by Allan Cole
Later, he looked the documents over. They made up a detailed report on the rebellious demon’s tricks and traps. It soon became plain to Vlad the General was quite right. The fiend must have had the help of mortals to make his escape.
Mortals who had likely fled with him to the Fiendish Worlds, barring all pursuit with strong charms.
Such an escape by a demon was not only rare, but was the stuff of legend. Back in the foggy mystical past— in the days of the Great Spell— it was said that one of the most powerful of the demon breeds escaped.
The ancient tale— which dated back to the early years of the Twenty First Century— claimed the fugitive was a Planetar Demon, a fiend whose duty it was to reform the stuff that made gravity and black holes, worms in the fabric of space, (and who knew what else?) into the stuff of magic.
According to those myths— admittedly nothing more than warning tales to frighten naughty children into submission— that Planetar Demon dwelt at the other end of the galaxy in some never-never nightmare land. Where he was biding his time to return and seize control of the civilized galaxy. Laying waste to all who opposed him.
No adult human believed the stories, of course.
Certainly not Vlad. Certainly not the man who had changed real history with a single shot. The moment he’d fired that shot— slaying the Amer President George Bush— the old, primitive world of mechanics had been set on its head. And mortal creatures had rushed forward to seize the power of the demon world, the spiritual world.
Details of that rifle shot rushed into his head like a bloody dream that revolved around and around until it edged into insanity.
Vlad bit back a moan of desperation. The images birthed ghosts who created still more ghosts of all that had followed. Men and woman shot. Teeth bursting through the backs of their skulls. Chests ripped open to expose still beating hearts.
How many more would he have to kill to save Mother Russia?
Then he pushed those thoughts away along with all the terrible images that came with them. He stuffed them back into his mental trunk of unpleasantness. His Pandora’s Box of ghastly nightmares.
Nightmares that always ended with one thing: Vlad impaled over an eternal fire, twisting and screaming for all eternity to pay for his murderous sins.
Vlad swallowed a knotty lump. It was some very small consolation that it really hadn’t been one shot that had changed history. A dirty Amer assassin had struck that same day— practically the same moment— killing their beloved Vladimir Putin who had struggled so bravely and so vainly against the terrorists the Amers were stirring up against Mother Russia.
Two shots, fired almost simultaneously, at the Olympic stadium in Athens. And everything had been set on its head.
Vlad clamed his shrieking nerves and forced himself into the present. He bent down to study the report…
Yes, yes, the General was right. It was shit from the beginning.
Brand Carvaserin had attempted to penetrate the escaped fiend’s defenses, failed, and lost the devil’s trail. Then he’d stumbled into one of the fiend’s traps, but by some miracle he’d managed to escape without any losses.
“How he could he have been so lucky?” Vlad murmured, looking at the chronicles of Carvaserin’s defeats as he persisted in the hunt, each time nearly getting himself and the Brown Bears killed.
There was no doubt about it, Carvaserin had been routed. It was a complete and final failure— marked against the proud name of the Brown Bears team that had pulled the wizard out. And now all traces of the demon and his human allies had been lost.
There was an addendum to the report that was particularly harsh in its judgment of Brand. Vlad could tell from the insider details it had been written by one of Carvaserin’s own mages.
Vlad tucked this information away, like a weapon. It was good to know there was a secret, traitorous eye observing Carvaserin. Someone engaged in a petty scheme against his master.
When going against a Master Wizard, even Vlad needed any edge he could get…
* * *
… He found the group in a far and quite unpleasant part of the Fiendish Worlds, many EarthDays from the nearest human outpost.
Brand’s face turned pale with anger when he saw Vlad. But what could he do? Even a Master Wizard had to obey orders. And Vlad’s orders were from the highest of the high. Still, Carvaserin was cold, bordering on surly.
“Greetings, Major.” Nothing more.
No offer of help, no further reports, just a “Greetings Major,” and then Brand turned away and busied himself with something of pretended importance.
