torg 01 - Storm Knights

by Bill Slavicsek

  He swerved the vehicle violently to the left, then turned it sharply to the right. A number of the deliks fell away, but there were still enough that he could not see. He clicked the windshield wipers on, and the sudden motion caused a few more to fly off. But the most persistent ones were still blocking his view.

  "Damn stubborn lizards," Alder cursed, "let's see if you like this!" He hit the horn, and the loud blare scattered the remaining creatures. Now Alder could see again. And, standing directly in his path, were three figures. He quickly hit the brake, and the van skidded to a stop within feet of the trio. One was a priest, or at least he was dressed that way. The other two were kids, decked out in gang colors.

  "Somehow, Tal Tu, I think I'm going to regret this." Tal Tu said nothing. He simply stroked the cat, trying to ease the terror it felt due to the deliks.

  Alder glanced to each side. He saw that the deliks were regaining their courage. They would attack again soon. He reached over and opened the passenger side door for the trio.

  "Move it, we don't have all day."

  24

  Andrew Jackson Decker sat in the hallway. The session was still going strong, but he needed to get away for a few minutes. So much had happened in three short days, and there was so much that they still didn't know. What was going on in New York? Where was the President? Was he alive? And behind these immediate questions were the unspoken questions that gnawed at his heart. Why did Vicky have to die?

  Why, why, why? There were too many blasted whys and not enough becauses in Decker's life these days. He didn't like mysteries or puzzles that refused to yield solutions. They just didn't fit into his game plan.

  The door to the meeting chamber opened and a woman stepped out. Decker looked up. It was Senator Ellen Conners, the middle-aged matron of the Senate who did not look matronly at all. She had been in the Senate for as long as Decker could remember, and she had to be in her fifties, but she was still a fine figure of a woman. Decker could only imagine what she must have been like in her younger days. Her raven-black hair was styled short and had only a hint of gray, and her clothes were nothing but conservative, but on Conners the effect was striking.

  She sat beside him, resting her head against the wall. She suddenly looked as tired as Decker felt, and he wondered why everyone on the Hill called her Old

  Lady Medusa. He had little cause to interact with her since he had come to Washington, but he had met her a few times at various functions. Her reputation, however, made Decker cautious. Ellen Conners, everyone said, was no one to take lightly.

  "So, Congressman," she said at last, "what are your opinions on all of this?"

  "Opinions?" Decker started, he hadn't formed any yet, but the Senator obviously wanted to hear something. "What can I base an opinion on, Senator? New York and much of the northeast have been cut off from the rest of the country. The President and Vice President are somewhere within that area of silence. Rumors of invaders are starting to trickle in. My opinion is that we need more information to base an opinion on."

  She turned to look at Decker, a slight smile upon her lips. "You don't understand, do you? My dear young man, we must make the opinions so that the rest of the country knows what to think. That is our duty as elected representatives."

  "Even if we don't have any solid information?"

  "That, Mr. Decker, is precisely the time when our opinions are needed the most."

  The door to the meeting chamber opened again, and a clerk stuck his head out. "Congressman, Senator, I think you might want to see this."

  Decker rose to his full height of six-foot-two. "What's going on?"

  "The Speaker of the House has called for quiet so that he can address the assembly."

  Decker and Conners entered the chamber, each going their separate ways. He found his seat as Jonathan Wells stepped to the podium. The Speaker of the House waited until the last murmurs died down, then he tested the microphone and spoke.

  "Distinguished members of Congress. We need more information before we can come to any firm policies regarding this crisis. But I have decided on one thing. I will not be named President at this time. There is not enough evidence in either direction to allow me to take such a definite and final action. We all owe President Douglas Kent and Vice President Gregory Farrel too much to write them off this soon."

  Wells paused to sip from a glass beside the podium. He replaced the glass, scanned the crowd, then continued.

