The Hate Parallax

by Allan Cole

  The main thing was that the punishment would be painful and prolonged. If they went about it the right way, death might take a year or more.

  The demon smacked his lips in anticipation, the red stone glowing brighter on his forehead as if it too relished the promise of so much pain.

  Then Infeligo remembered his duty and reluctantly put away all those delicious thoughts. The main thing he had to concentrate on was the young softskin and the Engine Devil.

  Should he take them now?

  Or wait until night when everyone would be asleep?

  The only trouble with immediate action was that one of the villagers might escape. If the escaped one carried the news of Infeligo’s attack to others, there was a possibility the existence of the Council Of Eight would be exposed.

  This was definitely to be avoided. Instead of being congratulated by his colleagues for his deeds, they’d most likely kill him along with the traitor for revealing their ancient secret.

  Unfortunately, the villagers had been on the run for so many years that they were an incredibly wary lot. Making the odds even better that one or more might escape.

  Although the sorcerous shields they’d erected would be easy enough for Infeligo to penetrate, they’d also created several fairly clever roaming spells that sniffed a mile-wide area constantly for signs of danger.

  Infeligo had guarded himself against those, but once he started moving down the hill it would be extremely difficult to maintain the power of his counter spells.

  No matter that he was disguised as a human. Or that the costume he wore— the loose flowing robes and turban of a desert warrior— was made of magical cloth which made him nearly invisible to the naked eye.

  It wasn’t those eyes that worried him, however, but the tricky and powerful snooping spells that guarded the rebel villagers. All commanded by curious little Brownies who ran this way and that with no seeming pattern— like ants just before a storm. Examining every particle of earth and atmosphere for signs of danger.

  Very well, then. The answer was obvious. He’d wait until night. Then slip in. Overpower the Engine Devil and the boy. Then slip out with no one the wiser.

  Later, to be absolutely safe, he’d see that word got out about the rebel village. And they’d all be killed, or put into bondage within a month.

  Yes, that was the best way to proceed. He’d have to exercise a bit more patience. Something Infeligo rarely did. For the most part he agreed with that old softskin cynic, Ambrose Bierce, who’d defined patience as “… a minor form of despair disguised as a virtue.”

  In this case, however, a delay of several hours would be safer than taking immediate action.

  But if he had to wait until nightfall there was no reason to crouch here on this sunbaked hill the entire day. He’d retire to his ship, drink a little brandy and smoke a pipe or two.

  It had been a long journey to this disgusting planet where softskins and fiends mingled so easily. Flaunting every convention that kept the races separate.

  He’d traveled many light years tracking the two fugitives and now he was rather weary. A good rest and a little sustenance would make him more alert for the job he had to do that night.

  Infeligo rose to his feet, stretching and yawning. Already feeling the warmth of the soft flame bed that awaited. Mouth watering at the thought of the good brandy he’d drink.

  Then, pressing the curved scimitar against his thigh so it wouldn’t clang against the rocks, he started off for his ship. But before he’d taken more than a step or two a sudden chill prickled his spine.

  He sensed a threatening presence behind him and he whirled around to confront his enemy, hand transforming into a huge fiendish claw as he lifted it to blast the intruder with magic.

  Nothing!

  Only the empty hilltop stretching out before him.

  He looked down the long slope and saw the villagers were undisturbed. The softskin boy and Engine Devil still squatting beside the pot, calmly eating.

  If there were danger, the snooping Brownies ought to have alerted them.

  Thou art only imagining things, Infeligo, he thought. The result of so much weary travel.

  Just the same, he transformed the rest of the way; his robes splitting and falling off as he traded his human disguise for his normal state: An immense, green-scaled demon with fiery eyes and long, glistening fangs.

  Infeligo was a very powerful demon, indeed. His size and physique were more than a match for any mortal beast in the galaxy. His magic superior to all but his colleagues on the Council Of Eight. And he was certainly equal to them.

