The Shattering: Omnibus

by Van Allen Plexico

  Iapetus was scowling angrily but he appeared as bothered by the strange affect as anyone else.

  “You,” Solonis said, stepping forward, ignoring the legionaries and looking directly at the newly arrived figure. “Goraddon. But that’s not possible. You died.”

  “You know me?” The man in black turned his head sharply, staring straight at Solonis, watching as the young-looking man in the loincloth continued to move toward him. “How can you resist?” he asked. “Do I know you?” He wrinkled his nose slightly and appeared to sniff the air. “Ah! Yes. Indeed. Greetings, seer-god,” he said, his tone jovial now. He chuckled softly to himself. “You are certainly one to know all about dead gods, being one yourself—yes?”

  Solonis nodded. “Oh yes. I have no secrets. I’ve been dead for quite some time now. I merely linger in this plane until my task is complete.”

  “Then we have that in common,” replied Goraddon, “for I, too, have come here to complete a set of tasks.” He smiled. “However, once they have been accomplished, I plan on remaining here in the material universe for some time to come.”

  “I see,” said Solonis. “And what tasks would those be—assuming you don’t mind sharing that information.”

  “Certainly I do not,” The man in black said. He gestured toward Tamerlane and Agrippa. “I will admit to entirely selfish goals. First, for their continued effrontery to me, these two must die.” He then nodded towards Teluria, where she stood among the black-uniformed Sons of Terra, a look of profound fear upon her face. “And second, this one must make the ultimate sacrifice on my behalf.”

  “Sacrifice?” Solonis regarded him with curiosity. “That being...?”

  Goraddon’s smile widened. “She must take my place in the Below.”

  23

  A wave of small, nimble, triangular vehicles dropped away from the spinning cylinder that was the main body of the I Legion flagship Ascanius. Their rear engines igniting, the fighters swooped around to join their fellows already arrayed between their home vessel and the enemy flagship. Meanwhile, more of that ship’s fighters dropped from it and rocketed their way.

  “General Tamerlane ordered us not to engage with them,” Commander Ehrens pointed out from her position standing just ahead and to the right of the captain.

  “Unless they started some sort of provocative action themselves, first,” Dequoi snapped. He jabbed a stubby finger at the display, which showed the II Legion fighters coming their way, rapidly closing the gap between the two sides. “I call that provocative.”

  Ehrens said nothing, merely nodding her head once in acquiescence.

  A few moments later, the two squadrons of fighters clashed in the space between the motherships.

  “Zoom in,” Captain Dequoi shouted as he stood within the holographic tactical display on the bridge. In response, the image moved in tighter on the Ascanius and its adversary, the II Legion’s Atlantia. Dequoi could see the two waves of small and medium fighter craft converging halfway between the two capital ships. The blackness of space was lit by dozens of beams and tracers. Seconds later, explosions were added into the mix.

  “Give me the numbers,” Dequoi demanded.

  In response, the far right portion of the holographic image changed to display the numbers of surviving I Legion ships in red and the surviving II Legion ships in black. The numbers currently read twenty-five for the former and thirty-two for the latter.

  Dequoi approached the ship’s gunner. “Let’s see if we can give our lads some help,” he said.

  “Aye, sir,” the gunner replied. His hands moved over the controls even as he tapped directly into the ship’s artificial intelligence via the Aether link. In response, the gun turrets situated along the hull of the Ascanius came to life and extended outward, swiveling toward the action. They selected their targets and, one by one, they opened fire. Across the gulf of space, fighters belonging to the Sons of Terra began to explode.

  The Atlantia wasted no time in duplicating the Ascanius’s actions. Its own ship-to-ship guns emerged from their housings and deadly particle beams sliced out, tracking down the fighters piloted by members of the Lords of Fire.

  Dequoi kept one eye on the numbers and the other on the intricate maneuvering of the remaining ships. His anxiety increased by the moment. His gunners were having some success, as were the pilots of his legion’s fighters. The problem was, the other side was having roughly equal success, and they outnumbered his ships. His forces had reduced the other side to seventeen fighters, but his side now numbered only twelve.