  "I will, however, take over the duties of the Executive office in President Kent's absence. The country needs firm direction at this time, and it is my duty and obligation to provide that direction. In this regard, I have placed our armed forces on DefCon Two. That's all I have to say. If we could hear from the Defense Committee at this time ..."

  Decker leaned back in his chair and let the voices fade out around him. There was so much to do, so much to decide, and here was Congress doing what it did best

  — talking up a storm. At least Wells wasn't ready to write off the President and Vice President just yet. But what was going on in New York?

  He wished he knew.

  25

  Dr. Kendal Alec-Four input his finger jack into the port at his apartment door. His personal computer recognized the command signal, and the front door slid open. Alec entered the apartment, but paused in the vestibule. For some reason, the lights had not brightened the room like they should have.

  "If this computer has crashed again, I'm going to ..."

  A strong, probably cyber-enhanced hand shot out of the darkness and closed around Alec's throat. The scientist found himself held fast against the wall, his feet dangling a good half a meter off the ground.

  "Don't struggle, Dr. Kendal," warned a calm, composed voice. It was the voice of someone accustomed to causing pain as a matter-of-fact routine. "I require a small amount of data that I know you're going to provide me with."

  Alec tried to speak, but he couldn't draw any breath.

  "Ah, let me make you more comfortable, Dr. Ken-dal," said the formless voice as the hand loosened its grip ever so slightly. "Or may I call you Alec?"

  "Who . who are you? What do you want?"

  "You are the Dr. Kendal Alec-Four that was involved in the Cosmverse Project, are you not? Of course you are. Now I understand that the leader of that project was a child prodigy of some sort. A regular genius, I am told. But the closest I could come to finding her in the computer net was you. Where is she, Alec?"

  "Mara? What do you want with Mara?"

  "Mara," the voice rolled her name in its mouth as though it were a fine wine. "I want to meet this Mara. I want to introduce myself to the genius that figured out we were coming to this pitiful cosm."

  Alec gasped and his heart grew cold. "You're a Sim!"

  "I am Thratchen, you virus!" the voice exclaimed threateningly. "I want to reward this Mara for her brilliant work. And then I want to rip her beating heart from her pretty little chest."

  Alec heard the snap of an I/O jack extending from a recessed cavity. "What are you doing?" he asked as he saw the jack extend toward his head. "That's illegal!"

  "Illegal?" Thratchen laughed evilly. "You have data I need filed somewhere in your pathetic system. I will simply search through your memories until I find it. Of course, it won't be very pleasant for you, and I do imagine that what's left of your mind after I sort it won't be worth very much. But then, that's life."

  Thratchen jacked into the port under Alec's right ear. Then he again tightened his grip on Alec's throat so that no screams would escape the scientist's lips.

  And Alec very badly wanted to scream.

  Bryce sat in the passenger seat, next to the driver who wore remnants of a police officer's uniform. Behind him, in the van's cargo port, Coyote and Rat sat across from a lizard man. The lizard man eyed the two boys curiously, while he absently petted a large, gray cat wearing a red collar. The boys, fighting over whether to be scared or curious themselves, sat with their backs against the van wall, as far
from the lizard as possible.

  There had been little discussion since they piled into the vehicle. For one thing, the priest and the teens had been glad to get away from the winged reptiles, and they had been totally surprised to see a van that actually worked. For another thing, the cop was too busy navigating through the Lincoln Tunnel to answer any questions. Every so often they reached an impasse, and the van had to squeeze through a narrow opening or push another vehicle out of the way.

  The winged reptiles followed them as far as the daylight penetrated the tunnel, but refused to venture further into the darkness. That suited Bryce and the others just fine.

  The priest wiped rain water from his beard. "Thank you for your timely assistance, officer. I am Father Christopher Bryce. And these two young men are Coyote and Rat. We are in your debt."

  The police officer examined the priest with quick glances, never letting his eyes leave the road ahead for more than an instant. "I'm Rick Alder, and I'm not sure if the NYPD still exists for me to be a member of. But I guess once a cop always a cop, huh? The big guy in the back is Tal Tu. He helped me out of a jam so I decided to keep him."

