by Allan Cole
Vlad took a step. Something like fear stirred slightly somewhere deep, deep in his soul and then was gone. The Brown Bears Never Retreat, Surrender or Fear.
If this was a fiendish world, then it was a very special one. Most worlds have both solid surface, air and sky above, and something pretending to be a sun. Here was nothing but a grim, everlasting night.
“Follow me, my son,” came Father Onphim’s voice.
Under Vlad’s feet was a surface that felt something like resilient jam. Nothing more. No sounds, nor smells— nothing. Only the voice of the old war-priest.
Then light suddenly rushed in from all directions— oceans of bright flame. It was hard not to raise a hand to cover one’s eyes.
But Vlad only narrowed his eyelids. It was clear that Judgment Day was at hand. Well, he was ready.
“That’s thy man, Onphim?” growled a Rather Unpleasant Voice. “Art thou sure?”
This voice… it was filled with pure Force and Might. A great master, thought Vlad. A great master of magic. Maybe he was facing one of those fabulous enchanters who could shut down stars like people switch off lamps, giving rest to the tiny devils working there.
A cold shiver ran down his back. Vlad, Vlad, remember the Rule of the Brown Bears!..
But it was very hard to follow all the guidelines. Vlad still could not see anything in the surrounding flame. All his senses gave up, unable to penetrate the thick magic border around him.
“Yes, noble Conclave,” came Father Onphim’s answer.
To Vlad, Onphim sounded as if he were addressing a whole chamber, instead of a single entity.
“Here’s my man,” the priest continued. “The best warrior we have. As all know, he’s been a loyal soldier of our Church for more than a thousand years. In the Church Of The Sword he is our greatest hero. This is why I have chosen him to assist us now in this mortal crisis. Of course, the Amers could still play tricks, so…”
“The UWP claims it is sending its best as well,” broke in another voice. “A Major Tanya Lawson. She is in charge of the investigation. We just learned this news. And it is somewhat disturbing, since Investigator Lawson is an Amer and her final decision could be influenced to go against us.”
“Then it is even more important, noble Conclave,” Father Onphim said, seizing the moment, “that we send this man to represent us.” He tapped Vlad on the shoulder.
Vlad heard murmurs of assent. For some reason this made him feel most uncomfortable— as if a sharp-edged knife had just been placed at his throat.
Still, he knew his duty and he stiffened to attention, clicking his heels together and snapping a salute.
“What are my orders, sirs?” he asked.
“They are quite simple, Major,” the Unpleasant Voice boomed in reply. “We claim the incident with the Amer cruise ship was an unfortunate accident. A chance shot.
“It is thy duty to make certain this is so! However, if it proves otherwise, eradicate all traces that lead back to us. Never mind how. Just do it!”
“Yessir,” Vlad replied.
“There is one more, most important thing, major,” the Unpleasant Voice went on. “It is possible this ‘chance’ shot was the work of an Amer spy. And the incident was a conspiracy to cast blame on us.”
Vlad shivered. Yes, that was it. Surely. How could an experienced crew, well-trained officers of high rank, make such a mistake? It must have been the result of Amer trickery.
“This possibility thou must keep in mind,” said the voice. “And, if so— eradicate the traces of this, too. Remember, Tanya Lawson must proclaim that it was a complete and awful mistake. The version of an Amer spy is not allowed. Otherwise war will follow, and war we must prevent. If there really was a spy, we’ll deal with it ourselves. Is this clear to thee, Major?”
“Yes sir,” Vlad said. “Quite clear.”
“Very well then. Father Onphim, thou mayst depart.”
“Thank you, noble Conclave,” said Vlad’s godfather.
* * *
“Are you certain you are willing to undertake this mission, my son?” Father Onphim asked.
He and Vlad were standing in a small chamber beneath the church. “I know you have just returned from a most difficult assignment. No matter how important this new mission is, you still have the right to refuse it and choose the long sleep, instead.”
“No!” Vlad said. Quite adamant.
How could he refuse with the lifeblood of Mother Russia at stake?
Father Onphim smiled. “No? Good for you, my son, good for you,” he said.
