The Shattering: Omnibus

by Van Allen Plexico

  The general absorbed this information but had nothing to say about it. Instead, “Get the Princess back from the windows,” he called to them over the Aether. “Everyone in the royal quarters—get away from the windows and the outer wall! As far back as you can safely go!”

  He allowed seven seconds—seconds during which he had to open up again with the anti-personnel weapons on a new group of Skrazzi—and then dropped the shuttle’s nose and stomped on the accelerator.

  The dull gray, boxy shuttle shot forward and smashed into the side of the palace, shattering windows and cracking the wall before bouncing partway back and hovering there. Inside, some of the troops in the passenger cabin—the ones who hadn’t bothered yet to fasten their crash webbing in place—tumbled from their seats. The wall, meanwhile, held. Iapetus cursed, gritted his teeth, and slammed the shuttle into the palace again. This time the tough metal hull ripped through the masonry entirely and exposed the sumptuous private suites within to open air.

  “Open the hatch and pull those people in here,” the general shouted to his still-reeling legionaries in the back. “Let’s go! Hurry!”

  Astonished, the Sons of Terra dropped the ramp open and leapt out into the now half-demolished bedroom of the Princess. The soldiers who were with her had just figured out what was happening and were bringing her forward to meet them. Together they climbed into the shuttle and barely had time to close the ramp again before Iapetus had wheeled the craft around and aimed upward. A horde of Skrazzi emerged into the bedroom, blades and gun-arms waving, arriving in time to watch as the shuttle rocketed up into the sky.

  Once they had achieved orbit and the Atlantia was in sight, Iapetus stood and handed the controls back over to the pilot, who looked at him with newfound respect—and no small amount of fear. “That was a remarkable bit of flying, General,” the pilot said.

  Iapetus nodded once to him and moved into the cabin, quickly locating the little princess in her white dress. Barbarossa was standing at attention next to her, and a handful of older men and women waited behind her—household retainers and servants, no doubt.

  The blonde girl, about ten years of age, dusted herself off and looked up at the two men. “My thanks,” she told them, very formally, though in the voice of the little girl she still was. She clearly had been trained from infancy in the royal manner. “Are we abandoning the palace to the enemy?” she asked, focusing on Iapetus.

  “Indeed we are, Your Majesty,” the general replied. “And the planet with it, I’m afraid.”

  “The planet?” She appeared shocked. For an instant it looked as if she were about to burst into tears—and to reveal that she was, after all, a little girl. “That—that is unacceptable!”

  Iapetus spread his hands. “I’m sorry, Majesty,” he said, “but there is nothing to be done. The enemy has overrun the entire planet—the entire sector. The Empire is being rolled back, on a direct line for Earth. All we can do is retreat and dig in—defend the homeworld to the end.”

  “And so we abandon the throne world entirely?”

  “I’ve already issued orders to that effect,” Iapetus replied. He shook his head. “It is no longer defensible. We must withdraw behind secure boundaries.”

  The little girl looked at him, raising one eyebrow. “Is anywhere secure now, General? Even Earth?”

  Iapetus didn’t miss a beat. “Yes,” he replied. “Sacred Terra is inviolate—and will remain so.” He attempted to grace her with a smile, but such a thing appeared entirely unnatural on his rugged features. “We will have you at the Old Palace in a matter of hours, Majesty. In the halls where your illustrious predecessors—”

  “Spare me, General,” the girl said, cutting him off. “I know you care nothing for me. You have gone to such great lengths on my behalf only because you need me.” She turned quickly and glanced back at one of her servants, as if seeking approval for these words. The older men and women made a show of looking elsewhere and in no way seeming to support the young girl’s statement.

  But then the older woman directly behind the Princess appeared to make up her mind about something—or to change it. She looked directly at Iapetus and stated sharply, “You need Her Majesty to validate your own position, as she requires you to defend her realm. Consequently we have advised the Princess to go along with your wishes. But do not mistake that for approval.”

