Vontaura

by James C. Dunn

  Her eyes gazed up at him, and he heard his own words echo through his head. His agony would be nothing compared to hers. His agony was worth sparing hers. He knew it, which is why he fought so hard against it. A drug overdose. That was what she wanted. It was simple. So simple. And yet more difficult than anything he could ever imagine. Could he do it? Dare he?

  ‘You won’t feel any pain?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Just like going to sleep?’

  Her chin rested on her lower neck, but she hadn’t the strength to raise it again.

  ‘You’ll drift off to sleep. Quietly. Peacefully.’

  She took his hand and guided it gently to the table beside the bed. Inside the top drawer a syringe and several capsules waited. He picked up the smallest, hand shaking. He’d administered her medicine so many times. This time would be the last. He drew out the clear liquid and injected the fluid into her feeding tube. His stomach ached as he did it. His throat was dry, mind spinning. But he couldn’t stop himself.

  His eyes met with hers. ‘Good night, mum.’ She smiled at him, then closed her eyes. He leaned over and kissed her forehead. In seconds she was no longer breathing.

  He stood back up, his heart beating through his entire body. Time stood still. Blood rushed to his face. He was suddenly so hot. So angry. He had to get out. He rushed past the bed and without looking back left the room . . .

  . . . and marched straight into the library hall of the Luna Athenaeum. He stood in a lower corridor of the archives now, surrounded by glass windows. Somebody was at the end. They walked towards him, formed of white mist and cold air. Mother. She cried. He froze. Beside her stood Kaara Mira. Then Raj and Dimal and Noah and Shree and Aíron Veryan, and others he once knew.

  Sudana stood behind him, watching, sceptre in hand; he saw her smile through the glass door’s reflection. ‘Now I know your fears,’ she said. ‘Now I know your guilt.’

  Fear and guilt. If anything defined his life, it was those two natures. It was pitiful. Poor, pathetic Justus. Overcome by his emotions, debilitating thoughts of loss scattered across his synapses like an icy gale. And the reason the guilt hurt: it was all true. He had been responsible for their deaths. All of them. There was no mystery, no fall guy, no other motivation, no other truth. Nothing between him and that reality.

  As he stood there, something simmered through him. A strength. He laughed. ‘Show me these things all you can!’ he said. ‘All I see are reasons to go on. To go on fighting those like you!’ He turned and walked towards her, watched the silver sceptre held at her side—

  He stopped. His mother appeared before him. She gazed at him, dark shadows beneath her eyes. ‘Why, Antal? Why did you do it?’ She stood there, actually stood before him. ‘Such a disappointment. How could I ever love a son who did what you did?’ His hands bunched into fists, one foot stepped forward . . .

  Sudana stepped back in a panic. She stared him down and regained her composure. ‘So,’ she said, ‘it is you I saw in her head.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Young Anna Berenguer. I looked into her mind and I saw many things. Many things I have never seen before. I looked into her mind and I saw you.’

  He breathed in. A smile formed.

  ‘She’ll be dead now, alas.’

  ‘Actually,’ he said, striding forwards, ‘I think you’ll find she’s very much alive!’ And he charged towards her, closing his eyes as he passed through the image of his mother; and he knocked the Dark Lord’s mistress down, snatched the sceptre from her grasp, and vaulted away up the steps.

  * * *

  Peter Marx forced his way through the clashing group as absolute chaos reigned. The Grand Hall was overwhelmed by smoke and debris as electric fire, blinding blasters, bullets, and blood filled the room. Human slaughtered human. Ally hacked ally to gushing limbs. The black-rock moon approached and there was nothing he could do.

  The collision was inevitable. Somebody had to defy Malizar. He would surrender on behalf of the entire human race if not.

  Peter and Vortan were at the edge of a sickening scrap. They fought as best as they could, each armed with a blaster and blade; and in the bloody moment, as a man’s arm was snapped in two before his face, Peter felt like the old man he really was.

  Beside him Vortan cut, twist, and parried, knocking his opponent from his feet. Another drove forward. A shower of blaster fire rained down from above. Peter caught his eye and gestured ahead. Malizar was stood upon the highest stair looking down with savage bliss, a cruel ferocity in his eyes. Peter pushed forward once more.

