A Shrouded World (Book 7): Hvergelmir

by Tufo, Mark

  “That’s an interesting read,” Mike says. “Don’t want to do the whole ‘gift horse in the mouth’ thing, but why’s it in English?”

  “It’s not always,” Trip replies. “You touched the key.”

  “I’m wondering just what we’re supposed to do here,” I reply.

  “It’s simple, man. We merely have to wipe out several planets full of whistlers while avoiding the Overseers and possibly demons. Then we turn around and defeat the Overseers. Shouldn’t take us more than a week or so,” Mike says, smiling.

  “Well, when you put it that way, what the hell am I worried about?”

  “We do have the relic. Trip said it’s one of a kind, so maybe that will help,” BT interjects.

  “We don’t even know what it will do,” Mike says. “There doesn’t appear to be any entries here that describe it. And even if we knew what it was for, we don’t know how to use it.”

  “I think we need to focus on what the fuck we’re going to do now. Do we go back to the world and try to save it? I’m assuming that if we can dispatch the whistlers, then it will stop decaying and perhaps slowly revert back,” I say. “I’m not sure that’s what we should be doing, but it’s the only thing I can think of right now.”

  “And then what? Do we go from world to world and save them all? There seems to be a lot of them, and I’m not sure we can do it in three lifetimes,” Mike comments.

  “No, you’re right. But we have to stop the whistler invasions somewhere. The way I see it, we have scant options if we’re really in this. One, we can find a whistler portal and go to their worlds and try to stop them there. That doesn’t seem highly doable, but it is an option. Two, we figure out what Trip did and reverse it like the Overseers are attempting to do. That may trap them back in their worlds, like they were previously. Three, we try to figure out what happened to the Travelers and bring them to our aid. They were somehow locked into a world, probably like the whistlers were. We find that world. Four, we approach the demons and see if they’ll assist,” I say.

  “Yeah, I don’t see any of that happening, in all honesty. We can’t take on several worlds’ worth of whistlers with just us three…I mean four. I seriously doubt we’ll figure out what Trip did, unless he has one of his sane moments, and those are mighty rare. Approaching the demons doesn’t sound like a way to live to retirement. Sure, Kalandar helped, but the one that’s chasing you doesn’t seem like he wants to be friends,” Mike replies.

  “Then that kind of leaves finding out where the Travelers are held. The text alluded to one escaping, and I bet that’s him,” I respond, pointing to Trip.

  “Okay, how do we figure that out?”

  “And that’s the million-dollar question. We’re going to have to wait until Mr. Happy there has a lucid moment that lasts longer than a minute.”

  “So, we’re back to where do we go from here,” Mike says.

  “We shouldn’t linger; I can’t imagine it will be long until company shows up. Let’s look at the rest of the menu,” I say.

  We search again through the Iteration menus, looking for any indication of where the Travelers might be held. We don’t find anything useful. It’s like the whistler Iteration; it just doesn’t seem to exist. The Iteration 512 Control Menu isn’t large.

  9

  Iteration 512 Control menu

  Create Iteration Portal

  Create Base Portal

  Iteration 512 World Menu

  Back to Main Menu

  “What the hell is a base portal?” Mike asks.

  I select the option and it asks me to input a code. I try putting several things in, but the input screen flashes each time and comes back asking the same thing.

  “I don’t know, but it’s looks like we don’t have access to it. I wonder if that’s a control point that all of the Iterations feed into.”

  “I suppose that makes sense. Boy, if we could only get there, I bet there’s a shitload of information we could use. I bet it even has where the Travelers are trapped and even a way to get there.”

  “Probably, but it looks like the access to it is above our pay grade.”

  I select the World Menu. It has a list of worlds and asks us to select one.

  10

  Iteration 512: World 254

  Monitor Status

  Create Portal

  Reset World: Submenu, Parameters

  Back to Previous Menu

  There are all kinds of submenus and commands we can enact under each menu item, some are pretty self-explanatory and others make no sense at all.

  “So, back and try to remove an infection?” I ask.

  “I suppose we might as well,” Mike says. “I can’t see anything else we can do other than hang here. But, remember that we have the whistlers out there, and they’re not going to be easy to get through, especially with our limited ammo.”

  “Why don’t we just stay here?” BT asks.

  “And wait for more Overseers to arrive? I think it’s in our best interests to keep moving,” I reply.

  “Are we taking that?” Mike asks, pointing to the rotating relic.

  “Well, yeah, why wouldn’t we?” I question.

  “Okay, I didn’t phrase that right. Are you grabbing it?”

  “Um, feel free, if you want to,” I answer.

  “Well, I don’t want to.”

  “Fine. I’ll do it when we’re done here,” I say.

  “I mean, I would, but I forgot I’m allergic to electricity,” Mike responds.

  I pull up the Create Portal menu. There’s a shit ton of options listing location selections on the X, Y, and Z axis for each end of the portal. I assume the default numbers are for ground level. Now, that might mean we’ll emerge into the midst of waiting whistlers or Overseers on the other end, but we don’t have much choice, unless we want to switch Iterations.

