Wars

by Alex Deva

  “And nothing in these people’s technology can do that, right?“

  “Not unless crude metal axes can make things disappear so thoroughly that my watcher doesn't notice.“

  “Which they can't. Extremely intriguing. What happened to the other savage?“

  The recording played back again, forwards and backwards, showing the white bolt travelling through air a few paces, meeting the body of the warrior and exploding together with him.

  “Was that plasma?“

  “Yes. Very, very hot plasma at very, very high pressure.“

  “Where did it come from?“

  “Nowhere at all. Look.“

  Even at very slow playback speeds, the plasma projectile appeared almost instantaneously right in front of the man. It did not accelerate; instead it seemed to fly at constant speed from the very first moment.

  “That's simply impossible. Plasma cannot accelerate that fast.“

  “That's right. But I have a theory.“

  “This world you've picked is truly amazing, fletcher Keai. Please tell me more about your theory.“

  “Well, look at the recording again.“

  Inside the alien's head, the recording continued. Nothing except the rustling of the leaves in the wind gave any indication of movement. The watcher, having lost its lock, stayed absolutely still in relation to the trees.

  Nearly a minute went by, and then the boy reappeared.

  He seemed to be stepping out of something, the slow playback revealed. Exactly the same way he'd disappeared, only in reverse.

  “There's something there,“ observed the voice again.

  “If there is, it's nothing that I could find. I've visited that place on foot. I’ve been in that very space. I’ve measured everything, and recalibrated all my instruments. The only measurable things there were atmospheric gases, dust and some tiny flying animals which are everywhere. And no kind of energy that didn't belong there. Nothing that could explain this.“

  “Must’ve been spaceshift, then.“

  “Without any energy transfer? Not even we can do something like that. Our beamers are quite visible in orbit, and they need a receptor on the other side of the planet. The only interesting things in orbit of this planet are my ship and its natural satellite, which is much too far away.“

  “So what's you theory?“

  “That something is actually there. That the boy entered that something, and then killed the other man with some kind of plasma launcher, which had been waiting for him inside.“

  “That would explain the instant acceleration, because it wouldn't...“

  “...be instant. It would've launched and accelerated in that enclosure.“

  “But there's no enclosure there.“

  “No, Control. Absolutely nothing at all.“

  There was silence. The kind of silence that an alien being makes when it's not even talking to a voice in his head.

  “What did the boy do?“

  “His mother came to get him. She, too, knew exactly where to come, and I accompanied her. They asked each other if they were alright, spared a look at the dead body, and then walked back to their village.“

  “And then?“

  “Nothing out of the ordinary, as far as I can tell. The village was affected by the invasion, but not destroyed. The locals picked up the pieces and went on with their lives. At this very moment, the boy is looking after some domestic animals. His mother is by the river, preparing food.“

  “No more disappearing into nothingness? No more inhuman gymnastics?“

  “They are equally inept as everyone else in their group. The woman fell on a slippery stone once, and the boy cut his hand sharpening a wooden spike. All their superpowers seem to be gone, if they ever had any.“

  “So they're only special when they're in that forest.“

  “In that particular part of the forest. Yes.“

  “But they are obviously aware of it. I mean, they ran straight to it. They knew where it was and what it can do. What about the words you couldn't understand?“

  “I still can't. I don't know why they didn't come up in my neural scans.“

  “Did you try to redo the scans?“

  “I did, on both of them. They still don't show up.“

  “So they can only speak that language when they're in range of that place.“

  “Or they use a different linguistic neural setup for it, which I haven't figured out yet.“

  “That's farfetched.“

  “Yes. Everything about this is farfetched.“

  “What about the plasma bolt?“

  “As far as I can tell, it was a just that: a bolt of plasma. Very hot, very dense, and quite impossible to create with anything I've found on this planet.“

  “Anything except whatever's in that forest clearing.“

  The voice from another world seemed thoughtful.

  “So, what are you going to do?“ it asked, after a while.

  The alien sighed, quite humanly.

  “I'm going to investigate, of course. There's something at play here which is beyond us, beyond even our technology. This is significant, probably more significant than manning my Blank.“

  “What do you need from me?“

  “What I always do, Control. I need you to sell this to the Council. Tell them what I've found on this planet, and how important it is.“

  “You know that the Council's view is that the mission comes before anything else.“

  “And I'm not abandoning my mission. I'll man this Blank, just like I manned my first three Blanks. But if there's something in this world which can make living people disappear and reappear, and speak languages which aren't languages, and use weapons that throw plasma, that could change everything for the Builders.“

  “And for you, fletcher Keai.“

  “I'm still a Builder. Even if I have two legs and two arms now.“

  “I know that. Or I try to convince myself that I do. But the Council have already lost enough of you in other worlds.“

  “For lesser reasons.“

  “They were not lesser to those we have lost.“

  “That does not matter. What would the Council have me do? Ignore this?“

  “I would not be surprised.“

  The alien sighed again. He floated slowly over the forest floor, touching it with his feet but leaving no marks. He stopped, ran his human palm on the surface of a tree, and followed the long trunk with his gaze upwards into the light of the yellow Sun.

