The Forever Man: PULSE

by Craig Zerf

  The Forever Man

  Book 1: Pulse

  © 2014, Author Craig Zerf/C. Marten-Zerf

  Published by Small Dog Publishing Limited at SMASHWORDS

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author / publisher.

  Book 1: The Pulse

  Chapter 1

  Master Gunnery Sergeant Nathaniel Hogan stood outside the new American embassy at Nine Elms, London and stared at the boats drifting down the river Thames. He was dressed in his standard combat utility uniform or ‘digies’, so called because of their MARPAT Digital camouflage. He was wearing the darker woodland version as opposed to the light desert one, even though, strictly speaking, it was for winter use only.

  Hogan was a large man. Raw boned, six foot four, around two hundred and forty pounds. And, at only twenty-six years old, one of the youngest Master Gunnery Sergeants in the corps. His black hair was cut in the standard marine style, short back and sides, the length not exceeding three inches. He was clean-shaven. His eyes, deep set under thick eyebrows, their dark green color like emeralds in pools of shadow. High cheekbones suggested Native American ancestry backed up by his broad, white teeth and straight Roman nose.

  He did not carry an assault rifle but, on his hip rode a Colt 1911M25, the latest update of the venerable 1911. Still chambered for the 45 cal round but with a staggered magazine holding ten rounds and also with an inbuilt compensator.

  He glanced at his watch. Eighteen hundred hours. The last of the public had left. Sunset was forecast for twenty hundred. Change of guard was scheduled for the same time.

  Hogan was in charge of eight marines stationed at the embassy. It was what the corps called a ‘reward posting’. Eighteen months of cushy duty in one of the most fun cities in the world. Tonight he was knocking off after change of guard and was heading into the city to meet an English girl. Emma Rittington. Tall, blonde, horse rider’s build. His English friends referred to her as Posh Totty, his American ones said that she was ‘Fancy.’ She had a three-bed apartment, or flat, in Sloane Square and seemed to want for nothing. But that was not what attracted the marine sergeant to her. His attraction to her was based almost entirely on the physical. In all fairness, she had admitted to the same about him. Plus, being an American and a non-commissioned officer had, in her words, ‘caused daddy a veritable lavatory full of anguish’, something that seemed to give her an inordinate amount of pleasure.

  He gazed once more at the Thames. The clouds in the sky reflected in the fast flowing water below, a brown mottled facsimile of the firmament above.

  And then a rainbow of color skittered across the surface. Like a thousand gallons of oil had been instantly dumped into the water. An orgasm of color. Hogan glanced up to see the sky ablaze with light. Flowing forward, retreating, spreading and coalescing. He had seen this sight before, although never with such clarity. And never in broad sunlight. He had seen it when he had been seconded to the embassy in Moscow. It was the Aurora Borealis or Northern Lights. He stared at it, entranced, as it rippled across the sky. Vast. Overpowering. And utterly silent. With such a vast display he expected some sort of accompanying sound. Thunder. Wind. Some sort of environmental drum roll. But nothing. Not a sound.

  He cocked his head to one side and concentrated. The silence was eerie. In fact, there was no sound. Nothing at all. The constant background of a city in motion was not there.

  Two and a half million cars and buses. Two thousand eight hundred construction sites, one thousand road working projects, one hundred and twenty thousand air-conditioning units, over one hundred passenger carrying commercial aircraft.

  Silent.

  Then the sound of running footsteps. Marine corporal Manson sprinted up and came to attention in front of him.

  ‘Gunny, the power in the building is out and the emergency generator hasn’t cut in. Complete power failure.’

  ‘Right, Manson. Tell the men to stay at their posts. Then find the janitor and see what you can do with the generator. Double time.’

  Manson didn’t move. It was as though he had been frozen in place, staring with wide eyes over Hogan’s shoulder. And then, like a man pointing at his own death, he raised an arm. Hogan turned to look.

  The sky was raining aircraft. Ten, twenty, thirty of them. Hundreds of thousands of tons of steel plummeting down from the skies. Spinning clumsily to earth. Succumbing to the laws of gravity that had hereto been conquered by three hundred thousand horsepower jet engines.

  The first one struck the city. Kensington. Dust, then flame. Finally, sound. A massive thumping wall of sound as the one hundred thousand liters of aviation fuel exploded. Within seconds the next aircraft plowed in. And the next. And the next.

  Brentford, Fulham, Shepherd’s Bush. Belgravia.

  The sounds of the explosions thundered through the city. But there was no corresponding sound of sirens. No klaxons of fire engines. No warning bells. Nothing but the sound of fire. They were too far away to hear the screams of the dying.

  Hogan grabbed the corporal by his shoulder and shook hard. ‘Manson. Ten-hut. Now, go inside. Tell the civvies to stay indoors. Get sergeant Johnson to open the armory. I want all marines in full battle gear, M16s, four extra mags, colts, two extra mags. Bring me my gear plus a M249M22 machine gun plus three 200 round belts with bags. Move.’

