Starweb

by Warren James Palmer

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The Amazon rain forest. Earth 2057

  As the firefight raged on amongst the ruins of the Aztec city, the black-clad Masorak agents stealthily made their way through the maze of tunnels and passages inside the main temple.

  Myrddin knew where they were going, he could sense both Bishop Dydnski and the bitch, ‘Miss Smith’ were somewhere within the inner sanctum of the temple. Agent Delaware and all the innocent people who had died as a direct result of their actions would soon have their justice. Myrddin was determined to eliminate the agent provocateur, servant of the Starweb, once and for all.

  The leader of Triplanetary Church had rebuilt the top section of the pyramid, restoring the temple and altar. It was obviously some sort of sick joke which had prompted the servant of the Starweb to base his operations at a site where humans were once sacrificed. It was there that Dydnski now waited for events to unfold. Myrddin knew that the bishop was aware of his presence, but the ancient operant didn't care, nothing could come in the way of their final showdown.

  The small combat group met some resistance on the way. Fanatical members of the church literally hurled themselves at the Masorak agents, regardless of whether they were armed or not. Those that didn't have weapons simply clawed at the intruders like wild animals. However, they were no match for the trained and deadly efficient attack-squad. The white-robed cult followers were dispatched without any serious injuries to the Masorak agents.

  Eventually, they stood before the tall, heavy wooden doors of the temple's inner sanctum. Myrddin paused, whilst his mind scanned the cathedral-sized area beyond. His mind extended beyond his bodies physical senses and tried to perceive what exactly was on the other side of the doors. He tried hard, but he found his senses blocked.

  Somebody was shielding the inner temple with his, or her, own mind, effectively blinding his own sense of perception. Myrddin pushed hard against the mental barriers and continued to push with all his might until beads of sweat popped out on his brow, but to no avail.

  It was quite inconceivable. The ancient knew he was one of the human race's most powerful operants, Myrddin was also the oldest and most experienced of the telepaths. So, who was blocking his thoughts? Who was sufficiently talented to face up to him, without even having to sweat at it? The realisation came to him in a flash, that maybe even now, he'd misjudged the talents of Miss Smith, whoever or whatever she was.

  It was no good, they couldn't wait outside the doors any longer. Whilst they delayed, men and women were needlessly dying amongst the ruins of the Aztec city. Warning the squad to expect maximum resistance, Myrddin took a deep breath and with guns cocked and at the ready, put his full weight against the doors.

  Surprisingly, they opened easily, swinging wide on counter-balanced hinges. Caught off-guard, he almost tumbled into the inner-temple with the combat squad close behind. Showing an agility that belied his age, Myrddin turned his slip into a forward roll and bounced to his feet, automatic rifle at the ready. But instead of being greeted by a hail of gunfire, he was met by a steady sea of faces all staring at him. Sitting in row upon row of hard stone pews, the young cult members looked at the intruders impassively.

  At the end of the long central aisle was a massive altar made from what looked like one solid piece of crystal. A shaft of golden sunlight from a high, distant window caused internal reflections in the crystal making it dance in colour, as if it were living thing. Atop the altar was an intricately carved stone spire, which reached nearly to the high ceiling of the inner sanctum.

  Two figures, praying before the altar got up off their knees, turned and faced the intruders.

  'Ah, Myrddin! So good to see you once more!' Bishop Dydnski exclaimed with false conviviality. 'We've been expecting your friends for some time. I'm so glad you could make the trip. It's just a shame you couldn't give us any warning, so we could have arranged a proper reception!'

  Myrddin ignored the jibe and scanned the interior of the cult's cathedral. He could see no obvious sign of weapons or booby-traps, but he did notice the tiny remote vid-cams placed at strategic locations around the stonewalls. The ancient had seen several of the bishop's services, which were transmitted from inside this temple then uploaded onto the Net. It was one of Dydnski's main methods of reaching the young and easily influenced. Masorak had made several attempts to censor, or cut-off the cult's access to the 'web', but without success.

