into the basin.

  “The Fountain,” Rameses muttered, eyes wide. “I have seen pictures—paintings—representations from those who traveled there in ancient times. It is the Fountain of the Golden City!”

  Zahir smiled. “A close approximation,” he said. “Nowhere near as powerful, but effective enough in its own way. Sufficient for our purposes here.”

  Tiny suns and stars and constellations erupted into the air far above the gleaming marble floor of the throne room.

  Zahir stepped closer to the towering torrent of primal energy. He raised both his arms out wide and leaned back his head. As if sensing him, tendrils of forking electricity reached out and raked over his body, sparking in places as they touched him.

  “Yes,” he muttered. Then, louder, “Yes!”

  Rameses looked on in fascination and in awe and in a slowly growing fear. “Am I—am I to walk into that?”

  “Walk into it? No,” the man in red robes answered a few seconds later, as if so distracted by the energies raking over him that he at first hadn’t realized anyone else was there. “To do so would annihilate you instantly. No—we must take this slowly. Slowly and carefully.” He motioned to his bald, muscular servants, then told the governor, “Remove your robes, if you would, sire.”

  Frowning, Rameses reluctantly stripped off his red and blue robes and laid them on his throne, leaving him wearing only tight crimson shorts and a thin tunic. He walked forward, leaning over to see into the basin, fascinated by the play of cosmic energies there.

  At some unspoken command two of Zahir’s servants moved forward again. Before Rameses could react, he found they had bound his wrists with two leather-covered cuffs. Cables and wires trailed from them down to a small box that stood next to the basin.

  “Though you may become one, you are no god now, Rameses,” Zahir said as the servants attached similar wired cuffs to the governor’s ankles. “Your mortal body is weak, frail. It must be infused with the Power before you will be able to walk among the stars.”

  The vizier gestured and one of the servants touched a series of controls on the box next to the basin. In response, tongues of fire and lightning lashed out from the geyser of energy, flowing along the cables and flaring brightly as they reached the cuffs. The governor cried out in shock and pain, but quieted down quickly as, startled, he began to feel the Power flowing over him and into him.

  “Now you understand, yes?” Zahir asked.

  “Yes,” Rameses replied. “I can feel it.”

  “And what does it feel like?”

  Rameses grinned as the energies washed over him, infusing his very cells. “Destiny,” he said. “It feels like destiny.”

  Zahir nodded. “Yes.” Then he turned to his servants. “Bring out the girl,” he said.

  Rameses started at this. “The girl? What do you mean, the—”

  The governor’s voice trailed off as another of Zahir’s servants carried a tiny body out and laid it on a low, flat platform. At first Rameses feared she was dead, but then he detected her shallow breathing. She was sleeping—or had been drugged.

  “The princess?” he exclaimed. “What do you want with her?”

  The strange vizier favored him with a leering grin. “Surely you did not think you were the only one,” he said, “with a destiny.”

  10

  “You know, I trust, about the comets,” Grand Inquisitor Stanishur said as he lowered himself into a broad, cushioned chair in Tamerlane’s private quarters. Behind him, his two ever-present acolytes waited motionless in their crisp, black smartcloth uniforms and hoods, standing at attention as if they were soldiers. For all intents and purposes, of course, they were.

  The trio had arrived via private Inquisition shuttle only a short time earlier. Their flight had been unlisted and unexpected. But of course once their ship had rendezvoused with the Ascanius and announced exactly who was on board, Tamerlane had quickly granted them permission to dock. The Grand Inquisitor had wasted no time in making his way to the general’s quarters, saying nothing at all en route. The whole business somewhat unnerved Tamerlane. Anything that bothered the crusty old holy man enough to make him sneak around like a thief in the night was likely something that would be bothering everyone else in the galaxy soon enough.

  “I’m sorry?” Tamerlane asked, certain he’d misheard the other man. “The…what?”

  “The comets,” Stanishur repeated, as though it were obvious.

  The general frowned. He seated himself in a chair opposite the Inquisitor and leaned forward. “Comets. You’re saying you came here because you wish to discuss... comets.”

  “Indeed I do,” the ancient figure responded, his voice reedy and thin but strong.

  Tamerlane regarded him, elderly and gaunt in the black robes and vests and belts that marked his high office. Reflexively he thought back over the last year of their unlikely association with one another. They had emerged as unexpected allies due to their mutual support for Nakamura as Taiko—military ruler of the Empire—after the death of the last Emperor, and because of their shared experiences in the Above and the Below, as part of an expedition gone horribly wrong.

  “I assumed you asked for this meeting to talk about the state of the wars against us,” Tamerlane said, “or perhaps to inquire as to the Taiko’s health.”

