The Risen Gods

by Frank Kennedy

  “I got too much work to do,” he muttered, “and we are not going to die today.”

  James defied the chief and bolted from the trench, rolling over onto his stomach. His chest burned as he searched for targets. A strange and glorious thirst arrived when he zeroed in on two.

  A cloud of fire descended upon the nearest enemy, throwing the fighter to the ground, writhing as he crumbled to a cinder in a matter of seconds. Another cloud followed five meters east, and then a third to the enemy’s farthest flank. All at once, every weapon redirected toward the western sky, where a dramatic mechanical whirr was interrupted by cushioned bursts.

  An Admiralty Scramjet – a crab-like shadow twenty meters long blocking the heart of the afternoon sun - released a barrage of fireballs from its starboard cannons. The concentrated flames set patches of hillside ablaze.

  The five mercenaries defending Ophelia’s team jumped from their trenches, as if understanding what this meant, and moved forward to take on the enemy, which fired tracers at the Scramjet.

  James looked at his hand, which quivered, unfulfilled. As the fires grew, and the shouts of agony intensified, James caught his breath and grasped his madness. He turned back to his friends, who remained behind the rock face but no longer dipping for cover.

  The Scramjet closed in, returning tracer for tracer, still a hundred meters away and as high. And then, something gave James pause.

  Three men, decked head to toe in crimson bodysuits, leaped from the ship’s open port and defied the laws of nature, maintaining a steady course en route to the battle. They drifted, as if on a powerful gust of wind, but configured as if fighting on land. They fired continuous rounds from long, rifled extensions to their arms, with their legs poised to take a running start when they hit the surface. He saw the impact of ground fire against their bodysuits; the tiny silver explosions did not slow the descending fighters.

  James watched in awe as these warriors descended upon the Earth like angels. They abandoned fear, embraced the deadliest opposition, and sought to destroy their enemies.

  James saw a discipline in these great red beasts that he needed if he was survive the maddening pain of the dark.

  The three angel warriors wiped out the enemy with calm efficiency. Somewhere in the crossfire, the chief lost one of her last four fighters. But the hillside settled into sudden peace.

  Michael and Sammie joined him. Together with Ophelia Tomelin and the thin man, Brey, they descended the hill a hundred meters, where the Scramjet hovered above the scarred surface.

  “Are they what I think?” James whispered to Sammie.

  She smiled. “Peacekeepers. Exactly as Daddy described them.”

  He didn’t know if her tears were for joy at having survived or seeing at last what she always dreamed of becoming.

  “Right,” Michael said. “So, don’t take this the wrong way, Sammie. But that stunt you pulled with the M16 and the helicopter yesterday? Sorry, but I gotta give the award to these guys. Seriously.” Michael stopped, tugged at James’s shirt, and frowned. “Dude. It was yesterday, right? I mean, all that shit we went through. It feels like forever but …”

  “I know, Coop. It’s happening so fast.” He looked at both his friends. “What I did back there just now … I was out of control, I was selfish. And you’re right, Coop. I think we were in Austin Springs like twelve hours ago. Can’t say the last time I slept.”

  Ophelia, walking in front of the threesome, lowered her voice but made sure the teens heard her.

  “A word of caution. I know the man who just saved us, and I suggest when you meet him, you avoid any attempts at humor and most important, limit the details of what transpired before you crossed the IDF. No one beyond this hillside realizes you are here, and he can make sure no one ever does.” She focused on James. “I advise you to remove that thump gun at once.”

  Brey leaned into her. “Why did you include him instream? He has never been worth our trust. Even his wife didn’t …”

  “Brey, he wasn’t linked in. Someone else in the chain alerted him. But he’s our savior. Perhaps your mouth should also remain shut.”

  James knew this was not intel Ophelia wanted out in the open, and his stomach tightened as they neared the waiting Scramjet. He jiggered the thump gun off his hand and dropped it in the grass. Fat lot of good it will do against peacekeepers, he mused.

