The Shattering: Omnibus

by Van Allen Plexico

  The doors opened to reveal a procession of four men and women. Three of them were older and clad in the brown and tan livery of the Imperial bureaucracy; the fourth was younger, taller, more muscular, wearing the red and gold of I Legion.

  “So, Colonel Belisarius,” Rameses called from where he stood near the basin. “What errand of the pretender Nakamura has brought you to Ahknaton?”

  Belisarius and the others walked slowly into the throne room, their eyes locked on Rameses and the bizarre setting within which he stood. “Governor Rameses,” the colonel said, his voice filled with puzzlement, “may I ask what is going on here?”

  “You may not,” Rameses all but shouted. “You are a guest—for the moment—in my home. What I am doing is none of your concern.”

  Zahir stepped quickly and deftly between the two. “What message from the Taiko, Colonel—and why did he feel the need to send your august personage to deliver it?”

  “My message is not from the Taiko but from General Tamerlane,” Belisarius stated, his eyes flashing from Rameses to Zahir, “and it is for the Governor—not for you, whoever you are.”

  “I am Zahir, the governor’s vizier—chief minister and advisor.”

  “Oh? Well, a word of advice, Zahir. All the charm in the world can’t cover up treason.”

  Zahir scowled. “And my advice for you,” he snapped back at the colonel, his heretofore ingratiating persona dissolving instantly, “is to watch your step while you tread on worlds not your own.”

  Belisarius regarded the man in the red robes with open contempt, then stepped past him, moving closer to Rameses.

  “General Tamerlane has repeatedly requested that you make a portion of your Sand Kings army available to him and to the Taiko, for use in defending the Empire. You have as yet failed to respond to him.”

  “My unwillingness to take such a request seriously is all the answer he should expect to receive,” Rameses barked back.

  “They are Imperial forces,” Belisarius argued, “and as such, they are ultimately under the command of the Taiko.”

  “I beg to differ. They are loyal to this world, and to its ruler.”

  “Its ruler is the Taiko.”

  Rameses laughed loudly. “Not true, either de jure or de facto,” he stated.

  “You reject the authority of the Imperial government?” blurted one of the officials to Belisarius’s left.

  “There is no Imperial government at the moment,” Rameses scoffed. “Only a general whose reach exceeds his grasp.”

  Belisarius reddened. “Understand something, Governor, and be completely clear on it,” he said, his tone low and menacing now. “To call it a ‘request’ is politeness on the part of the general and myself. Make no mistake: you are required to hand your forces over for Imperial defense. And if requiring fails, the general will compel.”

  Rameses began to issue an angry retort, but Zahir moved between them again, cutting him off. “Perhaps we should take a short break before resuming this conversation,” the vizier suggested. “It would be tragic for the wrong impressions to be made in the heat of emotion.”

  The governor glared at Belisarius as he spoke. “I believe the only impressions being made here at the moment, Zahir, are very accurate and revealing ones. On both sides.”

  The vizier leaned in close to Rameses, speaking in a barely audible whisper. “As I stated before, sire, we are not entirely ready. We lack the resources to go against Nakamura at the moment. I must caution you to not seek to provoke—”

  Rameses practically spit his rejection back at Zahir. “Bah! The colonel here knows full well my views on all of this. I won’t waste either of our time by being disingenuous.” He smiled broadly at the still-angry Belisarius. “And now you may convey that message back to the usurper on the Imperial throne.”

  “No!” Zahir almost shouted, now moving around behind the colonel and the bureaucrats. “No—we do not wish to give the impression of treason or rebellion to the Taiko.”

  “The impression?” Belisarius shouted. “Not until you’re ‘ready,’ whatever that means? And I believe I know all too well what it means.”

  Zahir moved in closer to the colonel, readying another line of argument—and then he froze, not moving. His dark, kohl-lined eyes narrowed as they focused intently on the I Legion officer.

  Belisarius, distracted by this, turned away from the governor and studied Zahir. “What are you doing?” he asked, his anger blending with puzzlement.