  It was then that Dequoi and all the others on the Ascanius were very violently reminded just who they faced. This was not a training exercise against other members of I Legion. This was a very serious, very deadly conflict with the Sons of Terra, the most fanatical of the legions—and the most ruthless.

  “Captain,” one of the tactical officers called from her station. “The Atlantia has ignited her engines.”

  “Decided to turn tail and run, has she?” Commander Ehrens laughed.

  But all who were watching the holographic display could very easily tell that running away was definitely not in the plans for the Atlantia. Instead, the big II Legion flagship was accelerating—coming directly toward them.

  “What are they doing?” Ehrens said now, coming to stand beside Dequoi. “Do they mean to ram us?”

  The captain watched the Atlantia and noted the ship’s thruster signatures and drive patterns. “No,” he said, shaking his head. “She doesn’t mean to ram. She means to board.”

  “To board?” Ehrens was incredulous.

  “Their captain doesn’t trust the odds in a straight-up, ship-to-ship battle with us, I suspect,” he explained. “He’d rather go toe to toe with us in the hallways of the Ascanius.”

  Commander Ehrens appeared stricken. Such a tactic had never entered into her calculations. “What—what do we do, Captain?” she asked, ashen.

  “We shoot at their ship, and we prepare to evade them, Commander,” Dequoi said. “And, failing that—we prepare to fight them, hand to hand.”

  24

  “I was right, then,” Solonis said, peering at the man in black with a mix of curiosity and revulsion. “You did die, ages ago.”

  “Indeed,” Goraddon replied with a slight air of annoyance. “But—like you, apparently—I have found ways to work around that inconvenience.”

  “Might I inquire as to how,” Solonis asked, “seeing as that is an area of no small interest to me?”

  Goraddon shrugged. “I discovered Vorthan’s hidden reserve of crystals. Crystals he had already used to trap the spirits—the essences, and the raw power—of quite a few of our number.”

  Solonis frowned at this for a moment. Then his expression soured. He regarded the other being with open disgust. “You mean you fed upon them—fed upon the souls of our lost comrades?”

  Goraddon shrugged. “I did what I had to do. I survived.” He grinned. “I thrived.”

  “You have become nothing more than a cosmic vampire,” Solonis hissed. “Truly the Below is where you belong. It suits you perfectly—to dwell in eternity with the other depraved creatures not fit to walk the higher planes of creation.” He shook his head in disgust. “The Goraddon we see now is merely a pathetic ghost; a lost specter, wandering the planes of the multiverse, stirring up trouble here and there.”

  Goraddon glared at him. “Do not seek to anger me, seer-god. Your own pitiful condition might render you unsuitable as a sacrifice to the Powers of the Below, but do not doubt that I can dream up many other ways to torment you in your final hours. Before I slay you in turn.”

  Solonis shrugged defiantly. “I haven’t found death to be as dull as I’d feared. It’s almost as good as being alive.”

  Goraddon nodded. “I will see if I can remedy that situation for you, very soon.”

  Solonis started to issue a retort, but his words died in his throat as the flaming portal through which Goraddon had passed—a portal that had rema
ined in place since his arrival—now flared to even brighter, blazing life.

  “No,” hissed Goraddon through clenched teeth, his voice barely audible. “No—leave me be! Leave me to handle this on my own!”

  Another body began to take shape, to solidify within the blazing portal’s depths and move forward into the room. As it emerged, its size and form became readily apparent to all. It was a towering figure, perhaps just under three meters tall—barely able to fit through the opening. It stepped out of the flaming circle but the flames moved outward along with it, clinging to it. It stood there before them, tall and muscular and naked, sexless and bald. Short, curving horns protruded from its head and its deep red skin was on fire. Eyes like hot coals gazed out above a blunt nose and cruel lips. The eyes moved across everyone in the chamber, and as it looked upon them its expression registered a general disregard and contempt. Then its eyes fell upon Goraddon.

  “Ah,” it said—and its voice was like the sound of a storm; like some massive horn sounding and echoing in the depths; like the voice of a god. Or a devil. “There you are, Goraddon. I feared I had misplaced you.”

