by Chad R. Odom
Seyah had been Damrich’s attempt to duplicate Roanoke, but the Captain was a pale comparison to the original. Damrich kept Roanoke in stasis until his resurrection was an absolute necessity. Fearing the caches were no longer a viable sustainability of life, Roanoke became a necessity to ensure his survival. He was too close to fail in the eleventh hour.
Damrich took great care to get Roanoke here unnoticed, but he was glad the colonel saw the body. Damrich needed witnesses. Between the weapon being built in this underground facility and the weapon now lying in his quarters, he needed someone to to tell how they thought they were serving the Empire but were wrong. Instead, they had served the whims of a madman who used his own personal fortunes to amass his own army, create a weapon of murder on a scale never before accomplished, and turn loose the most lethal killer ever conceived. One would be enough to make the world believe, but there were hundreds who could attest to the madness of Lucius Kovac. There were enough witnesses and evidence to condemn him a thousand times over. By then, Damrich would be far removed.
Now that there was a witness to Kovac with Roanoke, it was time to put the creature into action. He ran the words through his mind in a language only two living people could speak. Soon, only one. He completed the chant in his mind, reveling in its genius and simplicity. It was an Archadyan nursery rhyme, one repeated millions of times to children to gently lull them to sleep. The words were familiar to him as a child, too. His filthy parents had repeated it to him even after he was too old to be lulled into anything.
The rhyme featured the name of the child it was being sung to. This was the key piece. It was the one thing which gave Damrich complete power over the monster. For this rhyme, he used his own name—his real name. He repeated it openly for this purpose alone. It was his name that would resurrect the evil on the table. Roanoke was his hands and his will. Slowly, audibly, he sang the tune.
As he finished it, Roanoke’s eyes fluttered open. A true breath, not just one to sustain life but one to restore it, filled his lungs. Roanoke’s hammer of a heart coursed the salve infused blood with renewed vigor, quickly eliminating millennia of atrophied muscles. He flexed his fingers into fists, audibly cracking stiffened joints. Curling his lips in disgust, he inhaled the stale, metallic smelling air. He coughed and vomited up the final remnants of the liquid that had kept him living in stasis.
“I know,” Damrich remarked in Archadyan. “It’s an assault to the senses.”
Roanoke finally took notice of his master. His grey forehead furrowed between black eyebrows as his dark eyes narrowed.
Damrich agreed with the sentiment. “I hardly recognize myself these days.”
Roanoke didn’t care. It didn’t matter what face the voice came from, only that the voice gave him purpose. Without the voice, he was flesh and bone on a slab. With it, he was death incarnate. “The Archides?” he asked.
“They’re no longer a concern. I have another use for you.”
Damrich gave him his first new instruction: Find Therion. After being dressed, armed, and given a new language to learn, Roanoke left the facility. To Damrich’s great pleasure, many bystanders noticed. In a little while, he would let Roanoke’s existence slip to the right people—the kind who would make sure Sicari knew what was coming. Maybe it would force him out of hiding so Damrich could tie up one more loose end.
He returned to his console filled with the confidence that comes from perfecting the craft of manipulation and preparation. There, just as he left it, was the face of the politician he had groomed for the last several years. Not as Kovac but as Damrich. This was the face behind which he would rise. This would be the face of his culminating victory.
As the pieces fell comfortably in place, Kovac pushed back from his prey and traversed the underground tunnels until he came to a massive construction floor. The facility was under an island owned by the General and spanned nearly the same size as the island. It was hidden from the world for good reason.
Kovac recruited the world’s best minds and revealed tidbits of Archide technology that he either still possessed or could recreate. He let them collect the incomplete data and complete the equations. He’d waited a long time for technology to advance to the point where he could put his knowledge to good use.
The scientists were eager to help him take the next steps. They had no idea who they were working for, who else was working on it, and what he was doing with tech. A decade after he started them on the project, he kidnapped and forced them to finish his project.
Today, he placed his hands on the railing and stared at the culmination of their work. It was an aircraft the size of a city with propulsion and weapons never before seen. Fleets of drone aircraft were nestled in its belly as was a weapon capable of death on an unparalleled scale. Roanoke would create fear. This weapon would create a world-wide need for safety and security. When the world was ready, he would be there to give them respite from the terror.
Damrich would be their savior.
Rescue
The door opened. Oryan shut his eyes as even the dull light from outside his cell blinded. Warm fingers pressed against his neck. Oryan’s feeble heart beat against the man’s fingertips, echoing in his ears even as he willed it in vain to stop. The feet shuffled then left his side. This was the routine. Soon, the cell door would creak on its hinges then slam closed, leaving him once more in cold silence.
Whoever they were, they’d rescued him from Desolation, the volcanic island Kovac left him naked and alone on. In his few hours on the uninhabitable rock, the toxic fumes, hot air, and ash, had singed his lungs and throat. Light burns covered his torn flesh from jagged rocks covering the ground. It would not have taken much more time for him to be a rotting corpse on that place.
