The Shattering: Omnibus

by Van Allen Plexico

  The swirling, fiery doorway snapped closed, a pressure wave nearly knocking everyone over. And then it was done.

  Goraddon the Adversary—the man in black—was gone.

  At least, for now.

  No one in the control chamber celebrated. None of them even spoke. They all simply breathed; breathed, sat down on the floor, and tried to forget that to which they had just borne witness.

  Unfortunately for the men and women of the three legions gathered there, the worst was yet to come.

  29

  The special ops team from the Ascanius was, in truth, simply a squad of I Legion marines who were willing to volunteer for what was likely a suicide mission.

  Strapped into a tiny capsule, they had been ejected from the far side of the flagship, where—if all had gone according to plan—the Atlantia had not noted their departure. They then were to curve around their mothership, hugging close to its hull to avoid detection if at all possible. Finally, because the two ships had now been forcibly joined at the airlocks by the Sons, they were to zip across the now-very-short distance between their ship and the Atlantia and attach themselves to its bridge section. From then on, it was anyone’s guess what might happen.

  They’d made it around the Ascanius and were now hurtling across the void between the two ships. Fortunately, that was an extremely short trip, as the two ships were linked—forcibly—at the docking ports. Even so, it felt to the men and women aboard the little pod as if they were out there, exposed to enemy fire, for hours.

  At last they reached the Atlantia and swept over its hull, moving as rapidly as possible toward its forward section and the bridge.

  “Almost there,” breathed Major Talin Trekiyak, the marine in charge of the operation. He was leaning over the shoulder of the pilot, Captain Darius Pettway. “You’re doing fine so far.”

  “The fact that you’re alive to say that,” Pettway grumbled, “supports your theory.”

  Trekiyak didn’t laugh. His eyes were glued to the tiny, two-dimensional screen that was his and Pettway’s only means of seeing out of the tiny, barrel-shaped vehicle. In truth, all it was, essentially, was a life support cabin fitted out with maneuvering engines. “Three seconds to contact,” he announced to the other seven soldiers crammed inside with them. “Brace!”

  The capsule smashed hard into the hull of the Atlantia and locked on. Instantly energy lances slashed downward, cutting through layers of steel, ceramics, insulation, wiring, and more, until the way was open directly into the bridge level of the enemy flagship.

  “Go!” Trekiyak shouted. “Go!”

  The nine marines leaped down through the hole and into the command level of the Atlantia. The officers of that ship were taken completely by surprise and were utterly unprepared. The maneuver was nothing they ever would have expected from the Lords of Fire, a legion that carried itself with such feigned—in their eyes—dignity and honor.

  In truth, that was precisely why Captain Dequoi had first dreamed up the idea of preparing to do it. He knew it was a maneuver the Sons of Terra might well attempt, but no one else. The sheer notion of turning the tables in such a way appealed to a perverse streak in Dequoi, and he’d ordered his marines to practice it over and over until they could execute it at a moment’s notice.

  That preparation was paying off now.

  The I Legion marines fanned out across the bridge level, their guns blazing as they shot the officers and techs that presented them with no alternatives.

  As Trekiyak himself leapt over a railing and advanced on the captain’s center seat, the Atlantia’s surviving officers formed up a defensive line, surrounding and protecting their captain. Those officers opened fire and a hail of plasma blobs shot in Trekiyak’s direction. He dove behind the navigational console, the troops that had followed him in doing likewise before rising up to return fire.

  Like the marines of I Legion, the Sons of Terra officers had opted for plasma guns in order to reduce the risk of penetrating the hull and venting the atmosphere into space. The superheated spheres that fired from the weapons generally wouldn’t harm the ship’s structure but would leave a pretty severe hole in a human body; even one covered in smartcloth.

