The Shattering: Omnibus

by Van Allen Plexico

  At least, most of them were long dead.

  The icon directly in front of him now glowed a bright, almost blinding red, though no heat radiated from it at all. To the contrary, impossibly, a cold wind seemed to blow through the closed room, and spider webs of ice and frost were forming across the marble tiles of the floor and walls.

  “He will continue to obey, whether his will is directly enslaved to us or no, so long as he believes I am transforming him into a god,” Zahir went on. “Above all things he desires to become the living incarnation of Amenophis, ancient god of this world and its people.”

  “Amenophis,” the voice whispered back at him, its tone mocking, dismissive. “Oh yes. I remember him well. A minor god at best.” Laughter echoed softly. “I never considered him worthy of any real regard. How he tricked the people of Ahknaton into honoring him above all others has always puzzled me. On those rare occasions when I spared any thoughts for him at all.”

  “I never knew him, my master,” Zahir said aloud, head bowed.

  “Consider yourself fortunate. He was a bore. I saw it as a mercy when Vorthan ripped his living spirit out and confined it to that gem. And then into the Fountain, of course—with so many others.” Another laugh, cold and cynical. “So many who needed to go.”

  “Needed to, master?” Zahir asked, somewhat startled.

  “Indeed,” the voice replied. “Great Vorthan was wise to steal their souls, but he would have simply enslaved them. As events transpired, the cosmos saw fit to grant us a much preferable outcome: eternal death for all of them.”

  Zahir frowned but kept his head bowed. “I—see, master. Yes. As you say.” A pause, and the silence of the chamber began to seem like a sort of hollow ringing that gnawed at the edges of Zahir’s sanity. Whether it was real or some trick of the mind, he didn’t know, but he spoke aloud then, if only to disrupt it. “I know that you do not like for anyone to question your plans, master,” he said quickly, in a rush, trying to get to his point before being cut off, “but I must know—are any of the legions poised to strike down upon us here?” He waited only a moment before adding, “I trust the Sand Kings have been built up to the point now that they could adequately defend Ahknaton from any encroaching scraps of Tamerlane’s or Agrippa’s forces. But I must admit—I worry that Iapetus and his wholly intact Second could cause us serious problems. They are encamped on the Inner Worlds now, but if he should choose to enter the fray before we are ready—”

  “Calm yourself, Zahir,” the voice hissed. “I have taken steps—and further steps are being taken even as we speak—to ensure that Iapetus and his Sons remain firmly in place on and around Earth.” The voice changed ever so slightly, reflecting perhaps some degree of admiration, or at least appreciation. “No force in the galaxy can dislodge that man once he makes up his mind. In that way he is like our kind.”

  Zahir nodded to himself. “Yes—thank you master. I am reassured.”

  “You doubted me?”

  “I—no, master. Never.”

  Silence. Silence and echoes, and the ringing that grew louder in his ears.

  “Master? Are you still there?”

  Nothing. Nothing—and then, “Yes, Zahir. One thing more.”

  “I await your command.”

  “You are to—“

  The door of the small antechamber banged open. Zahir looked up, startled.

  Into the room charged four Sand Kings of the governor’s elite guard, resplendent in their red and blue Egyptian-motif dress uniforms trimmed in gold. They half-surrounded the vizier and pointed their elegant but deadly energy lances at him. For a long second, no one moved or spoke.

  “What is this outrage?” Zahir finally demanded, rising to his feet.

  “Quiet!” barked the lead officer. He glared at Zahir, anger and determination clear on his face—but he did nothing. His expression slowly changed to one of puzzlement, and he looked down.

  Ice from the floor had spread up onto all the soldiers’ boots, and continued to climb up their legs. It didn’t touch Zahir.

  “He’s doing it somehow,” the leader said, panic becoming evident in his voice. “Shoot him,” he ordered to the others. “Now!”

  “I—I can’t,” the Sand King next to him gasped. “I—can’t move!”

  “…Neither can I,” the commander replied, eyes widening now in fear.