  Otherwise they would have cut his share of the spoils long ago. Or have killed him.

  There was no such thing as friendship— much less loyalty— among his colleagues. A condition Infeligo hardly regretted. Another of his favorite sayings— once again from a clever softskin, the Marquis de Sade, put pity into clear perspective:

  “Humane sentiments,” the decadent old softskin once wrote, “are baseless, mad, and improper. They are incredibly feeble; never do they withstand the gainsaying passions, never do they resist bare necessity.”

  Words to live and have others die for, indeed!

  Confidence restored by the twin influences of Bierce and de Sade, Infeligo set out for his ship once more.

  But to make certain there’d be no surprises he could not handle, the demon stripped the scabbard from his scimitar so he could carry the blade naked.

  He also had a spell ready that would turn the sword into the deadliest weapon imaginable.

  As he lifted his clawed foot to take his first step a black abyss suddenly opened up under it.

  A scarlet bolt of lightning blasted upwards, catching him in the chest and slamming him backward.

  And he found himself sitting awkwardly and shamefully on his haunches. Stunned. Humiliated.

  Infeligo struggled desperately to rise and face his mysterious enemy. But then a strange voice whispered foul things in his ear and he felt a numbing coldness sweep up along his body, from clawed toe to ghastly head.

  The spell words were so chilling that his sword blade turned from blue steel to glacier white, shattering in his hand. The pieces falling across his lap and on the ground, tinkling like metal snow.

  On his forehead, the glowing red stone of duty winked out. Turning cold and lifeless black.

  He tried to fight. Tried to cast several spells at once to protect himself. But they all hammered up against a shield without pity. And fell cold and frozen to the ground.

  And then he realized that he himself was frozen in place. Not one muscle would twitch, no matter how hard he commanded it. He was completely helpless.

  His head was bent slightly downward, staring in a single direction: he could see the village and nothing more.

  And although he was cold, so cold, he became colder still as a frightening presence made itself known to him.

  Although he could see nothing of his enemy, he knew it to be a beast of enormous proportions. A beast not of this world, or even the next. But of another, separate, and most dangerous place.

  A beast whose astral body stretched through many dimensions. Collapsing time and space and even the slender line that divided living things from the dead.

  Yes, yes, he thought. It’s alive and dead at the same time. What could it be?

  Then a shadow fell over him. A shadow cast by the incredible absence of anything at all.

  A shadow swirling with pinpricks of light like the starry map of an unknown universe. A place where the rules of time and space were commanded by a single, evil entity.

  More evil, Infeligo, the demon thought madly, than thou hast ever dreamed.

  And that thought— that sudden, aching realization— frightened him more than anything that had gone before.

  “Infeligo,” the fierce voice whispered. “Now thy soul, thy substance, belongs to me!”

  The demon wanted to speak. He wanted to beg for his life. But no words would come.


  Footsteps crunched in the pebbled surface of the ground. Something bent forward and then he saw a huge ogre bending down to observe him with glowing red eyes.

  It wasn’t the beast. Of that Infeligo was certain. But a slave of the beast. Strangely, the ogre wore a dirty, badly torn three-piece suit that once must have been very expensive.

  On his lapel was a small silver pin, bearing the symbol of the United Worlds Police.

  “Shall I kill him, master?” the ogre asked the shadowy presence.

  “In time,” came the deadly voice, filling Infeligo with more soul-shuddering fear than he’d ever known in his long, long life.

  “First, he must be interrogated about his friends on the Council Of Eight,” the voice continued. “Then thy will is thine own. How thou slayest this fool is not my concern. Only that he be slain.”

  “It shall be done as thou sayest, master,” replied the ogre. “What are thy instructions?”

  A damp wind sprang from nowhere, lifting up pebbles and particles of dirt. Swirling them around in several miniature tornadoes.

  “Doest thou see the softskin child and the Engine Devil in yon village, Kriegworm?” asked the voice.

