by Reg Franklin
Patterns of Chaos
Book 2: The Vandle War
A Word From the Author
Believe it or not, this crazy series of stories has been in the works since the late 1990’s, when I first wrote out the often-alluded to backstory of Jennifer Safyo and Paul Stragdoc. Maybe I’ll rewrite it someday as there are aspects that are either dumb, edgelord nonsense, or unbelieveably milquetoast. Over the past twenty-odd years, things have changed (for the better, I hope), and I’ve benefited from insights and collaborative work from some dear friends who I really should thank.
To Ty and Jed McPherson, thank you for taking my crazy psychics and incorporating them into your own stories. I hope I have done right by both Chris “Tazer” St. George and Kelly Young (whom you readers will be meeting in this tale). You are always a pair of inspirations.
To Chrystal Rossler, thank you for your support of the original story. Without that, I’d likely have just tossed the floppy disk with the original work into the trash. (Still have that disk by the way. Go late nineties rewritable media!)
To Matt Ross, thank you for basically forcing me to read the Cthulhu Mythos, a huge inspiration for both the Prelt and Vandleifdulus. Also, thanks for the reminder that sci-fi can be silly once in a while.
And, of course, thank you to both my wife Jenny and daughter Jolan. Just for being yourselves.
Prologue
Earth Calendar Year: 2012
If one were to travel to the center of the Milky Way Galaxy, there you would see the supermassive black hole Sagittarius A; the focal point around which we move. A gravitational anomaly which, if given a chance, would draw in everything orbiting it.
It would not be a place near which any sane sentient would dwell.
And yet, just beyond the event horizon of Sagittarius A, one would observe a space station locked in impossible orbit around the black hole. Ages ago, a species called the Prelt built it to observe Sagittarius A, or as they called it: V’elj, the Black Gate. V’elj had dominated their mythology as a doorway to the underworld, but eventually they grew to understand the nature of the Black Gate, and committed themselves to studying it.
The Prelt were long absent. Massacred by the race that now dwelt upon the station, the few survivors lived upon large vessels, trying to preserve their remaining culture and population.
If sound could carry in the cold vacuum of space, one could perhaps hear guttural screams from inside this monument to unlocking the mysteries of V’elj. A trained ear might perhaps even realize that the screams might actually be a form of language...and they would be right, but unable to accurately reproduce it.
The language of the Vandleifdulus is not one for a sane mind to study overlong.
The (not only by human standards) monstrous creatures stood over ten feet tall, impossibly long pale torsos ending in a cluster of cephalopod-like tentacles for feet, arms ending in clawed hands with two thumbs, a bony crested face with a lamprey-like mouth, and almost insectoid eyes, bifurcated horizontally into two different colors, a bloody orange and a disturbing teal. The Vandleifdulus were nightmares given physical form as they gathered to worship at the proverbial feet of their queen.
The screams issued from the overlarge queen, known as the Lavnabren by her people, cannot be translated by any human tongue. But based on the end result, one could make an educated guess as her followers fell upon one another in sexual fury.
The Vandleifdulus had a mission in their existence: exterminate all other life. And upon the completion of that mission, they would cast themselves into the V’elj in religious ecstasy. The Lavnabren would need a much bigger force than the small population she currently ruled to make this a reality.
But she was eternal. And surprisingly patient for a lifeform dedicated to galactic genocide.
Part I - Catching Up
It has been one hundred twenty five years since Paul Stragdoc attempted his invasion of Earth. One hundred and twenty-five years since he annihilated the town we grew up in.
One hundred and twenty-five years since he, his followers, and the Red Talon disappeared. At least from the view of Earth. Because I’ve been keeping an eye on him. I know where they went. Sigma Octantis. Sometimes called the Southern Star, the opposite of Polaris. He’s been busy there; a city built, a palace for himself, industry thriving. He calls his world Numenor after the lost continent of Tolkien.
There’s a shipyard in orbit there. Something he didn’t waste any time on. I know he’s coming back sooner or later to finish what he started. The last one hundred and twenty-five years have been the calm before the returning storm. The eye of the storm if you will.
I still regret my actions on that day, my part in the miscarriage of his child. All I can say is that I honestly had no idea that she was pregnant. I sometimes think this is a poor defense, but I cannot deny the truth: I didn’t know. Callixta’s actions still perplex me to this day: why did she attack me the way she did while pregnant? It simply made no sense then and makes no sense now. She could have shot me and been done with it, or engaged in a telekinetic battle, or anything else, but instead she physically went after me.
She’s still there too, on the fourth world of Sigma Octantis. But what’s truly curious is that there is no heir to the throne yet. The miscarriage shouldn’t have impeded her ability to have more children; after all, Alphite physiology would repair any damage suffered.
Is it a psychological block? After all, we’re not that different from base humans in our way of thinking, and I know that mental stresses can impede procreation. Or is there something else? Something I’m missing? Lord knows I can’t get closer to find out. I can only observe from afar, and try to pass unnoticed.