  Trekiyak’s Lords of Fire marines, on the other hand, hadn’t taken the time to break out the plasma guns. They’d simply snatched up their normal assault weapons, energy blasters and quad rifles. The sound those weapons made within the enclosed space of the Atlantia’s bridge was deafening, and the danger they represented to the integrity of the vessel was real and extreme. Part of the rationale of utilizing such dangerous weapons aboard a ship was the psychological effect; the enemy might be more willing to surrender if the alternative was suffocating in the vacuum of space.

  The Sons of Terra didn’t appear troubled by such concerns. They kept up the fight, battling to the last soldier standing. At last Trekiyak had to resort to hurling a pair of stun grenades across the bridge. He understood that doing so might well damage the ship beyond repair—perhaps even send it careening out of orbit and down toward the planet’s surface, with him and his troops still aboard. At this point, however, he was willing to take that chance. The alternatives were seeing either the Atlantia’s officers defeat his boarding party, or the Atlantia’s own assault parties succeed in taking the key stations aboard the Ascanius.

  The shock grenades, fortunately, did their job and nothing more. They knocked the remaining Sons of Terra soldiers on the bridge down flat, keeping them there just long enough for the marines to move in and take them all prisoner.

  Seizing control of the ship’s functions, Trekiayak immediately disconnected the Atlantia’s airlock section from the Ascanius, hurling quite a few very startled Sons of Terra out into the void. He then began locking down other decks and sections, sealing the remaining Sons in their cabins and work areas. Within four minutes, the Atlantia was completely under his control.

  “Captain Dequoi,” Trekiayak sent via the Aether to his commanding officer on the other ship, an immense feeling of satisfaction sweeping over him at a job well done. “Code gold. Repeat, code gold. All is well here. The Atlantia is ours.”

  30

  Four more shuttles that had descended from the Ascanius landed in a broad circle near the tower. No sooner had their landing gear touched down than their hatches slid open and dozens of I Legion troopers emerged, clad in everything from crimson smartcloth to their own variations of the Deising-Arry heavy armor, weapons at the ready. The horde of soldiers rapidly fanned out, moving against the outnumbered and utterly surprised Sons of Terra and surrounding them.

  Word had reached the Lords of Fire and Kings of Oblivion on the planet’s surface just ahead of the shuttles themselves: The II Legion flagship, Atlantia, had been captured by Tamerlane’s soldiers in orbit. The Sons of Terra still aboard it were now all prisoners of the Lords of Fire, at least for now. There would be no relief, no reinforcements, coming to assist the party on the ground. Considering that so many starships belonging to all three legions had already been lost over the past few months in combat with the many attacking powers, from the Rao to the Riyahadi, none of the legions had much left to throw at the others. Being only a single legion, the Sons of Terra found themselves at the most severe disadvantage against the I and III. For all intents and purposes, the civil war among the legions was now over, and Tamerlane and Agrippa were the winners.

  Colonel Barbarossa, now the de facto leader of the II Legion, was many things: he was a good soldier, a canny political operative, and arguably even a successful double-agent, having posed as essentially a defector from the ranks of Iapetus’s armies before switching his loyalties back over to the Sons of Terra at a critical moment weeks earlier.

  One thing Barbarossa was not, however, was a fool.

  “General Tamerlane,” he said, loudly and clearly and mostly for the benefit of his own army. He saluted. “General Agrippa.” He saluted again. “I acknowledge your tactical advantage in orbit and in the field, as well as the disa
ppearance of our own general. Therefore, as acting commander of II Legion, I submit myself and my forces to your overall command.” He bowed his head and waited to see what would happen next.

  Tamerlane exchanged quick glances with Agrippa and then stepped forward. He spoke as loudly and clearly as Barbarossa had. “Colonel, I acknowledge your wise action and I thank you.” He gazed out at the dozens of troops clad in black—troops that until this moment had been ordered to capture or kill him—and he added, “I welcome the good men and women of the Sons of Terra back into the fold, and into the good graces of the Empire.” Then he leaned forward, very close to Barbarossa, and whispered, “If I didn’t need you to keep this lot of murderers and cutthroats in line, I’d kill you myself, right now.”