  “Indeed you can’t,” Zahir barked, standing across from them, hands on hips, red robe flaring around him. “What is the meaning of this? Speak!”

  At first none of the four replied, but then the leader’s mouth opened—clearly against his will—and he blurted out, “We came here…to kill you.”

  “Oh yes? Why?”

  “You…have brought... treason… and heresy…to our world…and to our…governor.”

  “Oh, please,” Zahir scoffed. “Rameses was a traitor from the start. I am simply providing him with a bit of direction—and power.”

  “You…are…a…devil,” one of the other Sand Kings gasped through lips now frosted over from the cold.

  Zahir snorted a laugh. “You scarcely know the meaning of the term,” he said.

  The ice was up to their chests now, and still spreading. Within a few seconds only their faces were free of it—and then it closed in there, too.

  “Shall I free them, master?” Zahir called to the icon on the wall, its metal face still gleaming.

  “No,” came the soft, hissing voice. “They would require more time and effort to bend to your will than I am able to spare at this time.”

  Zahir nodded. “I understand.”

  Slowly he walked across the ice-covered marble floor to stand next to the four men. They now appeared to be nothing more than white statues of soldiers, utterly devoid of any signs of life. With a sly, twisted smile, he drew back his fist and struck the nearest one a light blow.

  It shattered into a million shards, the pieces tumbling to the floor.

  Laughing, he did the same to the others. Then he stood over the small mounds of ice fragments, gazing down at them.

  “You are pleased, master?”

  “I am bored,” the voice whispered back. “You should not have let the situation come to that. I will not tolerate rebellion or interference in my plans, Zahir.”

  “Of course, master,” the vizier replied quickly, bowing his head again.

  “Tend to Rameses. Be absolutely certain that he remains firmly in your grasp. Let no one else interfere.”

  “Yes, master.”

  The icon’s red glow faded to darkness. Zahir bowed one last time and then hastily departed the antechamber. Behind him, the remains of the four elite Sand Kings warriors slowly melted and disappeared through cracks in the floor.

  4

  Steam hissing out all around him, General Ioan Iapetus descended the ramp that led down out of his command shuttle and onto the deck of the II Legion’s flagship, Atlantia. At the bottom he stopped and waited, standing alone, immaculate in his black uniform with gleaming golden eye emblazoned on the chest.

  No sooner had his boots touched the metal floor than the honor guard marched out to welcome him. They moved smoothly, together, as one unit: a dozen soldiers in the black of the general staff and a dozen more in older uniforms of the dark blue that had been II Legion’s official color until recently. At the front of the formation, a woman bearing the insignia of colonel stepped forward and saluted smartly.

  “Colonel Piryu,” Iapetus said. “A pleasure to see you again. I trust all is well with the Atlantia.”

  “General,” she said, “the pleasure is ours. We received word of your coming only a short while ago, and there was no indication as to the purpose of your visit. May I ask where will you need us to take you?”

  Iapetus strode forward across the broad landing deck. The much shorter woman hurried to keep up. He traveled past the ranks of the honor guard and out into the center of the huge, vaulted space; dull gray alloy ribs arched high overhead, holding up the ceiling and holding out the
freezing void. After a dozen more steps he stopped and stood staring at the soldiers and vehicles and weapons that filled a good portion of the hangar deck. All those troops, all those weapons, all at his disposal. The power it all gave him was considerable. Most considerable. He allowed himself a tight smile. Then he looked down at the colonel. “Nowhere,” he said.

  Whether his answer or his smile was the more disconcerting to Piryu, none could have said. Either way, she was taken aback. She blinked, frowned, and said, “I’m sorry, General—did you say ‘nowhere?’”

  His smile held on for another half-second and then evaporated. “Yes, Colonel.”

  The woman considered this, clearly not understanding, and then nodded once. “Very well, sir. Is there any other service we of the Atlantia can perform for you, then, while you are here?”

  Iapetus exhaled slowly. “You can show me to the strategium, Colonel,” he grumbled, “and then you can leave me in peace.”