  He made it several steps before a heavy blow struck him across the skull from behind and he fell forward into the clashing crowd. He rolled over onto his back in the centre. Two female Von he recognised helped him to his feet, and there they fought side by side. But they did not remain long. The Allied Moon struck back. One of the women dodged an attack, only to be shot down by a renegade of Jules Ditton’s private army.

  Peter watched the renegade aim for the other Von. He aimed his own blaster and shot the man square in the forehead.

  ‘Go!’ he told the Von-lady. ‘Get out of here.’

  ‘Never!’ she retorted. ‘We are Von!’

  A blaster round pierced her heart and she fell down dead.

  Large bodies drove forward, knocking Peter’s firearm from his hand. He swung his long blade, swiping through one dark body. Stabbing another. He knocked a third out with the blade hilt. He spotted Malizar again.

  He moved forward but was once again thrown to the ground. A silver mask stood over him. Vortan’s blade pierced their torso. His friend appeared, helped him to his feet.

  ‘Where is he?’

  Peter picked up his blaster and pointed ahead.

  ‘Come on!’

  They drove forward, eluding streaks of lethal light, lifeless bodies arranged upon the ground like fallen leaves on the Blue and Green haven. Reaching the edge of the clash, blaster in hand, he raised it towards his enemy. Malizar watched every move. His finger touched the trigger as several silver-masked bodies charged him. Peter found himself forced back into the crowd.

  The silver masks followed. They were coming for him.

  Damn my frailty! Damn my weakness!

  He wished he had the strength he once had. There was a time when he would have dealt with each and every one of these masks without blinking. Now he struggled to contend with one.

  Peter backed up, keeping his distance from the silver hunters. Around him was concentrated the main strength of the Von. They had suffered the most casualties from what he could discern, which was very little at present. He shot his awareness all about him.

  Where are you, Lanfranc?

  A hand seized his arm, pulling him aside. He raised his blade and slammed the hilt through the metal mask facing him. Another appeared beside him.

  Thud! Lanfranc appeared at his side, a nervous grin etched into his bleeding face. ‘Watch it!’

  A band of the Laxiad poured into the struggle in the Great Hall, having seized the nearby antechamber from the Allied Moon. The silver masks were overwhelmed, stripped of victory, and pushed back.

  A gap appeared between Peter and Malizar, complicated only by a small number of the Allied Moon. Peter and Vortan stepped forward, blasters and blades in hand. The Laxiad charged too. The masks rushed to meet them. Peter pushed one aside. Lanfranc bowled his sabre into another’s chest.

  Malizar stood on the higher step, glaring down at the two.

  ‘Here goes,’ Peter whispered.

  Large, thorny blade in hand, Malizar jumped down, knocking Peter to the ground. Vortan sprang in, but Malizar caught his attack and sent him spinning into a nearby statue. Peter forced himself up. It was now or never. He fired his blaster several times.

  He missed every chance.

  ‘Did you think you could resist what is coming, Peter?’

  He looked up into Malizar’s frenzied gaze. ‘Where did that little boy go, Marrak?’
>
  ‘That boy was your legacy! And you killed it!’

  ‘I gave you a home! I gave you everything!’

  ‘And then you took it away! You killed all of them!’

  ‘I take responsibility for what happened to Europa,’ Peter said. ‘I must.’

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘But so must you.’

  The Dark Lord drove him back, forced him up and into the air without contact. Peter saw into his old student’s eyes as he hung in mid air. And he knew he was going to die.

  NINETY-FIVE

  A ROUNDED HOLE lay at the top of the steps. Through the hole Justus stuck his head. A stream of bright light seared his hair. Back down, then up again. Blaster fire discharged in every direction. He stooped below, took three deep breaths, then charged up and across to the nearest alcove with the silver sceptre firmly in his grasp.

  The battle had spread out, with each small group vying for a room or sheltered hall. At the room’s edge, Jules Ditton was surrounded by his band, and together they fired ferociously with everything they had at the countless hoards of the Allied Moon as they poured through from the basilica beyond.