  Barbarossa appeared to accept this statement in good humor. “Understood, General,” he said with a half-smile.

  Tamerlane only bristled at this. He started to turn away, then paused. “Colonel,” he said, “aren’t you the least bit curious as to what has become of General Iapetus?”

  Barbarossa appeared to consider this for a moment, then stuck out his lower lip and shrugged. “Not particularly, no, General,” he replied. “Just as long as he isn’t coming back.”

  Tamerlane blinked at this. Then he laughed. He couldn’t help but do so. “Very well, Colonel,” he said. “To be honest, I believe that might mark the starting point of a decent working relationship between us.”

  31

  “I will be sending you back shortly,” said the voice that echoed down from the ceiling, “once your programming has been slightly adjusted.”

  “Programming?” General Ioan Iapetus nearly shouted the word. “Programming? I’m not a robot! Not a computer!” He wrestled against the metal bands that held him firmly down in the gray metal chair. “You can’t just reprogram me!”

  “Indeed I can,” the cold, mechanical voice stated. “And clearly such adjustments are needed. You demonstrate that fact even now.”

  Iapetus fought to hold his panic down. The big gray alien that had grabbed him and pulled him through the hidden door had disappeared into some other portion of the facility; from what little he had seen thus far, the place was a labyrinthine maze of cold gray walls and dim lighting. Before it had shuffled away, however, it had shoved him into this chair and held him there long enough for the bands to emerge and clasp him in place. A few moments later, the ceiling had begun talking to him. And it was infuriating.

  “I am General Ioan Iapetus, regent and Taiko of the Imperium,” he stated, keeping his tone even and under tight control. “If you—whoever you are—wish to engage in productive and mutually beneficial diplomatic relations with my government, you can start by letting me go!”

  “I have observed you since your arrival on this world,” the voice said by way of response. “I have studied your words, your attitudes, your posture, your manner—everything about you.”

  Iapetus scowled at that. “Why?”

  “Because I find you of potential use,” the voice said.

  “Use? To you?” He scoffed. “Do you mean as a hostage? As a slave? What?”

  “The Dyonari have a term for it. I am not certain what it would be in your language.” A pause, then, “Their term, in your language, literally translates as, ‘A physical extension of the true self.’”

  This meant nothing to Iapetus. He reddened. “What I will extend will be an invasion fleet, onto this planet, once I’m out of here,” Iapetus growled.

  “That would be inadvisable.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because my forces outnumber yours at the present time by a ratio of roughly twenty to one. And that number only increases by the moment.”

  This brought Iapetus up short. He blinked, absorbing what the voice had just said. Then, “Your forces? What forces?”

  The mechanical voice seemed perfectly pleased to discuss this topic. It held virtually nothing back, cataloguing numbers and types of capital ships, carriers, fighters, dreadnoughts, troop transports, and so on. It listed types and numbers of personal firearms, ammunition, flight-packs, shields, armor, and more. After five minutes of this Iapetus felt he had a very firm understanding of the arsenal possessed by this strange entity. “Alright—enough,” he said, and the voice halted in mid-sentence. “So—assuming all of this is true—”

  “It is true,” the voice said. “I have no reason to fabricate this information.”

  “Where is it?”

  “These vehicles and munitions are stored in various secure locations throughout the galaxy.” Mist wafted down from the ceiling and a holographic display formed within it, showing rows of the very starships and tanks and transports the voice had just described. They sat within vast hangars—each of them utterly empty. Not a living soul was visible in any of the pictures.

  “And where is your army, to actually employ all of these things?” Iapetus asked, frowning as he watched. “Where are the soldiers and drivers and pilots and medics and—?”

  “A new army is being…created…even now,” the voice replied after a few seconds of silence.

  Created? Iapetus started to ask what it meant by that, but the voice started up again.

