The Hate Parallax

by Allan Cole

  “Doest thou understand what my spell will do to thee, unhappy one?” Carvaserin said, head rising high.

  “Aye, sire,” sighed Scratch.

  He could not withstand the wizard’s evil will. And he was helpless against his growing wrath.

  “And thou still insisteth that nothing…”

  “Aye, sire,” said Scratch once again.

  Carvaserin nodded. “Well, well, well. Thou hast spoken. I’ll return soon, Scratch. I do not know whom thou art serving so faithfully. And it’s a pity that thou hast declared thyself an enemy of my country.”

  Before Scratch could protest, the wizard vanished.

  All the fiendish horde rushed to Scratch, squeaking, howling and shrieking only four words:

  “What doest he say? What doest he say?”

  Old Scratch didn’t answer.

  * * *

  Vlad was in an extremely bad mood. Damned Amers, damned Rooskies, damned fiends, gods, heavens and the several hells. All were against him. All.

  He entered the huge battlestation clad in the ordinary naval uniform of a one-star Major. In Space Navy terms, a third rank Captain without ribbons: just another officer among several thousand from Borodino’s crew.

  Only two men aboard knew about his mission: Rear-Admiral Peter Amiriani and Wizard-in-Chief Daniel Carvaserin, brother of Vlad’s old enemy, Brand.

  When Vlad entered the Admiral’s saloon he caught two glances. In the first, fear was camouflaged by the Admiral’s everyday confidence. In the second, cold magical ice barely hid naked hatred.

  Obviously, Brand Carvaserin had told his brother much. Vlad didn’t care. He had survived Brand’s wrath, so surely he’d survive Daniel’s.

  Vlad disliked and distrusted lofty gestures, such as displaying official vidtablets with the signatures of Very Important Men. It was something he did not ordinarily do.

  After all, his authority didn’t depend on such men. He was simply the best the Church Of The Sword had to offer and that was all. So what use were high words, stern glances and all those foolish things?

  Unfortunately, Daniel Carvaserin, the stupid ass, had forced him to do what he disliked. Perhaps Vlad could have managed things more easily if he only had to deal with the Rear Admiral.

  But the Chief Wizard, filled with paranoia and false ego … well, that was something else.

  Carvaserin at once proclaimed that Vlad must confirm what he, the chief wizard, had already determined.

  “Your job, here,” he announced, “is to support my findings. All must believe that this incident was not our fault, but was due to an Amer conspiracy. I do not doubt this conclusion, so…”

  They spent an hour or so, arguing. The poor Admiral kept silent— what else could he do?

  At last Vlad— with a faint gleam of wrath— took out his wallet. Between the thick leather there was a single sheet of paper. With an Imperial Two-Headed Eagle and the Emperor’s signature.

  Daniel Carvaserin’s pale face purpled as he studied Vlad’s authority.

  “Well.” A deep sigh.

  The wizard sat very stern, very haughty, hiding his wounded pride under a gray cloak of indifference.

  “Do as you want,” the wizard said. Then he suddenly stood up. “But rest assured I’ll contact my superiors as well. My report has already been filed, and I…”

  “Haven’t you read this?” Vlad insisted, once again displaying the document. “It’s my obligation to carry out all investigations, Master Chief Wizard. So my advice to you, sir, is to piss off!”

  Pure insult, to be sure. But such men as the Carvaserin brothers only understood forceful words.

  “Pardon, Admiral,” the wizard said, refusing to look Vlad in the eyes. “I have my duties.”

  Then he whirled and stalked out of the room without another word. The paper in Vlad’s wallet had trumped the wizard’s magic. The furious mage was helpless before it.

  As for Admiral Amiriani, he immediately agreed to all of Vlad’s demands.

  He had to work quickly and carefully. Major Tanya Lawson from the United Worlds Police would be arriving soon. The liner bearing the beautiful investigator— Vlad had seen her picture when he went through her dossier— had already been spotted approaching the Borodino’s Forbidden Zone.

  According to the terms of the UWO agreement between Russia and America, Lawson was to be given complete access to all evidence and witnesses. It was Vlad’s job to get to them before she did, plus to leave no trace of his presence.

