The Hate Parallax

by Allan Cole

  His fiendish colleagues listened intently as he spelled out his proposal. At first there was much bitter argument, but in the end the vote of approval was unanimous.

  And thus was launched the most famous duel in history.

  The combatants: Davyd Kells and Vlad Projogin.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  As Tanya approached “The Three Hanged Monks” she could hear Old Scratchy singing at the top of his demon lungs:

  “… On the road to Mandalay

  Where the flyin’-fishes play,

  An’ the dawn comes up like thunder outter China

  ‘Crost the Baayyyy …”

  “Obviously, we’ve found the right place,” she said to Kriegworm. “Boozing and singing as if he hadn’t a care in the world. What a fool this one is.”

  Kriegworm pulled a face, making his ogre’s countenance even more horrible to behold.

  “Possibly so, ma’am,” he replied. “However …”

  And he waved a mighty claw that took in the begrimed tenements and shabby business fronts that made up the Rayal spaceport’s Devil District.

  “… the Engine Devil could hardly have expected that a human would attempt to follow him to this place.”

  The whole scene was lit by the eerie green light of the Rayal moon. The atmosphere was thick with danger.

  Strange fires burned in the tenement windows, odd smells carried by poisonous red smoke rose from the cracked-girder street.

  Even more intimidating was “The Three Hanged Monks”— the favored retreat of Engine Devils Local 666. The proprietors had chopped off the ugly end of an old space transport and stuck it on a vacant lot.

  Scarred and rusted, it presented a face that Tanya thought made Kriegworm’s look handsome. There were dark steaming holes like monster’s eyes, a glowing red protrusion that might be a nose.

  No one had bothered to cut the cables, which were still alive and crackling with magical power, so they trailed off the front like a beard, sparking and waving in time to Scratch’s high-volume performance.

  There was a sign on the front door to the inn which read:

  Softskins Beware!

  Enter At Your Own Risk!

  Meanwhile, Scratch was singing:

  “…Ship me somewheres east Of Suez,

  Where the best is like the worst;

  Where there ain’t no Ten Commandments

  An’ a man can raise a thirst;

  For the temple-bells are callin’,

  An’ it’s there that I would be…

  By the old Moulmein Pagoda,

  Looking lazy at the sea …

  Tanya shook off the feeling of being the helpless heroine of a gothic novel.

  “Don’t think much of his singing,” she said, “but I do like his choice of songs. Kipling, hmm?”

  “I do not know of this Kipling, ma’am,” Kriegworm said, ogre eyes glowing with disapproval. “But it isn’t right for a mere devil to sing a human song.”

  He shook his scaly head. “Most disturbing. When we catch him, I shall give Scratch a good thrashing for his impertinence.”

  Tanya glanced at the ogre. Eight feet in height and four at the shoulder, any thrashing he administered would be most severe.

  “Not while under my command you won’t,” she said. “The UWP strictly forbids mistreatment of prisoners.”

  Kriegworm chuckled— it was the first time Tanya had ever heard him do such a thing.

  “Some policies are worse than others, ma’am,” he said, thrusting out a stubborn chin. “The one you cite is my least favorite.”

  Like the chuckle, Tanya thought Kriegworm’s words and manner were rather odd. Normally, the ogre was a by-the-book stickler, who treated UWP policies as if they were holy gospel. Which was probably why he’d been admitted into the department— something very few other fiends had ever been allowed to do.

  However, for some time now, Tanya thought his attitude seemed to be undergoing a change. Ever since the Borodino he’d been outspoken to the point of insubordination.

  Tanya wondered what was going on beneath that thick skull. Why the change? Then she thought, maybe it was the war. These days everyone seemed to be teetering on the edge of hysteria.

  “I’m not concerned with your likes or dislikes,” Tanya growled, putting him in his place. “Do what you’re told!”

  Suddenly humble as of old, Kriegworm bobbed his head. “Yes, Master Investigator! Whatever you say, Master Investigator! Forgive my rudeness.”

  Although his manner was contrite, Tanya heard sarcasm in his tone. She decided to ignore it.

