The Hate Parallax

by Allan Cole

  At this point, the high desert looked like the bottom of the sea. A flat empty wilderness, slashed with ravines and littered with strange rock formations— boulders stacked one on top of the other, leaning crazily, like the handiwork of a bored child. Big clumps of sagebrush and mesquite, waving in the wind like sea grasses, fat tumbleweeds bounding through the air.

  The ride was exhilarating. He felt like a great magical fish speeding through seas of crystal clear waters.

  Then the motorfiend shouted, “Here, master, here! Godblessamerica, we have arrived!”

  Davyd’s mood darkened when he heard the shout and he turned to see the tall white spire that marked the Las Palomas Dockingstation.

  Shit!

  A minute later he was shoving a handful of LT’s into the motorfiend’s claws for a tip— a generous one for luck— and he was tumbling out on the broad white plas platform, duffel over one shoulder, looking around to see who was waiting for him.

  The answer was— no one.

  In fact, the above ground part of the station was empty— except for a small green gravcar sitting about a hundred yards away. And the only sound was the hiss and rumble of the passing river traffic.

  It made Davyd feel better. He had a few minutes more to prepare.

  He walked to the car, which he knew was for him. When he reached it he touched a side panel. There was a tingling sensation as his vitals were studied.

  Then a gnome’s voice squeaked, “Welcome, Master!” And the door hissed aside so he could enter.

  Davyd tossed his gear into the opposite seat and climbed in. When he was settled the door closed and the gravcar abruptly and silently sped away. It was so effortless that Davyd rarely thought of the thousands of tiny creatures deep in the car’s mechanism casting spells to nullify gravity’s effect, as well as all the other myriad details required to make the car go.

  But today he did think about them and experienced an odd moment of pity for all the small slaves laboring to do his bidding. Scurrying about like ants under powerful pheromone orders to do this and that and the other thing, with no will of their own.

  Once again he felt a close kinship with the spirit world creatures, although he couldn’t have said why if pressed for an explanation.

  Davyd shifted his thoughts to his greeting— or lack of same— at the dockingstation. Actually, he wasn’t surprised or insulted. It was only one more proof that America was preparing for war.

  And his mission— should he accept it— was so top secret no one could be trusted to meet him.

  Adding further proof was another great absence he’d just noticed. Other than the words of welcome, the gnome had been silent since their departure. They were normally such a talkative breed they had a tendency to annoy people with their squeaking.

  Davyd wished he had more time to think.

  Then the gravcar was slowing down— just as effortlessly as when it took off— and they were curving over a hilltop. Below was a broad sparkling expanse of water— Geronimo Lake.

  The gravcar slipped over a rough embankment and smoothed over the water toward an immense rock, shaped like an elephant. The only mark of beingkind showing on the rock was a large blue eye, rimmed in red.

  Odysseus Corps Headquarters.

  As he approached the eye vanished and the face of the rock slid away. Without hesitation the gravcar plunged through the opening into darkness.

  And Davyd thought, I’m not ready, dammit! I’m not ready!

  * * *

  Father Zorza had incredible eyes. Dark as a Sicilian conspiracy, deep as a Vatican vault. Once he fixed them on you all your innermost secrets rushed forward, anxious to bare your shame.

  Davyd kept his head down, avoiding the eyes.

  “I don’t want to do this, Father,” he said. “Tell them to get somebody else.”

  “But they asked especially for you, Davyd,” Father Zorza replied in his deep, gentle voice.

  Davyd didn’t answer and he didn’t look up. He knew the priest’s eyes would be as gentle and understanding as his voice. But there would be pain there as well— a smoky acceptance of suffering from wounds caused by sinners like Davyd Kells.

  Zorza let the silence hang just past Davyd’s margin of comfort. Then he said, “This mission is of the utmost importance, my son. I thought you’d feel honored. That’s why I accepted it on your behalf.”

  Davyd shrugged. “I’ve had enough honors, thank you, father,” he said, firmly as he could. “Right now, I’d just as soon return to the deep sleep tubes.”