Vlad ignored the implied insult. He didn’t need this fool. And wizard or not, Vlad considered Carvaserin a fool.
He’d work alone— as usual.
Vlad was no wizard. As an acolyte of The Church of the Sword he was capable of performing a bit of necessary magic. But how could those small spells help here in the Fiendish Worlds? Especially after all the great wizardly authorities had failed?
He struck out in advance of the others, following the course of a grim fiendish river.
Dark waters rolled from nowhere to nowhere, smooth, black and lifeless.
For a long time he found not one trace, not even the faintest sign of his prey. The horizon was very high— it seemed to Vlad that he was striding along the bottom of a great bowl.
As far as his eye could see there was only gray-upon-gray desert, crossed by a jet-black river.
There was no one, no thing, about. He’d left Carvaserin’s group far behind and the ghastly loneliness of the place gnawed at him like rats.
His long legs swiftly ate up the miles, but no matter how far he traveled the land remained bleak and lifeless.
It was a world that seemed completely forsaken. With only ghosts and spirits to flee before the softskin usurper. But Vlad had a strong suspicion his loneliness would not last for long.
When the green sun began its fall, quickly approaching the trembling skyline, he stopped. Rough ground under a gloomy rock became his refuge.
Vlad enclosed his position with three FiendProtectors and crouched down to wait.
… There was night— if that dim half-light could be called so. Deep shadows crept beneath the stony shelf, shrouding Vlad’s encampment. The Guard Rings gleamed faintly. Not a single star shimmered in the heavy sky.
The air was hot and dusty, filled with a strange, nauseating stench.
Two pairs of pale green eyes peered into the shadows, studying the man lying under the boulder. Only eyes— nothing more. And those pale eyes crackled with malice as they considered the man.
Was the man dead? Was he sleeping?
“Sleeping indeed,” was their conclusion: “A fool. He believes his stupid magic is stronger than ours. Damned softskin, He’ll pay… He’ll pay…”
Now the two devils could hear the man’s slow, deep breathing, confirming their view that he was, indeed, asleep. But they were a cautious pair. They investigated further.
Their sharp gaze could pierce his very body and read the signs. Yes, the muscles were relaxed. Not a single tendon under stress. And the man’s thoughts were far, far away… dreaming about his mate and offspring.
Quite nasty thoughts from the devils’ point of view.
A scout, ’tis plain. With cheeks puffed too much. And too strong a belief in his magic. And— maybe with interesting news for the Rebellion!
“Got him!” was said in an unpronounceable devilish tongue.
Two shadows, both deep-gray, shaped like a wide trembling curtain bearing pale eyes, slowly approached the Guarding Circle. Passing the first ring, one of the shadows cackled in mockery.
The FiendProtectors flashed hopelessly and too late.
In a second both devils were upon their victim. Never mind those useless rings.
But then the sleeping man was moving! Moving at a terrible speed.
Invisible claws scratched near his very soul— but before the demons could act the crossbow sent its first bo
lt spearing between green burning eyes filled with a hungry hate.
A long shrill wail echoed over the dead rocks. Wailed and died at a distance. The devil was gone.
The crossbow’s bolts were suffused with deadly charms, poisonous charms, fatal even to the most powerful devil.
All three rings flashed red. Flame tongues rushed to the sky.
The second devil suddenly found himself imprisoned in a burning jail. He wailed in agony— but it was too late. Now the creature couldn’t even escape into death.
“That’s it,” said a calm voice. A voice that did not sound sleepy at all.
“Who art thou?” howled the demon. The desperate words tumbled out in the strange latin-esperanto argot used in talks between wild fiendish creatures and soft-skins.
“Thou doest not need to know it,” Vlad answered in the same argot. “Now thou wilt tell me!”
“I will not speak!” the devil shrieked.
“Indeed thou wilt, dear. I have many questions for thee.”
Vlad chanted a hymn of exorcism from the first Litany of The Church of The Sword.