The footsteps faded, but no door closed. It was replaced instead by the sounds of many footfalls entering his cell. There were at least three. Two were average weight and one seemed to be overly skinny. The sound of wooden table legs clacking against the hard floor bounced off the walls then the shuffling continued. Feet continued to fall until they had each stood still outside the door.
Oryan opened his eyes, adjusting to the light streaming between the silhouettes guarding the entrance. A short time ago, this would not nearly be enough men to stop him. Today, this moment, they were as good as a thousand tons of steel.
A shadow moved across the floor. The sentinels parted, and two more men entered. One carried a canvas full of sticks, and the other approached Oryan with something slung over his shoulder. The man with the sticks quickly assembled them into two crude chairs, which he placed on either side of the table, and then he came to help the man now standing over Oryan.
“I saw this guy on the Net a few times.”
“Me too.”
The pair bent down, gripped Oryan beneath the arms, and hoisted him to his feet, but they offered little support. So, the two men dragged him and dropped him in one of the makeshift chairs.
“Should I get his autograph?” one quipped.
The other chuckled. “Better get it now,” he stated, pulling the objects off his shoulder. Much like the chairs, their true purpose took shape as he banded them together, strapping Oryan’s wrists, chest, and legs to the chair. Aside from the jostling movements of his body, Oryan made no sign he either noticed or cared.
The straps were cinched tightly, double and triple checked. Apparently, the pair wanted to make sure he wasn’t going anywhere.
They left the room, and Oryan heard a familiar voice. Its sound pumped warmth into his fingers and toes; his utterly exhausted hands clenched into loose fists.
“Is he secure?” the voice of Sicari Tudjaso uttered.
An affirmative response was given.
The shadows moved again; this time, Oryan’s eyes rolled to greet them. Sicari entered. Oryan was suddenly keenly aware of everything from the dryness of his eyes to the creaking of his bones. Muscles in his face subtly twitched involuntarily, wanting to glare and curse, but his expression rema
ined calm. If what Corvus said was true, Sicari had Celeste and Asher.
Sicari stopped, his mouth agape and his eyes wide. For a moment, he simply stared in disbelief and finally spoke as Oryan’s gaze broke from his and returned to the empty chair across from him. Oryan’s lips moved, but only a hoarse scratchy breath escaped his mouth. He closed his eyes, forcing tears down his cheeks, and swallowing back the pain. He cursed his current situation.
“What have you done to him?” Sicari said in shock.
“Us? We’re the reason he’s alive.”
“You call this alive?”
“He’s breathin’, ain’t he?”
Sicari rounded the table and slowly sat in the chair, still gazing at Oryan in tragic awe.
“I’m sorry,” he said softly. Oryan’s eyes shot daggers at Sicari.
“I know you don’t believe me. How could you, after all you’ve seen? After everything I’ve done?”
Oryan remained quiet, letting his eyes do the talking.
“I know if there’s a great reward awaiting us after we die, I’ll never see it.”
Oryan listened to what sounded like honesty but everything that man said was a lie. He had thousands of years to refine his two faces—to learn how to perfectly camouflage his true intentions behind mask after mask of well-meaning and innocence. Even with this new confession, there was no doubt in Oryan’s mind Sicari still hid something sinister and selfish. So, he shut out the man’s feigned humility and focused on the murderer before him.
Oryan pulled against his bonds. Were he healthy, he could have broken them, but in his current state, he couldn’t hope to break through these, much less stop Damrich or, more pertinently, kill Sicari. This entire situation was one giant variable. He knew nothing about the outside of this room, much less where he was being held, how many were there to resist him, or where he would go if he were able to get away. Oryan had been in impossible scenarios before. This was worse.
Quietly, Sicari spoke, “Do you think we have a soul?”
Oryan watched old age settle on Sicari as if it were being painted on. Dark circles were beneath his eyes. The lines of age were deeply etched in his face. His eyes filled with regret and self-pity.
“Science offers a lot. It’s going to give this world things it can’t imagine, but for every question science answers, it asks a dozen more.
“I remember when teleportation technology first came on the scene. It took a long time to map a living organism so completely. Then there was how to break it down safely and put it back together. Once we figured that out, it became a question of how far we could teleport a living thing.
“We started out with animals. When we were ready, we teleported human clones. It was wildly successful. Finally, the pioneering scientists tested it on themselves. They raved about it! Hailed it as the greatest advancement in history. At first, there was no limit to its potential.
“Then there were complications. Those scientists found it harder and harder to solve more advanced equations even when the answers was right in front of them. They lost memories. They couldn’t recognize colleagues or family. If they kept going, they were reduced to vegetables.
“Eventually, another researcher presented a theory to the mystery. He had continued mapping the human body, using those who had been teleported as his subjects. They had broken every piece of the human body—several thousand times smaller than subatomic into data streams. Those streams could be disseminated, fed into a teleportation device, and then reassembled.
“But within those trillions of streams there was an anomaly—a line of code that, no matter how hard they tried, they couldn’t isolate or properly identify and repeated use of the teleportation tech led to its breakdown. Once that stream broke down, it tore apart the other data streams, quickly rendering them useless.
