Aerigo began to feel exhausted, but he needed to keep the assault up a little longer so he could kill the rest. They were getting farther away. He thinned and lengthened his arms, his corporeal fingers like claws, and raked and pounded the fleeing army. The ground rumbled a deep, earthy moan with every strike, and patches of wild grass caught fire where his energy touched. He clawed his way after them, but moved too slow. And then he realized it had shrunk quite a bit. The nearest Balvadiers looked the size of rats. Aerigo willed the power to expand, but he couldn’t sustain the distance he wanted as it reached out. He pulled the power closer to him and, furious at his mounting impotence, let out a howl. His howl originated in his corporeal throat, then projected up and out through energy, amplifying like a sound horn. His howl sounded like hundreds of hollow voices crying out. He retreated to Drio, lashing at anything that moved.
The village was burning. Durians were scrambling to put out fires, but there just wasn’t enough of them. Somewhere among it all was his own burning home, and past that, his dead wife. He lashed out at the nearest home and demolished it with one blow, then began crushing anything that burned.
Soon, he saw movement to his left. He raised a fist, swung, then froze when the terror-filled scream of an elderly woman reached his ears. Mere feet beneath his astral fist cowered a woman clutching a bundled child. Those two didn’t deserve his revenge. The sight sent a wave of horror through his chest. He recoiled, his chest now devoid of rage.
His power carried him backwards, away from Drio. Without his rage, he was no longer blind to the nature and consequences of his actions. Nausea rose in his physical throat. He had no right to be there anymore. He had just killed thousands of people and destroyed so much. How much of Drio’s ruin was his fault?
As the power drew him beyond the temple, an overwhelming exhaustion seized him. His astral body evaporated with a loud hiss, and the swirling wind cooled and calmed. Trees, grass and thatch roofs stilled, but homes continued burning. The power set his feet on the ground. Aerigo dropped to his hands and knees, then fell face-first onto the grass, unconscious.
* * *
Maharaja, who’d watched the amazing and frightening power from the modest safety of the Wildwood, crossed the river and knelt beside Aerigo’s steaming body. The king cautiously touched a shoulder and recoiled. The Aigis’ skin felt like it was on fire. He noticed the smell of burning grass and blackened blades outlining Aerigo’s body. Maharaja took his staff in both clawed hands and used the butt to flip Aerigo onto his back, then examined the end of his staff, which was emitting a tendril of smoke. He sniffed in contempt. “What other strange powers do you possess, Aerigo?”
The king whispered a spell to the feathers hanging from the top of his staff, passed them slowly over the length of Aerigo’s body, and continued whispering. The steaming stopped. He cautiously touched a shoulder once again, then squeezed it. Maharaja scooped Aerigo up and whisked him into the Wildwood.
* * *
As the hospital doors parted of their own accord, Aerigo felt like he’d stumbled into a dream. The ceiling lights threw his vision into a haze of bright colors, causing objects to blur into one another. The clean air intoxicated his mind with its wondrous purity. Air couldn’t possibly smell or taste this nice on Kismet. Everything moved with surreal grace. Even his stride felt like the gentle curve of a Ferris wheel. Had he passed out without realizing it? The question came and went like an echo.
Sounds blended into one another, all sounds he recognized but couldn’t name. He almost stumbled into what he had a hunch was a brown desk. He stopped before it and tried to make his eyes focus. All he could make out was its tall rectangular shape, with some green square on it and two pale objects atop the green thing. Hands. Those were hands. And they were attached to a person. Aerigo gazed at the person behind the desk and focused on the lady’s moving lips. Those lips looked like blurry purple rose petals waving in a breeze. The longer he stared at them, the crisper they became. Once the woman’s mouth came into focus, Aerigo finally discerned her voice from the rest of the noises.
“Sir, what’s wrong?”
Aerigo blinked and tried to remember where he was and why he was there. He was in some sort of vaulted room with lots of windows behind him, and a collection of people sitting in a semicircle of chairs, staring at him or one of several televisions mounted in the corners of the room. Beyond the lady and her desk lay a wide hallway, with closed double doors not too far down. White walls, white doors, white ceiling, and some pale, shiny floor. Lots of lights, too, and paintings. And a weight in his arms. He looked down. Rox. His attention snapped back to the female receptionist as if for the first time. She wore her hair in a tight bun that gave an air of sophistication and beauty, and wore a casual blouse and pants. She also had purple lips, ears, and the palms of her hands, and a purple sheen to her hair and nails. She was speaking in Kintish, the dominant language on Kismet. He still remembered it. And the purple coloring was part of the Kismites’ anatomy.
“Sir, is this an emergency, or non-emergency visit?”
Medicine. Help. Rox needed both badly. “She,” Aerigo began in a parched voice, then swallowed. “She’s been poisoned.”
Chapter 3
One thousand troops. That’s all Baku was allowed; no more, no less. After weighing the pros and cons, the side effects, the ripples his next choice would create, Baku had chosen Earth as the sole world he’d extract his army from. He’d thought of collecting a portion from each of his own worlds, but that would complicate things even more. He was already having a hard enough time ignoring his screaming desire to find out what the hell had happened to his two Aigis. Shortly after Leviathan had something happen to his icon, something had happened to Aerigo and Roxie. He could sense it just like he could sense the birth or death of each and every one of his mortals.