The song was agony to the devil. He twisted and squirmed in pain, his body turning hot like naked iron in a red glowing forge.
Vlad stopped. He studied his victim.
“Well, thou fiend-snake, shalt thou speak?”
“Naught!”
“Eklmn! Another cast on thee?”
“Naught!”
“How impressive. But I need something more substantial from thee.”
The devil cursed him long and hard. Saying he was less than a piece of eklmn cast from the bowels of a sewer slug. There was more, but Vlad paid him no mind.
He waited until the cursing became faint and the devil’s limbs twitched in fear.
“Thou art weak and old,” Vlad said with heavy scorn.
Once again he began to chant the Litany.
The torture continued.
The imprisoned creature twitched and howled in the burning circle. And soon the brightness of his magical armor decreased. New litanies more terrible than the first racked the devil.
“Thou shalt speak!” insisted Vlad. His voice was harsh, fists clenched.
Vlad hated such things, but he pressed on, becoming so completely caught up in the shared agony— victim’s body to torturer’s soul and back again— that he didn’t noticed Carvaserin and the rest of the party approach.
Slowly the fiend weakened. Then, gathering up the last his strength, the demon shouted:
“Death to thee, soft-skin!” And he burst out of his invisible bonds.
The fiend hurled himself at Vlad, raging and desperate to escape. Vlad went down, his head striking against a stone. Any other time, the demon would have been able to finish off this damned softskin, but Vlad was too strong.
The demon knew Vlad would recover at any second, plus he had Carvaserin and the Brown Bears to contend with. And so the devil turned and fled… trying not to shrink against the imagined poisoned crossbow bolts he was certain would be hurled at him.
Vlad jumped up. Swiftly flying away, the devil heard his enemy curse in awful frustration. But the demon fought and won the war against angry instinct and didn’t turn to confront Vlad. Instead as he fled the killing ground he swore he’d soon return. Except, this time he’d have help. He’d come back with Ben-Shin’s guard. And possibly even Ben-Shin, himself. Vlad smiled as the demon fled from sight.
The first stage of his plan had been accomplished…
CHAPTER EIGHT
It didn’t take long for Tanya to get ready.
First she opened the big doors leading out onto the balcony— a balcony whose retaining walls had been removed so it made a smooth— and frightening for dinner guests when it was pointed out— drop off into nothingness.
Her apartment was several hundred floors up in the towering skyscratcher she called home. Far below were the streets of New Washington, the concrete and steel megalopolis that stretched from Greater Quebec to the tip of Old Florida.
She stepped out on her balcony where her flyflapper crouched, wings spread, mechanical heart waiting to be cranked into life. Tanya tightened the belts— sort of like tightening the chain on an old motorcycle. Except there were several, instead of only one, and the belts were made of synthetic muscle operated by mental command.
The muscles drove the craft through the air, flapping like a monstrous bird with Tanya in a kind of saddle protected by a wraparound windscreen. There were a few other rudimentary controls— hand and foot pedals to trim the rudders, or boost or slow the rate and height of travel.
All of which had to be operated at the same time as the mental commands were being issued so the entire thing depended entirely on the skill and quick-wit of the flyer.
Flyflapping was a dangerous enough sport to give anyone pause and certainly not built for a daily commute. Which was why Harry was so worried. But Tanya loved the light machine, which didn’t have one magical element in it. It was all mechanics, other than the mental commands, and it looked like a huge dragonfly when it soared through the air.
Tanya’s strong hands began their habitual work. She toggled the fuel line on, fired up the hoisting engine and launched off the balcony.
The flyflapper wavered, held nearly a mile over the streets by its little engine. Then Tanya caught the updraft, cut the engine and… flew. Just like a damned bird, flapping for height, then cruising the city’s reaches by glide power alone.
She soared between steel towers, past green roof-top terraces and over the gray mist rising from the streets far below.