  Standing at attention, their weapons up, four crimson-clad peacekeepers protected the open starboard entry. Up close, James’s admiration grew. They cut a stunning figure of anatomical perfection: Wide, expansive chests with massive pectorals, knotting and heaving upper arms, tightly formed abdomen and thighs like tree trunks.

  When he was 13, Jamie fell in love with the idea of becoming a bodybuilder. He bought magazines, cut out photos of men posing at Mr. Universe competitions, watched iron-pumpers on YouTube, and convinced his parents to buy him weights. A month later, he fell in love with his first skateboard and never touched the weights again.

  “Terminators,” Michael whispered. “In the movies? It’s a row of Schwarzeneggers. But taller. Sweet.”

  The chief and her three surviving fighters also stood at attention, facing the peacekeepers from a distance, holding their disengaged thump guns at their sides.

  Everyone recognized who was in charge when he stepped off the ship. He towered over most of the peacekeepers, who James thought at least seven feet tall. His full beard, along with his thick, generous brown hair, was well-coiffed. He winked as he addressed the first peacekeeper, his hands behind his back. He studied everyone in that field with care, his medals reflecting the late afternoon sun and his red/black cape catching the nip of a breeze. He wore tall, ornately buckled boots, his pants tucked into them.

  Ophelia stepped forward. “Admiral Augustus Perrone,” she said. “We owe you our lives.”

  His curt smile showed no generosity. “Yes, Ophelia. You have been sloppy. You must admit. But I believe you have … prizes?”

  He turned his attention to the teens. At once, James sensed a familiarity in the man’s features.

  “Yes, Admiral. You will recognize them from the stream. I …”

  He waved her off. “The only three to return. Yes?” James wasn’t sure whether he was asking them a question. “I think I’d love to hear about the other Earth. Yes, I would.”

  He wasn’t sure whether it was the tone of voice, the hue in the eyes, the posture, but James knew this man from somewhere.

  “I would be curious because I think you three might offer a bountiful explanation. For instance, I might want to know how my wife and my three-year-old son fended for themselves. And why, after all that time, they did not return … with … you.”

  James realized the connection the instant Michael whispered, “Oh, shit.”

  7

  S AMMIE STEPPED FORWARD AND OFFERED HER HAND, which Perrone accepted.

  “Admiral, my name is Samantha Hugg … Pynn. My parents were Walter and Grace Pynn, lead observers. As their daughter, I will be thrilled to answer any questions.”

  His smile showed pleasant surprise. “Yes, I knew the Pynns. Their descendency has a sterling history of adherence to Chancellor principles.” He touched her cheek. “I see the resemblance. Yes. After crossing the fold, you told Dr. Tomelin all the others were dead. That would include Walter and Grace?”

  Sammie appeared steady, but James feared how she might fare if the questions became too specific. In the final hour of their drive to the fold, they agreed on a storyline to explain why no one else survived. They expected extensive questions, but never this twist.

  “Yes, sir. My parents are gone.”

  “Enlighten me, Samantha. All those observers, and neither of these boys were among them. The math is confounding.”

  “Admiral, there was a conflict. My parents – and your wife and son – were betrayed. They were killed in a firefight. Some observers did not want to return. They fell in love with a simpler life on the other Earth. They lost interest i
n the Chancellory.”

  The Admiral nodded. “We have had our share of rogues go native on the colonies. How did they die?”

  “They died protecting us, sir. Jamie, Michael, and I. We were in hiding, and they were preparing to move us when the attack came. If you knew my father, sir, you know he was always prepared, like any good Chancellor. He rigged our house with explosives. After the battle was over and my parents, and … Agatha and Christian … were killed, I took out most of the rest with a remote detonator.”

  “Hmmph.” The admiral nodded, peered off into the western sky, and absorbed the news. “And that was it? A clean sweep? The three of you decided to cross the fold?”

  “Almost. Two avoided the blast and chased us. We killed them in self-defense. By then, the authorities were after us. We had to run.”

  “Three children? Why blame such affairs on you?”

  James tightened his stomach. Careful, Sammie.

  “They had reason. Two years ago, the observers pretending to be Jamie’s parents were murdered. The police suspected Jamie but they never proved it. This year, I killed a man during Dacha training. My father was preparing me. A witness came forward, and they questioned me. They were investigating me and my father.”