  “I am well aware of the state of the wars, General. I could scarcely be Grand Inquisitor of the Empire and not know such things. For instance, I know that we are losing on all fronts, and that our time as the dominant human political entity in the galaxy is nearing an end—unless something dramatic alters our fortunes very soon.”

  Tamerlane couldn’t contradict this. He simply returned Stanishur’s baleful stare, waiting.

  “And as for Nakamura’s health—physical and mental, both of which appear to me to be in deterioration—I am most assuredly concerned. But neither of those things carries the urgency of—”

  “Of comets,” Tamerlane finished for him, frowning deeper. “Really.” He leaned back in his seat. “I must admit, you have piqued my interest, Inquisitor. By all means, continue.”
>
  Stanishur allowed a hint of a smile to touch his bloodless lips. “You don’t believe me yet,” he said. “But you will.” Without taking his eyes off the general, he motioned with one bony hand to his acolytes. In response, the woman stepped forward and offered him a small crystal. Stanishur took it and the woman—Sister Delain, Tamerlane remembered now—moved back into her former spot.

  “I haven’t trusted this to the Aether net,” the older man said, handing the crystal in turn to the general. “A hard copy only.” He gestured toward the holo console. “Plug it in. See for yourself.”

  “I can’t wait.” Tamerlane inserted the crystal in a small slot on the brushed aluminum console before him and activated the holo field. Instantly the room filled with a foggy representation of the galaxy. Red streaks—like claw marks from some insanely vast creature—appeared along one edge of the nearest spiral arm.

  Tamerlane’s brow wrinkled. He sat forward, then stood, walking slowly through and around the holographic projection, attempting to comprehend what he was seeing.

  “Well?” Stanishur asked, impatient.

  “They’re homing in on Imperial star systems—on our planets.”

  “Yet they are merely comets,” Stanishur said again, smiling his rictus smile that contained no mirth whatsoever.

  Tamerlane looked from the red streaks to the Inquisitor. The older man pulled himself slowly to his feet and moved alongside the general. Together they peered at the strange display for several quiet seconds.

  “Alright,” Tamerlane said at last. “Tell me: What are they? Because we both know they must not be—they can’t be—mere comets.”

  “No, indeed,” Stanishur replied, shaking his head. “They are something very different.”

  “What?”

  “They are,” the old Inquisitor replied, his eyes gleaming in the darkened room, “the very apocalypse itself, made manifest.”

  Tamerlane took this in, then closed his eyes, weariness creeping over him as he thought of all the obstacles he and his government already faced, before being confronted with…this. “Of course they are,” he sighed.

  Tamerlane led the way through private corridors of the ship, heading directly for Nakamura’s quarters. The three Inquisitors followed closely behind him.

  Stanishur had insisted on seeing the Taiko, despite Tamerlane’s warning that Nakamura was in seclusion and likely wouldn’t receive him or anyone else.

  “I have my suspicions about that,” the old man had replied, but wouldn’t say more.

  They reached the door and Tamerlane accessed the Aether, signaling his presence—the high-tech equivalent of ringing the doorbell. Several seconds passed, and then the door slid partway open. The open space was filled by the slender form of a woman in dark red robes and hood. The robes were drawn tightly about her.

  Tamerlane stared at her, blinking, surprised.

  “The Taiko is unavailable,” the woman said, her voice thick and strange to the general’s ears.

  “You,” he said, his voice almost a whisper. “Teluria.”

  “Our new Ecclesiarch,” Stanishur added, his tone clearly disapproving. “Is this the first time you two have met?”

  “Yes, it—” Tamerlane hesitated, then, “No. No—you were here before. With the Taiko.” He looked off to one side, frowning. “But—why did I forget?”

  “I cannot help you with such problems, General,” the woman said. Her dark eyes flicked from Tamerlane to the three black-robed Inquisitors who stood behind him. Then she reached up and drew back her hood to reveal long, straight, dark hair and pale features. “Well. Grand Inquisitor. A pleasure to see you.” She bowed her head ever so slightly. “May I ask—what brings you here?”

  “I might ask you a similar question,” the older man said. He stared at her blatantly, his eyes moving over her form and all around her, as if searching for something.

  “I am here at the request of the Taiko,” she said, “to offer him guidance and advice.” She looked from Stanishur to Tamerlane and back. “I do not believe, however, that he requested the presence of either of you.”

  “We serve the Empire,” Stanishur shot back at her. “All of us here do. We do what must be done to protect and preserve it—particularly in difficult times such as these.”

  Teluria’s expression soured. No one spoke for several seconds. Then, “The Taiko is indisposed at the moment. Perhaps if you came back later...?”

  Tamerlane gave Stanishur a knowing look.