  The first thing he did was order up all the records from the ship’s black boxes. There were no security seals on any of the battlegraphs, but surely no one would dare alter those records. It would be very easy to catch such a deed.

  Many times and from many different viewpoints, Vlad watched the tragedy of the HolidayOne unfold.

  A dot on a vidscreen. Endless legions of magical creatures peering into the depths of space spotted danger. It always began with the glowing trace of the HolidayOne’s Engine Devil at work. Then a faint gleam of black armor shimmered into life. And then— the trembling pulse of a mysterious transmission.

  Immediately, another legion of fiends would come into the chamber, sniffing, soothing, snorting as they uncovered the trace of a powerful code contained within that transmission.

  Yes, that was it. A code. They couldn’t decipher the message, but it had the “fingerprints” of an Amer military code all over it.

  And next, the ship entered Borodino’s optical range. It was clearly a destroyer: one of the Perry series. All its parameters were from the Jane’s edition. A classical destroyer. Class A. And it was disguised as a civilian ship.

  Vlad listened in to the conversation that followed:

  “Dolgov, what’s happening?” came Carvaserin’s voice.

  “An Amer destroyer, sir, pretending to be a cruise liner,” the voice of Igor Dolgov, the shooting officer. The calm but tensed voice of a professional.

  “Stand by. I’ll try to spot him first.”

  As much as he disliked the wizard, Vlad was pleased to hear him say this. When that Amer bitch, Tanya Lawson, reviewed these same tapes she’d see that all had been thoroughly checked out before the firing order was given.

  Vlad resumed listening:

  The Borodino issued warnings to the approaching ship. But there was no reply.

  Then all the Borodino’s alarms went off as the Amer ship painted it with its magical target sensors and prepared to launch a missile…

  “Dolgov!”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “No luck… You must shoot!”

  The wizard’s decision had been a correct one, Vlad thought. Disguised like a civilian ship, but with weapons and gear like a Class A destroyer. And no one replied to the Borodino’s warnings. Plus the Amers had been clearly getting ready to fire on the Russian warship.

  By why? Why had this happened?

  Vlad traced the Russian missile. And he felt real shock, when— lo!— all visions of the mighty destroyer vanished and the stunned Borodino staff realized they were shooting into innocence.

  The remaining questions were too numerous to contemplate.

  All vidscreens displayed a common civilian ship. All the rest “the ether traces of weapons,” etc. were also present, but… those could be imitated. Hard to do, but not impossible.

  Daniel Carvaserin’s words about spies and Father Onphim’s warning about provocation echoed in Vlad’s mind.

  But Major Lawson would surely argue, “Why the hell did you have to shoot? Are you saying you couldn’t intercept and destroy a single missile? Why was it necessary to shoot when it was still unclear what this ship’s particulars were?”

  And she would be right.

  The Borodino is done, Vlad thought. Time is short, but to make certain of my findings I still have several more witnesses to interrogate.

  Billy Ivanov, the Russian child, and Old Scratch, the Amer Engine Devil. And also Igor Dolgov, the Borodino shooting officer.

 
Vlad was doubtful that Dolgov was a spy. The young officer had no access to the external surveying systems. He could not have influenced them. And their work had been double-checked by Carvaserin himself.

  Someone from the tech team?.. Maybe. But such a man would have to be suicidal. He would have had no chance to leave the station. And surely, the first suspicion would have fallen on that part of the crew. The military prosecutors would have been after them at all hours.

  Also, the incident didn’t seem to be the work of the Odysseus Corps— the Amer version of the Church Of The Sword. As much as he hated them, Vlad had a healthy respect for his Amer opposites and had a fairly good idea what they would and would not do.

  Not that they’d shrink from killing so many innocents if they felt it necessary. It was just that such grand scale actions weren’t their style. Just as it wasn’t the style of the Church of The Sword.

  We both prefer to work in the shadows, Vlad thought. This is what we have in common.