  Iapetus regarded the older woman with contempt for a moment, then stared down at the little girl. Any semblance of deference had vanished. “You are useful, yes,” he growled. “But if something... unfortunate... were to happen to you, I would simply find some long-lost relative of yours that no one had ever heard of before, and they would confirm my appointment as Regent of the Empire.”

  The Princess appeared ready to argue that point, but the older woman behind her tapped her once on the shoulder and she held her tongue.

  Before anyone else could speak, the cabin rocked violently.

  “We’re taking fire from enemy units on the ground and in orbit, General,” one of the pilots called back.

  Iapetus gave the Princess and her advisor one last long, sharp look, then turned away. “Have the Atlantia come down to meet us—to cut us an avenue for escape,” he shouted toward the cockpit. “And try to keep us in one piece, if you will, gentlemen,” he added, “until she gets here.”

  Barbarossa moved forward to join him, and as the colonel leaned down he could see the massive silver bulk of the Atlantia—flagship of II Legion—moving their way, blasting enemy fighters to bits as it approached. The sight warmed his heart. Maybe, he thought, we will survive this business after all.

  A few moments later the shuttle reached the big ship and passed through the opening of Bay Four, coming to a halt on the broad, gray metal deck. The passengers and crew had to wait another couple of minutes while the other shuttles arrived, and then the bay was sealed against the outside vacuum and repressurized. At that point they were able to disembark. Iapetus ordered for an honor guard of six officers to escort the Princess to the finest cabin available. Then he turned to Barbarossa.

  “Top speed for Earth,” he ordered tersely.

  Barbarossa nodded once to acknowledge the order. “So—we are taking up permanent position there, General?” he asked.

  The general shook his head. “We are depositing our royal cargo and then leaving.”

  Barbarossa was surprised by this. He had assumed Iapetus intended to withdraw all their forces—especially including the Atlantia—back to Earth to make one last stand.

  In response to Barbarossa’s tactfully-phrased question to this effect, Iapetus replied, “I must grudgingly admit that General Tamerlane was right about one thing during his confrontation with our wayward Governor Rameses, and I have learned from it.”

  Barbarossa was surprised again. “Oh, sir?”

  “When facing an overwhelming external threat, you must first eliminate all internal threats.”

  Barbarossa took this in and nodded slowly; meanwhile, knowing his commander as well as he did, he moved his right hand down so that his fingers brushed against the grip of his blast pistol in its holster. “Ah,” he said. “So—you do intend that we should make a stand defending Sacred Terra, eventually.”

  “Of course,” the general in black replied. “We have no other options now.” He paused, looking Barbarossa straight in the eye. “But when we do, I intend that we should have no opposition present in our ranks.” He smiled now. “If we must all die, I guarantee you Ezekial Tamerlane and his traitors will die before we do.”

  Barbarossa swallowed at this but gathered himself and, moving his hand away from his gun, he saluted. “Yes, General.” He turned away and began issuing orders over the Aether link.

  The Atlantia wheeled about and leapt into hyperspace.

  2

  Two tall, slender, and entirely alien forms strode along winding corridors lit only by the pale glow of flickering soul-fires. They wore loose-fitting robes of deep blue and green, gemstones woven i
nto the material sparkling as they moved. The illuminating globes that lit their way were spaced out every half-dozen meters or so, casting the swooping, gothic architecture in a dappled, jarring interplay of light and shadow.

  The two figures were slightly bent as by great age and physical infirmity, yet they hurried along as if in the prime of their lives—or as if pursued by some horrific nightmare. As they traveled they spoke to one another in sharp whispers.

  “The end times draw near,” said one. “The Adversary has unleashed the fullness of his fury upon the galaxy. For now the humans bear the brunt of his wrath. Soon enough, however, his gaze will turn upon us—upon the Star-Cities—and eventually upon even fair Dalen-Shala.”

  “Yes,” the other agreed, struggling to keep pace with the first. “But what possible mitigation might we offer? What resistance?”