  Father Zorza sighed. “Why the resistance, my son?” he asked. “What is troubling you?”

  Davyd struggled for an answer. “Because,” he began, “Because—” He broke off, coughing, as sudden emotion welled up, then congealed into a thick knot. He shook his head, helpless.

  He coughed again, trying to break the knot loose, then croaked, “I have a right!”

  “Of course, you do, Davyd,” Zorza said. “No one is denying your right to refuse any mission at any time.”

  “And with no explanations required,” Davyd pressed.

  Another long and painful silence. Then, “Exactly as you say, my son. No explanations required.”

  Davyd struggled against brainwashed habit to keep everything back. He wanted his privacy, dammit!

  “I’m not afraid, father,” he said.

  “I know you’re not, my son,” Zorza said.

  Then, bolder: “I’m never afraid!”

  “Never?” A gentle probing.

  Davyd shook his head. “Never.” Firm.

  He’d been trained and medically altered so much that thoughts of pain or death never had time to rouse themselves when he was in action.

  With his Jesuit’s cunning, Zorza spotted Davyd’s weakness and slipped in the knife.

  “Not even when you passed the Hall Of Peace and looked inside?” he asked.

  Davyd gritted his teeth. Zorza knew him too well. On his way to the chapel for this meeting he had indeed gone by the Hall Of Peace. And he had looked inside.

  * * *

  In the dim, eerie light he could see the iconic holos on the walls of the vaulted room. Each was a portrait of an Odysseus Corps member, one after the other, going all the way back to the very first man— which was Davyd, the Adam of the assassins’ corps.

  His eyes went to the eight-foot-high glass tubes filled with swirling magical gasses from the spells that kept all the occupants alive and well in SleepLock.

  All of the tubes, save one, had a hero in residence. Naked bodies so well formed they seemed like statues sculpted by some ancient genius.

  Kells examined the empty tube, which sat in the center— the supreme place of honor. Beneath the tube was a holo showing Davyd’s face.

  Home.

  Davyd’s first reaction had been a longing so powerful and so deep he’d nearly wept. He wanted to sleep, by God! He deserved it. He needed it.

  A hundred years of sweet dreams to wipe away all the horrid images of the many beings he had killed. With only an occasional nightmare to spoil his sleep.

  Davyd’s second reaction was fear.

  What if the war erupted full force and he’d be required to kill for years without end and never be allowed his peace again?

  The thought rocked him to the core.

  * * *

  Davyd sighed at the memory.

  “Yes, father,” he confessed. “I looked inside. And I was afraid.”

  “But, why, my son?” the priest asked. “It seems only natural that instead of fear, you would have experienced much gladness to know what great peace is in store for you when this mission is done.”

  Davyd bit his tongue. He wanted to snap that he was already supposed to be entering the chamber. That he’d just completed a mission. A messy, bloody mission. Murders on his soul that weren’t supposed to be his. They belonged to the kid, dammit! To Jonz!

  And now I’m sorry I didn’t kill the little sonofabitch for blowing it.

  I
nstead, he said, “I’m not ready, father. I’ve had enough and now I want to go back to sleep. Wake me in a hundred years. And not before.”

  It was perfectly within Davyd’s rights not only to refuse the mission, but to set the rules on when he should be awakened again. And he was doing fine with his argument— his nerves steady, his resolve hard as steel.

  Then he made a mistake.

  Instead of stopping, he added: “Unless the war isn’t over after a hundred years. Because if it isn’t, I want strict orders posted not to disturb me until it’s done.”

  Father Zorza’s eyes lit up, which was when Davyd realized he’d blown it.

  “Now I understand what is troubling you, my son,” the priest said, his gentle smile spreading wider. “You’re concerned about all the souls you may be required to release if war should come.”

  Davyd didn’t reply. But that didn’t matter one way or the other, because Zorza already had the logic rolled up into a nice neat ball and was running with it.