  “I have been dormant for some time.” A touch of sadness seemed to form within its otherwise flat, emotionless tone. “During my hibernation, those who once served me have mostly died out. Only a scant few remain—and they will not endure very much longer.”

  “The big gray aliens,” Iapetus guessed.

  “Yes.”

  “How long has it been? Since you were last awake?”

  A pause. “Twenty-one thousand of your years,” it said at last.

  Iapetus could scarcely process that. One thing about it struck him immediately, however: it was before humans first came to the stars. Whatever this entity was, with its giant fleet of ships and arsenal of weaponry, it had not reached out into the galaxy to enforce its will in all the time since the human race was still stuck on Holy Terra, barely able to fly to the Earth’s own moon. The thought of it staggered him. And then the wheels in his mind began to turn.

  “Are you one of the gods of the Golden City?” he asked.

  “No. I have become aware of the beings to which you refer only in the time since I reawakened, but I know nothing of them.”

  “Oh.” Iapetus found that little bit of information interesting. The gods hadn’t been active, or even known, twenty-one thousand years earlier? He filed that away for possible later use.

  For a few seconds neither of them spoke. Then Iapetus decided to throw the dice—to attempt the gambit he had been forming within his mind. Alas, he didn’t get the chance.

  “It appears you are needed,” the voice said to him before he could get a word out.

  “Needed? For what?”

  “There is an overload in the system. Rogue programming has been introduced, and a very potent source of energy is being channeled into my systems. It could prove catastrophic.”

  “Catastrophic as in—?”

  “As in the complete destruction of every star in the galaxy.”

  Iapetus struggled to comprehend this. “Yes,” he said at length. “Yes, I do believe that requires addressing.”

  “Therefore,” the voice continued, “I must move my timetable forward. Your reprogramming—”

  That word again. “That’s not necessary, I assure you,” Iapetus said quickly. A mechanical arm had emerged from a recessed panel next to his chair and a long needle in turn emerged from it. He eyed the arm and the needle nervously as it slowly extended toward him and added, “Simply watch me. Judge me based on what you see in the next little while.”

  The arm and the needle continued relentlessly in his direction.

  Iapetus swallowed. He had no real idea what “reprogramming” might entail, but he was certain he wanted no part of it.

  “Wouldn’t you rather have me…undiluted?” he asked. “The real me? Pure? Effective?”

  The arm continued in his direct
ion for another second, and another…and it halted. It remained there, unmoving, less than a centimeter from his arm, as a bead of sweat formed on his brow and slowly wound its way down his cheek. Then the arm reversed its course and retracted back inside the recess.

  Iapetus slowly exhaled. He realized he’d been holding his breath.

  “Very well,” the voice said. “You will have another opportunity to demonstrate your worth.”

  “That is a wise decision,” Iapetus began. “I—”

  A flash, nearly blinding him, followed by a low hum. Iapetus reeled, his muscles seizing up. When the hum ceased, he slumped forward, almost unconscious.

  “What—what was that?” he demanded when he could speak again. Spots were dancing before his eyes.

  “I have downloaded a unit of information directly into your cerebral cortex,” the voice replied. “You now possess the basic knowledge necessary to operate the control console and possibly—possibly—overcome the hostile programming that has been placed within it.”

  Iapetus closed his eyes and thought about what the voice had just said. He almost gasped as he saw within his mind the control station, the touchsquares and levers and displays—and found that he knew precisely what each did, and how to operate the entire system.

  “Alright,” he said, impressed. “I understand.” He chuckled to himself. “I literally understand.”

  The metal bands holding him down snapped loose and retracted. Unsteadily at first, he stood.

  “Don your new uniform, if you are to enter my service,” the voice said.

  Iapetus looked down and saw an odd, metallic, multi-colored outfit lying on the flat surface of a console nearby. He started to object, then shrugged and began to undress.

  A minute later a door slid open across the room. Now suitably attired, he walked toward it, then paused and looked back into the room. “No threats?” he asked, half-mockingly. “No, ‘Do it or else?’”