  “You aren't really in love, are you?“ asked the voice in his head, in a carefully guarded tone.

  VI.

  The images came from St. Peter’s Square, in the Vatican City. The ancient Egyptian obelisk still stood in the middle of it, as did the two massive granite fountains to the left and right of it, and the Tuscan colonnades a bit farther away. Not much spoke of the twenty-fourth century, save perhaps for the way the tourists were dressed, and the different things they held in their hands.

  Mark had never actually been to the Vatican City, but he recognised the place without difficulty. The square was filled with people, some alone, some in groups. They were walking, talking, standing, looking, eating, and generally doing whatever tourists do when they visit la Piazza San Pietro.

  “Have you ever been there?“ asked Souček, almost conversationally.

  “No,“ answered Mark. “But I assume you have.“

  “I have a small office nearby the Palace, as it happens.“

  “As does everyone,“ muttered Lykke Dahlberg. From the other side of the conference table, Jessica Lawry snorted.

  “Watch,“ said Tiessler.

  The camera found a small cluster of people, and in a rushed, irregular zooming movement, as if the operator’s attention had suddenly been drawn to something, it enlarged the little group until it occupied the whole screen.

  A man with blue hair reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a revolver.

  Then, he patted the nearest person on the
shoulder — it happened to be another man, who was wearing a backpack and held hands with a third man, whose back was turned — and said to him:

  “Watch this.“

  Then, he brought up the revolver to his temple and blew his own brains out.

  As half of his head disintegrated, a cone of red mist appeared on the other side, spraying everything in its path. The man fell abruptly, his legs crumbling under him, in a hideous heap. The red mist started settling down, on ground and on the nearby people.

  The screams started almost immediately. The tourist whose attention the suicide shooter had drawn stood nailed to the spot, staring stupidly down at the blue and red remains of a human head. His partner drew him away reflexively. Another man, who happened to have stood closer, spat and wiped bits of brain out of his eyes; he took a couple of steps, then bent forward and vomited explosively.

  Mark watched in disgusted fascination and swallowed dry. And then, he saw something else.

  Three small holes appeared in the pavement of St. Peter’s Square, palm-sized covers which lifted towards the blue-haired man, just as the bystander had started to throw up. Three thick green jets burst out, aimed at the gruesome body laying on the ground. Upon contact, they turned into a deep yellow tinged foam, which in a second or two expanded to cover the entire body, like a weird, deformed cocoon.

  And, of course, panic landed on the plaza like an invisible, suffocating blanket. People started running away from the yellow heap, as the camera panned out a little, its operator aware that the event he was capturing was significant. In less than a minute, armed police arrived in frame, running in close formation and then fanning apart. The playback paused.

  There was silence around the table, until Jessica Lawry exhaled loudly.

  “That was the first time I’ve seen that,“ she said, quietly. “I mean I’ve seen the news, but not the actual… you know.“

  She looked at Mark without her usual smile. After a moment, she raised up her eyebrows, then exhaled and looked down, as if defeated by the images.

  Mark swallowed again and wet his lips.

  “Do you need a moment?“ asked Dahlberg.

  “That yellow foam. Is that some kind of defence system?“ he asked.

  “Yes,“ answered Dahlberg.

  “How did it react so quickly?“

  “Actually it was quite late, as you saw. It’s triggered by any suspect behaviour, such as somebody pulling a weapon in public. This time it took a little longer to recognise the situation because the weapon was an antique.“

  “I didn’t get a good look. What was it? A Blackhawk?“

  “A Korth Combat.“

  “Wow. Those were hand-made in my days, very expensive.“

  “And they haven’t been made since then, I suspect. So they’re a thousand times more expensive,“ she said. “The ideal combination of rarity and firepower. He was really after making a point.“

  “And a show,“ said Mark. “How does the foam work?“

  “On the assumption that most suicidal terrorists try to take with them as many innocent people as they can. The foam slows down any explosion gas considerably. If you try to blow up the whole town square, and you get sprayed doing it, the guy next to you gets maybe a broken rib. At three meters the effect is negligible.“

  “Quite impressive. Wish we had it. Where did you have this installed?“

  “In major areas of interest around Eurasia, mostly. It is quite expensive, as you can imagine. The Yanks have their own version.“

  “So why did he choose this particular place? Why not do it somewhere there aren’t any sprays, and make sure the sacrifice works?“

  “It needed to be very public.“

  “And it needed to be about religion,“ spoke Souček again. “You’ll understand in a minute.“

  “I see. So he wasn’t just your garden variety nutter.“

  “No. He was…“

  The priest hesitated.

  “Go on,“ said Dahlberg. “Say it.“

  “Yes, Lykke. I’ll say it. He is significantly more than a nutter, mister Greene.“

  A long silence hung in the room. Mark stared at the frozen image, thinking. It showed a few people caught in mid-run, and an abandoned, stained white bag on the pavement behind it. The short shadows of the noon sun seemed to point towards the basilica, as if that had some significance.