  Justus threw his fist into a passing enemy’s face, splintering the mask and forcing upon the surface an impression of the agony-filled face beneath. Before he could take on another he saw her.

  In amongst the fighting, Justus’ eye caught sight of Dimal. She was trapped behind a large stone bust, cornered and firing wildly with her blaster only several metres away. Her aim struck one masked man, but missed several more. His heart fell into his stomach as he watched her holster the blaster and move from behind the bust to brave the assault hand-to-hand.

  The first attacker’s head snapped gruffly to one side as her foot made contact. The second had his mask thrown from his face, his legs buckling beneath him as she employed her speed to overcome their strength. She was a smear of movement amid a frenzy of light. Justus had never found her more attractive.

  He crossed the hall towards her with a sideward roll worthy of a gymnast and took out the legs of yet another aggressor with his own. He took out his coil and fired at the room’s great opening, striking a dense gathering of silver-masks.

  Dimal’s head shot in his direction. Their eyes met. But another attacker took her by the throat. A second lunged at her, a lightning-quick blow struck the right side of her face. She grunted and struggled—

  In seconds Justus was at her side. His elbow sent the first man to the ground, out for the count. The second turned tail and ran. Justus took Dimal’s hand and pulled her back behind the wide bust and through into an empty alcove away from the fighting.

  ‘What are you doing?!’ she cried. ‘Let go of me.’

  ‘I’m here,’ he said, placing the sceptre against the wall beside them. ‘I’m here and I love you. Is that good enough? Are you happy now?’

  She pushed him back and kissed him. He threw her back into another stone effigy. ‘What are you—?’

  ‘Shut up, Antal!’

  ‘You can’t just kiss me!’

  ‘Try and stop me.’ She kissed him again. He let her.

  Before he could finish, a searing pain tore through his shoulder. The blaster round ricocheted off the wall. He cried out, fell forwards, lightheaded, his feet unable to carry his weight. Dimal held him up. Pain consumed his vision. He gazed at her widening eyes. ‘Antal,’ she said. ‘Ditton, NO!’

  Justus turned, just in time to see Jules Ditton strike a blow across his face, knocking him dizzy. He fell back onto Dimal. ‘STOP!’ she cried.

  Ditton threw himself on top. Justus was dazed. Sick to his stomach. A blow smashed his face. He was on his back now. Ditton pulled him by his collar and forced his head down hard into solid ground. ‘You think you can take her back?! Little shit! I’LL SHOW YOU WHAT I’M CAPABLE OF!’

  ‘Stop!’ Dimal screamed. But he kept going. Ditton’s outline blurred. The room spun. Justus gazed up at Dimal, saw the pain in her face. He had seen enough pain in her eyes.

  ‘Think I’ll let you walk away this time?!’

  ‘Ditton, please!’

  Justus felt his head split against the marble beneath, felt blood pour from his face across his eyes. Heard his love whimpering above.

  Stop this son of a bitch. Now.

  He took one deep breath as Ditton wiped the sweat from his face. He poured all his strength into his arms and watched the man on top of him smile through bloody teeth. But his arms and body weakened and the back of his head was forced again into the ground. He was going to die. All his strength. All his training. All for nothing.

  Then it stopped. His vision swung back and forth. The figure above him disappeared. Dimal’s soft hands stroked his face, wiping blood from over his eyes. He leaned up, elbows on the marble behind him. Ditton stood above, but was facing away. He shuddered, then reached out with both arms as though dreaming, attempting to find something just out of reach. He whimpered. Justus knew why.

  The veiled woman walked towards him. She raised her arm, a blaster at her fingertips. She shot Ditton through the face and he crumbled to the ground. Sudana pointed the firearm at Justus. He could nothing but sit up. He looked directly at her.

  ‘Give me the sceptre,’ she said. She wasn’t smiling anymore. Dimal stepped between them. ‘If you think you can stop me—’

  Dimal was fast. She spun back, kicked the blaster from Sudana’s hand, carried on round, and struck her in the face with her fist. She landed on her back.

  Justus placed a knee onto the ground and leaned over, breathing deeply. He’d taken one hell of a beating. The room still spun, albeit less so than a minute ago.

  ‘Who the hell is she?’ Dimal asked.