Baku landed on the dusty surface of Earth’s moon and took a deep breath, then partitioned his mind so the part that refused to stop stressing and worrying had its own spot to run in mindless circles, while the rest of his consciousness focused on the task at hand. The grey dirt between his toes felt soft and cold. Its coolness helped him focus. The lack of air to breathe and mortally survivable temperatures were inconsequential. Despite the latest partition in his mind, his thoughts raced for an alternative solution to adhering to Nexus’ prophecy. And despite his vast knowledge and wisdom, he could think of none.
Baku gazed at the blue globe rotating along its silent circuit many thousand miles away. Many clouds blotted out its surface, as if the very planet was trying to hide its inhabitants from what he was about to do. I know, I know. I’m sorry. He mentally sifted through the large list of trained soldiers he deemed capable of handling a war that defied the reality they knew. He felt like a coach making cuts for a team when he didn’t want to make any. So many looked promising.
Within minutes, he narrowed the millions down to a thousand candidates.
Baku slowed time around those men and women, and then froze the world in place. Time inside the bubbles’ encasing went on as normal, and then he put his chosen thousand into a hypnosis-induced sleep so no one would go into shock. He made everything go black for them as he separated their minds from their bodies and plucked them from Earth’s physical plane.
Baku made himself invisible and directed the souls of these men and women to stand before him on the moon. A second later, one thousand disoriented human soldiers appeared, all wearing their respective country’s uniforms--American, Swiss, French, Chinese, British, and more. Even if they had just been sleeping or swimming, their uniform and appearance were code perfect, not one bed-head or goggle print among them. Baku omnisciently waited for his army to get oriented.
* * *
Reginald Whitman, a tall, bulky African American turned in a complete circle, taking in his bizarre surroundings. “What the hell is going on?” he yelled. This isn’t my office! “Where are we? Someone report now!” He clenched his fists, ready to hand the ass back to
whoever tried to attack him.
“Sir!”
Whitman wheeled around and a middle-aged woman with braided orange hair tied in a bun saluted him.
“Officer Harris, Second Lieutenant,” she said in a heavy southern drawl.
“Admiral Whitman, ma’am,” he replied, returning the salute. “At ease for Chrissake. Who are all these soldiers?”
* * *
Twenty five-year-old Roger tried to rub the sleep from his face, even though it felt perfectly clean. He could’ve sworn he’d woken up a second ago, but apparently he was still dreaming. He stopped rubbing and took in his grey and dusty setting. The moon? It looked like it. There were craters everywhere, and a crown of stars overhead. But what was with all these soldiers around him? They all looked equally confused and lost in a dream. Among them was someone he recognized. Curious to see how the dream version of his best friend would behave, he headed straight for him. “Mike. Hey, Mike! I’m right behind you.”
Mike’s face lit up. He jogged over. “Roger! What the hell you doin’ in my dream?”
“Your dream?” The two shook hands and exchanged a one-arm hug. “I’m the one who’s dreaming, man. You’re supposed to be stationed in Germany, not on the moon.”
“I am, but I must’ve dozed off.” Mike glanced around. “This place was never in the recruiting pamphlet.”
“Nope.”
“This is so weird. I was on base, playing air hockey with Jeff, when suddenly everything around me stopped moving. I mean, I was about to score.” Mike help up a thumb and forefinger two inches apart. “The disk was inches away from scoring when it stopped sliding. As soon as I realized it’d stopped moving, everything went black, and next thing I know I find myself on the moon. And not only that, I’m in my damn BDU. I’d love to blame this on another hallucination, but I stopped doing dope when I joined the Marines.”
“Yeah, this is weird shit, man. I was ass-naked asleep a minute ago.” Roger took in the other soldiers. He noticed the insignia pinned to the uniform of an African American naval officer talking to a red-haired woman. He reflexively stood at attention and shouted, “Officer on deck!”
* * *
Whitman glanced in the direction the shout had come from, then watched a handful of soldiers struggle to figure out which way to face before standing at attention, all with their right hands raised in a salute meant for him. He saluted back. “Fall in!”
* * *
Baku watched Admiral Whitman organize the brigade, pointing to spots of grey and measuring out spacing with his confident gait. Within minutes, each country was clumped together like in an Olympic pre-games parade. The countries organized themselves into a rank-and-file manner, and no one complained or made comment about their odd situation--not aloud at least. These soldiers were trained to act and follow commands without letting their thoughts impede them.
Baku was tempted to relax a bit as the last few soldiers stepped into place in line. However, he held the breath that wanted exhaling. His army was as ready for his appearance as they were ever going to be. So far his divine intervention hadn’t knocked any screws loose, but transporting them to the moon was nothing compared to what he had in store.