  'Are they still transmitting those images?' he spoke into his throat mike to the controlling agent who was flying high above the Amazon in a command-aircraft.

  ''I’m afraid so Myrddin,' came the frustrated reply in his tiny headset. 'We've tried cutting as many of their links as possible, but as soon as we remove one source of transmission, another comes on line. I hate to say it, but the battle will be over before we manage to cut Triplanetary Church's link to the Net.'

  The ancient cursed, then quickly demanded, 'What about their mixing studio beneath the temple? Are any of the marines any nearer to occupying it?'

  'Negative—the place is built like a fortress and being defended to the death. Only your team have made it into the heart of the interior,' he was told.

  'Only because they let us,' Myrddin responded, not fooled for a moment. He had no doubt that the leader of the Triplanetary Church intended for them to face each other here, in the heart of his perverted domain. 'Dydnski wants a showdown between the two of us. If I kill him it'll turn him in a martyr!'

  'You'll have to tread cautiously. Don't let any of the squad become trigger-happy,' the Masorak controller advised. 'The media are already making a meal of this operation. Reports are flooding in of violent demonstrations by the bishop's followers throughout the world. We're sitting on a time-bomb here!'

  'Roger that. I'll be careful, but I'm damned if I'm gonna let the bastard get away! One way or the other, he is coming into custody!' the ancient responded firmly, and then told his combat team to move the worshipers to the far side of the temple.

  As the agents began to round up the cult members who moved without resistance, Myrddin purposefully put down his weapon and strode down the aisle toward the leader of the Triplanetary Church. Bishop Dydnski stood calmly with his hands clasped behind his back, the flame red-haired figure of Miss Smith standing at his side.

  'Tell your people outside to lay down their weapons Dydnski!' Myrddin boomed in a commanding voice. 'There's no need for the bloodshed to continue. This argument is between you and me. There's no need to involve the innocent!'

  The bishop smiled thinly, a cold but supremely confident expression on his face. 'I fear the violence that stains the purity of this forest is of your own making my friend,' he said in a voice dripping with false sincerity. 'My children are merely protecting holy ground from the intrusion of non-believers. I am not responsible for the spilled blood; you are!'

  'Oh for God's sake stop playing to the camera's Dydnski!' Myrddin snapped in frustration, halting in front of the dancing crystal altar. 'You know as well as I, that the game is over. We cannot allow your fanatics to go about nuking cities full of innocent people! I'm here to charge you with the destruction of central Sao Paulo and the deaths of over fifty-six thousand people! I am taking you into custody Dydnski!'

  'I'll be happy to go with you Myrddin—peacefully; so long as you accept your sins. Go on old man, right here, right now, confess your sins before God! Only through penance can we seek redemption!' Dydnski replied in a tone that would make the millions of Internet viewers believe in his righteousness. He was playing the part of the persecuted holy man to the hilt; creaming the televised scene for all the sympathy and support he could get.

  Myrddin was about to respond, to plead for common sense, when his mind was assailed with incredible force. A sharp probe, like a red-hot lance pierced past his mental barriers and wrought terrible damage. Even though he'd taken every precaution to protect his mind from such an assault, the overwhelming power and violence of the attack was beyond anything he had
experienced before. His mental shields immediately buckled under the onslaught.

  The ancient telepath collapsed to the floor of the temple in agony, his hands clamped against his head. Desperately, he gathered his will and transferred all his inner reserves of power to forcing out the vicious, damaging lance. Gasping for breath, he tried to rise from the floor and with the help of the Masorak squad leader, he managed to get up on to his knees.

  It took every bit of his vast mental power, every last reserve of strength to keep his battered mental shields in place after that first attack. The pressure was unrelenting and threatened to overwhelm him at any moment. He looked up at the leader of Triplanetary Church, and the coldly beautiful woman standing beside him. The realisation of what was happening, what he faced—what the entire human race faced; struck him like a blow that was nearly as devastating as the attack itself.