“But do you understand about the spy? To tell the truth, I was astonished. Look, if this scum still lurks somewhere at the station … imagine, he could falsify the records in the Borodino computers! And what about this Inspector Lawson? What will she do?”
“Can she… er… be influenced by us?” asked Vlad.
Father Onphim shook his head. “Alas, no. Not by us, I’d say. As for the Amers… the boys must be busy sniffing through her files, looking for a weakness. Each man or woman my son, has a weakness. I’ll do my best to find her weakness myself, but I don’t have much hope, to tell the truth.”
Vlad was astonished at this admission of failure before his mentor even started.
“Why, father?” he asked.
“Lawson is an Amer, my son. Maybe the best of all that clumsy nation, but still an Amer. Can you trust an Amer? Just tell me that.”
Vlad bowed his head. Never trust an Amer, boy— a child, an old man or a girl. A girl, especially. Father Onphim was right. As always.
“I’m considering all the possibilities, my son,” the priest went on. “First, what if Lawson reveals a plot? I cannot exclude some maniac on the Borodino…”
“The Amers will strike,” Vlad said.
“Yes, my son,” the priest said. “And this would throw the whole galaxy into a Holocaust. The Great Judgment before its time, an Apocalypse. Millions upon millions would be slain on both sides.
“How many planets would become radioactive dust, or became part of the Chaotic Fiendish Domains? A war-ghost attack can suck off the very souls of the defenders. The borders and outposts would tremble. And then what?
“I’m a war-priest, my son, I’ve waved the last good-bye to hundreds of boys— and my hands still remember their blood.”
Onphim shook his head, his face grim. “Our superiors no doubt understand this perfectly well,” he went on.
“Otherwise, we and the Amers would have destroyed one another long ago. It is the wisdom of our leaders that has kept the balance from tipping over the edge into full scale war for more than ten centuries.”
“But, this time …” anguished, he let his voice trail off.
“Yes, Father?” Vlad dared to press.
The war-priest sighed heavily. “Our leaders have sent apologies to the Amers,” he said. “They have also offered to pay reparations to the families of the people who were killed in the incident. Perhaps this might help prevent war.”
Another heavy sigh. “Except …” again his voice tailed off in despair.
“Except what, father?” Vlad asked.
Father Onphim was too mysterious today. Vlad liked his orders plain— shoot, or don’t shoot. On the whole, he preferred to shoot. The Amers and their allies were his enemies.
Vlad was trained to hate all enemies without fear or favor and he killed them whenever he could.
“Except it’s not so simple, my son,” the priest said. “What if as a result of this tragic liner incident the Amers fire on a ship from our fleet? And then tell us it was a grievous mistake, just like HolidayOne?”
“Then we fight back!” Vlad said firmly.
“That’s easy to say,” Father Onphim replied. “But it is my suspicion the real war has already begun. I think the destruction of HolidayOne might have been a real provocation.
“It looks very much like the dirty work of the Amers, doesn’t it? Beware a spy, my son. Beware a spy!”
Fathe
r Onphim took a swift glance at his watch, “Now it is time for you to go, my son. And all our prayers are with you.
“You must reach the Borodino and interview the officers and crew before Inspector Lawson arrives. Other than that, I will not give you further direct instructions. I will not think for you— make your decision on who is responsible by yourself.”
Suddenly his fists clenched and his lips twisted. “Get this spy scum for me, Vlad!” he growled. “Get him! And then you may rest.”
The priest’s intensity shocked Vlad into silence. Onphim misunderstood his reaction and rushed to reassure him.
“I promise you,” he said, quite seriously, “that this time your rest will be long enough to sweep away all the bad memories. I swear this by all that is holy to us.”
Vlad had never seen Father Onphim so solemn and somber. “Well,” he said, “perhaps I had better go, Father.”
“Yes, my son,” the priest said. “Let me bless you. And… please, come back to us. I beg you.”
With strange feelings, astonishment and even a little fear, Vlad took his leave.
He was on his way to the StarPort where an interceptor waited to carry him to the Borodino. It would be a stripped down ship, with no comforts for a weary soldier home from the wars, only to be rushed off again.
