“She was Co-Commander Madalena. I trust that you remember her. After all, she acted in your service, and your orders led to her death.”
The seers glanced at one another. Their increasing uneasiness was apparent.
“Now, gentlemen,” Tamerlane picked back up, “we could have a trial, public and open. But that could lead to all sorts of difficulties between our people and yours. And, the stars know, the last thing the human race needs at this juncture is another war.” He raised his right hand higher, and the flames that wreathed it flared brighter. “Or we could simply declare your guilt as manifest and obvious—after all, it is, yes?—and I could proceed with a summary execution.”
The seers gasped and drew back, now openly fearful.
“That, too, could lead to complications,” Tamerlane added. “And so…” He turned to the woman in red.
“And so,” Teluria said, moving to the forefront, “the general has asked me to resolve the situation. And resolve it I shall.” She smiled, and her smile froze the blood of the two aliens. “For all anyone on your side of things knows, a god or goddess opened a portal into your room and dragged you away.” She smiled. “And that perception is perfectly fine with me. I simply wished to give the good general and his people a firsthand look at the two of you, before…” Her voice trailed off and she smiled at them again.
“We very much appreciate that,” Tamerlane was saying even as Teluria gestured to open a new portal.
She nodded to him, then grasped the collar of the first seer and hurled him through. A moment later she did the same with the second. Then she turned back to Tamerlane one last time. “I bid you farewell, General,” she said. She hesitated then, reaching out and stroking his cheek. She appeared wistful—something highly unusual for her. “I apologize for my behavior when we first met. I could make excuses—Goraddon was controlling me, and so on—but it wouldn’t be fair. I knew what I was doing. And I was wrong. I’m glad you’ve allowed me the opportunity to make a few amends.”
Tamerlane bowed to her. “Your assistance has been invaluable, Lady, and I will always be grateful. As will the Empire.” He looked back up at her and smiled. “I believe, whatever your faults may have been in the past, you’ve gone a very long way toward redeeming yourself in these last few weeks.”
She gave him a dubious expression by way of reply, then laughed. “You will excuse me. Those two must be seen after before they attempt to escape.”
“You intend to punish them,” Tamerlane said, the words in the form of a statement rather than a question.
“Oh, most assuredly I do,” the goddess replied. “In ways they can scarcely imagine.” Then, “Goodbye, Ezekial,” she said. “I very much doubt you will see me again.”
With that, Teluria swept through the portal, her robes flying behind her, and vanished.
Tamerlane watched the portal close, considered for a moment, then turned to Sister Delain. “Upon reflection, I fear those two might have preferred to choose the summary execution option over what she has in store for them,” he said.
“Then I’m glad you didn’t offer them a choice,” Delain replied bitterly.
He continued to stare at the spot where the portal had closed for a few seconds longer. Then Delain reached out, took his hand, and pulled. “You’ve grown too tense again,” she said. “You need to relax.”
Tamerlane looked down at her, smiled, and allowed her to lead him away. The hatch at the rear of the bridge closed as they passed through it.
Titus Elaro watched them go, grinning. Then he turned to Colonel Arani.
She took one look at his expression and snorted. “Don’t even think about it,” she growled.
Dejected, Elaro crossed his arms and leaned back against the railing, staring out at the stars.
For a few seconds no one said anything, and only the low hums and beeps of the ship’s systems and the low murmur of the bridge officers working at their stations filled the air. Then Arani leaned in close, her voice a whisper so low even he barely heard it, and said, “You’re not telling me you’re giving up that easily, are you?”
It took him a couple of seconds to process this. When he finally did, he turned—just in time to see her stepping through the rear hatch. She looked back at him and smiled—a smile as radiant as a new dawn.
Elaro’s breath caught in his throat. He felt the weight of the world—of the galaxy—lifting off his shoulders for the first time in days.
He was off the bridge and through the hatch less than two seconds later.
3
The sun had just begun to drop below the edge of the high walls surrounding the Old Palace on Sacred Terra, washing the ramparts in a bronze glow and paradoxically granting the entire tableau a sense of both ancient permanence and transient ephemeralness. The smells that wafted up from the vast ruin of a battlefield that was the palace’s exterior grounds remained severe and all-pervasive, even these many days after the last body had been removed. The very earth around the ancient complex had been traumatized by the events of the Nightfall War, to say nothing of the hearts and minds of the people who lived there, and who had—somehow—lived through it.
On a broad balcony that extended out from the throneroom and across much of the width of the central sanctum itself sat two men, their legs up on ottomans and their heads leaned back against cushions. They were not soft men, indulging in endless recreation or laziness. These two were hard men; men who had led the resistance against the invading hordes. These were men who had not won the war on their own, but who—by simply managing to stay alive and to keep a substantial portion of the rest of the human race alive until unexpected help arrived—had won a substantial, almost incalculable victory all the same. No, these were not slothful men engaged in idleness. These were warriors of the first rank, able at this late date at last to enjoy perhaps a brief moment’s rest; to catch their breath before plunging onward into the next fray.
