The Shattering: Omnibus

by Van Allen Plexico

  “The comets,” he whispered. The thought of what he’d encountered before, with Teluria, gripped him, and he had to fight down a very uncharacteristic sense of panic. “One crashed here.”

  “Yes,” Jasur said, his voice low, soft, dreamy.

  Iapetus looked at the man in white. His face was blank, slack.

  “Dammit!” he cursed. “Back to the shuttle,” he barked at his men. “Now!”

  The two dozen Sons turned and started back toward their ship, only to discover that a large crowd had interposed itself in the way. It was a group of the local townspeople—at least a couple hundred of them—but something was very definitely wrong with them. They shambled forward as a single mass, eyes wide and faces as slack as that of Jasur. As they drew nearer, Iapetus could see frost had formed all over their bodies, with icicles dangling from their chins and noses. A red glow emanated from their eyes.

  “The creatures from the comets,” Iapetus whispered to himself. “They’re controlling these people somehow. They’re psychic.”

  The wave of townspeople rushed forward, arms outstretched.

  Iapetus didn’t hesitate. He drew his sidearm and opened fire. The other Sons did likewise. Streaks of coherent light, deadly blobs of superheated plasma, and old-fashioned projectiles tore into the possessed townspeople, shredding their forward ranks. Scarcely noticing this, the people pressed on, surrounding the black-clad little army and assaulting them with superhuman strength. Screams came from a few of the legionaries, though most that died met their fate in stoic silence, as was the way of the Sons of Terra.

  “Cut a path back to the shuttle,” Iapetus demanded. “Remember who you are! You are the Sons of Terra!”

  The soldiers in black set aside any reservations and opened fire with everything they had. Energy lances, quad rifles, and blast pistols all chewed into the oncoming wave of people and obliterated them. For a few moments the outcome of the battle hung in the balance. Then the Sons gained the advantage and broke free, erupting out of the broad circle of humanity.

  “Go!” shouted Iapetus, pointing toward the shuttle. “Clear a path!”

  The Sons of Terra fought with the utter, ruthless ferociousness that was their calling card across the galaxy. They slaughtered townspeople by the dozens—by the hundreds. In the process, they died, too. Soon only a half-dozen of them remained alive. Iapetus raced through the tunnel they were effectively creating, at last reaching the shuttle.

  The ship was surrounded by another group of zombies. Iapetus had retrieved a blast pistol from a fallen soldier and now he fired away with a gun in each hand, his teeth bared and his dark eyes flashing as he cleared away the final obstacle to reaching the shuttle. Two more of his men went down to his right as he advanced.

  The delay was costly. The massive group of townspeople from whom they’d just broken free was now closing in. Iapetus barked commands even as he shot down the last three zombies that barred the way to the shuttle hatch. In response, the four surviving Sons whirled about and took a knee, firing into the approaching wave of humanity.

  The hatch opened and Iapetus leapt inside. Another shape moved past him as he tumbled through the entrance. Behind him, the last of the Sons of Terra kept firing, keeping the ship as free as possible of the onslaught of zombies until it could lift off. He mentally saluted them and their sacrifice on his behalf.

  The hatch slammed closed. The shuttle blasted into the sky. The last of the Sons on the surface fell to the rampaging attackers, who then stood stock-still, staring up at the ship as it soared up and away. They reached for it, clawed hands pawing after it. Then they all stopped moving and dropped to the ground, like marionettes with their strings all cut at once.

  In the sky above them, the shuttle raced for orbit and for the vast Atlantia flagship that awaited them.

  Iapetus collapsed, exhausted, into a padded seat. Blood ran down the side of his face from a wound suffered when one of the crazed people had clawed at him. He dabbed at it, then remembered seeing someone else boarding the shuttle behind him. He looked up.

  Jasur the Ecclesiarchy officer sat in the seat opposite him. His eyes had reverted back to normal and his complexion was flushed. He held a pistol aimed directly at Iapetus.

  The general ignored this last bit. He was too angry—though he refused to let it show. “Why exactly did I need to see that, Jasur?” he asked, his voice restrained and almost casual in its tone.