I have been to the city, the capital of his world. Derverstand he calls it: The Mind City. It’s a strange place, for aside from the sounds of industry, vehicles...it’s quiet. Silent. No voices speak aloud, or if they do, they stand out quickly. Most communication these days is mental only, mind to mind.
Except for him. He still loves the sound of his own voice, making weekly, sometimes daily speeches from his palace. Reminding the common citizenry that it is all for a higher purpose, that war will come sooner or later and they must be prepared for what he likes to call the Reclamation War that will see Mother Earth in the hands of its rightful descendants the Alphites. Because of course he’s still obsessed with winning. He always hated losing.
I may have misspoke before, implying that the Imperial Palace was built...no, it was discovered. A great metallic pyramid, capped with an exquisite crystal. Not to say he hasn’t made certain modifications to it, namely the engraving of the Psi-Omegan brand on the four sides of the thing. I don’t know who built it, or for what purpose. Time will tell I suppose.
In the interim, I shall continue to watch. And wait.
But maybe I should go home for a bit as well.
-Jennifer Safyo
1.
Christopher St. George began the day as he usually did, reading the military reports on troop movements, satellite observations from across the solar system, budgetary concerns, and other such mindless minutiae.
That wasn't fair. His people worked hard to compile these reports, and he considered it his duty to study them diligently. Even if absolutely nothing of major import was reported, he had to know precisely how much nothing there was. After all, he was the Military Commander-in-Chief of the Allied Earth Federation these days.
Following the Psi-Omegan conflicts over a century prior, Earth had begun to expand to the rest of the local stellar neighbourhood. Several moons of Jupiter and Saturn, Mars, and even a small planetoid orbiting Alpha Centauri were home to human beings now. Chris himself ran the military from a base on Europa, it having been decided by the civilian governing counci
l that it would be a more...centralized location to respond to possible threats throughout the AEF.
Personally, Chris was convinced they were trying to be rid of him. With no military conflict since the battle against the Red Talon, Chris was quite literally a one hundred and fifty six year old relic. Even if he didn't look a day over thirty five aside from a few strands of grey threading through his goatee.
Alternately, they relocated him because his ageless nature disturbed them. Whatever the Ashpool woman had injected him with, they’d never been able to synthesize a similar compound despite what felt like gallons of blood they’d drawn from him. Of course, he’d agreed to every extraction because he knew that humanity might need the compound some day. But he was the only one who thought that way.
Chris had demanded the civilian government maintain a strong budget for the military; not only because of concerns that the Psi-Omegan Empire would one day return, but also because with humanity’s further expansion into the stars, contact with another species was simply a matter of time. However, that contact had yet to occur. Personally, Chris was disappointed. Not at the lack of conflict, of course; he was disappointed that more and more it seemed that humanity was alone in this galaxy at least.
But as if the universe had a perverse sense of irony, a small holo appeared next to his cup of coffee. Lieutenant Jemma Yurikuma, his half-Irish, half-Japanese adjutant. “Sir, you wished to be informed if any unfamiliar signals entered the system...we have one.”
“Unfamiliar how, lieutenant?” Chris wasn’t particularly concerned, the last such occurrence was a probe Earth had launched more than a century before, returning home.
“It’s broadcasting in English, sir. Just one word, over and over.” Yurikuma looked unusually nervous. “It just keeps transmitting ‘Ashpool’.”
Chris stood in shock. More than a hundred years had passed since he’d last seen the woman. “This signal have a point of origin, lieutenant?”
“Near Pluto, sir.”
“Is my flagship ready to intercept?”
“As always, the John Alex is prepped and ready for your command, sir.”
Chris strode from his office towards the shuttle bay. He’d named his flagship after the hero of the Battle of the Talon as history now called it, and standing orders were that the ship was to be ready to launch at a moment’s notice. He knew the war would begin again one day, Stragdoc wasn’t dead, the Alphites would return.
At least one of them had returned today. Could the rest be following? Chris sincerely hoped that wasn’t the case because he knew they weren’t ready. Hopefully, Ashpool had returned to give them enough advance warning.
But he somehow doubted that.
2.
Derverstand, the silent city. Only the sound of vehicles fills the air, not a single voice can be heard. If a normal human were to set foot in the capital city of the Psi-Omegan Empire, the silence would be unsettling. At the western edge of the city stands the great pyramidal Imperial Palace, deep within which an isolation chamber rests. Floating within is the Oracular Empress, Calixta Morsalis. She uses the chamber to meditate, attempting to draw out another prophecy such as that led her people to this world, their Eden. But she has not had a clairvoyant vision since the battle above Earth. She has no idea why that is, nor does her husband. But Calixta has decided on patience. This chamber is her latest attempt to coax forth her dormant power, one that she has hopes for, but also knows that whatever the reason the future is blocked to her, it will take time to break past the block.