  But it could be some other Amer intelligence service. And if the Odysseus Corps got involved at all it would be to cover up the evil deed committed by their colleagues.

  Vlad wondered if Lawson might be working for this group, whatever it was. Maybe she would try to rescue the spy while she was aboard the Borodino. Or even kill him so he couldn’t talk.

  Not a single possibility must be missed, Vlad thought. Not one!

  He called Admiral Amiriani. “Set a triple guard around the bay,” he commanded. “No one must leave the station, Admiral. It is critical, dammit.”

  “This was done in the first minutes— nay, seconds— after the disaster,” came Amiriani’s resentful answer. “Those same security precautions are still in effect. Until that Amer bitch arrives not a single ship will have been allowed approach since the incident.”

  “Not a single ship?” Vlad demanded.

  “Not a single one except your sturmovik,” Amiriani admitted. Then, “Lawson will be on the Stardove. No other ship will be allowed to approach us.”

  Vlad thanked him and hung up.

  So it is. Not a single ship.

  Which meant the spy— if there was a spy— must still be here!

  However, since arriving aboard the Borodino, Vlad had not experienced the sensations that crawled up the back of his neck when his prey was near.

  This was quite unlike him. Father Onphim used to say that Vlad could “smell” the enemy. But now there was no such spoor for him to trace.

  Vlad made a face. Maybe Father Onphim was wrong; or maybe the spy was much more cunning than even the priest could imagine.

  Well, enough.

  Time to grill the witnesses.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  After the ghastly Wizard was gone, Old Scratch collapsed. Trembling, he rolled into a black ball, nursing his feverish flesh.

  Carvaserin’s wrath was still hot within him; the flame claws were tearing the unhappy devil from inside— it was dangerous to cause such an angry mood in a softskin wizard.

  Damn! Their spells were too powerful to withstand. And no amount of courage or strength could help. A single cast and you were lying on your belly before the victorious enemy. A coward and a hero— both are equal.

  “Thou, Chyvaist, and all of you— cease! It is I, Homula, speaking! Abate! Lie down! Pass off!!! What other words must I speak?! The Engine Devil is dying. Come on. Give me space! Cease thy shouts! I must cure him.”

  The black cloud of an immense darkness wrapped the collapsed soul, draining out the pain. All the fiends in the great hall were frozen.

  Even the most rambunctious and violent spirits obeyed, for Homula in her wrath could be nearly as deadly as the most evil softskin wizard.

  Old Scratch recovered after a long, long time. Homula’s magic was vanishing and a unnumbered chorus, led by Chyvaist, was already urging:

  “What did the mage say?”

  Scratchy forced himself awake. Homula had whipped out the pain but much weakness still remained. However, he had to speak.

  “The human mage demanded to know if my ship was military or not,” Scratch said.

  “And was she?” interrupted Chyvaist. The impatient DeathSpirit was in the first ranks.

  “No, she was not,” replied Scratch. Evil fire blinked into Chyvaist’s eyeholes.

  “Thou hast a coward’s spirit,” hissed the DeathSpirit. “Now thou art protesting like a franion in sight of a gelding knife! How it can be? I myself…”

  “Shut up, Chyvaist,” growled Homula. “And speak with a normal tongue. I’m sure our guest will tell us all in time. Now he must rest. You all have heard him say his ship was not a destroyer. ’Tis well known that Engine Devils do not lie. And that is enough for now. To work, all, to work!”

  The Daughter of Darkness could easily master any budding fiendish revolt.

  Old Scratch was left alone. And he had time to think. What had the DeathSpirit said? A warship? An Amer’s destroyer on a missile run? The softskin wizard had said the same thing.

  Rubbish. Complete nonsense.

  But… they seemed so certain. Chyvaist was not lying. He really believed his target had been a huge, Class A capital ship.

  Could all the softskins be mad? And their fiendish slaves as well? All at the same time?

  In principle, a really strong spell could turn mad not just a single battlestation, but a whole planet or Fiendish World.

  Long ago several such spells had been cast by the great softskin warrior-mages— in the time of the fierce wars between Flesh and Spirit. A thousand years had passed since that time, but not even the human wizards of this era could chant such words, much less explain how those castings had been made.