  We have a lengthy discussion about doing just that, but come to the conclusion that we’re likely to run into Overseers if we head to another Iteration Control Point, so we might as well take our chances. I’m still curious how the whistlers were able to overcome the Overseers down on the surface of the planet; the only thing I can imagine is that they were numerous enough to hit them with enough staples to knock them out. That’s assuming the staples can penetrate the skin of the Overseers.

  I leave the default parameters in place for the control point portal and move the waypoint one on the X and Z axis. I want to place it away from where I’m nearly certain enemies are waiting. I hope I’m right. If we manage to take out the whistlers and emerge to find the portal hovering somewhere around the nebula, then we’ll know we need to input drastically different parameters. The worry is where the portal will open on the world. After inputting the numbers, a hologram appears on the table, the relic still hovering amid the projection. The hologram shows both points and the relative positioning of the portal with wireframe lines depicting the landscape.

  “Well, that’s convenient,” I mutter, playing with the numbers on the far end of the portal. When I’m satisfied with the positioning and halfway certain we won’t fall to our deaths on arrival or become embedded in some terrain feature, I choose an actionable “Create Portal” selection within the submenu.

  “Okay, that’s done…I think,” I say.

  “It’s all yours,” Mike says, sweeping one arm toward the relic.

  I’m hesitant to undergo being shocked like that again, but we can’t very well leave a one-of-a-kind relic behind. Although, honestly, the thought does cross my mind. I steel myself, closing my eyes as my hand surrounds the device without touching it. I clench, feeling the cool metal object in my hand. I’m not blown away, like the previous time. Opening my eyes, I see the light fade from both the table and around the relic as I pull it away.

  “Chicken,” I say to Mike, stuffing the relic in my vest.

  “Yep. I’m not too proud to admit it.”

  “It’s your turn to grab the next foreign object,” I say.

  Tri
p laughs. “That’s exactly what Frank said when we were at a Dead concert. We were—”

  “Not interested, Trip,” Mike interrupts.

  “Well fine! I won’t tell you about the nice set of—”

  Mike holds up a hand. “Not interested, Trip, not right now. I’ll hit you up later.”

  Trip winks with both eyes.

  The translucent door opens and we step out into the courtyard. With all the immensity of the surrounding universe, the tall pillars of the nebula showing above the walls, it’s strangely silent. It seems like there should be a background roar. I know, no sound in space, but that’s what my mind expects. Not even our footsteps on the clear platform make any noise.

  I partially pull back the charging handle and check that a shell is chambered. I have half a mag in the receiver and another full one at my disposal. Mike has the same, and I hope that ninety rounds will be enough. Trip takes one more puff from a lit joint and puts it away, taking out his slingshot. I wonder where he’ll get ammo in this place when he pulls a stone from an inner pocket of his jacket. I’m truly curious how much stuff he has in there. It’s not bulging at all, but he manages to pull an endless supply of stuff from within it. Perhaps that’s one of the talents the Travelers have, the ability to create matter on the fly.

  “Same as before. We’ll wait at the end of the tunnel and let them funnel into it. Single shots and make them count. You go left, and I’ll take the right corner. Hold your fire until they get close. If we’re about to be overwhelmed, we pull back into the structure. BT, you wait by the building entrance,” I say.

  “I have the pistol…or handgun…or whatever you call it. I can help,” BT replies.

  “And you’re proficient with it?” I ask.

  “Well, I, uh—”

  “Just give it here and wait by the entrance,” I interject.

  He hands the weapon over and waddles back to the entryway. I have an idea developing, but I’m not sure it will work. If we can lure the whistlers into the tunnel and pull back to where it closes, it may take care of our problem relatively easy. The tunnel won’t open for them, but will it close once they’re inside? I have my doubts that it will, if it senses a life form within. After all, the doors at the waypoint allowed Mike, BT, and me to enter without slamming shut on us. But, here’s to hoping.

  The tunnel forms as we approach. Mike and I rush to the corners to lie down at our respective stations. I can’t emphasize enough just how odd it is to be lying on seemingly nothing, the cosmos stretching away underneath.

  The far end of the archway is filled with whistlers, packed across the entrance. When they see the tunnel appear, they raise their arms. The tunnel is instantly filled with a volley of staples. They silently hit the platform and walls without sparking or leaving a mark, caroming off the surfaces to ricochet into the walls of the structure. Some hit at an angle that propels them into what should be outer space, but I’m not able to see whether they float off or are stopped by some kind of force field.

  The caliber of weapons we’re using have a relatively flat trajectory out to three hundred yards. With the tunnel spanning about two hundred yards, I don’t really have anything to calculate as the carbines are sighted in for that distance. So far, the whistlers seem content to stand at the entrance and fill the air with their projectiles, perhaps fearing to enter. Staples are hitting nearby as I line up my first shot.

  I wonder for a brief second whether gravity is the same here, but walking hasn’t felt any different, so I have to assume it is. With the 3X scope mounted on top, I sight in on one and fire. The single shot races down the length of the archway. I watch as a whistler at the far end drops to the platform. A brief flash of light erupts where it fell, the body gone in an instant. I take in the next and fire, hearing Mike firing spaced shots across the entryway. Whistlers fall from the crowded ranks, flashes of light marking their demise.