  “Circle around to the back of the inn,” she ordered. “When I give the signal, we’ll both go in.”

  “Yes, ma’am!” Kriegworm said. “We’ll catch ’em in a crossfire.”

  “Dammit!” Tanya said. “No shooting. I need to question these witnesses. Besides, I don’t want to see the boy hurt!”

  Kriegworm smiled. “Oh, yes, the human child. We mustn’t harm him … at any cost!” Very sarcastic.

  “Remember that!” Tanya gritted. “Now go! And signal me when you’re in position.”

  Kriegworm snapped a regulation salute and departed. Tanya watched his huge bulk shamble off into the darkness. There was an arrogant hitch in his massive shoulders, a swagger to his walk.

  And she thought, What in the hell is going on with him?

  Just out of sight, Kriegworm paused near a dark jumble of crates and barrels. “Are you ready?” he whispered into the shadow.

  “Yes, Master!” was the hissed reply.

  “Wait until we have them in custody,” Kriegworm ordered. “Then strike!”

  Tanya’s killer smiled.

  Revenge was near!

  * * *

  Inside the “Three Hanged Monks,” the hellfires were burning brightly and many jugs of steaming Fiendish punch were hoisted high as Scratch sang the last notes of his song …

  “…An’ the dawn comes up like thunder,

  Outter China.

  ‘Crost the Baayyyy!”

  Thunderous roars of applause greeted Scratchy’s bow, then he lumbered off the swirling flame wheel that was the stage.

  Tanya was wrong about Old Scratch’s sobriety. The whole night he’d sipped sparingly from his punch. To be sure, he wanted more than anything to drink until his insides were afloat.

  Just as he ached to enter the special room in the back to bask in the healing fires of the True Flame, where all time ceased and an old demon’s sore bones would be warmed through and through.

  But he’d resisted these temptations with all his strength and was only pretending to be drunk so as not to worry his old friends and shipmates.

  Scratchy had received a hero’s greeting when he’d shown up at the tavern’s back door, Billy in tow. His miraculous escape from HolidayOne was known to Engine Devils everywhere. Just as the reports of his equally miraculous flight from the Borodino had doubly thrilled them.

  Of all the beings in the galaxy, Engine Devils were the most experienced in the vagaries of cruel fate. Ships could mysteriously stall near a black hole. Spell engines could suddenly go cold.

  Deep gravity could reach through uttermost space itself, throwing sucking tendrils around the ship, dragging everyone to their doom.

  And the after-reports always blamed the disaster on “Engine Devil’s Error.”

  As Scratch moved through the curtains of marvelous smoke that filled the inn, ducking around the floating black stones that gave off blissful warmth, he returned the shouted greetings from the many well-wishers who had gathered to pay their respects to a fiend all declared one of the “best of the best … an engine devil supreme!”

  In the far corner he found Billy being regaled by Scratch’s best friend, Ashgaroth— an Engine Devil known far and wide for his tall tales.

  Billy was floating at eye-level to the big gnarly fiend, comfortably ensconced within a glowing bubble of protective magic.

  Although humans could bear the
atmosphere of the “Hanged Monks” for short periods of time, without the bubble it would definitely have been an unpleasant— if not downright painful— experience.

  “… and then Old Scratchy let out such a curse,” Ashgaroth was saying, “that he peeled the suit right off that port master’s back!

  “It was the great king of all curses, starting with the bassad’s mother and running all the way back in evolutionary time to the first speck of DNA that made him.”

  Billy laughed, clapping his hands in delight. “What did Scratchy say?” he demanded. “What was the curse?”

  Scratch wanted to smile, but he forced a frown. “Don’t listen to this great twister of truth, young friend of the world,” he warned Billy.

  “His father was a charm-seller, his mother a foul wisp from the garden of lies. And the result was an egg of such low character no fiendish priest would come near enough to bless it. Fearing all truth would run out their toes if Ashgaroth’s egg cracked before they could flee.”

  Ashgaroth coughed amusement. “Doest thou see what I mean, Billy?” he said. “Is not Scratchy a swearer above all others?”