  ‘Malizar’s . . . mistress.’

  ‘The bitch. How dare she?’

  Justus picked up the sceptre from nearby and stood, trembling on his feet. A hand rested on the wall. How had he got into this state? Peter needed him. What use was he like this?

  ‘Come on, we need to get out of here,’ she said, placing an arm around him in support. ‘The Flux here?’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘Peter needs me. My father . . . out there. He needs the sceptre.’

  ‘Not in your state.’

  ‘No choice. Come on.’

  She helped him through the alcove and into a small conduit between halls, firing her blaster several times at threats emerging around every corner. They surfaced in another hall. Nearly there. The Athenaeum was out of control. Human fighting human. Death mocking life.

  ‘You’ve put on weight,’ Dimal said, urging him on.

  ‘Muscle,’ he replied with a sore grin. ‘It’s all . . . muscle.’

  They entered now into the great circular passage uniting the Luna halls. Strengthened glass alone separated them from the airless abyss. ‘Sure it is,’ she replied. ‘Before—’

  She stopped moving. They both did. Everyone around them had stopped too. The light above went out.

  Silence. Darkness.

  The stars glittered above them, up through the glass, like grains of sand drifting in a sea of black. Each and every man and woman, enemy or not, gazed absorbedly at a magnificent picture.

  ‘Adra,’ he said. A cold sweat ran down his back.

  ‘I know. Beautiful, ain’t it?’

  ‘Yahaa. Only, we can’t see stars from here.’

  ‘Err, what do you think you’re looking at?’

  ‘No. We’re not meant to see stars from here.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘This moon’s in synchronous rotation. We’re facing daylight. We should not be able to see stars.’

  ‘Then how can we?’

  Justus’ head throbbed. There was only one reason. ‘We’re in shadow.’

  ‘In shadow. Shadow of what?’

  A ringing shot through their ears. Screaming and yelling. Agony and torture. Hell on Luna. Dimal let go of him and covered her ears. Justus dropped the sceptre and covered his. Then as suddenly as it started, the noise stopped.
The lighting on all sides flickered, creating a dance of movement around them.

  And then they saw it. The shadow of hell. The shadow of . . .

  ‘Erebus.’

  ‘You’ve got to be kidding me.’ She knelt down and picked up the metal rod, her eyes never leaving the black moon set between them and the sun. It was enormous, greater than Justus remembered.

  ‘Oh, hell,’ she said. ‘Oh, fucking hell.’

  ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Fucking hell and more.’

  An explosion shook the hall, dust and debris fell from above, the lights in the Grand Hall were quenched, and Peter Marx realised they were here. He held Malizar’s gaze across the length of stone which made up the halls’ pinnacle, set several metres above the rest of the horde.

  ‘They are here.’ Malizar smiled.

  ‘This stops between us,’ Peter said, leaning against the wall, his sabre hanging limply in his grasp. Beneath them the fighting had stopped. All stared up at the two leaders, at the shadow descended upon them.

  Peter breathed a sigh of relief as he watched Justus hobble into the hall, alongside Adra Dimal. Sudana staggered in behind them. Justus held the sceptre in his hand and charged across the room. Peter left his enemy in his wake and quickly descended the steps to meet him. He knew his son would deliver.

  Before he reached the bottom step a hand took his shoulder and a forceful blow to his back knocked him down to the ground. He rolled onto his back as Malizar loomed over him.

  ‘You threaten every last one of us with your arrogance!’ the lord spat. ‘A trick! Arrogant and self-serving. Fitting for the powerful Master Peter Marx to present himself at the forefront of humanity. NO! It will be me!’

  Peter felt a torrent of anger. ‘Hypocrite!’ He pushed himself up and threw all of his weight forward, knocking his nemesis off balance. Malizar returned with a back-handed strike, driving Peter to the ground. He took another deep breath and forced himself back up once more. Not beaten yet! Not yet!

  ‘Peter!’ Justus cried as he staggered over. He threw the silver sceptre to his father, who caught it, spun, and struck Malizar across the face with the sharpened head. Malizar fell to the ground as though he had been pummelled by the Peter Marx of old.

  The ground shook again. The darkness deepened.