  The staples start hitting nearer as the whistlers begin finding their mark. More of the creatures drop as Mike and I counterfire, but there are more to take their places. I have to edge closer to the corner with only my head and carbine in view. I flinch every time something metallic hits nearby. It’s a little weird not hearing such close hits, but there are a few zips as some pass inches away.

  Seeing their comrades fall, the whistlers at the leading edges start heading into the tunnel. Again, their gangly runs are awkward to watch, like all of their body parts are moving independently of each other. However, their speed isn’t affected by their strange movements, and the distance between us and them closes.

  The handle locks back as the final round of the magazine leaves the barrel. Replacing it with my last full one, I hear Mike call that he’s reloading as well. Less than sixty rounds with just as many of the whistlers still racing down the tunnel. My shirt sleeve jerks as a staple tears through the fabric, ricocheting behind. As the whistlers get closer, so does their accuracy.

  More flashes erupt in the tunnel as whistlers fall, although the light isn’t reflected from the marbled walls. Below the running creatures, the cosmos turns, as it’s done for millennia, uncaring what’s happening on the platform. It strikes me as odd that we’re having a real live space battle, but fought with staple guns strapped to wrists and carbines instead of ray guns or blasters.

  However fast we fire into the crowded mass of the encroaching whistlers, they still draw closer. Their numbers are diminished, but not nearly enough. The wide tunnel allows a large number of them in front at one time, but, thankfully, not the entire mass. That means their fire toward us is somewhat limited.

  Ragged holes in their lines form as Mike and I continue shooting. Spent shell casings roll over seemingly nothing, with more added each second. The archway is filled with flashes of light from whistlers going down. Trip is back by the building, his slingshot snapping as he fires stones down the length of the hall. He pulls pebble after pebble from his jacket, sending whistler after whistler to their personal flash of light. I’m not sure how he’s not hit by the numerous staples filling the air.

  I hear a small thud from behind, accompanied by an “Ooomph” from BT. I can’t take the time to turn and see what happened, but can surmise that he’s been hit by one of the ricochets.

  “There’s too many of them,” Mike shouts.

  “Pull back and see if the tunnel closes,” I return, my bolt locking back as I fire my last round.

  Mike rises and darts off, angling away from the tunnel and further into the courtyard. I drop my carbine and pull out my handgun. I have fourteen rounds in the mag with one in the chamber. That’s it. It’s not nearly enough for the remaining whistlers racing down the tunnel. I rise and run away from the archway, looking over my shoulder to see if the tunnel closes. Trip is against the wall of the structure, still firing his slingshot. I see staples hit the wall all around him, all miraculously missing.

  “I could really use a toke right now,” he yells.

  The archway doesn’t close, and the whistlers will break through at any moment, and Trip is worried about getting stoned. That somehow figures. I’m far away enough that the tunnel should close, but it remains open.

  “Well, that didn’t work,” I shout to Mike.

  Mike stops running and pulls out the blunt bayonet I had returned, turning to face the tunnel entrance.

  “Yack, use the key!” Trip yells.

  “And do what, throw it at them?” I return.

  “The tunnel…close the tunnel.”

  If it could do that, why the fuck didn’t he say so in the first place? We could have handled this mess earlier.

  I pull the relic out and hold it up, closing my eyes and visualizing the tunnel closing. I feel a warmth cycle through the object. Squinting with one eye, I look toward the entrance. It’s still open. Closing them again, I imagine the tunnel not being there at all. Again, the object warms in my hand. I picture a solid wall. Opening my eyes reveals this attempt also didn’t work.

  I look over at Trip. “You have to s
ee every detail,” he yells.

  How in the fuck can anyone do that with the degree of accuracy that Trip is inferring? I again look, trapping the imagery in my mind. Part of the nearby galaxy showing underneath the walls, the stars, the veins within the marble, the stars glimmering both below and above the wall. I take that snapshot and keep it in mind, then alter it slightly so that the wall is there without the tunnel formed. The relic heats more than before, but at the same time, it doesn’t feel hot.

  I hear Trip scream something and open my eyes. The tunnel is gone. Trip is dancing, although that term doesn’t even begin to describe what he’s doing. Capering like a madman is more like it. His arms are in the air and he’s jumping and turning.

  “You did it, Yack!” he’s shouting.

  “We’re not quite done,” Mike yells.

  I instantly notice exactly what he means. Inside the courtyard, several whistlers made it through to the square. They’ve turned their attention to a dancing Trip with some turning to the sound of Mike’s shout. I place the relic away and start toward the creatures. Trip stops his cavorting as several staples slam into his body.

  “No you fucking don’t,” I say, firing and walking.

  We’re too close to lose now. Mike, armed with only a bayonet, starts running across the front of the few gathered whistlers, distracting them. They follow his movements, their arms raised in front as they fire their staples at him.

  A whistler goes down as my 10mm round slams into its head. Then another and a third as I take aim while closing the distance. The last few turn in my direction, the sound of my shots drawing their attention. I continue firing, sending one after another to the platform where they vanish in flashes of light. My slide locks back with two remaining, their arms rounding on me.