And as an Alphite, she has all the time in eternity.
On the eastern edge of the city, rests another edifice: the Neuromancer Temple. It is here that newborn Alphites are brought to and tested for ability, determining if they shall return as teenagers to begin the rigorous training regimen designed by the Emperor. Both body and mind are honed here, the Neuromancers becoming lethal in all regards.
It is here we find Paul Stragdoc, the Emperor Eternal, lecturing the latest graduates of the program. He stares at each of the newly minted Neuromancers, fierce pride burning in his eyes. “To your left and right are your brothers and sisters. Trust them. Defend them. Defend our Empire, but protect the bonds of family that you have forged here as well.”
One graduate, Praxus Truk, observed two of his fellows that he could never consider “brothers”. One was Gregor Isan, a pure sadist. During his first year, he was caught using psychic suggestions to make civilians hurt themselves. Over a dozen people in Derverstand had self-inflicted scars across their forearms, Gregor making them draw the blade over and over again. He’d spent over a year in solitary confinement for that infraction, and had emerged even more cruel. This time, two citizens ended up with slash marks running vertically down their faces. The next two years spent in isolation finally seemed to get through to him, and although Gregor had completed his training, Praxus knew he could see the monster lurking in Gregor’s face.
The other was Vladislas Shin, a pyrokinetic. Shin had somehow been overlooked in initial screening, and had set fire to his family's home at the age of four. Small fires had shown up periodically at the Temple since his admittance to the program, and rumor had it the Emperor himself had been concerned about Shin’s pyromania, and had done...something...to limit his capability. Praxus shuddered silently at the thought of Shin being allowed full use of his ability.
“...for this is your home. You have not only the bonds of your genetic family, but the family of brotherhood and sisterhood you have established here. I expect great things from all of you.” Praxus felt the Imperial eye fall upon him at that last, and swallowed nervously. The Emperor had repeatedly praised his progress publicly, declaring Praxus the very model of what he believed the Neuromancers should aspire to be. Some, such as Isin, had from that point begun staring daggers at Praxus at every opportunity.
The Emperor had descended from his pulpit to address each of them in turn. When he reached Praxus, he shook his hand warmly.
-Yes. Great things from you in particular, dear boy.
Praxus bowed his head to the Emperor, responding silently.
-I hope to meet your high expectations, my lord.
-Report to the palace this evening. I have an assignment in mind. And my wife has expressed a desire to meet my star pupil.
Praxus bowed more formally. -It will be my honour, lord.
As the Emperor left, Praxus made his excuses and returned to his private quarters. Each Neuromancer was allowed their own, although the option to share a larger space was available. He had opted for the private room, desiring solitude. In unconscious mimicry of the Empress, he entered a meditative trance; but unlike Callixta, he was not interested in predictions of a possible future.
He wanted to know definites. He had been mentally reaching out to see if there were minds beyond their world. Like the others, he had been warned of the rogue Alphite who had attempted to assassinate the Empress, so he limited his mental search for minds that were alien in some fashion. The Empire had yet to discover any other intelligent forms of life, for most of their time in exile had been primarily restricted to colonization.
He’d caught a hint of something once, but he’d dismissed it. He’d sensed it within the Palace, and that couldn’t have been correct.
---
Paul Stragdoc lovingly stroked the walls of his fortress as he descended bank after bank of stairs. Mine. It had been prepared for him, he felt. Ages ago. Even after all this time, there were still things that he was learning about this pyramid. Only recently had he discovered that it had been built by a species called the Salk’art, red-skinned humanoids who had worshipped the number three, as if it were some kind of mathematically perfect constant. Bizarre. However, that had solved several problems in interpreting the computers they had left behind, for the Salk’art operated on a base-3 mathematical system, which meant that instead of the binary system that was the basis of all Earthborn computer systems, it was instead trinary. Which was fascinating.
But the Salk’art’s numerical fetish was not the purpose of his descent today. No, he was to visit his “guest”. He approached the final door, holding his hand against a scanning plate that read his handprint, fingerprints, body temperature as he mentally compelled the complex locking mechanism to open.
Inside, a figure was shackled to the wall. It was robed, revealing nothing beyond its claw-like hands and spherical head. Its skin was black as night, featureless but for a pair of inquisitive orange eyes. The hands were apparently bio-mechanical in nature, mainly comprised of a blackish chitin. Analysis of his “guest’s” “blood” revealed it to be chlorophyll based, for its species were closer in nature to plants than animals. As such, the light in this chamber was carefully controlled, just enough to keep the “Imperial Houseplant”, as Stragdoc had mockingly dubbed it one night, on a verge of starvation.
“Comfortable?” Stragdoc laughed, teeth bared in a shark’s grin.
The captured alien remained silent a moment. Then a small slit of a mouth opened just below the glowing orange eyes. +As could be expected.+ it said in heavily accented English. It was defiant, but not aggressively so.