  Sammie was returning to form faster than Jamie expected.

  “Dacha, you say? Impressive, Samantha. So, you had reason to run, and they prepared you to return here regardless.” He turned to James. “And you had no choice once the Jewel was triggered. But this one,” he pointed to Michael, “confuses me. He is the odd squirrel out. I have met no one of proto-African descendency in two years.” He stared at Michael’s features.

  James offered Michael a side-glance, hoping he got the message. Don’t do it, Coop. Keep it shut.

  “On the other hand,” the admiral continued, “I hear a few live among the Solomons, and more than a billion on Zwahili Kingdom.” He spoke to Michael. “I have a peacekeeper in my attachment who was stationed there. He might be more an expert than I. No matter. Do you have a surname, Michael?”

  Michael gesticulated before he opened his mouth.

  “OK. Seriously. Admiral. First, I want to say that those guys,” he pointed to the peacekeepers, “are the bomb. Wicked. Sick. Whatever you want. That thing they did,” he pointed to the sky and imitated their descent with his arms, “big time. Major skills. Right? So, look here. I’m with Jamie and Sammie because they’re my best friends. Like, ever. You get my speed? I got caught up in all their family shit … the observers, and all that. And I went with it and I never looked back. Oh, and my last name is Cooper.

  “And another thing,” he said, glaring at Ophelia. “I’m getting this serious vibe that people like me ain’t real welcome around this part of the universe. I’m not a damn African. I’m an American, and I thought we were past this shit.” He took a breath and stepped back. “So, yeah. That’s my deal. Admiral.”

  Perrone released a long, guttural laugh and placed a fatherly hand on Michael’s neck and shoulder.

  “Mr. Cooper, I only understood half of what you just said, but I find myself entranced. I cannot tell if you are so dimwitted that incoherence comes naturally, any more than I can tell whether Samantha lies as well as most Chancellors. I find time reveals all.”

  He pivoted to James. “And there he stands, the reason for all this …” he cast a glance over the battlefield. “Turbulence. You cut a less impressive figure than I expected, but the family resemblance is striking. I understand you are eager to meet them. Yes?” James nodded as the admiral continued. “As I was eager to reconnect with my own. To be honest, I never saw Agatha more than ten days per standard year, and that was sufficient. So, according to your friends, she died heroically. Yes?”

  “She did, sir. She went down fighting.”

  “Complaining, most likely. What was your relationship to her?”

  “She was my English teacher, and a very good one, sir.”

  “Imperious and condescending, more likely.” He drew within an ear’s breath. “And Christian? He was a year older than you.”

  “He was a compassionate leader. An athlete. Very popular in the community. He would have been a good man.”

  He kissed James on the forehead and walked away.

  “You may be death incarnate, the future of the Chancellory, or so they say, but you are a dreadful liar, James Bouchet. My wife was not capable of raising a son befitting that description.”

  He stepped away from the teens and admired them all.

  “Well-intentioned lies are not erased by a noble heart. But you are children. You will learn soon enough.”

  He motioned the closest peacekeeper to his side and whispered. The soldier nodded and headed inside the ship.

  “We will depart shortly, but two matters I cannot leave unresolved.” He spoke to the mercenary known as “the Chief.”

  “Captain Patricia Wylehan. Seven years in the Guard. 20th Battalion Commander. Ark Carrier Fortunus.” He approached the woman, who seemed to James far less imposing than she did in battle. “Then the family incident with the Moleska Presidium. A great shame. Yes?”

  “Yes, Admiral.” Her voice lost the deep, imposing texture of battlefield leader. James felt a touch of sympathy.

  “I will be direct, Patricia. I have little use for the venal politics that led to your family’s disgrace or how it destroyed your career. But I have far less use for what you became. There are two kinds of fighters I despise. Those who leave the Guard for a nativist ideology – at least those miserable sods chose to believe in something. But mercenaries? Your lack of allegiance, your desire to create chaos to amass wealth, is not tolerable. Ever.”