  The ogre stood upright, removing himself from Infeligo’s view. But he didn’t have to guess where the beast was directing Kriegworm’s eyes. For the demon’s own eyes were permanently, helplessly, aimed at the two fugitives he’d hunted for so long.

  “I see them, master,” Kriegworm said.

  “I want them turned into dust,” the beast said. “And the villagers as well. And their homes. When thou art done, I want no sign remaining that they ever existed. Are my desires clear to thee, little one?”

  “Most clear, master,” Kriegworm said. “This time, no one is to be blamed. Not the Amers. Not the Rooskies. No one!”

  It was then that Infeligo finally understood what was happening. The beast was a Planetar Demon— a breed the Council had made certain arrangements with a thousand years or more ago. And apparently those arrangements were no longer satisfactory.

  “Thou hast guessed how it is, Infeligo,” the Planetar Demon whispered in the demon’s ear.

  “Thou hast ruled too long. As have thy comrades of the Council Of Eight. Thou hast taken all the spoils for thyselves and left nothing for me.

  “Thee and thy comrades have ruled the softskins and spirit world folk too long. Thou hast denied me much. We had a bargain, Infeligo. Me and thee. And thy friends. If thou wisheth to call them friends.

  “I, myself, have no trust in friends. Friends are for the weak. Colleagues for the less than weak. So canst thee see now, Infeligo, how impotent thy rule over the galaxy has become?

  “And if thou doest not, know this: I, the Planetar Demon— the force that is astral and sorcerous glue of all thy power— have come to collect what is due me. Thy time has lapsed. And mine has begun. It’s only right. For I am the one who makes Time, itself, in this realm.

  “I make not only Time, but gravity to hold thy feet upon the ground. I make light— and null-light. And all the magical forces that give thee power.

  “I captured these powers from stars that collapsed and died when Time was new. And I have allowed thee to share these powers.

  “And now, my dear Infeligo, thou shouldst know before thy death that I have decided to take them back!”

  “We will speak together again, foolish one. After I have done my business. And thou wilt tell me all that I need to know to complete my purpose.

  “Which is the total destruction of all that I now command.

  “I’m hungry, Infeligo. Very, very, hungry!”

  Complete and total realization dawned for Infeligo— the demon who had been commanded by his colleagues on the Council Of Eight to fly far and wide to seek answers.

  And although it was too late to make any use of those answers that were now rushing in, awareness dawned like a dying star’s final explosion of light.

  It was apparent to him now that there never was a traitor on the Council Of Eight. The attack on HolidayOne and the Russian base had been the work of the Planetar Demon. And no one else.

  It was Planetar Demon who was intent on creating a war of total destruction between the Americans and the Russians.

  It was the Planetar Demon who had returned to collect what he clearly believed was owed him.

  Infeligo instinctively cast about for blame. And immediately fixed it on Apollion, who had always claimed the Planetar Demon was satisfied with their leavings.

  Now Apollion’s assurances were proven a lie.

  Not only that, but the Planetar Demon felt he’d been denied his proper meal so long that he was intent on nothing less than a feeding frenzy.

  Like sharks attacking the victims of a sinking warship. With all that blood smell infusing the water.

  Or, more to the point, the bloody exploding bodies bursting into space when the Planetar Demon— not the men of Borodino— attacked the Amer liner.

  And the Russian base. Not the work of the Amers, intent on revenging HolidayOne. But of the Planetar Demon, feeding once again.

  Pressing the two sides to war.

  Not so difficult, Infeligo thought, considering the Council Of Eight had kept the Amers and Rooskies at the terrible edge of all out war for ten full centuries and more.

  Infeligo and the others had purposely set up the equivalent of an old-fashioned armory filled with kegs of gun powder.

  And all that was ever needed to set that armory off was a stray spark.

  The Planetar Demon had provided that spark.

  And when he was done he would gorge himself on all the victims. Eating until few living or spirit world beings were left.

  Consuming the entire— and previously steady— supply of victims the Council Of Eight had worked so carefully to create.