  Billy laughed agreement. Since their flight from the Borodino, he’d heard some masterful swearing from his new mentor. Although he still mourned the loss of his grandparents— and Lupe— his new adventures as a fugitive had pushed most of the tragedy to the back of his mind.

  In some ways, he thought, these had been the happiest days of his short life.

  “Nobody, but nobody swears better than Scratchy,” he said.

  Scratch harumphed, as if insulted. But secretly he was pleased. The human child was a most enjoyable companion, full of pranks and jokes that made him feel young again.

  The Engine Devil was also much impressed with Billy’s magical powers. Without him Scratch would never have been able to cast a spell strong enough to slip the clutches of the mysterious and evil creature who had tracked them to the Borodino.

  He shuddered at this thought, then pushed the memory away.

  Scratch leaned closer to Ashgaroth. “Hast thou made contact with thy friends?” he asked.

  “Verily, and I have met with much success,” Ashgaroth said in a low voice. “In fact, they should arrive here at any moment and whisk thee and Billy away to the Fiendish Worlds.

  “There both of you will be safe until the crisis passes.”

  Scratch frowned sadly. “With this war between the Amers and the Rooskies,” he said, “it may be many years before we can resume a normal life.”

  “Never mind, Scratchy,” Billy said. “We’ll be all right. And think of the fun we’re gonna have! You’ll be visiting the place of your ancestors. And I’ll be making all kinds of new friends.”

  He turned to Ashgaroth. “Are they really coming for us tonight?” he asked, excited at the prospect of a daring journey through the fiendish underground— something he had never known existed before.

  “And are there really humans living there too?” he asked. “Rebels, you called them! That’s me! Billy Ivanov, leader of the rebels!”

  At that moment twin explosions shook the tavern.

  The heavy doors— front and back— burst inward, crashing to the floor.

  Then, amidst Engine Devil roars of angry alarm and confusion, two figures stepped through the blasted openings, wicked-looking sidearms leveled.

  One was Tanya, the other Kriegworm.

  “United Worlds Police!” Tanya shouted, waving the UWP shield with her free hand. “Nobody move!”

  At the same time, she cast her most powerful spell, immobilizing everyone in the place.

  Everyone, that is, except for Billy.

  * * *

  Outside the “Three Hanged Monks” Tanya’s killer waited patiently— almost serenely— as the two fugitives were led from the inn at blaster-point.

  Katya hoisted the heavy weapon Kriegworm had given her. It was set on “full shatter.”

  At the proper moment she’d fire and Igor— poor, dear Igor— would have his revenge.

  Never mind that the weapon would release hundreds of tiny death sprites who would destroy not only Tanya but everyone within a twenty-foot radius.

  Never mind that it would be a most painful death— innards bursting, brains melting, bones and sinews turned to dust.

  Never mind that many innocents, such as the boy and the Engine Devil at the edge of Katya’s sights, would be caught in the sorcerous explosion.

  Katya centered on Tanya, finger heavy on the trigger. She took a breath, letting the hate flow through her, firing her courage. It was a hate that was not only inbred but stoked by years of sophisticated propaganda.

  A hate so intense only Tanya’s death could release it.

  She lowered the weapon slightly, noting Kriegworm moving away from the police grav-van Tanya had borrowed to receive the prisoners.

  Slowly, secretly, he was distancing himself from “ground zero.”

  Finally, the giant ogre was in a safe position. He looked over at Katya’s hiding place. A claw came up, getting ready to signal.

  Once again she put Tanya in the center of her sights.

  Finger tightening … tightening … tightening …

  * * *

  Billy was waiting his chance, despairing that it might never come as Tanya led him and Scratch to the yawning doors of the police van.

  He kept hoping Ashgaroth’s friends would show up and create a diversion so he and Scratch could escape into the fiendish underground. He stretched his senses, trying to see if they were there.

  Then he caught it!

  Around the back of the inn … the now familiar spell scent of Engine Devils approaching … Rescue was near!

  He glanced at Tanya, praying she wouldn’t notice.