  “It is a job, Admiral,” she said in defiance. “We have no other outlets to pursue our skillsets. The market bears our services.”

  “Ah, the market. You mean our undeclared civil war? The one that exists because units like yours are available for hire. You know the standing order regarding mercenaries?”

  “Yes, Admiral. I also know it is a constitutional violation for peacekeepers to engage in direct combat on Earth.”

  “There you are,” he said, wagging a finger. “You have other skillsets. Practice law. Bring me before a tribunal. In the meantime, I am sorry for the loss of your unit.”

  James saw the panic cross her features, the word “no” pass her lips, as Perrone turned to his peacekeepers and flicked his wrist. In unison, the three crimson soldiers took aggressive stances and fired their weapons. A volley of tracers sliced through the mercenaries’ white bodysuits, and they flailed as explosions inside their bodies tore them apart.

  James, Sammie, and Michael slid closer to each other.

  Michael spoke for all three. “God. Damn.”

  Perrone nodded to two peacekeepers, who moved toward the teens. He stepped closer to Patricia, who bowed her head.

  “I think the knowledge of failing your entire unit will be sufficient punishment. Fortunately, you are not unemployed.”

  He faced the civilians. “Ophelia, we located your transport 5.2 kilometers southwest. We received a distress protocol from your pilot, just before we arrived. He needs assistance to repair a nacelle. I will toss the specific coordinates into Patricia’s open feed, and she will lead you on foot. Her service record shows specialization in nacelle design and repair.”

  Ophelia raged. “On foot? Why? You have more than enough room on that Scram to take us where …”

  “Yes, the room, but not the interest. Once you and your … whoever he is,” Perrone pointed to Brey, “reach your transport, you will be free to fly to any destination. Along with Patricia and …” he turned to Sammie and Michael. “These two.”

  Peacekeepers separated them from James amid protests, curses, and gesticulations. James did not realize the fourth and final peacekeeper stepped forward, astride the admiral, who demanded Patricia assemble her “new unit” and march them from the hillside.

  “In five minutes, all this carnage,” he pointed to the many bodie
s laid waste, “will become ash. I suggest the five of you move with haste and with no further protest. Yes?”

  “What about Jamie?” Sammie shouted as she moved away.

  “I knew you would sweep in and steal my work,” Ophelia yelled.

  “You see me well, Ophelia. Take your life as consolation.”

  James held still. If he threatened them at all, they might turn the blast rifles against his best friends. Patricia led them away. Perrone commanded the final peacekeeper.

  “Helmet,” he told the monstrous soldier, who complied by tapping the subtle neck brace, revealing his face.

  James didn’t need the Jewel to help him make a connection. He knew at a deep, instinctual level.

  “Say hello to your younger brother, James.” The admiral introduced the peacekeeper. “Be gentle, Valentin.”

  James felt a slight tingle then nothing after his brother hit him with a thump concussion.

  8

  M ORE THAN ANYONE, SAMMIE WANTED to turn back, but she took her cue from Chancellors she knew for less than an hour. If the woman who led the Jewel’s recovery team and a battle-hardened ex-peacekeeper took the admiral’s countdown seriously, so did she. Convincing Michael to run was a more difficult matter.

  “He’s my No. 1,” Michael said as he stopped his sprint just inside the tree line. “I’m not gonna let him down.”

  “You will if you’re dead, Coop.” She grabbed him as he tried to return to the battlefield. “And if you go back out there, you’ll die. It won’t be like last time. He won’t be there to save you.”

  She wanted to set him at ease, to patronize him with faux hope that they’d see each other again. But Sammie grew tired of acting – she spent her childhood presenting a face false to an entire town.

  “Smart soldiers understand when to retreat until the next fight.”

  “And when’s that gonna be?” He asked.

  “I don’t know, Coop. It’s out of our control.”

  Ex-Captain Patricia Wylehan stepped in, grabbing hold of both.

  “That’s good advice, Miss Pynn,” she said. “Your father taught you well. But I’ve got better advice. Move your asses. Orbital energy slews will scorch this place in less than two minutes.”