  “I’ve counseled you many times about this, Davyd,” Zorza said. “When you act within the holy laws of America’s cause it is impossible for you to sin.”

  Davyd bit back a groan. But he’d killed so many!

  As if reading his thoughts, Zorza said, “No matter how many lives you must take in our cause, your soul will remain as fresh as a newly baptized child. Free of all blemishes.

  “And if you should die, you soul will be lifted directly to heaven and into God’s glorious sight.”

  “Yes, father,” Davyd said. “Thank you, father. Hearing that again makes me feel much better.”

  But he didn’t mean a word of it.

  Zorza knew this too and he leaned forward to make his next point. His final point.

  “Here is what troubles me about this situation, my son,” he said. “You’ve already refused. And I hesitate to try to change your mind.

  “However, I can’t help but feel deep in my heart that in this case your refusal may turn out to be the blackest of all sins. One that no amount of time in Hell could burn away.”

  Davyd was jolted. “What sin?” he asked. “How can I sin when I’m asleep?”

  “By refusing to help stop this war, my son,” Zorza said. “Think of all the thousands, nay millions, of lives that will be saved if you are successful.”

  The priest’s eyes narrowed, “Why … To reject this mission might very well result in mass murder. No. Greater still. A holocaust. And you would be responsible.”

  Davyd trembled. There would be no sleep.

  Zorza caught his reaction and twisted the psychic knife to make sure.

  “This assignment,” he said, “may be the crowning glory to your already illustrious career. You changed history once, my son. For the betterment of all. And now we are forced to ask you— nay, beg you— to change the course of history once again.”

  Davyd drew in a ragged breath.

  Then he nodded. “All right, father,” he said quietly. “What do they want me to do?”

  The priest abruptly rose to his feet, long golden rosary beads clacking against his black robes.

  “Come with me,” he said. “You will receive your orders directly from on high.”

  And he walked swiftly out of the chapel.

  Davyd followed, shivering.

  What now, he wondered? What now?

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The Church of The Sword cannot wait. This was the first and capital rule of the Order and Vlad knew it perfectly well.

  Just as he knew that if Father Onphim had taken the time to call him personally, it meant that Great Annoyances were being stirred up.

  Vlad rushed from the elevator. People in the hall dashed aside: if a major with a bear’s head on his left sleeve tab was running wildly it was better not to find yourself blocking his path.

  A small group waiting for a taxi gave way to Vlad without a word. One glance at him was sufficient.

  If Nadya had witnessed him pushing people around to get his way she’d have been furious.

  His girlfriend was a rather punctilious person: “Hah, you, a stout guy! All hail the mighty Vlad, The Hero! What the hell are you thinking about? That all people must kneel before you, or what?”

  She was always angry if he used his rank and privileges in her presence. Most of their altercations had their roots in this subject.

  But hell! He was not like all the others, by damn! And a major’s rank in the Brown Bears Company was not a Christmas gift.

  Vlad secured a belt, inserted his card and entered the address. Let all the world go the fiendish Chaos! The Church of the Sword cannot wait.

  He was far above the city. The new RGF capital, with an exact copy of the old Kremlin in its very midst, was floating under him: a huge conglomerate of sky-piercing towers, steel-and-glass pyramids belted with the green strings of pendent gardens. Heavy transport tubes snaked across the bottom of this hand crafted sea.

  A peaceful town, but Vlad knew how many anti-space and aircraft complexes were hiding in the near and far suburbs. How many carriers and launchers, camouflaged as civilian vehicles, were circulating around the city, ready to shoot.

  How much hard soil was excavated for deep underground war stores, secret communications, civilian refuges. How many eyes and ears, whether human, fiendish or electronic, were searching the sky.

  The Enemy is near! Psst! The Enemy is listening! A gas-bag is a gift for a spy!

  Vidposters were everywhere. A large hairy ear, catching all careless phrases. An evil-looking crouched man, crawling behind the back of a lazy and sleepy sentinel. The whole country, the whole galactic conglomeration was still at war. Or in a condition very much like war.