  Looking as if she’d been stung by a bee, Piryu involuntarily moved back a step, then recovered, straightened and saluted. “Yes, sir.” She nodded toward the lift. “If you will come this way, sir—?”

  A brief ride in the lift later, sandwiched between two short walks along dull gray ship’s corridors, Iapetus stood alone in the center of the massive flagship’s strategium—the cavernous chamber where, when necessary, he and the other top ranking officers of the Sons of Terra formulated and laid out their plans for interstellar war. Sweeping into the room, he had brusquely ordered everyone else out, from tacticians to technicians to the ship’s captain himself. Only Colonel Piryu had he ordered to remain behind, if only for a moment, that she might shut down all the electronics, turn out almost all of the lights, and then seal the room tightly on her way out.

  That done, Iapetus arched his back and laced his fingers behind his waist, closing his eyes as in prayer or meditation. He reached out with his mind, as if attempting to use the Aether link—but he was not using the Aether. He was stretching his mental faculties beyond that artificial, man-made technology, to something far deeper, far more fundamental to the fabric of the universe itself.

  “Are you there?” he asked silently, some time later. “Can you hear me?”

  For several long seconds there was no reply. Then the voice came to him—the same one that had woken him up from a deep sleep a few hours earlier: “I am. You are aboard your flagship?”

  “Yes.” Both his expression and his voice were grim. “As you demanded.”

  “And the ship remains where it has been for the past three standard days?”

  Iapetus quickly consulted the ship’s navigational data via the Aether. It took less than two seconds. “Yes,” he replied. “I placed it on sentry duty. It has not moved. Why does that matter?”

  Silence.

  Iapetus quickly grew impatient. “What do you want?” he asked, as calmly as he could manage. Then, as there was still no answer, he couldn’t help but add, “You dragged me all the way out here. Speaking with me at my base headquarters on Luna wasn’t sufficient. Fine. I have come. I’m here. Tell me what you want.” He paused. “And who you are.”

  Nothing. The strategium remained still and dark and quiet. Only the faint hum of the ship’s massive power plant and the dim illumination from a half-dozen recessed lights gleaming off the brushed metal surfaces kept him company. He stood there, anger and impatience growing within his breast, until he had nearly convinced himself that he’d imagined the entire thing. He turned on his heel and started for the door.

  And then the strategium flared to bright, brilliant light and life. A great eye formed in the center of the room, much like a holographic tactical display normally would, and in the same location. The eye expanded until it touched the floor and the ceiling; it was more than twice that wide. At its center, clouds and light swirled about.

  Like some feral, predatory animal, Iapetus bared his teeth. He stepped back involuntarily, at the same time reaching for his sidearm.

  A human form appeared within the smoke and the lights, moving forward, stepping out onto the deck of the Atlantia. A female form, mostly covered by a dark red cloak and hood.

  Iapetus didn’t flinch. One corner of his mouth did turn slightly down, possibly in surprise, though it could have been distaste or some other emotion entirely.

  “General,” the woman said, bowing slightly. As she raised her head again, some portion of her face was visible, though clouded by shadow. Behind her the great eye closed and vanished.

  “Do I know you?” Iapetus retorted, frowning.

  “We have not met,” the woman said, her voice smooth and strong. “But I know you well, Iapetus. I have watched you from afar, and have judged your worth.”

  “Who are you to judge me?” Iapetus snapped. “And why would you be interested?”

  “I am Teluria, Ecclesiarch of this Empire and vizier to the Taiko Nakamura.”

  “The new Ecclesiarch?” Iapetus narrowed his eyes, appraising her anew. “And—Vizier? Advisor?”

  “Just so.”

  “I see.” He paused. “And how did you perform that little teleportation trick just now?”

  Teluria smiled. “You have no love for those who claim the mantle of godhood,” she said by way of response. “This is well known. But I trust my clumsy display went some distance toward persuading you that any claims I may make about myself are well founded.” Her own dark eyes met the general’s and held them. “I would be a fool to claim such a thing in your presence— would I not?— if I could not back it up.”