Since gods didn’t have a set form, he cast a veil of sorts over himself, which would react to all one thousand pairs of eyes and show each of them their own version of what they expected a god to look like. The wise old man appearance he’d settled on didn’t matter in the end. He needed to be compelling more than anything. The veil felt like a thin skin of a face mask that could be peeled off. It tugged at every wrinkle and stretch of his skin. And even with the veil, some would see his chosen form.
He remained invisible to give them fair warning of his presence, and spoke in the most friendly and soothing voice he could muster. “Don’t be afraid. I mean you no harm.” His voice carried out over Whitman’s commanding voice with the strength of a surround sound system. The officer stopped talking, and the greenest soldiers flinched at Baku’s voice. The old god silently took a deep breath, calming his nerves, and continued to ease into his introduction. “This is the voice of your god, your Creator. You have many names for me, and many preconceived notions. I am and am not the person you’d expect. For the moment, I need you to put all that aside. My name is Baku. I am in need of your military expertise.” He faded into view.
* * *
Whitman caught himself gaping and snapped his mouth shut. That was Jesus standing before him and he was black after all! Of course he was black. Jerusalem was too close to the equator for him not to be. Whitman thought of the black baby Jesus in his manger setup that he and his family set up in the living room for Christmas every year, and his chest swelled with pride. If God--Baku--whatever he wanted to be called needed his help, then Whitman was damn ready to give it.
* * *
Roger felt Mike looking at him. He turned his head ever so slightly and gave all his attention to his peripheral. “What?”
“That’s God, man,” Mike said in an awed whisper. “I can’t believe it! He looks exactly like what I expected.”
“Really, huh?” Roger said, unamused. “I believe it, but I’ve got a bone to pick with him.”
“Why?”
His friend sounded genuinely shocked. “Think about it. Think about all the shit people go through, shit no one deserves, and here he is, doing nothing about it.”
“You’re wrong,” Mike said, and both young men broke from attention and looked at each other.
Someone a few rows behind them snapped at them with a French accent to shut up and pay attention.
Roger bit back his atheistic tirade and assumed attention, although with a cold stare at the man who looked faintly like his Italian father, but older. Somehow the god’s appearance was fitting; when he’d toyed with the possibility that a divine being existed, this man who called himself Baku was exactly what he’d expected.
* * *
“As you already know,” Baku continued plainly, “all of you are part of one military or another. All of Earth, the whole world, is in need of your protection. I’m asking all of you to fight for the safety of your world.” He walked to the file farthest to his right and paused just before it and began meeting the gaze of each soldier, one at a time, as he spoke. “I know most of you would happily fight for me and your world, and for that I thank you. I also know there are many of you who are hesitant. I understand. I don’t blame you for it either.” He already knew all of them would say yes, despite any reservations. He just needed to give them a chance to make the decision for themselves.
* * *
Roger felt the color drain from his face. It was as if Baku really knew what was going on in his head. His gut reaction was to take up arms and defend America. If his commanding officer ordered him to, he’d do so without question. But for Baku, he was going to get some questions answered first.
* * *
“For those who are hesitant, ask yourselves, why would you want to join your comrades and defend Earth just because I, your Creator, have asked you to?” Baku continued along the files, looking eye-to-eye with each soldier for a fraction of a second at a time, gauging their thoughts and making a list of whom he’d need to speak to individually afterward. “Think about it. Right now. I will not feed you reasons. You must find resolve on your own. One thing I will clarify is that you aren’t fighting for Earth alone, nor just for me. So, what you need to decide now is to either fight, or not to fight.
“To fight would mean to let go of reality as you know it. To fight also means you’ll be vying for Earth and its very existence, along with the existence of hundreds of other worlds. Yes, you are not alone in the universe.” Baku fell silent and continued meeting soldiers’ gazes. Many wanted to break from standing at attention and drop prostrate on the ground. Others were holding in tears, some joyful, others angry. A few soldiers feared him, but would gladly do his bidding. The rest were a mix of proud, ecstatic, honored, hesitant, and upset. But plow forward he must. “
You’ll fight alongside tens of thousands of allies against an opposing army of equal strength. Help win this war and you can receive no higher honor in life.” Baku came to a stop before Admiral Whitman and spoke just to him. “Order the battalion to about-face.”
Whitman’s powerful voice carried out the command, and all one thousand men and women turned a hundred and eighty degrees, then resumed attention.
“Just look at Earth.” Earth in all its quiet beauty lay before them, half in light, and half in darkness. The globe looked the size of a house, the lit half a heart-breaking beautiful combination of blue, white and green, and the dark half dotted with veins of lights where the highest population densities resided. “That’s your home. That’s what you’re fighting for. It is your duty as soldiers to protect your homeland and your people.” Baku teleported so he stood between the battalion and the view of Earth, making a point to let his moving presence feel like a gust passing through them. No one but he was actually on the moon at the moment. Their bodies were right where he’d found them. Their minds were with him, though, giving them all the opportunity to see and hear him at once. That way, no one would wonder if they were crazy or had hallucinated the whole thing. It would also make it harder for any of them to say no with all their allies around. “Now, please decide whether or not you’ll fight for Earth’s sake.”
Chapter 4
Courage Page 3