  “You…you weren’t supposed to survive it,” the man in white replied, frowning. “Now—now, I’m not certain what—”

  “Oh, I’m sure your orders are perfectly clear,” Iapetus said, interrupting the stammering man. “You’re to see that I get myself killed. Failing that, you’re to do the deed yourself.”

  “I—“

  “Who exactly are you working for?” Iapetus asked, again in a calm, casual tone. “Do you serve those creatures down there? Are you a traitor to the entire human race?”

  Jasur’s expression changed instantly to one of shock and horror. “What? No—no, of course not. Not them—no! But…”

  The man’s voice trailed off. Iapetus simply stared at him, trying to figure him.

  The hatch from the cockpit area slid open and a trooper in black—a lieutenant by his insignia—entered the cabin. Upon seeing Jasur holding a gun on the general, he reached for his own weapon—but Iapetus waved him back. “No, no, Lieutenant,” he said. “This man is no longer a threat to us.”

  Jasur looked extremely confused now. He blinked his eyes rapidly, looked down at his pistol, then back up at Iapetus. Frowning suddenly, he aimed his gun at the other soldier and pulled the trigger.

  Nothing happened.

  Iapetus laughed. “You didn’t think I’d trust you to have an armed and ready blast pistol on my shuttle with me, did you?” he asked conversationally. “The first thing I did when you came aboard was have your gun remotely disarmed. It will only work now when I decide it can work.”

  Jasur’s expression soured further. He set the gun down on the seat beside him and continued to stare at Iapetus.

  “You know, this was truly a poor play by your masters,” the general said after a few seconds of uncomfortable silence. “Because I think I know who’s behind all of this now, and they should have left well enough alone.”

  Both Jasur and the third man looked at the general, both of them puzzled.

  Iapetus laughed. “Your mistress, Teluria, had nearly convinced me that the danger to Earth and the Inner Worlds posed by the comets was sufficient to keep my legion stationed there, and not come to the aid of Tamerlane or anyone else.”

  “Nearly?” the Ecclesiarchy officer asked, regarding Iapetus through slitted eyes now.

  “Nearly.” The general smiled. “But because she feels the need to up the ante—to actually arrange my death—now my interest is piqued. Now I know something more is happening.” He shrugged. “If she’s so determined that I not set foot on Ahknaton, well…” He spread his hands wide before him and smiled again.

  Jasur breathed out slowly. Then he reached for something at his belt.

  Iapetus only watched as the man drew a small, exotic-looking, rectangular device from its compartment and manipulated a control on its surface. “This is Jasur,” he said into it. “I must speak with the Ecclesiarch immediately! I—”

  Iapetus drew his own pistol and shot the man, then shot him again. Red blood spread slowly across the snow-white uniform as the Ecclesiarchy agent stared back at him in shock, then crumpled to the floor.

  The other soldier in the cabin didn’t flinch as his general fired. When it was over, he turned to Iapetus as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened and reported, “We will dock with the Atlantia in two minutes, General.”

  Iapetus nodded. “Thank you, Lieutenant.” He gestured vaguely toward Jasur’s body where it lay in the floor. “Put this in storage, please. We may need it for evidence later. Or something.”

  The lieutenant saluted and leaned down, grasping the b
ody by the feet. Quickly he dragged the remains of Jasur through another hatch and into the rear cabin.

  Iapetus stared down at the blood stains on the floor of his shuttle and pursed his lips in thought. If Teluria had wanted him dead earlier, she could have easily killed him on the comet—or allowed the creatures there to do the job. Something had changed. The stakes were being raised. Someone behind the scenes was playing a game—a very large and very deadly game—and apparently they had decided they no longer wanted Iapetus and the Sons of Terra in play.

  Iapetus chuckled softly.

  “You lose on that score,” he whispered. “Now you’ve only made me curious. And angry.”

  There came a clanging sound as the shuttle docked with the mothership. Iapetus rose and strode from the cabin, through the hatchway and out into the Atlantia. Ranks of black-clad Sons of Terra stood at attention as he emerged.