But Vlad didn’t mind this. He needed to think deeply and without distractions of any sort. And it wasn’t only the mission that he wanted to think about.
There was something else. Something quite new and mysterious he wanted to ponder:
Who was the owner of that deadly voice who had given Father Onphim his orders?
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
It was said that Engine Devils could only swear.
It was said they could not really be sad, or really grieve or suffer despair.
Softskins believed their powerful slaves to be nothing more than emotionless spell-casting machines.
Let them vapor off their hatred in the “Three Hanged Monks” and that’s enough, said the softskins.
It was true that Old Scratch really was a great swearer. And yes, Engine Devils Local 666 often met at their favorite inn to gossip about their weak softskinned masters.
And yes, yes, yes, Old Scratch knew many Engine Devils who would praise the extermination of the arrogant “softers.”
As for the many grand fiends and lesser fiendish creatures slain aboard HolidayOne— well, a la guerre com a la guerre, as it’s said. Many creatures both great and small will perish in this endless and unseen war, Engine Devils often grumbled. We could be next!
Must we weep because of it? Definitely not! Let’s drink and laugh and mock the softskins!
Maybe Old Scratch would have said those things himself. Maybe. If some other devil’s ship had been destroyed by a missile with a horde of DeathSpirits in its warhead.
After the explosion Old Scratch was located by Daniel Carvaserin’s SearchSpell. The Borodino’s chief wizard had immediately ordered him to be picked up.
And Scratchy had suddenly found himself in a vast chamber deep within the Rooskie battlestation. The softskinned mage’s stern face and malice-filled eyes were the first things Old Scratch had seen.
However, the magician did not ask any questions.
“You are wounded!” Old Scratch heard a terrifying exclamation and pain suddenly arose in him. A bitter and evil pain from both his wounded fiendish flesh and soul. And then he knew no more.
Later, when he came to, he was in a great Fiendish Hall. An immense black cloud was near. Covering him, nursing him, struggling with his remaining pain…
“I’m Homula,” Scratch heard. “Keep quiet. Do not move, brother. I’m keeping the chant.”
Scratch was surrounded by hundreds of different fiendish creatures, most of warlike origin. The Hall itself looked very much like an Inner Hell. Hand-crafted plas-steel was hidden behind floating clouds of hot yellow smoke.
Flame flickered here and there. Lightning streaked like golden snakes and the heavy odor of boiling sulfur caressed Old Scratch’s nostrils.
Pain released its cold jaws, but even so he could only float slowly and helplessly beside one of the thick clouds.
“Ha! Behold, he’s here!”
One of the tiny DeathSpirits approached him. This little one also looked as if it came from the Softskins’ Bonecrusher, but it was still filled with much conceit.
“Back, back, Chyvaist!” Homula halted him. “This Devil cannot speak yet.”
“Oops, Mother,” rebuked the DeathSpirit insolently. “I’ve come from that very explosion. I must know what softskin’s luck brings this Devil here? I must, Mother! My goblins are all ash. Unsuccessful ejection.
“What was there on the ship to burst into flame with such power? Listen, you, big claws! It was me in the warhead. Me, Chyvaist the DeathSpirit, from the Greater Abyss! Answer me! Answer me, now!”
DeathSpirits were rather daring creatures.
“Peace, Chyvaist,” sighed Homula. “What happened was not thy fault.”
“To the softskins with all faults! The less of them, the better. Why was this Devil sneaking around? And why was he mimicking a destroyer? It’s me, Chyvaist, speaking! I felt this! I’m not a blindfolded softskin.
“We took aim. We chased the target. I myself cut through the interference! War interference, I daresay! And then— lo!— a peaceful liner! Civilians!”
Chyvaist hissed the last word with great disgust.
“And I made— a great BOOM! And a great fecal oops. And now they can say anything, those softskins high above, even that I was working for the Amers! No, Mother, this Engine Devil must reply!”
“Chy…” started Homula, but Old Scratch interrupted.