  “None whatsoever.” The first figure slowed and turned his aged, narrow features toward the other. “There is no hope remaining. All is done.”

  The second being frowned at this. “Surely not,” he whispered. “For all of our knowledge, our power—for the greatness that was once ours—surely there must be some way to blunt his attack. If not to defeat it, then perhaps to redirect it…?”

  The other pursed his wrinkled lips and narrowed his eyes, as if giving this suggestion serious consideration. A second later, he shook his head and turned away, hurrying off once more. “There can be no dissuading the Adversary. You know this. All the efforts the humans have hurled at him have served only to strengthen his resolve. He has set his mind and his efforts to eradicating all life in this galaxy—and replacing it with his own twisted servants, the Phaedrons and the Skrazzi.”

  “But—we cannot allow this to happen,” the other said.

  “No,” the first agreed. “We cannot.”

  They came to the end of the winding corridor and to a tall, narrow door. Two guards in transparent, rainbow-colored, glass-like armor stood at attention before it. At the sight of the two, they stepped smartly aside and the door slid open.

  “We are not to be disturbed,” the first figure said to the nearer of the two guards.

  “It shall be as you say, First Seer,” the guard replied with a respectful nod.

  The two elderly figures passed through the doorway and it closed behind them. They stood now in a broad, domed room some twenty meters in diameter. Smoke curled here and there from open braziers. The smell of exotic spices and incense filled the air. Pale light shone down from soul-fires high overhead.

  The one that had been addressed as First Seer took a seat on a low, cushioned platform and hunched forward. Despite his associate and himself being the only living beings within the room, he continued to speak in hushed tones, perhaps out of habit—or caution.

  “You are quite correct in that we must act,” he told the other. “As First and Second Seers of Dalen-Shala, the duty and the responsibility—dare I say the honor—fall to us.”

  “But—you said there was nothing we could do,” the Second Seer replied, puzzled.

  “No—I said there was no resistance we could offer; no way to defeat or save the Star-Cities.”

  “Then what—?”

  “But we might yet deny the Adversary his victory—and spare the galaxy the nightmare of destruction or enslavement at his hands.”

  The Second Seer stared back at his counterpart, puzzled.

  “We cannot win,” the First Seer elaborated, “but we can take his victory from him. Take away the spoils of his war—and a great many of his forces, in the bargain.”

  The Second Seer blinked, looking down, thinking. As grim realization came to him, he looked up at his colleague, his dark eyes widening. “You—you cannot mean—”

  The First Seer merely gazed impassively back at him. For several long moments, neither of them spoke. The Second Seer reached out with seemingly insensate hands and, finding a cushion, lowered himself into a seated position as well. Together they sat there, the one struggling to comprehend what the other had suggested.

  Finally, the Second Seer looked up and shook his head slowly. “How?” he whispered, his brows furrowed. “How would we be able to do such a thing?”

  “Easily,” the other said. “As a mercy.”

  “No—no,” the Second Seer blurted quickly. “I mean—by what mechanism or artifice might such an endeavor be brought to fruition?”

  “Ah.” The First Seer gazed up into the thin clouds of smoke that floated about and above them. He gestured and the image of a planet—all browns and yellows—appeared, floating there, as if by holographic projection. “It can be done,” he said, “though the task will not be easy, and we will require assistance from a number of our warriors.” He motioned again and the planet vanished, replaced by a rapidly-changing series of images.

  The Second Seer watched as his colleague laid out the steps necessary. When the last image faded into the clouds and vanished, he turned back to the First. “By the stars and the Star-Cities,” he breathed. “It—it can be done.”

  “As I said.” The other spread his spindly hands. “This stratagem was developed by one of our earliest seers, ages ago. It has been handed down only to First Seers. Eventually I would have shared it with you, whether we intended to enact it or not. But, now...” His voice trailed off and he raised his arms in a kind of shrug.