“Oh, don’t worry, your exposure is limited. You’ll never notice any harsh side effects. He also found that the line, if given proper time, could rebuild itself. It took an abuse of teleportation technology to cause permanent damage.
“Animals and clones didn’t suffer the same degeneration. They never could find the same elusive line in a clone. It was as if there was something we couldn’t define, that made us special. Something that made us human.
“We’re all going to die, Oryan. My time is coming soon, I think. I’m not afraid to die, but I am afraid of what comes after. If there’s a hell, it’s where I’m going. Fear’s kept me alive for a long time but now…” His mood changed from sullen to serious in a heartbeat as his eyes fixed on Oryan’s. “Soon, there won’t be a difference between here and the hell I’ve been running from for so long. Roanoke is coming. This world is going to burn.”
One of the soldiers approached Sicari with an apology for interrupting and whispered in his ear. The soldier’s movements were stiff. Sweat was beading on his forehead. Oryan’s sharp ears picked up the unpleasant news—with a bit of focus.
Sicari stiffened and replied without whispering. “How did they find us? Where are they from?”
The soldier offered an apology for his lack of information as he shook his head.
“You’re not giving me much!” Sicari snapped. “How many are there?”
The guard glanced at Oryan before replying, “Enough to overwhelm our defenses. They’ll be here in under two minutes.”
Sicari stood, his eyes searching the floor as if it had the answers to the questions now racing through his brain. Oryan took pleasure in watching him squirm. The incoming force, whoever they were, presented a great distraction. He could never attempt an escape in his present condition, but battles caused confusion, and most people, no matter how disciplined, let things slip when a battle commenced. If there was even a small chance his family was here, he had to try.
“This will have to wait, my friend,” Sicari said as he headed to the door. “No matter what happens, I’ll get you out of here. All of you.” Then he turned to the guard. “Get to him a better holding cell, and for God’s sake, treat him like a human being!” With a last glance at Oryan, he darted from the room.
“All of you,” the words echoed in Oryan’s mind. Were Celeste and Asher the others that made up the “all” Sicari mentioned? The gray haze in his mind started to clear.
The guard came to Oryan, loosening the straps around his legs. Oryan’s brain sharpened, keenly aware of the tension of the straps on his arms. The guard moved behind him, taking accurate precautions.
Oryan did everything he could to pump adrenaline through his veins. Anger and desperation flooded his system, giving him enough energy to jam his heels against the ground, forcing the chair off the floor. Angling backward, the chair slammed awkwardly against the floor, shattering the frame. One of Oryan’s arm slipped out of the restraints the other was still fastened to the chair, and the guard was on him. In peak condition, this would be an easy contest, but the effort involved in getting to this point had nearly put his body into shock.
The sounds of explosives and gunfire rattled outside the walls. It wouldn’t be long until they were overrun. He had to find his family and leave before that happened. The guard was on top of him quickly, his weight crushing Oryan’s already feeble limbs.
The assailant had him, and Oryan was nearly willing to accept his failure when Asher’s face came to his mind. Muscles that moments before refused to work, surged to life. He slapped the piece of the chair attached to his arm onto the guard’s hand. The guard yelled in pain and loosened his grip. Oryan took advantage and quickly got on top of the guard, shoving the chair piece into his throat, pushing with everything he could muster. Sicari’s henchman squirmed and struggled. It took everything in Oryan to finish the job.
The flailing stopped. The tears rolling down his temples were the only movement remaining from his attacker. Oryan collapsed to the floor, exhausted. His fingers were numb, his breathing came in ragged gasps, and his eyes stayed closed longer with each blink. The echo of the battle outside rang in his ears and reminded him why he
had taken another human life. He struggled to his stomach and crawled to the still-open door. Every inch was a labor in which he could barely compel himself to take.
***
Sicari scrambled through the halls. Two soldiers flanked him. He gave the order to burn documents and destroy any evidence of who he was or what this place was before they were overrun. Who could have found him? Was it Damrich?
Rounding another corner, he saw an unfamiliar soldier coming from the far end. He drew his weapon and fired several shots. His guards took up their post on either side of the hall, and a firefight ensued.
Taking full advantage, Sicari doubled back. That was the fastest way out, but not the only one. He ran through the halls, down passages he was sure no one would be in. As he neared an intersecting hallway, a gun barrel appeared, followed quickly by a soldier. He shot the first one down, but another quickly filed behind, disarming him and knocking him backward. Sicari regained his footing and fought back.
Though he was not the Arkon Corvus had been, he was not unfamiliar with hand-to-hand combat. He disabled the first soldier, only to have a second, third, and fourth round the corner. Knowing he wasn’t going to win, he turned to run, but was blocked again.
Soldiers were both in front and behind, but none had pulled their triggers. That meant they had orders to capture, not kill. He charged the three in front, knocking one to the ground. The second hit him over the head with the stock of his gun, sending Sicari sprawling. His head swam.
The soldier’s boot pressed on his back, forcing him to the ground. The click of a trigger snapped the air, the sting of barbs pierced his skin, and shockwaves rocketed through his body. He shook and twitched for as long as the soldier held the trigger down. Muscles seized in agony until, as quickly as it started, it stopped.