  “I only want to ask you two some questions,” Tanya was saying. “You’re not suspected of anything. And I promise I’ll put you in protective custody so no one can harm you.”

  “Protective custody?” Scratch said. “Bah! I defecate great mounds of devilish waste upon thy protection. Too many evil ones want us. There’s no such thing as a safe place among softskins. Especially not with this war going on!”

  Billy was starting to wonder why Tanya hadn’t picked up the scent of the rescue party. From the moment he’d seen her he knew she was a most powerful mage.

  So powerful that she’d been able to storm the “Hanged Monks” with nothing but spells to keep her safe from the poisonous atmosphere.

  Was she pretending? Was this a trick to capture the rescuers as well?

  Billy prepared to send a warning blast of mentos to the rebel fiends. Then he caught another spoor … And the outlines of a spell meant to block Tanya’s senses.

  At first his heart leaped in joy. It must be the work of the rescue team! Then he picked up something else that made his blood run cold.

  Danger! Severe danger! Aimed at Tanya, but more than sufficient to kill Scratch and himself.

  Frightened, he scorched Scratch with a mental blast. “Look out, Scratchy!” he mentos shouted. “Look out!”

  Kriegworm signaled and Katya clamped down on the trigger.

  Night turned to day as white-hot light blossomed from the muzzle of her weapon. Thousands of tiny death sprites rushed forward, eager for the kill.

  But at the same moment Billy hurled a counter-spell. He thought of it as a huge shield— red like the shield of Justiceman, his favorite comic-vid hero.

  The death sprites shrieked as they punched into it. The shield held for a moment, then they started gnawing through.

  “Help me, Scratchy! Help!” Billy mentos shrieked.

  Scratch leaped in with a spell of his own— firming the shield. But he didn’t have enough strength and the spellshield started to crumble.

  Then Tanya, who had been momentarily stunned by the sorcerous blast, recovered and cast her most powerful spell. At the same time she fired her sidearm— aiming beyond the hot white light.

  In less than a heartbeat the death sprites w
ere overcome by the combined assault and all was darkness again.

  Tanya paced forward, still blinded, but her weapon at the ready. Then her sight returned and she saw the horror collapsed on the ground. Although the body was charred beyond recognition, she could tell it was a woman.

  “Kriegworm!” she shouted. “Search the area! See if there’s any more of them.”

  There was no response.

  Surprised, Tanya turned in time to see Kriegworm’s huge form disappearing into the night.

  That was the first shock of realization: Kriegworm had betrayed her!

  The second shock was the absence of her prisoners. Billy and Scratch were gone.

  From behind the inn, she heard the sound of grav-engines firing up. She sprinted toward the sound, leaping over rubble and trash.

  But by the time she rounded the corner the grav-flit was powering over a tenement roof. Then it was gone.

  Tanya sagged against the building’s edge, too shocked to even curse. Wondering— Who do I chase? Kriegworm? Or Billy and Scratch?

  Finally she pulled herself together and headed back to the police van. Her steps were slow at first, as if dragging through the mud of defeat.

  Then the idea struck and her pace quickened.

  She knew exactly what to do next.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  “You have done well, my son.”

  Father Onphim was sitting on a hard wooden armchair deep in the gloomy mission room of the Church Of The Sword.

  Major Vlad Projogin, code number 2:5030/48, stood before the priest, a cold sweat drenching his uniform. He shrugged, pretending indifference.

  “Thank you, father,” he said. “But I’ve only done my sworn duty.”

  “A hundred kills in such a short time is far beyond normal duty, my son,” Onphim replied. “It is a record unmatched in the Church’s whole history.”

  Another shrug. “Davyd Kells has done as well for Odysseus,” he said. “At least I assume he’s the mystery assassin all the Amer news feeds are boasting about.

  “I don’t know another man on either side who could have managed those deeds.”

  Onphim studied him a moment through narrowed eyes, then he asked, “Why are you so certain the Amers aren’t lying, my son? It seems logical, doesn’t it, that their propagandists might concoct such stories so your feats would be diminished?”