As the sun vanished below the wall’s edge and the lighting shifted, casting them into deep shadow, the taller and more muscular of the two spoke up. “The Earth is nearly secure,” he rumbled. “Only two continents remain to be cleansed.” He shifted in his seat, his wounds troubling him. “It is taking this long only because—”
“I know full well why it’s taking this long,” the dark-haired man in red replied. “Because I have severely limited the number of troops they can send down. But I have no intention of allowing that army of clones to gain a foothold on this planet. Not if I can help it, anyway.” He shook his head for emphasis. “We will do this ourselves.”
“Honestly, Ezekial,” the big man said after a moment, “do you truly believe we could deny them and their army the Earth right now, if they chose to take it? The only reason their numbers here are limited is because they have chosen to honor your limits. Their forces vastly outnumber ours. Their technology is superior. And—unlike us—they haven’t just spent the past few months being beaten down across a hundred theaters of action on half a hundred worlds.” He inhaled deeply and winced as the pain stabbed at him again. “To the contrary, everything I’ve seen of theirs so far appears brand new. Sparkling clean. As if it has just rolled off the assembly lines.” He snorted a laugh. “Including their soldiers—which is likely true.”
“I doubt we could deny them anything they set their sights on,” Tamerlane replied dryly. “But that isn’t the point. If I’m able to put my foot down and set certain areas of the Empire as off limits to them, and they will respect my wishes on that, I intend to do so. I would be remiss not to.” He gazed off into the distance for a moment, then continued, “Especially with Iapetus now on the inside, working with them.”
“Certainly,” Agrippa agreed, nodding. He turned his head stiffly—his healing was coming along slowly but surely, the doctors all agreed—and met the other man’s eyes. “Just as long as you cling to no illusions.”
“Illusions?”
“Illusions as to exactly whom it is that decides where these people
go and where they don’t. It’s not your orders that are keeping them off the Earth now. It’s their decision not to land in force.”
Tamerlane took this in but didn’t reply. In his heart he knew that—he knew it very well. But that didn’t mean he had to like it, or even wanted to think about it. At least, not more than he had to.
“What do you think of them?” Agrippa asked after a brief silence, broken only by the sound of a palace servant bringing them fresh drinks and leaving them on the small table between their chairs.
“The Hands? Isn’t that what they called themselves?”
“Hands of the Machine,” Agrippa said. “Whatever that is.”
Tamerlane spread his hands before him. “They’re us, aren’t they? Clones? Genetic duplicates, force-grown in a remarkably short time.”
“An astonishingly short time,” Agrippa agreed. “The technology behind them—the technology that allows them to exist at all—is far superior to our own. Yet another reason to be wary of them, and to remember that, for all intents and purposes, they are in charge now—not us.”
“I wouldn’t go that far,” Tamerlane shot back. “The Empire is still in our hands.”
“Is it?” Agrippa regarded him dubiously. “Is it truly?”
Tamerlane frowned but said nothing.
“What do you suppose Iapetus is up to right now?” Agrippa asked, changing the subject as he sensed Tamerlane growing agitated. “Is he still the happy servant of his new mechanical master and its clone army? Or has the old Iapetus begun to resurface yet?” Agrippa considered his own words and laughed. “Of course the man is happy. We thought he was making some sort of selfless sacrifice by staying behind—but of course what he actually did was to ally himself with what is now the most powerful—and independent—military force remaining in the galaxy.” Agrippa shook his head in wonder. “He must be thrilled.”
Now Tamerlane laughed. “I hope he’s still happy. For his master’s sake as much as for his own. Because—let’s be honest—no matter how blissful and content Ioan Iapetus might appear to be, under the surface I’m confident the same cold, hard man is still present. When the day comes that our old Son of Terra reawakens, well—” He winked at Agrippa. “May the gods help that Machine.”
4
“Machine? Do you hear me?” called Ioan Iapetus impatiently. He had been shouting at the ceiling for some time now, but receiving no reply. It had begun to grate on him.
“Do not think you can only converse with me according to your timetable,” he said. “I gave up everything I had and agreed to help you—to work with you—because the very fate of the galaxy lay in the balance.” He spread his hands. “As far as I can see, the galaxy yet exists. The crisis has been averted—at least, for the present. And so I would speak with you about the next stages of our plans.” He waited, and still no reply. “Do you hear me?” he demanded, his voice now louder still. “I said I would converse about the next stages of—”
“Of our plan?” came a cold, almost mechanical voice from nowhere, echoing throughout the control room.
“Yes,” Iapetus replied. “Precisely. We can—”
“You think of yourself as an equal to me?” the voice asked.
“An equal? Well, now—that’s not the issue, or the point,” he said. “I merely wish to draw up our—that is to say, the—plans for the next stages of our—of the—operation.”
“What operation would that be?” the voice asked.
Iapetus frowned. “The orderly policing of the galaxy, of course. The restoration of stability and security following the events of the past few weeks.”
The voice was silent for a few moments, and Iapetus grew agitated again, suspecting it had abandoned him once more. But then it returned, asking, “You believe I should devote my resources to that end? To becoming actively involved in this galaxy again? To seeking to impose my will upon it?”