  No. This could not be the cause.

  Also, Scratchy thought, the Russian installation was too well defended. And Carvaserin was too strong to be overwhelmed so easily. The wizard stated his true name without hesitation— he was that certain no one among his fiendish servants would dare trespass against his might.

  Carvaserin had no fear. Old Scratch sensed this. But he sensed something else as well. A grim and too-proud will hid behind the wizard’s brow. A will that was the real master of its own bearer. A will filled with bloodlust.

  Old Scratch shivered, appalled at a sudden horrible vision: Carvaserin, grim and tensed, casting a cloaking chant above the unhappy honeymoon liner.

  And with a maniacal and terrible smile he was watched a flamewave shattering the HolidayOne into pieces. Smiling in supreme joy at the agony of the victims… Yes, the wizard could have done this.

  But had he really done so? How could he cast blame on the human mage simply because he was morally capable of doing such a thing?

  Then Scratch remembered that strange glance from innermost space just before the ship met its fate.

  It didn’t seem possible that it could have originated with Carvaserin. No, it had been the glance of an inhuman being. But it was non-fiendish as well.

  A glance— and a missile struck the starboard side of the HolidayOne.

  What kind of glance could have caused such a tragedy?

  Old Scratch was thinking. And the more he pondered, the more grim he became.

  * * *

  As Vlad approached the Fiendish Hall he considered how to handle the Engine Devil. It was a pity Daniel Carvaserin had already interviewed him. It was difficult to make an Engine Devil speak against his will— to speak openly and unambiguously …

  “Scratchy, awake. Awake, Scratch!”Homula’s frightened voice penetrated the dark protection spell around the resting devil. “Here’s a man for thee, Scratchy.”

  She was really frightened, Scratch noticed. But by the name of the Great Hell, what in the whole Universe and in the endless Stair of the Fiendish Worlds, what could frighten the Daughter of the Darkness?

  Carvaserin returned, perhaps?

  Frightened, Scratch opened his eyes. And immediately screwed them up.

  Before him was standing a tall and slender man with a single major�
�s star on his shoulder-straps. He was very much unlike Carvaserin. Yet at the same time very much like him— because this major could also control the power.

  And there was some force behind him… much more terrible than the force that had supported the wizard.

  However— although the man’s eyes were keen, there was no malice or scorn in them. None at all. Could it be that this softskin was cunning in hiding such things?

  “I need to speak with thee,” said the major. “Canst thou feel that we must speak or wouldst thou prefer to see my identification?” He smiled. He had a good smile.

  “We shalt speak,” sighed Old Scratch. “No need for identification.”

  In his bones he knew this man had the right to interrogate him.

  “It will not be an interrogation, Scratch,” said the man. “Carvaserin has already done this… or failed, to tell the truth. He pressed thee… pressed thee hard, I suppose… suspecting, complaining and threatening. Do not say anything, I know I’m right.”

  Who is this man, thought Old Scratch? Who is he to confront the Wizard Carvaserin? The Engine Devil had spent enough time with the softskin race to know what the True Wizard meant. And this restrained major— how can he?…

  “I can,” said the man patiently, as if reading his thoughts. “Listen, Scratch, I’m here to investigate, not to execute. ’Tis no good to torture. We must find who is to be blamed for this massacre, Scratch, or two great Powers will be involved in the most terrible war in all of history.

  “And do not think, Scratch, that thy kin will remain intact. There will be no winners nor survivors. I hope thou canst see the problem with clarity. Help us, Scratch. I, a human, am seeking thy aid. Understand? Seeking thy aid, Scratch.

  “Help us, and millions of thy race will remain alive. Say ‘nay’ and a war of annihilation will be waged upon hill and plow, upon the strange flesh of the Fiendish Worlds… Well, ’tis said. What shalt thou reply?”

  Suddenly, Old Scratch realized the space around them was empty. The fiendish horde had vanished, hiding themselves in deep and far corners. Even Homula had whooshed to the top of the chamber and had covered herself with her immense black cloak.