  Iapetus regarded her anew, openly staring, sizing her up. The curve of her form beneath the cloak only mildly interested him. His mouth had twisted into a sour expression.

  “Why should I believe some cheap special effects equate to godhood?” he asked, still impatient. “And, in any case, why tell this to me at all?”

  “Because you are necessary and important,” Teluria answered.

  “Necessary?” Iapetus stared at her. “Necessary to whom?”

  “You are the wild card,” she went on enigmatically, sidestepping his question. “You are the unpredictable piece—the piece on the board that must be accounted for.”

  “You’re not making any sense,” Iapetus protested—but his voice was growing weaker, his words slightly slurred. “Answer me!”

  Now Teluria laughed, softly and gently. She reached out one pale, delicate hand and took Iapetus’s own. It was scarred, rough, brutal. Somehow he had been unable to prevent her from grasping it.

  “I merely wish to converse,” she said. “We have much to discuss, you and I.”

  “We do?” Iapetus was growing unsteady on his feet.

  “Come,” she said. “Come and let me show you.”

  “Come where?” the general replied, even as his feet moved him forward, along with the hooded woman, across the open space of the strategium. “Show me what?”

  She smiled at him again, and the eye reappeared, filling the center of the room. Teluria led Iapetus towards it.

  “Wonders,” she said. “Come and let me show you wonders.” She paused a moment as he gazed at her expectantly. “And terrors,” she added, as the eye opened and swallowed them both.

  Iapetus stood upon a large, jagged fragment of ice, careening nightmarishly through space. The universe in all its grandiose majesty, velvet black and speckled with stars, surrounded him. Teluria stood motionless just behind him, her cloak held tightly about her. How he was breathing, how he had come to be there at all, he could not say. Eyebrows knitted, swallowing his fear, he gazed about.

  A moment earlier, after passing through the eye portal, the general of II Legion had found himself at the center of a magnificent city square—one he’d never seen or heard of before, its streets literally paved with gold. He’d seen it, experienced it, for only a few seconds. Then Teluria had again summoned the portal and they had stepped through to here—wherever here was.

  He tried to speak but no words would come. He looked back at
her, but she merely stared straight ahead, statue-like. Then she raised her left arm slightly from her side and pointed down at the ice. Iapetus frowned at this but he turned and looked.

  The ice sheet on which they stood was mostly cracked and streaked with black but it was translucent in places and fully transparent in others. Iapetus could make out something underneath—shapes, forms—just below the surface, trapped within like flies in amber. He knelt, attempting to see through it.

  A wave of horror—abstract, not connected to anything he was seeing—rushed over him, nearly causing him to fall backwards. Teluria’s hand caught and steadied him, even as frost began to form on his uniform. He brushed at it absently as he stared down through the ice again.

  A face—hideous, skull-like, alien—leered up at him. He gasped. It was made of gleaming metal. And it was moving.

  He stumbled back, harder this time, falling onto the ice.

  The surface ahead of him cracked. A clawed hand reached up from the depths, grasping.

  Iapetus looked back at Teluria, almost frantic. Her face remained impassive.

  Another claw ripped free of the ice.

  Iapetus reached for his pistol, drew it, fired. The bolt of energy struck one of the claws but had no visible effect.

  The ice was cracking directly beneath him now. He could feel it giving way.

  A tap on his shoulder. He looked up. Teluria held out her slender hand. He grasped it. The eye reappeared, swirling all around them. It consumed them.

  They fell.

  A timeless time later, there within the strategium of the Atlantia, the great dimensional eye blinked open again. From its depths emerged Teluria, leading the way, her blood-red cloak flaring around her, revealing her nakedness beneath. Behind her came Iapetus, his jet-black uniform white with frost.

  “You have seen now,” the dark woman said, gathering her cloak about her, her piercing eyes locking onto the general’s. “You understand.”

  “Understand? No.” Iapetus looked uncharacteristically shaken. Melting frost mixed with sweat ran down his face and neck. “Where did we go?”