  “I am attending to the matters that remain to be settled between us,” the man in black called up to the flaming creature. Everyone present could detect the hint of intimidation—of fear—in his voice. “Only a short time more is needed, and all will be resolved.”

  The cruel mouth turned upward in a smirking smile. “Only a short time,” the voice that came from the raw matter of the multiverse boomed. “You require only a short time.”

  “Yes,” the man in black replied. “Yes, that is so. I assure you—”

  “You have always been among my most favored slaves, Goraddon,” the voice boomed. “That is why you yet exist—if your present form can truly be called existence.”

  “Ah!” gasped Solonis from within the crowd.

  The flaming creature ignored the sound. It reached out with a blazing hand and gently caressed Goraddon’s cheek; as the hand moved away, broad black scars formed on the flesh where it had touched him. Goraddon for his part didn’t cry out, but he clenched his teeth against the pain.

  “I thank you, my lord,” the man in black said, his words barely intelligible, “for your favor. Matters are nearly settled.”

  “Yes,” the creature replied. It turned and began to stride back toward the portal. As it reached the threshold it looked back over its shoulder at Goraddon. “Bring your affairs to a close quickly, my slave,” it said. “You have five minutes.”

  And then it stepped through the portal and was gone.

  25

  The Atlantia suffered massive damage as it blasted its way through the last of the Ascanius’s fighter screen and then ran headlong into the oncoming fire of the other flagship itself. Nevertheless, it kept coming, its fire kept to a minimum. Clearly its captain meant to capture the Ascanius while doing the least possible damage to her in the process.

  The Ascanius’s gunners were not constrained by such considerations. They threw everything they had at the enemy ship’s deflector shields and armored hull. Slowly but surely they chipped away, but in the end they couldn’t stop the Atlantia’s approach.

  “The Atlantia will be alongside in thirty seconds,” the tactical officer informed them—needlessly, for that information was displayed in the holographic image filling the upper section of the bridge level.

  “Do we warp out of here, Captain?” Commander Ehrens asked, her complexion pale white with nerves.

  “Run?” Dequoi regarded his second-in-command as if she’d proposed the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard. “We cannot abandon General Tamerlane and his party. To say nothing of Agrippa and the other Kings of Oblivion.”

  Ehrens appeared about ready to panic. “Very well. Then what—?”

  By way of reply, Dequoi drew his pistol and nodded toward the exit. “We meet them at the entryway,” he told his subordinate. “And provide them a warm welcome.”

  Followed by a battalion of Lords of Fire marines and crewmembers and anyone else who was aboard and who could point a gun and fire—or, in the case of the cooks, swing a meat cleaver—Captain Dequoi and Commander Ehrens hurried for the main airlock.

  26

  Goraddon whirled about, his back to the portal; it had instantly contracted once the demonic being had passed back through it, shrinking down to barely porthole size. Now it rotated slowly and silently, flames flickering about its rim, Stygian depths barely visible within.

  The man in black faced the assembled humans and his expression reflected his humiliation, his urgency, and his fury. One of the most powerful beings in the galaxy—upbraided and embarrassed in front of these poor mortals. It clearly filled him with rage.

  During the confrontation with the demonic creature, his iron-willed psychic grip over everyone else present had slipped, and now gasps sounded from the assembled soldiers and technicians. “What in the Above and the Below was that?” asked one, incredulous.

  “Above and Below? In this case, pretty much just the Below,” observed Solonis.

  Goraddon stalked over to where Tamerlane and Agrippa stood. The two generals moved into combat stances—cosmic flames danced across Tamerlane’s fingertips while Agrippa cycled his quad-rifle—but at a gesture from Goraddon, each of them froze again, along with everyone else present.

  “Draw no measure of encouragement from the Demon Lord’s words,” he barked. “My dealings with him will soon be resolved. Permanently.”

  Tamerlane and Agrippa both gritted their teeth, straining to make their bodies move despite the overwhelming mental force being exerted almost casually by the man in black. They continued to be entirely unsuccessful.