  The man in the dark red robes ignored the question. After a few seconds, he moved in still closer to Belisarius and began to sniff.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” the colonel demanded. “Why—”

  Zahir’s eyes widened as he continued to sniff the other man. For the colonel’s part, sweat began to trail down his cheeks. Within a matter of only moments, he appeared feverish and pale. His eyes grew glassy and he coughed, coughed again.

  “Could it be?” the vizier asked rhetorically. “Could it be so easy?”

  “What?” Rameses demanded, disengaging himself from the cuffs and cables and stepping away from the basin. He wore only a loincloth of woven gold and clutched a gleaming golden dagger in his left hand. Curious as to what was happening, he strode toward Zahir. “What is it?”

  Zahir raised his own left hand, halting Rameses in his tracks before he could approach closer. Then he turned back to the colonel. “It is you, isn’t it?” he hissed softly. “Come straight into my lair.”

  “What’s that you’re saying?” Rameses demanded, wanting to approach more closely but unwilling for the moment to defy his vizier.

  “Nothing at all, sire,” Zahir stated quickly.

  The three other individuals who had entered the throne room along with Belisarius now spoke up. “Just what is the meaning of this?” asked the woman, the only female of the three.

  Zahir ignored her. “Why are you here?” he asked Belisarius, studying the man closely.

  “You know why I am here,” the colonel barked. “I’ve made that perfectly clear.”

  “No,” Zahir breathed, his voice low. “Why you? You specifically? I must know. Why did Tamerlane choose you to come here, and not some other officer?”

  Belisarius blinked at that. He opened and closed his mouth soundlessly. Then, “I—I volunteered,” he said. “I wanted to come here.”

  “Ah!” Zahir gasped. “Yes! You were compelled. You had no choice!”

  The colonel blinked rapidly now. He moved back a step, suddenly uncertain. Then he whirled around, bent over, and threw up.

  “What is all of this?” Rameses demanded, repulsed, drawing back from the sick man. “Zahir? What are you talking about?”

  Meanwhile the three bureaucrats gathered closer around Belisarius. One of them—the tallest, a blond man in his fifties—leaned in close. “Colonel? Are you ill? Can we—”

  Belisarius straightened. His eyes met those of the blond bureaucrat and flames danced within them. The blond man gasped and stumbled backward. Belisarius drew his blast pistol and shot the man in the chest twice.

  The Sand Kings guards reacted as their training had conditioned them to: they rushed forward, weapons at the ready. Rameses meanwhile gasped and scrambled away. “Assassin!” he cried. The other two bureaucrats screamed.

  Moving very smoothly and swiftly, Belisarius whirled about and shot them both down where they stood.

  A short distance away, seemingly unconcerned for his own safety, Zahir stood unmoving, a grin wide and bright on his face.

  The Sand Kings reached for the colonel, grasped him, tore the pistol away from him, and held him securely.

  Rameses was livid. He stalked forward, looking at the three bodies on the floor of his palace, then glaring up at Belisarius. When he saw the flames in the colonel’s eyes, his angry questions died unspoken in his throat. He turned and looked to Zahir.

  The vizier laughed.

  “Will you tell me what just happened?” Rameses demanded.

&nb
sp; “Perfect,” Zahir breathed. “Just perfect!” He gazed into Belisarius’s eyes, watching as the flames slowly faded—though they never entirely died away. He nodded.

  “I demand to know,” Rameses shouted now, moving directly in front of Zahir. “I demand to know the meaning of all this!”

  Zahir’s smile actually grew wider. “I present you, my lord, at long last,” he said, “with what I promised you when I arrived.” As Rameses looked on, uncomprehending, Zahir nodded toward Belisarius. “I present you, sire, with the third gift.”

  2

  Right there, sir— do you see?”

  Captain Felix Dakkan leaned over the shoulder of the scanner operator and squinted at the little screen. As usual, he felt a pang of jealousy for the drivers of the big Colossus walkers; their cockpits were equipped with full holo displays, while aboard his hovertank he had to settle for the ancient technology of a 2-D screen. Forcing that out of his mind, he looked more closely and nodded slowly.