Iapetus shrugged, though he had no real idea if the intelligence with which he was conversing could see that gesture—or understand it. “You possess the resources. An entire vast army, plus ships to carry them about, weapons and armor and—”
“I have possessed that starfleet and all the weapons in my arsenals for ages,” the voice stated evenly. “And now, with the DNA of your kind—a rising people, with so much potential—serving as the basis for a new army, I find myself fully prepared for any possible challenges that might arise. One has been defeated now. Should I not simply return to my dormant state until the next comes along?”
“You must be proactive,” Iapetus replied, “so that such a circumstance cannot arise again.”
“Perhaps. There is merit in your words. But still I wonder. Having the means to enforce the peace—to conquer—does not necessitate doing so. Nor does it have to naturally follow.”
“I believe it does,” Iapetus countered. “Possessing the capability, you therefore inherit the responsibility.”
“Do I?” The voice seemed to ask this as a genuine question, with none of the cynical tone that had marked much of its statements up till now. “You believe that my simply having soldiers and weapons at my disposal means I must use them to enforce a particular set of standards upon the galaxy?”
Iapetus nodded. “I do.” He paused, his eyes narrowing. “Or,” he continued a moment later, “you could leave that all to me. Grant me command over your forces. I will be happy to lead them—to direct them in a campaign to stabilize and secure the realms of mankind and beyond.” He smiled up at the ceiling, imaging somehow that that was where the entity lived. “You need not lift a finger—or whatever appendages you possess. You can leave the galaxy safely in my care.”
The voice remained silent as seconds ticked by, then minutes. Iapetus waited. He clasped his hands behind his back to mask his nervous movements. He had thrown the dice. Everything hung on the entity’s reaction and response to his proposal. He had placed himself in this position deliberately, the moment he’d come to understand that his own legion was broken. Broken and handed over by that weakling Barbarossa to Tamerlane and Agrippa without his permission! From that moment forward, this new, seemingly mechanical entity and its clone warriors and ships had appeared to him to represent the truly dominant rising force in the cosmos—and he intended to rise along with it.
After a few more seconds the voice returned, delivering its verdict. Iapetus listened carefully and with great anticipation for what it said—for what might lie ahead.
“I have calculated ten million different possible options and outcomes,” the voice told him. “And I have decided to follow your advice.”
Relief and excitement washed over Iapetus. “I am very pleased to hear that,” he said.
“I will order my new army forward, to move about the galaxy, dispensing justice and countering all threats to the peace and security of the sentient beings who inhabit it.”
“Excellent,” Iapetus said. “Now—I have a few ideas as to the disposition of forces along—”
“But,” the voice interrupted, “I have no intentions whatsoever of allowing you to lead it.”
Iapetus stopped short and frowned. He looked up at the ceiling again. “What—what do you mean? Surely your army needs a general—a sound strategic mind—to guide it in the field? That is what I offer—what I can provide.”
“What you offer is of value, I will admit,” the voice said. “But it is valuable within certain parameters and in certain circumstances only.”
“I disagree,” Iapetus began. “I strongly object to—”
“Even so,” the voice said, “your selfless act of leaving behind your people and your own army to come and assist me is noted and appreciated, and I vow to make the most of that sacrifice on your part.”
Iapetus was growing extremely agitated now. “What? What does that mean?”
Silence.
“Speak to me! Do you hear me, machine? What does that mean? Answer me!”
Iapetus was so angry, and so busy looking up at the ceiling and yel
ling at it, that he failed to notice the tiny robot that scooted out from its concealed compartment in the wall nearby and rolled up next to him. An arm extended from it, a long needle at its end. A liquid dripped from the tip. The robot jabbed Iapetus with the needle, causing the former general to cry out, more in dismay than in pain. A second later, he had fallen to the floor, unconscious. A moment after that a second, much larger robot moving on triangular treads rolled out, extended its thick, telescoping arms, grasped Iapetus firmly, and began to drag him away.
When next the former general awoke, he found himself being loaded by that large robot into a sort of transparent, vertical box—a casket, the thought came to him, as he tried to shake the sleep from his brain.
“What are you doing?” he cried, attempting to wrestle himself free. It was too late. The robot shoved him back into the recesses of the box and a clear front panel slid down, sealing itself tight, trapping him inside.
“As I told you before,” the voice said then, the sound now coming from a small speaker set into the inside of his box, “your willingness to contribute—your sacrifices in doing so—are noted and appreciated. In order to make the most of your contributions, I have decided to keep you in suspended animation until such time as you—and your ruthless style and manner—are needed.”
“What?” Iapetus shouted his objections even as he smashed his fists into the transparent panel in front of him. He beat at the glasslike substance relentlessly, until his fists bled, all to no avail.
“You!” he cried. “Machine! Listen to me! Hear me! This is a mistake—this is not what I—”
A gas flooded the box.
“No! No!”
A second later, Iapetus slumped into a deep sleep. A moment after that, the box retracted into a niche in the wall and a gray panel slid down over it. He was gone; it was as if he had never been there.
General Ioan Iapetus had effectively vanished from the galaxy, and from history.
For now.
The Shattering: Omnibus Page 90