  “Prepare yourselves,” he called to them as he strode past. “We have a new objective.”

  Moments later, the Atlantia disappeared into hyperspace.

  4

  The white-knuckle trip down from orbit to the surface of Ahknaton was a brief event that for Tamerlane seemed to go on and on like some endless, demented nightmare.

  As the nearest starships circling the planet—each representing a different alien race or human empire—apparently became aware of his little squadron of transports hiding in the wake of the comet, they came about and opened fire. Almost immediately, in response and without being ordered—for no such order would’ve been given—transports at the rear of the formation closed in tightly behind the lead vessel. There they absorbed the brunt of the attack. Their shields could scarcely hold up against the massive firepower being directed against them and all too quickly they began to explode.

  Aboard the lead transport, Tamerlane stared at the tactical display in consternation. “What’s happening?” he demanded of the two pilots. His eyes swept from the monitor to the forward viewport—the massive brown orb of Ahknaton looming, filling the window, with the comet dead center, just ahead—and back to the side-mounted tactical screen that displayed his ships being destroyed behind him. He struggled to comprehend what he was seeing. “We’re taking losses?” he asked, dismayed, not wanting to accept it.

  “We are, sir,” the co-pilot replied, his voice tense. “Terrible losses.”

  “They’ve seen us,” the pilot added.

  “The Sand Kings?”

  “The ships in orbit.”

  The tactical screen now revealed only four Nizam Legion transports left, including the one the general occupied. A blinding flash; now three.

  Tamerlane cursed. “What’s our status?” he demanded. “Can we stand up to—”

  The pilot interrupted him. “We’re entering the atmosphere,” he all-but-shouted. The ship was beginning to vibrate. “It’s going to get rougher. Hang on!”

  This time Tamerlane was able to grasp the back of one of the pilots’ seats just before the man’s warning came true, and thus avoid being hurled about the cabin. The little ship rocked violently as it carved its way through the atmosphere of the planet. The pilot was fighting the controls for all he was worth.

  “No need to follow the comet all the way down,” the pilot shouted over the roar of the hull. “We wouldn’t want to be anywhere near the spot where that thing hits.”

  Tamerlane nodded. “The city,” he said. “Take us near the city.”

  The transport veered off, diverging from the comet’s trajectory. One of the two ships behind it peeled off and followed; the other exploded as it was nailed by a broad-spectrum energy blast from high above.

  A few moments later the capital city came into view, its glass towers and pyramids gleaming on the horizon. Tamerlane’s transport rumbled along like some out-of-control ox, its twin trailing along behind it. Atmospheric friction flames lined the exteriors of both ships as they shed velocity. Blinding energy beams speared down from above, only narrowly missing as the pilots of each ship attempted desperate evasive maneuvers.

  Tamerlane accessed the Aether net and attempted to contact Colonel Arani and the Nizam Legion survivors. His efforts were met only with static, filling his brain, loud enough to make him claw at his skull before he managed to shut off the link. He cursed. “What in the name of the gods was that?”

  The co-pilot looked quickly up at him, eyebrows raised in question.

  “The Aether is nothing but static,” he said, still recovering. “Just deafening white noise. Nothing else.”

  The pilots had no explanations.

  Tamerlane turned back to the tactical display. The ship shook violently from another near-miss. He cursed again.

  “We have to get down or we’re dead,” he muttered.

  “Where to, sir?” the pilot asked, the strain in his voice from fighting the controls belying the innocuous question.

  Tamerlane had to make a decision, so he did. “Over the city,” he said, pointing.

  The two pilots gaped. “Wha—?”

  “Take us over the city. Now!”

  Acknowledging the order without further reaction, the pilot banked hard and curved them around again, angling down. The other remaining ship, flying along just behind them, was struck by another shot from above and spouted flame. It listed to starboard, lost control entirely, and hit the ground in a tumbling, disintegrating, fiery crash.

  Tamerlane watched the exploding ship’s dot on the tactical display wink out. He grunted.