  Alder swerved to avoid a stalled Honda, straightened the van out, and continued on an even path.

  "Do you have any idea what this is all about, Father?" Alder asked.

  "If only I knew the answer to that question," Bryce sighed. "I've heard it quite a few times since this all began."

  "What about you hoodlums? What are you two doing wandering around in the rain with a priest?"

  Rat started to say something, but Coyote silenced him with a pat of his hand.

  "We don't talk to cops, man," Coyote spat.

  "Suit yourself. But if you give me any lip, I'll let Tal Tu eat your face off."

  Coyote paled visibly and Rat huddled behind him.

  "You are kidding, aren't you?" asked Bryce quietly.

  Alder smiled nastily. "What do you think?"

  Tal Tu, apparently pleased by all of the attention, opened his jaws wide and exposed a mean set of teeth.

  An hour later, Alder had the van running smoothly along I-95 South. Rain was still falling, but it was much less intense than it had been. They were approaching the Newark exit when Bryce noticed a warm glow off to the right. He sat up in his seat and peered out at the horizon. The glow extended for some distance to each side. It was a natural light, without the coldness of artifical illumination. It took a few seconds, but when it registered, Bryce's mind went into panic mode.

  "Officer Alder, there is a fire out there."

  Smoke hung in the air, thick clouds of black that darkened an already gray sky. Alder could see the red and orange glow of crackling fire. It had to be a large, intense blaze to create such a display.

  "Get off here," the priest ordered. "Maybe we can help."

  The police officer maneuvered the van onto the exit ramp. The Newark skyline came into view, and it was burning brightly.

  "My God, Bryce," Alder said, "the city is on fire."

  At the edge of the ramp he had to stop the van, for the road was filled with people. They were everywhere, spilling out of the city to escape the intense heat. And, worst of all, they were all dead.

  "Look at the soot and burns," Bryce's voice cracked as he spoke, "but fire didn't kill these people. Their chests ... my God, look at their chests."

  Indeed, each man, woman and child, had empty, bloody holes where their chests once were. Alder remembered the scene at the 59th Street Bridge, and he had to visibly force his stomach to stay down.

  "Edeinos do this," Tal Tu said, startling both Alder and Bryce with the words. "Edeinos Jakatts."

  Bryce grabbed his mass kit from the floor by his feet and opened the van door.

  "Where are you going, Father?" Alder asked.

  "To do my job," he said, and he stepped out into the mass of dead bodies.

  Alder, Tal Tu, and the two boys watched the priest go from body to body. They listened to the prayer of last rites over and over again, until the priest's voice grew raw and only the light of the nearby fire illuminated the night.

  27

  Captain Nicolai Ondarev made his way through the polished hallways of an unmarked building in a rundown section of Moscow. He entered a small, sparingly furnished office and flashed his ID to a portly woman sitting behind the only desk. She studied the identification briefly, then nodded toward a nondescript door.

  The Soviet officer pushed through the door and found himself at the top of a stairwell. It appeared to lead down several stories below the ground. He glanced back at the woman, but her back was to him. She had done her job, he realized. Now he must do his. He started down the steps.

  After he had traveled down more flights of stairs than he ever cared to travel again, Ondarev reached the bottom landing. There he found a heavy metal door. It, too, was unmarked. Before he could knock, the door swung open. A middle-aged woman in a nurse's uniform met him, nodded, and motioned for him to follow. He did not disappoint her.

  The nurse showed the captain into a small room that smelled of hospitals and circulated air. There was a child's desk and chair in one corner. A globe of the world sat atop the desk. A small bed rested against the far wall, and beside it was a hard-backed chair. The nurse left the room, closing the door behind her so that the captain could be alone with the room's two occupants. The first, a man in a white smock, rose from his chair to greet the officer. But the captain ignored the man. His attention was clearly focused upon the young woman lying in the bed.