“Hey, lad, thou asked for my answer? Well, I’ll speak. It was a civilian ship, I swear. No war devices aboard. Not a single one. Doest thou understand? I can swear on any holy thing thou likes. And there was no interference about. Thou must be wrong…”
“Wrong? Wrong?!” came the shrill shriek. “Listen thou Space-in-the-ass-Pusher, I am never wrong! I’m…”
“Peace everyone,” came a cold voice from above. “Scratch, the Engine Devil, Local 666, I must speak with thee. That’s me, Daniel Carvaserin, Wizard-in-Chief of Borodino station. Prepare to meet thy master!”
Carvaserin was a real Power. Scratch felt the cold strings of the softskin’s might separating the main chamber from his personal cloud. The lightning vanished, plas-steel and armor lifted, giving way to reveal a tall, ascetic softskin with dark gray eyes. Powerful eyes.
Daniel Carvaserin’s forehead was crossed with three deep purple scars, unmistakably of magical origin. The wizard was clad not in an ordinary Rooskie space uniform but in a pure black cloak, as if he were an ancient druid. And he was quite alone.
Not even a fifth-class mage would dare enter the Hall of Battle Fiends. But Carvaserin dared and all the WarFiends, DeathSpirits, legions of lesser creatures and even Homula bowed before their Master.
There was no humiliation in such a bow. Carvaserin was the strongest.
“Take seven steps back,” commanded the Wizard coldly. “All of you!”
Everyone obeyed. The Power they feared filled the Wizard’s voice.
“And now, my noble Devil, we’ll talk.”
Old Scratch shivered. He had faced many perils. He had slipped through the spreading flame from dying planets; he had avoided meteor attacks; he had raised research ships from the living swamps. But real fear now reached into him with its cold grip.
From the steely eyes of the softskin mage a shrilling fear was crawling, seizing the very soul of the Engine Devil. Carvaserin’s face loomed above, emotionless.
“Why didst thou not answer my call?” the Wizard demanded.
“What call?” Scratch asked in astonishment.
“Thou insisteth thou didst not hear it?” boomed the Wizard. “Thou hadst to hear it! But thou didst not reply! The order— from whence came this order?”
“The order
?” muttered the Engine Devil, shocked.
Carvaserin’s eyes narrowed. Now he looked exactly like the “evil interrogator” in a pulp police story.
“Thy Amer masters art now blaming my crew and my country for the bloody extermination of innocent civilians,” hissed Carvaserin. “Very clever plan, very clever. Those Rooskies, bloody bastards, et cetera. But they hadn’t counted on me!”
“I do not know how to answer thee,” said Old Scratch.
The wave of hatred coming from the Wizard overwhelmed him, painfully pressing in on his own thoughts, trembling his very soul. What did this softskin…
“Do not speak to me so!” growled the wizard, eyes glowing, lips pale as he read Scratchy’s thoughts. “Keep the nickname of my race for thy accomplices! For thy favorite inn! This is the Borodino, thou miserable fiend. So cast aside thy pride and reply! Who gave thee the order?”
The mind pressure increased. Flame was boiling in Carvaserin’s eyes— the pure white flame of Power— and poor Scratch had no weapon to withstand it. Tortured, he groaned. It’s hard to make an Engine Devil groan, but the wizard knew the ways.
“I… I wish to know…” Scratch forced out. “But… sire… I really do not know. There is nothing I can tell thee, sire.”
“Doest thou want me to turn over thy whole memory?” threatened the wizard. “I’ll do it. It’s not at all interesting to dig into thy dirty fiendish dreams, but I’ll do it!”
His voice softened, becoming more reasonable. “Listen, Scratch,” he said. “This is too serious for jokes. I have to uncover the truth about this conspiracy. How can it be that to all our sensors thy ship looked like a heavy destroyer of the ‘Perry’ class, eh?
“How can it be that all communications were blocked, blocked even from me, Daniel Carvaserin, the Wizard? I called upon thee, trying to stop thee, and I failed. How can it be? It looked like heavy magiarmour surrounding thy vessel. Very strange for a civilian liner!
“So tell me, unhappy being, how all these things could have occurred?”
“I know nothing of what thou hast said, sire,” Scratch replied. “It was a civilian liner. I was responsible for the pathfinding spells. I controlled nearly all the magic aboard. We were unprepared. I was casting common chants and nothing…”