  “I’ve seen a guy walk through the Great Wall of China once,“ he said, neutrally.

  Dahlberg nodded.

  “Yes. Well, this was no magician. Our people unpacked the body, you see. He was a human male, aged 31, quite thoroughly, convincingly and, by any definition, dead.“ She pulled out a tab, tapped on it and started reading.

  “The impact projectile measured 9.1 millimetres and weighed 10.2 grams. It entered the right side of the victim’s head and penetrated hair, skin, muscle and both the temporal and the parietal bone, at a speed of 406 metres per second and an energy of 0.69 joules, at an angle of seven degrees with the horizontal plane and four degrees on the vertical plane. It began to expand until it reached 18 millimetres. It continued through the dura mater, the arachnoid mater, the subarachnoid space and the pia mater, on through the right hemisphere, the falx cerebri, the corpus callosum and the left hemisphere. Its frontal shock wave created a vortex which collapsed the left side meninges, as well as the entirety of the parietal, temporal, ethnoid and sphenoid bones, with partial destruction of the frontal and occipital bones. The remaining cerebrum mass was measured at twelve comma one percent by volume.“

  She continued, looking at Mark:

  “That’s almost ninety percent of missing brain. Short of having an acid bath inside a nuclear explosion, I think it’s hard to get any deader than that.“

  “Reports can be falsified. When you say your people…?“

  “…I mean my own people, as well as mr. Souček’s own people, all of which are impossible to corrupt together at the same time.“

  “I see. So, you actually have the body.“

  “We did. There was an investigation, and it was thorough, but not special. We had no reason to suspect anything extraordinary... at the time. We actually thought that he was, as you put it, just another nut job.“

  “Plenty of those,“ mumbled Lawry.

  “Indeed,“ said Dahlberg. “In any case. Procedure was followed, a report was written, a lesson was learned, the defence grid software was taught about ancient weaponry all the way back to Chinese fire arrows, and the body was sent for burial.“

  “To the family?“

  “There was no family. No friends, no-one. The remains were sent to an Italian funeral home that the Vatican often subcontracts. They usually keep the bodies on display for a day or two, just in case someone shows up, and then they bury or burn them, depending.“

  “And has anyone shown up?“

  “Yes. Watch.“

  A new playback started on the conference room screen. It showed the interior of a funeral home, with a long table upon which a coffin was placed. The coffin was opened, but the man’s head was covered with a white cloth. A single strand of blue hair was visible behind his right ear. The cloth hung unnaturally over the huge hole where the rest of his head should’ve been.

  A man entered the room. He was wearing a black suit, had white gloves and wore a kind of bowler hat.

  “That’s an employee of the funeral home,“ said the priest. “He was questioned, thoroughly.“

  And the undertone in the last sentence somehow managed to lower the room temperature.

  The man walked slowly to the coffin and inspected the dead body. He adjusted its suit collar and arranged the cloth to better hide the right ear. Then he turned around and had a look around to make sure everything was in order. He glanced at the camera and left the same way he’d entered.

  The clock in the corner of the image started speeding up.

  “Nothing else happened for about two and a half hours,“ said Dahlberg.

  “Until this,“ sa
id Souček.

  The clock slowed down to normal speed, and suddenly a bright yellow light filled the room. The sensors of the camera quickly became supersaturated and the image turned white. After a few seconds, the glare subsided and the source of the light revealed itself around the dead body’s upper torso.

  “Wow,“ whispered Lawry.

  Mark watched, feeling the hairs on the back of his neck standing up.

  The body was bathed in light for the better part of a minute.

  “Where was the employee?“ he asked.

  “Elsewhere in the house,“ answered Souček. “He didn’t see anything. Internal video security feeds aren’t a very popular source of entertainment. He wasn't watching.“

  Then, the light exploded again, overloading the camera and burning the recorded image; and then, it faded to reveal a bone-chilling scene.

  The man in the coffin lifted his hand and yanked the cloth off his face. His head was again intact. But above it, or rather behind it as he was laying on his back, there was something new. A yellow square of light, about twice as large as his head, was shimmering gently, like a thin, square aura, making him look much like the iconic saints except for the geometry of the golden nimbus.

  The man glanced around until he found the surveillance camera. And then he winked into it.

  Silently and athletically, he got out of the coffin and jumped off the table, looked down at himself, and proceeded to take off his coat. Then, he opened the top two buttons of his shirt, put his hands in his pockets, and — making it look as if it was the most normal thing in the world, which perhaps it was — he walked away. The shimmering yellow square followed his head like the top part of a mortarboard, suspended a few centimetres above his blue, reconstructed hair.

  The playback slowed and stopped.

  “He got out in the street and walked all the way back to the piazza,“ said Souček, in a low voice. “He startled a few people who thought they recognised him from the news. He went to the precise spot where he’d shot himself… and simply waited.“

  He did not have to wait long.

  VII.

  “Some people call it Ecclesia Facti,“ said captain Ileana Toma.

  “The Church of Fact,“ translated Doina from Latin.