  She was young — perhaps twenty, perhaps less — and she was stunning. But her beauty had nothing to do with makeup or fashion, for she wore no makeup and her clothing was but a simple hospital gown. Her hair was the color of radiant sunshine, and her eyes were pools of light blue water that stared at nothing, but seemed to see everything.

  "Welcome to Project Omen, Captain Ondarev. I am Dr. Kazan," the man in the smock said, trying to get the officer's attention. "And this is Katrina Tovarish, the one you have come to see."

  The captain continued to look at the young woman. After all these years, was this slip of a young thing the culmination of all the work and money the government had poured into the Department of Psychic Research? And, even if she was, could she really help them?

  He took the globe from the desk and studied it for a moment. It was mounted within a curved arm so that it could spin freely. He placed the globe in the young woman's hands, then bent down beside the bed and whispered into her ear.

  "What did you see, Katrina Tovarish?"

  "Captain, I'm afraid you do not understand," the doctor told him. "Katrina is quite blind."

  The officer fixed Dr. Kazan with a deadly stare, then repeated his question to the young woman. He said the words very gently. "What did you see?"

  In a haunting voice that Captain Ondarev would never forget, the young woman said, "I saw the storm clouds gather over Earth. I saw the dark rain fall. There are seven raiders coming — seven invaders to attack Earth, seven different places to be attacked."

  "She has been experiencing this vision for several months now," the doctor explained. "I reported it to your superiors each time, and each time I was dismissed."

  "I am here now, doctor," said Ondarev. "Please do not interrupt us again. Katrina? May I call you Katrina?"

  Again the haunting voice spoke. "You may, captain. And might I add that you have a very nice name. I've always liked the name Nicolai."

  Ondarev could not remember using his first name since he entered this room. But he must have, he rea-

  soned, for her to know it. He dismissed the mystery and went back to his questions.

  "Where are these invasions going to occur, Katrina?"

  She tilted her head to one side, as though she were listening to a far-away voice. Then she began to spin the globe, letting her fingers run across its textured surface.

  "Here," she said, pointing to Borneo without looking where her finger struck.

  "Here,"
her finger tapped New York.

  "Here, here, here." Great Britain, France, the Soviet Union.

  "And here, and here." Her finger pointed to Eygpt and Japan.

  Captain Ondarev stood up and wiped perspiration from his brow. He took the globe from Katrina and held it so he could look at it. The outline of his beloved country stared back at him. She had touched the globe there with her fifth tap. That meant there was still time.

  "Captain, the storm has already begun," she added, "and the invaders are falling to our world along with its poisonous rain."

  "Prepare her, doctor," Ondarev ordered briskly, "she is to leave with me."

  "Why?" the doctor questioned nervously. "I do not understand? What is happening?"

  "We have lost all contact with Singapore and its Indonesian neighbors, and the United States has come under the attack of unknown forces. Don't you see? Her storm has begun, and I will need her help if our country is going to survive."

  As Ondarev moved to leave the room, Katrina's haunting voice stopped him.

  "The storm has a name, Captain Nicolai Ondarev."

  He forced himself to look at the young woman, even though his sweat was now running cold.

  "It calls itself Torg."

  28

  "Time To Go, Time To Go, Time To Go," streamed redly, blinking across the inside of her closed left eye. Irritatedly, she opened her eyes. The alarm display continued to flash and stream across her vision as she looked about the room. Faint, ghostlike images, leaking backward from the sensover chip in the first socket behind her right ear, through her brain, optic nerves, and to her retinas, overlay the hard reality of the sleeping portion in her living cubicle. She blinked her left eye once, turning off the alarm display and activating the snooze control. That would let her go back to sensover for ten more minutes before the alarm roused her again.

  The cubicle faded from her vision and the translucent images became solid as she closed her eyes and returned to experiencing a recording of the Kios City Philharmonic playing Hartel's Post-Invasion Symphony, with herself playing first piano.