  “Looks like a cluster of distortion fields,” Dakkan speculated. “Though I suppose the question is, whose distortion fields?” He frowned. “And what are they trying to hide?”

  “Shall I maneuver closer, sir?” the driver asked, looking back at Dakkan.

  He didn’t hesitate. “Yes. And arm the main gun. The side guns, as well.”

  Loaders clacked to life, echoing through the confined spaces of the hovertank.

  Dakkan accessed the Aether and surveyed the available local channels. Finding the one he wanted, he opened a link.

  “Lieutenant Liefer,” he called. “Are you registering the distortion area to the northeast?”

  “Was just about to call you about that, sir,” Liefer responded from the other tank. “I read it as most likely covering up a small column of soldiers—though they could have most anything concealed in there along with them.”

  Dakkan nodded. “We’re going to investigate. Arm your weapons and follow us in.”

  “Will do, sir.”

  Dakkan left the link in standby mode and peered at the forward viewscreen. His tank was curving around in its path now, approaching the distortion area very quickly. He motioned to the gunner. “Be ready.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  The crackling gray field rushed at them, and then they were through it and inside the hemisphere of electrical camouflage. Dakkan blinked and kept his eyes glued to the screen, ready to give the order to fire at a moment’s notice.

  “You’re in, Captain,” came the voice of Liefer from the other tank, watching from a short distance away, guns at the ready.

  Dakkan continued to stare at the screen. His frown deepened. He glanced over at the driver, MacInnish. “What do you make of that?” he asked.

  “I’m not really sure, sir,” MacInnish replied. “It looks like... combat suits? Heavy plate?”

  Dakkan had to agree. Before them marched a group of figures covered entirely in gleaming white plate armor, edged here and there with green trim. The markings weren’t clear yet.

  “Attention soldiers,” Dakkan sent over the Aether across multiple channels. “Identify yourselves.”

  Nothing. Only silence across the link.

  “Sir,” the driver said, his voice carrying almost reverential tones, “That looks like Deising-Arry Model 5 heavy plate they’re wearing.”

  Dakkan agreed, but he couldn’t imagine how it could be possible. They also looked to be carrying quad rifles, making the small group at least as formidable as one of his tanks. Perhaps both of them. Dakkan remained on his guard, ready to give the order to fire at any moment.

  The tank drew closer, rushing forward with an imposing fury and swerving to a halt directly in the soldiers’ path. The gunner directed the swivel-mounted anti-personnel cannons at the head of the formation and waited.

  Dakkan watched carefully as the procession of armored, helmeted men halted and stood there, staring back at them. And, despite their heavy plate armor and the helmets that completely covered their heads and necks, they were clearly men; they were too bulky for Dyonari and their suits didn’t look anything like what the Rao would wear. But—could they be Riyahadi? Chung? DACS? Their insignia were visible now and read III Legion, but there was certainly no reason Dakkan could think of that a detachment of his own legion’s troopers would be out roaming around on foot this far into the battlefield. In the thick of a massive military action, he couldn’t afford to take any unnecessary chances.

  For several seconds no one on either side of the confrontation moved or spoke. Finally Dakkan grew impatient and decided it was time to take what could be called a necessary chance. He reached up, unlocked the top hatch, and swung it open. He pulled himself up and through, his upper body projecting out the top of the hovertank. He stared down at the group of armored troops—it looked like a dozen, easily, and each as armed and armored as a smaller version of the hovertank he commanded.

  “Identify yourselves,” he demanded. “Now!”

  In the corner of Dakkan’s vision, a green diamond flashed. It was a code being transmitted over the Aether link. Dakkan glanced at it, looked away—then looked at it again and blanched. Could it be possible?

  No, he concluded. It couldn’t.

  He returned his attention to the troopers in white and shouted down, “Alright—cut the crap. You don’t expect me to believe the General himself is wandering around out here with a few men, do you? I want to know who you really are. Deserters, who stole the armor from supply, or—”

  His voice trailed off and died in his throat as the lead figure reached up and unfastened his helmet, then pulled it slowly off his head. Dakkan gawked at the chiseled features and short blond hair that were revealed.