  Vlad was standing near a small church at the very edge of town. The temple was hidden between two ultra-high skyscratchers and the only thing to mark it was a tiny icon-lamp that glowed above the entrance.

  An ordinary church. Like many others in the city. But, above all, one of the meeting-points of The Sword Acolytes.

  Vlad crossed himself and entered.

  The temple was practically empty: only two or three figures were standing before the icons, busy with tapers.

  Now step aside. One, two, three… four!

  “Name’n’code!” growled an evil voice.

  He gave it. A sudden gloom descended over him. And then an unknown force was dragging him into immense darkness. Then the cold grip of a fiendish creature seized Vlad.

  Father Onphim’s disembodied servants never lost a chance to play with softskins. Ghosts had to obey, but that was not to say there couldn’t be small deviations from exact orders.

  Vlad clenched his teeth. “Does that make you proud?” he barked. “Can’t you think of anything new?”

  The unseen creature growled in anger, but in the end it loosened its magical grip.

  “Enter, my son,” said a soft voice just in front of Vlad.

  The darkness was smashed and torn by a sudden light. A tiny room with carved stone walls was revealed, lit by several antique lamps. If Tanya Lawson had seen those electrical lamps she would have immediately classed their owner as a Magic-Hater like herself.

  She would have been mistaken, for fiendish creatures by the millions— nay the billions— were hard at work in the Church Of The Sword. And it took an enormous amount of energy and cunning effort to create all those powerful spells and to hide them from the damned Amers.

  However, in the secret chamber Vlad entered, not a single magical device was allowed. The demands of super secrecy forbade it. Thus, the ancient electrical lamps.

  The only furniture was a small black table which sat in the middle of the room. Black polished wood, very old and carved on the sides with runes. The glittering surface was empty except for one sheet of paper, pressed by thin pale fingers.

  Father Onphim was the owner of those fingers. He was clad in the common cassock of a field warpriest, with a dark silver cross— badly dented— resting on his bosom.

  This cross,
Brown Bears’ legends said, had saved Father Onphim’s life when the bullet of a rebel sniper had found the old man many years before.

  “Nice to see you, my son, nice to see you.” A deep voice, filled with Force.

  Father Onphim raised his head. A high and noble forehead, stern eyes of gray steel, thin colorless lips and a strong massive chin. Several old scars near his right temple, slightly covered with silver-stained hair. No medals. Only that dented cross.

  “Time to earn our pay, my son, time to work,” said the old man. “The whole Conclave is waiting. I’ll show you the way. But first read this order. Signed by His Majesty Lord Emperor.”

  The Russian Galactic Federation was a Constitutional Monarchy. That was the pretense of the generals, at least.

  Vlad took the paper. Not a vidtablet, not a magic scroll; a common, ancient paper, with the watermark of an Imperial Two-Headed Eagle.

  The paper was most official. Cold words marched along the smooth surface of the page, nominating and confirming someone’s crash, exile, imprisonment or even death.

  Armed with this document, Major Vlad would become a local God. All military and civil staff would have to obey him without a word. He would be able to enter classified X-zones, never mind how high the classification.

  He could interrogate anyone he chose, no matter how important their rank. He could wear and transport any weapon he liked, fiendish or non-fiendish.

  “Only God himself could be higher, Father,” Vlad said.

  “Yes, my son. But there will be one small step between you and Heaven— your humble servant,” the priest bowed.

  “Report only to me. No exceptions. Not even to the Lord Emperor, prime minister or chairman of The Duma. Not even to anyone from The Conclave. You understand, I know. Other instructions will be coming from The Conclave.

  “I don’t have the most up-to-date information, so we’ll have to go see for ourselves what is happening.”

  Father Onphim rose. His head was only a little bit higher than Vlad’s shoulder.

  His hand glided over the wall and the stones moved aside, giving way. Behind the door was Nothing. A many-colored glittering Nothing, the inner side of the Fiendish Worlds. The Conclave of the Church of the Sword was hidden with cunning.