  “It’s just us,” the pilot stated, not looking up from the controls. “We’re the only target they have left.”

  “Then let’s hope I’m right.”

  The pilot glanced at him quizzically but said nothing.

  The transport was nearly to the city. Tamerlane watched the glass towers and steel pyramids grow larger and larger ahead of them even as two massive shots barely missed them from above. And then they were over the city, and the shooting stopped.

  “Ah. They won’t shoot while they risk hitting the city, it looks like,” said the pilot.

  Sure enough, the wide-angle display revealed the lone major warship that had been pursuing them and that had destroyed most of the rest of their squadron was now leveling off, holding its general position, possibly waiting for a clear shot again.

  “Where to, sir?” the co-pilot asked.

  “I—don’t know,” Tamerlane admitted. He realized then that he had no choice; there was no other way to locate Colonel Arani. Scowling, he inhaled deeply, exhaled slowly, and nodded to the pilot. “Give me one minute,” he said, “and I’ll try to find out.”

  Gritting his teeth, Tamerlane closed his eyes and mentally reopened the Aether link. The wall of shrieking static that erupted nearly blew the top off his head; certainly it felt as if it had, at any rate.

  He staggered back a step, almost fell, stuck out a hand blindly and caught himself on a bulkhead. The noise was undiminished. He sank down into a squatting position, eyes still closed, and attempted to gather himself. The co-pilot, seeing his distress, leapt to his feet and started over, but Tamerlane recovered his senses enough to wave the man back. With the greatest of effort, he managed to pull himself up to his feet again and somehow force the waves of raw noise down, out of his consciousness. Slowly, so slowly, millisecond by millisecond, the excruciating pain receded.

  “The ground defenses have seen us,” the pilot announced almost matter-of-factly. “Surface guns are locking on to us.”

  Tamerlane continued to calm his mind, visualizing the static as a bundle of threads, excluding each wave of sound thread by thread. At last there was only a single, faint tone coming through. Not noise—a signal. He seized upon it, examined it, recognized it.

  Arani.

  “General,” the pilot said, “we are taking ground fire.”

  “Get us out of here,” Tamerlane barked, now himself again. Quickly he located the general position of the source of the signal. He pointed at a spot on the tactical display. “There. Take us tha
t way.”

  The pilot looked, nodded. “Aye, sir.”

  The transport swung around.

  Arani, we are coming. Don’t shoot. And, if that’s you, give me some kind of signal.

  The ship curved down toward the sandy hills just beyond the city. As they dropped, they could just make out a lone figure waving a quick-pulse light.

  “There she is,” Tamerlane almost shouted, pointing. “Take us—”

  At that moment the ground fire found their range. Energy bolts pounded the vessel, rupturing the hull and slicing off half the rear engine. The transport dropped.

  “Brace for impact!” called the pilot over the intercom to the passenger cabin. This time the warning came too late for Tamerlane. He stumbled backwards again as the floor dropped away and then caught him again. As the ship stabilized one final time, for just an instant, he took the opportunity to lie flat on the cabin floor and loop his left arm around a metal strut that supported one of the pilots’ seats. That probably saved his life.

  The transport was already low before the blazing shots chewed into it. Only a scant two seconds later it hit the ground, sliding, skidding, somehow managing not to tumble end over end as the pilots wrestled the controls for all they were worth. After what felt like eternity to everyone aboard, it came to a halt at the base of the low line of hills they had seen from over the city.

  The pilots had had an easier time of it than Tamerlane. They unfastened themselves from their seats’ crash webbing and stood, saw the general lying dazed against the bulkhead, and hurried over to him.

  “I’m alright,” Tamerlane said, wiping a streak of blood across his forehead from a shallow cut. “Just some bruises.” He gave the two men a smile. “You two need to work on your landings.”

  The two pilots blinked and then laughed simultaneously. It didn’t last long; all three men were up and moving a second later, hurrying into the passenger cabin.

  “General!” Titus Elaro called, turning from where he was helping another of the soldiers disengage his seatbelt and harness. “What happened?”