  'My God!' he thought to himself. 'How could I have been so foolish! How could I have ignored the only possibility, no matter how improbable?'

  'That's a very good question old fool!' the icy, soulless mind responded. 'You've won so many battles over the centuries, you've forgotten that even YOU can lose! There really is no such thing as immortality Myrddin. All you can do is prolong the inevitable! Those I represent have a finite tolerance. They cannot allow you to continue to meddle in matters that do not concern you!'

  'Why? Why are you doing this?' he pleaded, locking his eyes on the emotionless pits in the redhead's face. 'What have we done to become your enemies?'

  'You're presuming there has to be a reason Myrddin,' the thought forced itself into his mind. 'Perhaps the fact that we CAN is ALL the justification we need!'

  Myrddin stared at the creature who bore the resemblance of a human, but whose mind and soul belonged to another species entirely. He fought valiantly to maintain his mental shields, but knew in his heart he could not win. It was only a matter of time. Why couldn't he battle against this other mind? What was it that was so different about her as opposed to any other human, or even the Starweb? The answer was really quite simple, but one he had never even considered.

  'You're not human, nor human-created!' He croaked aloud, desperately hoping the millions watching the drama unfold, would understand his words. 'You're completely alien! My God—you don't even belong in this universe!'

  Circling high in the stratosphere over South America, the Boeing G-187 Sentinel was a mobile command post for Masorak military operations. Equipped with the latest ether and sub-ether communications equipment, it was able to remain airborne on internal fuel alone, for over thirty-six hours. With air-to-air refuelling, its water fuelled, by-pass turbofans, could keep the massive aircraft airborne indefinitely.

  None of which was the slightest help to agent Cavendish. As the sun sank slowly toward the distant western horizon, he looked at the information being relayed to him by the co-ordination team and let out a heart-felt sigh. Things were most definitely not going according to plan.

  There could be no doubt about it, despite the tightest security surrounding the operation, Triplanetary Church had somehow got wind of their plan to neutralize the cult's centre of operations. Somebody had told them they were coming, which meant that even Masorak wasn't free from the bishop's corruption.

  Both the Marines out in the city ruins, and the Masorak squads inside the complex, were bogged down by well-armed and fanatical cultists. Only Myrddin and his small group of agents had managed to enter the inner temple. A fact, which only served to worry Cavendish even more.

  Then of course, there was the media. Despite all their efforts, the cult was still broadcasting images of the battle to the whole planet and beyond. Cavendish had got his people to trace and sever countless satellite and fibre optic links, in an attempt to halt the transmissions, but for every link they cut, several more miraculously emerged. No matter what they did, everything that happened thousands of feet below, in the heart of the Amazon—every word Myrddin and Dydnski said to each other, every bullet that was fired; was being watched on the Interweb by virtually the entire populations of the three worlds.

  The truth of the matter was, Masorak had badly underestimated the sick genius of the cult leader. The operation was turning into a media circus and public relations disaster, with the result that civil disorder was breaking out across the globe at an unprecedented level. Supporters and followers of Triplanetary Church were openly battling with ordinary men and women on the streets of the world's cities. Earth sat on the precipice of global civil war and unwittingly, the events taking place amongst the ruins of the Aztec city were the catalyst.

  Cavendish was pondering whether to send in more troops and aircraft to finish the job off, when he noticed a change in the Boeing's attitude. After hours of circling gently, the change was quite perceptible. The note of the engines dropped and the Sentinel began a well banked decent.

  Curious but not overly concerned, the Masorak controller called the cabin crew on the intercom. 'Controller to pilot,' he began. 'What's the problem Jack? Why are we descending?'

  'Err…we've got a glitch in the flight computer sir. We should have it sorted in a couple of minutes,' the pilot responded after a brief hesitation. If the Masorak controller had thought about it, he would have noticed the strange tone of the pilot's voice. However, there were more important matters to worry about. The intricacies of flying the aircraft were somebody else's problem.

  'Okay,' Cavendish replied easily. 'Let me know if there are any more developments.' Then he returned to the matters at hand.