  The Second Seer appeared stunned and uncertain of himself. “We will require assistance both physical and metaphysical. Who would help us—who would perform the necessary steps?” He shook his head nervously. “If word of this got out to our warriors, some might agree that it is necessary, but many more might resist—or outright refuse. They might attempt to thwart it.” He met the other’s gaze evenly. “Or even rally the others against us.”

  “A valid concern,” the First Seer replied.

  “What can we do, then, if their thoughts run in that direction?”

  The First Seer stroked his narrow chin. “We must not allow that scenario to become a possibility. If their thinking does sway toward rejection of our plans, then we will have no choice. We will have to alter their thinking.”

  “Alter?” The Second Seer stared back at his counterpart for several long seconds, speechless.

  “How now?” asked the First, leaning forward, his black eyes peering up through heavy lids. “Does my proposal disturb you so? Cause you to lose so much complexion?”

  “I—” The Second Seer opened and closed his mouth several times, but said nothing.

  The First Seer smiled flatly. “You seem far more troubled by the thought of deceiving our warriors than by the other—”

  “No, no,” the Second Seer replied hastily. “I was merely...surprised. But I agree—that is the only option.” He nodded his head once. “I consent to your suggestion.”

  “It was no suggestion,” the First Seer snapped. Then he softened his tone and added, “But I welcome your agreement and your cooperation.”

  Somewhat mollified, the Second Seer nodded again. He looked away, thinking. “And what of us? Will we—?”

  “We will move on,” the First Seer stated firmly. “We will transcend. We will ascend. To the Above.” He met the other’s eyes. “It is only fitting. There should be witnesses. Someone to remember what was. To preserve the memories...”

  Eyes wide now, the Second Seer could only agree.

  “But we shall take our leave of the mortal plane only at the last moment,” the First added. “We will remain here as long as possible, to make certain all goes as it should. And then, as the critical moment arrives,” he said, “we shall...” He trailed off and then gazed upward, into the smoke and light above their heads.

  “I...understand,” the Second Seer said quickly.

  The First Seer steepled his slender fingers beneath his pointed chin. “I will choose the warriors best suited to our needs, and have them brought here for programming. Then we will be ready for when the Adversary strikes. When the need becomes absolute for us to act.”

 
The Second Seer winced at the other’s use of the term “programming,” but reluctantly he nodded.

  “Excellent,” said the First Seer—and a smile spread across his face; the other found it highly disturbing, if not downright chilling. “Then let us begin,” he said.

  3

  Days later, and a universe away:

  General Arnem rippa and his men had nearly given up hope when at last they stumbled across the tomb.

  It was not, at first glance, at all evident that it was a tomb. It stood some two meters above the barren ground, wreathed in nearly impenetrable fog that swirled about its base and about their legs. Its surface was smooth and unmarred by any cracks or indicators—natural or artificial—of what it might be, or how long it had rested there. It might have been metal or stone or something else; that, too, was not at all clear.

  Agrippa approached it almost gleefully. For hours he had led his Bravo Squad—finest soldiers of the Imperial III Legion, officially called the “Golden Phalanx” but more widely known as the “Kings of Oblivion”—through an unending ocean of nothingness. All along he had exhorted the troops to keep going; to not give in or give up hope, because he knew precisely where he was going. Of course, he knew no such thing at all. But he’d had to tell them so. It was that, or lie down and give up.

  As a feeling of despair had begun to descend upon his soul, one of the forward lookouts had called, “Something up here, General!”

  Agrippa had hurried forward with a renewed strength he’d scarcely guessed he still possessed. And now, as he reached it, he found himself quite startled.

  “What—what is it?” Torgon asked, frowning at it. “Is it—?”

  Agrippa raised one white-gauntleted hand to halt the speculative conversation before it could start. He stepped toward the object and studied it carefully, but from a respectful distance. It being the first solid object they had encountered in all the hours since the alleged goddess, Aurore, had seemingly disintegrated before their very eyes and abandoned them here in this strange limbo realm, he intended to do nothing to disturb it. At least, not quite yet.