  And when it was over the Planetar Demon would move in to gobble up whatever meat was left.

  Turning this thriving galaxy into a lifeless wasteland.

  To tell the truth, Infeligo couldn’t help but admire the Planetar Demon’s plan.

  As the realizations sank in, his mouth watered in envy for all the good things that would be spread on the Planetar Demon’s newly bounteous table.

  Why, if Infeligo possessed that much power he might do something similar himself.

  To eat, really eat well and without end, was a pleasure he’d never known.

  It didn’t matter if there was nothing left when the greedy banquet had ended. The main thing was to eat— to gorge oneself on all those mortal and spirit world souls until the last bit of marrow had been sucked out.

  Reading his thoughts, the Planetar Demon whispered, “How unfortunate we didn’t come to some kind of agreement earlier, Infeligo. Thy mind is cousin to mine!”

  Infeligo wanted to cry out, “Let’s bargain together, my friend! Spare me and I can give thee more. So much more.”

  But the Planetar Demon’s attention had moved on and he did not “hear” Infeligo’s thoughts.

  And even if he had, Infeligo realized, it wouldn’t have made any difference.

  In a cold business sense what die he really have to offer that the Planetar Demon hadn’t already grabbed?

  The beast was already taking over everything he and the other seven members of the Council had worked for these many centuries.

  “I’m ready, master,” Kriegworm said, breaking through Infeligo’s thoughts.

  “Go then,” the Planetar Demon commanded. “Kill them all. And kill them certainly. And remove all traces of their abominable presences. Doest thou understand me?”

  “I understand, master,” Kriegworm replied.

  Then the ogre stepped into Infeligo’s view again and he saw him descending the hill. At the same time a loud buzzing sound erupted in the demon’s ears.

  And suddenly hundreds of deadly creatures popped into existence. Filthy things. Murderous things. All intent on the rebel village.

  Kriegworm shouted a hoarse, unintelligible war cry— the ancient
traditional shout from the time when all ogres were wild and free.

  Then he bounded down the hill, waving a long, ugly DeathSpirit hand-weapon.

  And hundreds upon hundreds of swirling lights and jagged-edged shadows raced after him. Filling the air with their shrieks.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  Billy felt the cold, deadly presence of the Planetar Demon rushing in on him and jumped to his feet, crying, “He’s back, Scratchy! He’s back!”

  But Old Scratch had felt it too and didn’t need the warning. His head jerked up and he saw a huge ogre charging down the hill toward the village.

  At the ogre’s back were hundreds of ghastly shapes, shrieking a murderous song as they swept down the hill like a rogue wind.

  “Help me, Little Friend of the World!” Scratchy shouted.

  At the same time he hurled the most powerful killing spell he had in his Engine Devil’s arsenal. A spell whose inspiration was straight from the vortex of a fierce collapsar he’d encountered in his youth.

  It was full of death, death, death. All the death-dealing thoughts poor Old Scratch could muster. All the death Scratchy could bear to inflict. And he cursed his worst curses, filling the air with his foulest blasphemes.

  Yet even as he cast the spell and shouted his awful oaths he knew his efforts were too weak and too late.

  Then he felt the boy’s powers suddenly join with his, strengthening the spell. And he formed it into the magical equivalent of grape shot blasting from the mouth of an ancient cannon.

  Hundreds of the attacking DeathSpirits died in that blast.

  But to Scratch’s dismay, hundreds more survived. Their angry shrieks only growing louder and more determined.

  Even more disheartening— somehow the ogre managed to escape the magical blast. He rushed onward, deadly as ever, shouting commands to his ghostly minions as they swooped down the hill.

  Scratchy grasped Billy to him. Enfolding him in his arms and turning his back on the onslaught. Taking the brunt of the searing arrows of sorcery the DeathSpirits were firing.

  He felt scores of hot stings pepper his thick hide. He flinched and moaned in terrible pain.