  “General? General Agrippa? Sir!”

  The big blond man grinned back at him. “I appreciate your caution, Captain—” He consulted the Aether personnel database quickly. “—Dakkan.”

  Speechless, Dakkan could only nod.

  Agrippa’s grin widened as he saw the other tank zooming up alongside the first. Lieutenant Liefer had been listening and surely now wanted to see for himself that the III Legion commander was there, on the battlefield, in the flesh.

  “And I also appreciate you turning up at a very opportune time,” the general continued, as behind him other members of the Bravo Squad unfastened and removed their helmets, enjoying a bit of air—not fresh, certainly, but better than what they’d been breathing inside their helmets for the past couple of hours. “Now—open these cans up, soldier,” the big man boomed. “I need your men to hop out.”

  Dakkan was nearly in a daze. After all, members of III Legion—the Golden Phalanx, though they generally preferred to be called the Kings of Oblivion—practically worshipped their powerful, charismatic general. The tank commander tried to pull himself together. “You—what are you doing here? Sir? If I may ask?”

  Agrippa sighed. “Son, I’m going to assume you didn’t hear my order the first time. So I will repeat it, just this once. Out of the tanks. All of you. Now.”

  The tanker blinked, swallowed, nodded and saluted—and ten seconds later, all of his men were out of their tanks and lined up to one side, standing at attention.

  “Now, we’ll be taking your vehicles,” Agrippa began.

  “Taking them, sir?” Dakkan managed.

  “My vehicles, actually,” Agrippa amended. “So I can pretty much do with them as I wish.” He regarded the line of tanker troopers. “It’s a top priority mission, and we need to move quickly. I hate to leave you gentlemen to fend for yourselves out here, on foot, but the situation isn’t as bad as it looks.” He pointed back the way he and the Bravo Squad had just come. “Colonel Iksander and the whole blessed Legion are right down that way, and they’re advancing quickly. So you just need to find them and hook up with them again.”

  The tankers didn’t look thrilled with this development—with being reduced to infantrymen, in the midst of an active battlefield— but they couldn’t very well argue with their legion’s g
eneral.

  Agrippa motioned and the Bravo Squad began to pile into the tanks.

  “May I ask, sir,” Dakkan said as he watched his two vehicles being appropriated and occupied, “what you will be doing with my—with your—tanks?”

  Climbing up to the top of the turret of the lead tank, Agrippa glanced back down at the man. “It’s very simple, Captain,” he said. “Officially and technically, I’m following the orders of General Tamerlane. More specifically—and in reality—I’m probably stepping into a hornet’s nest.” He shrugged. “Or maybe not. But that’s what I’m going to find out.”

  “I—I understand, sir,” Dakkan replied. “I think.” He hesitated. “Actually, not at all.” He saluted. “But best of luck, sir.”

  “To you too, Captain. Men.” Agrippa saluted, then dropped down into the tank. The hatch clanged closed.

  As the tankers—now former tankers—looked on, the two hovertanks pivoted about and zoomed away, heading in the direction of the red glow on the horizon, where the meteors had come crashing down a bit earlier. Then, resigned to their fate, they turned and began to slowly march in the opposite direction, their previously pristine clean boots already coated in a thick layer of mud.

  3

  “He occasionally displays some small bit of reluctance, of resistance,” Zahir said aloud, “but I believe I have Rameses firmly under control.”

  “Good,” came a voice in response. It was soft, gentle, barely audible. One might have mistaken it for the hiss and rustle of the wind through trees and grass—had there been any of either in evidence there. There were, of course, neither.

  Zahir knelt on the floor of a small antechamber he had ordered prepared just off one wing of the Heliopolis palace. Slowly, cautiously he gazed up at the row of metal religious icons adorning the wall. The newest one, just above and before him and added only since his arrival on Ahknaton, occupied a position of importance second only to the image of the god Amenophis, he who was beloved of the people of this world. The others were of gods long dead.