  However, he had barely looked at the latest reports when the aircraft took another plunge. This time the deck titled steeply as the nose pointed toward the ground below. The engines opened and accelerating all the time, the Boeing Sentinel plummeted toward the rain forest, thousands of metres below. What the hell…?

  'Controller to pilot. What the frack is going on?' Cavendish yelled into his mike, his voice high with alarm. There was no reply, just the hiss of static.

  'Controller to pilot…Jack?…Jack! Shit!'

  He undid his straps and together with two of the surveillance team, literally fell down the cabin to the cockpit door. It was locked from the inside and with adrenaline coursing through his veins, Cavendish did his best to force it open. However, as the spiral dive continued, the forces acting on the airframe and everything inside it, worked against his efforts. Not that it would have done any good even if he had managed to get into the cockpit.

  The flight crew of the Boeing Sentinel all sat strapped into their seats, arms folded across their chests, eyes fixed on some far distant point, well outside the aircraft itself. The dark green of the Amazon rain forest rapidly came closer, filling the canopy, but not one of the crew made any attempt to alter the flight computer, or wrestle with the controls. Re-programmed and reset, it was the computer, which was now flying the aircraft, and it was the computer, which was set upon a course of complete destruction. The airborne control post and everyone onboard was doomed.

  Agent Deane held the short-barrelled automatic in hands that were tense and sweaty. He pointed it at the disciples of Triplanetary Church as they stood in a group, impassively watching the titanic struggle taking place between Myrddin and the slimy bastard Dydnski.

  Deane had been carefully briefed not to do anything rash inside the temple. He understood the risk of turning the freaks into martyrs, and any bloodshed being blamed on the already beleaguered United Nations. But now that it was happening, now that he was here, having to do nothing whilst the legendary ancient was fighting for his life against such pure evil, it was almost more than he could bear.

  The blood rushed to his head, he felt as if his face were on fire and his head would explode in rage, when he saw Myrddin collapse to the cold stone floor. Despite his training, his oath of obedience, Deane simply could not bear to see the one man who had down more for the human race than possibly any other single person, grovel before the fanatical Dydnski. His finger tightened on the trigger of his autom
atic.

  'Do it! Kill them all! Kill them before they kill him and you!' a strange voice whispered in his head. 'Do it now! Save the human race!'

  Deane shook his head, as the sweat dripped into his eyes, blurring his vision. His grip on the automatic became even tighter, the veins in his hands and arms pulsing with tension. He ignored the voice in his head, he knew it was a figment of his imagination—stress induced.

  'Kill them! Do it! Before it's too late! Only YOU can save him!' the voice repeated over and over again.

  The blood pounded in the agent’s head, roaring through his ears as the salty sweat stung his tired eyes, making him blink continuously. It was then that it happened. A woman at the back of the white-robed group moved. She lunged toward another of the agents, a machete in her thin hands, obviously intent on slashing his face.

  Without even thinking about it, Deane squeezed the trigger of his machine-gun, spraying bullets into the herded members of Triplanetary Church. Several others of the Masorak squad opened fire in automatic response. The cult members fell like rag dolls, their robes suddenly stained bright crimson by the blood, which spurted from their numerous wounds.

  Within seconds, it was all over. Deane's weapon ran out of ammunition and the firing came to a halt. When the smoke cleared, the gathered disciples of Triplanetary Church all lay dead, murdered in their own cathedral. Somewhere at the back of the agent's mind, he registered the strange fact that not one of them had screamed or moaned, as they were killed in cold-blood. He scanned the carnage for the offending machete. Of course, it was nowhere to be seen.

  Bishop Dydnski watched the carnage with a smug smile on his face. It had all gone exactly to plan. The satisfaction he felt was almost sexual in its intensity.

  Myrddin, still reeling from the constant pressure of mental assault, could do nothing but watch in horror as the pictures of innocent, beautiful, young cult members being cut-down, was broadcast all over the globe.