  The Grand Inquisitor said nothing for a second. Then he inclined his head slightly and said, “Of course. Thank you, Ecclesiarch.” He paused before looking back at her. “And when we return, the Taiko will be available to see us.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “It was not a question,” the pale man told her. “He will be. One way or another.”

  Teluria drew back, her robes fluttering around her. “Was that a veiled threat, Inquisitor?”

  “My words are no more veiled than yours,” the older man said, smiling thinly. “I hide nothing.”

  The dark-haired woman nodded at this, then raised her arms and stepped forward a step. Her blood-red robes fell to the deck, leaving her utterly naked before them.

  “Neither do I, Inquisitor.”

  Tamerlane blinked twice, then quickly looked away, clearing his throat.

  Stanishur stared at her for a long moment, then cackled a laugh. “Ah, my dear—the days when such a display had any effect on me are long behind us, I fear. More’s the pity.” He laughed again, then turned on his heel and began to stride back down the corridor. “The Taiko. When we return,” he called back over his shoulder. The two acolytes hurried to catch up.

  Tamerlane glanced back one last time at the Ecclesiarch, seeing her kneeling to retrieve her robes. Then he set off after the others.

  The door hissed closed behind him.

  “She thought to deceive us,” Stanishur said, sinking again into the big chair in Tamerlane’s office. “She thought showing us herself completely uncovered would convince us she had nothing up her sleeves—or at least distract us from our purposes.”

  “I have to admit, she’s a very impressive figure of a woman,” Tamerlane muttered.

  “No, she isn’t,” Stanishur said, shaking his gray-haired head. “That’s just part of the spell.”

  “Spell?”

  “She was doing several things there, all at once. Part of it was a spell to distract us; to confuse us. Making us think she is some sort of raving beauty is just one more weapon in her arsenal. One of many, I believe.” He shrugged. “If you’d seen her through my eyes, you wouldn’t have been so impressed.” He chuckled.

  Tamerlane shook his head in wonder. “I suppose I’ll have to take your word for that,” he said.

  Stanishur waved it away with one bony hand. “She clearly has her hooks in the Taiko,” the old man said. “That much is obvious. But we cannot address that now. Time is of the essence.”

  “The comets,” Tamerlane guessed.

  “Yes. The comets. They must be investigated immediately. We have to be absolutely certain of what they represent.”

  Tamerlane nodded. “I will put my best man on it.”

  Stanishur smiled at that. “Ah. Your best man. I believe I know who that would be.” He chuckled. “Big. Blond. Dangerous.”

  “The very one.”

  “Excellent.” Stanishur stood, and Tamerlane got to his feet a second later. “Meanwhile I fear I must return to Holy Terra, General,” he said. “Urgent business awaits me.” He motioned to one of his two acolytes—the woman, Delain. She stepped forward. “But I will leave you my best woman, to assist you, in my absence.”

  Tamerlane was puzzled. “You aren’t going to wait a bit and go to see the Taiko again?”

  Stanishur snorted at this. “I was not serious. I simply wanted to gauge Teluria’s reaction to my threat. In any case, I suspect there is little to gain from a meeting with Nakamura now. I believe he has become entirely her creatur
e. Her puppet. He would say whatever she wished for him to say.”

  Tamerlane appeared stricken at that remark. He started to object.

  Stanishur raised a hand. “Save your words, General,” he said, not unkindly. “Believe me, we will deal with that situation soon enough. But provoking a confrontation now will likely only result in drawing the real enemy out, and too soon.”

  “The real enemy? What are you talking about?”

  Stanishur leaned in closer, his voice now barely a whisper. “Forces are gathering against us, Ezekial,” he hissed. “Forces greater than just the armies and navies of our neighboring human and alien empires.” His eyes nearly burned into Tamerlane’s own with his fervor. “You know the sort of forces to which I refer. You have seen them—fought them—yourself.”

  Tamerlane moved back a step. “You’re saying what we face is more than just a war,” he whispered.

  “Oh, it is a war, General,” the Inquisitor replied, his eyes sparkling. “Just not the sort of war you imagined it to be. It is a war of the gods.”

  Moments later, the Grand Inquisitor had shuffled out of Tamerlane’s quarters, his male acolyte in tow. The door closed behind them and the general turned and sank into his chair, his mind racing in a thousand different directions. It actually took him several seconds to realize that he was no longer alone.

  “Ah,” he exclaimed, looking up at the woman in black, where she stood quietly in the same spot she’d occupied during the conversation with Stanishur. “Sister Delain. I’m sorry—I almost forgot you were there.”

  No response.

  Quickly he accessed the Aether and ordered an aide to prepare guest quarters for a new arrival. Then he looked back at the female Inquisitor. “Your room will be ready shortly,” he told her, wondering why he was suddenly nervous.