The traffic was starting to bunch— quickly building into a three-dimensional morning jam of commuters going to work via underground tube, street flits, overhead trams and skyhacks that so filled the air by midmorning they looked like a horde of gnats blackening the sky.
The thought of all the small magical creatures it took to drive those machines— millions upon millions of them— made Tanya shudder. She thought of the spirits as roaches captured in a kitchen and put to some disgusting work.
It was only 7:05 in the morning but many balcony doors and windows were open as Tanya flew by. From them boomed the voices of NewsNet commentators updating the story of the tragedy of HolidayOne.
The voices were shriller and even more hate-filled than before— “Heartless Russians…” “Devils From Moscow…” and even, “Rooskie Swine!”
The wrathful shrieks poured from every side, from each window, searing her. She tried not to listen, but suddenly street speakers were added— blasting angry crowd noises from below. Sound waves heavy with rage thundered from the narrow gorges between the glittering needles of the skyscratchers.
They made Tanya’s head pulse with pain and she sighed in relief when she finally reached the balcony of her office. She collapsed the flyflapper, covered it against the elements and went inside.
Harry was waiting for her, lounging in a deep visitor’s chair, profile turned for best effect. He was in his mid-forties, tall, athletic, and, Tanya grudgingly admitted, handsome.
He had thick brown hair— strange, not a single trace of gray in all that rich brown— and sported an expensive tan no matter what the weather. From burnished boot tips to gleaming general’s stars, Harry was every inch the coifed and tailored dandy, which went along with his image as a great lover.
But today, Tanya thought, lover boy looked frazzled. His gray eyes were weary and tinged with red. There was a pallor of worry beneath his artificially tanned skin. His tie was stuffed into his pocket; his shirt had an upper button torn off.
He looked so bad Tanya couldn’t resist the dig. “Rotten night, Harry?” she asked, all innocence.
“Rotten isn’t the word for it,” he snarled. “Listen. We are all in deep, deep shit. Those damned Rooskies have…”
“I know, Harry,” Tanya broke in. “We talked about it, remember?”
For the life of her she couldn’t figure out how this, this… guy… had become such a high off
icial in the UWP. A real nitbrain, nothing more.
“Yeah, yeah, right,” said Harry, distracted, fingers playing nervously. “But that was then, this is now. Things are worse and getting grimmer by the second.”
He licked dry lips. “You saw the crowds? The protests?”
Tanya nodded. She’d seen… and heard.
“The Russians say it was an accident,” she said.
Harry shrugged, impatient. “Who the hell knows? Maybe it was. Maybe it wasn’t. The point is, every opinion poll in the whole UGS has jumped past the red zone. People want action. And they want it now.”
“What do public opinion polls have to do with us?” Tanya said. “Even though we’re both American citizens, we are also representatives of the United Worlds Police. And we’re supposed to be neutral, remember?”
“Don’t lecture me,” he protested. “I know who and what we are.” But there was no heat, no heart to his snarl, which was quite unlike Harry.
“And that who and what,” he continued, “have put us right in the middle.”
Like its parent, the United Worlds Organization, the UWP was staffed by citizens from every part of the galaxy. When they joined they forswore all nationalistic feelings and actions. Be they Russian, Russian ally, American, or American ally, it was their duty to act as a buffer between the two ancient enemies.
It was a clumsy system, a badly flawed system, but time after time it had still managed to drag Americans and Russians back from the brink of slaughtering one another.
In short, the United Worlds Organizations oversaw the deadly game that was the forever Cold War and the United Worlds Police was its armed referee.
By treaty the United Galactic States and the Russian Galactic Federation took turns playing host to the peacekeepers. Every ten years UWO headquarters— along with its enforcement arm— moved from the Earth capitol of one empire to the other.
It was Harry’s misfortune that there was one year to go before the traditional shift was made. Now a great big political bomb had been tossed into his lap while he was serving on his native American soil. One false move and he could be the proverbial Man Without A Country. He had to juggle and he had to jump.