  “I know this place,” Goraddon said, looking about, nodding to himself. “It is the one facility in this galaxy with the potential to thwart me. I therefore left a garrison of my warriors here to guard it. I see you managed to get past them.” He shrugged. “No matter. I am here now, and I can deal with you all at last, as I should have done all along. “

  The two human leaders clearly had retorts they wished to deliver, but the man in black was not allowing them to speak.

  “I love my games, and I thought I could play them with you and yours,” Goraddon went on. “But the two of you have turned out to be greater thorns in my side than I ever could have imagined.” He regarded them with a look of mock sadness. “I am afraid,” he said, “that I am not what you would call a graceful loser.” He bowed his head ever so slightly. “And so I salute you for your successes, but now your time is at an end.”

  Before he could take any action against those two, however, Goraddon seemed to notice General Iapetus for the first time, and to recognize who he was. And then to recognize the two weapons he held.

  “You,” he whispered, turning slowly to face him. He moved closer, regarding the leader of the Sons of Terra with an almost cautious air, as though Iapetus might somehow find a way to break free of Goraddon’s mental lockdown. “You have been the wild card all along. I could never fully take your measure. Even now I am not certain what to make of you.” He considered. “That makes you, in my view, even more dangerous. Your sheer unpredictability, and your defiance of any authority beyond your own.”

  Goraddon reached out and casually took the Sword of Baranak from Iapetus’s nerveless fingers. He held it up and seemed to consider it for a moment. “I suppose this might come in handy.” Then he noticed the little pistol that Iapetus was straining with all his might to point at him. He frowned. “Oh,” he said. “One of those.” He snatched it away and gazed at it with distaste. “The sole legacy of dear Lucian. I had hoped these had all been located and destroyed long ago.”

  Iapetus was clearly struggling to speak. Goraddon regarded him with amusement. He gestured and eased up on the psychic lockdown. “Yes, General? Say your piece before I dispose of you forever.”

  “Just one word,” Iapetus replied.

  Goraddon became aware that the General had managed to ra
ise his index finger from his side and was now pointing it at him. Goraddon frowned.

  “Bang,” said Iapetus.

  A popping sound as the air pressure changed, and then Goraddon staggered back, the two weapons he’d taken from the general falling from his hands as he clutched at his chest. The god-slayer gun implanted within Iapetus’s arm had fired, as soundlessly as those weapons ever did, and point-blank into the man in black.

  Its effect, however, was not what anyone present could have wished for.

  Those weapons, originally created in part by Vorthan and fully weaponized by Lucian prior to his great rebellion in the Golden City, produced devastating results when fired at one of Those Who Remain. The tiny red crystals that powered the weapons drew the spirit—the soul—of a god inside, trapping it there. That very thing had been done to the vast majority of the gods in millennia long gone by. It was the reason why there were so few gods still extant, and why they were known as Those Who Remain. To think that a weapon of that sort could be fired directly into a god, and that entity be only mildly injured, if at all—it was practically inconceivable.

  Yet there stood Goraddon, unharmed, unhurt, and with a grim fire burning in his eyes. In a flash he crossed the space between himself and Iapetus, his open hand lashing out in a broad swipe that impacted the general and hurtled him backwards. Iapetus didn’t stop tumbling until he struck the far wall. He lay there in a crumpled heap, not moving.

  The man in black stood there unharmed, laughing. “That sort of weapon will scarcely harm me, and certainly will not slay me,” he said, regarding Iapetus with contempt. “Though I will admit that it was ingenious of you to hide it inside your own body. As I told Solonis, I have consumed the raw power of dozens of other gods. Having a fraction of it taken away scarcely bothers me at all.”

  Goraddon started forward, clearly intent on beginning his campaign of slaughter by finishing off Iapetus. Alas, that was not to be. For as one man in black—the god Goraddon—stepped forward to administer the coup de grace, the other man in black—the human general, Iapetus—was snatched away. A panel slid soundlessly open in the featureless gray wall behind the general, revealing at first only darkness. Then a pair of huge gray arms reached out, grasped the nearly unconscious Iapetus, and drew him bodily back into the hidden recess. The panel closed behind him.