  Training took over rational thought and Manson saluted and sprinted off, heading back into the embassy.

  Hogan trotted across to the main gates. On the way he pulled his cell phone out and looked at the screen. Dead.

  The two marines there saluted him. Arms shaky. Faces ashen with shock. But discipline still intact. He saluted back. ‘Ronaldo. Jessup.’

  ‘Sir,’ asked PFC Ronaldo. ‘What’s happening?’

  ‘Can’t be sure, marine. I suspect an EMP strike. Some sort of electromagnetic pulse.’

  ‘Are we under attack, sir?’

  Hogan thought for a few seconds. ‘Remains to be seen, soldier. Could be natural causes. Could be a nuclear detonation in the atmosphere. Johnson and Manson are tooling up, they’ll bring your kit. I want you all in full battle gear. Stay at your posts. I’ll be back.’

  Hogan strode back towards the embassy doors. Halfway there, Johnson and Manson came jogging out, festooned with armfuls of kit. Johnson carried on to the men at the gate. Manson helped Hogan on with his kit. Modern tactical vest with scalable armor plates. Camelbak hydration pack complete with inline water purification system. First aid kit. Enhanced combat helmets. Ammunition carrying vest with extra ammunition bags attached. And finally, the M249M22 light machine gun.

  ‘Sir,’ said Manson. ‘I ran into the sparky. He said that the generator is FU. Circuits all burnt out.’

  Hogan knelt down and placed the butt of the M249M22 on his knee, wracked the charging handle, released the feed tray cover and clipped a belt of ammo in. As he stood up he saw Liz Tutor, the Deputy Chief of Mission, approaching. She descended the stairs rapidly. Low heeled sensible shoes. Below the knee pink dress suit. Brown bob as sleek and hard as a helmet. Teeth as white as a Hollywood wanabee.

  ‘Gunney.’

  ‘Ma’am.’

  ‘What is going on?’

  ‘Looks like some sort of EMP strike, ma’am. An electrical pulse that seems to have taken out all of our electronic capabilities. The generator has burnt out, all comms are down and aircraft are falling out of the sky. I have put t
he marines on full alert.’

  ‘Are we under attack?’

  ‘Not enough intel, ma’am. But if I had to guess I’d say that it’s a natural occurrence.’ Hogan pointed at the sky. ‘Aurora Borealis, ma’am. If it were a nuke then the sky would be clear.’

  ‘So, what do we do now?’

  ‘Not sure, ma’am. Perhaps we should ask the ambassador.’

  ‘Can’t. He’s not here today. Meeting with the British PM.’

  ‘Well then, ma’am, I suggest that we batten down the hatches and wait a while. See what transpires. Keep everyone indoors; we have enough food and water for at least ten days. I’ll get one of the boys to break out the gas lamps and cookers. Tomorrow we see what happens and react accordingly.’

  Liz nodded her approval. ‘How long before help comes?’ She asked.

  Hogan took a deep breath. ‘Ma’am, there will be no help. Particularly if this has been a worldwide phenomenon. No transport, no comms. We’re on our own, ma’am.’

  Liz shook her head. ‘Don’t be silly, Gunney. We are Americans, the most powerful nation on the face of the planet. I hardly think that a mere power outage is going to bring us to our knees. However, I accept that we stay here tonight. I am sure that we shall hear good news by tomorrow.’

  She turned and clipped back up the stairs into the embassy.

  Hogan went and stood by the gate next to the two marines.

  The sun sank slowly behind the horizon.

  And London glowed with fire. Every now and then the still night was rocked with an explosion as a fuel station or gas line erupted sending vast balls of flame heavenwards.

  And as the night progressed, the two thousand year old city began to burn its way back into the dark ages.

  But what humanity did not yet know, was that the pulse was not only affecting earth. It was also calling. Across unimaginable distances measured in both time and dimension.

  The Pulse had called.

  And someone had heard.

  ***

  Commander Ammon Set-Bat of the Fair-folk stood outside his flag tent and looked up at the sky. It was dull. Blue and ugly without its usual wash of psychedelic colors pulsing through it. There was barely the vaguest hint of the Life-Light at all. Maybe a tiny coruscation on the horizon. But then that may have been wishful thinking, admitted Ammon to himself. For without the Life-Light in the skies the Fair-Folk had nowhere to draw their power from. Their magik was useless without the powers of the lights. Weak and insubstantial. If they were to survive then they would need to follow the Life-Light to another place where it was strong and enduring. And there they would prosper. The Fair-Folk had done this before, many, many times throughout their ancient history. Where the Life-Light went, so did they.

  But in all fairness, said Ammon to himself, there was little chance of that happening and, even if it did, there was even less chance that his people would survive the ongoing war that they were in. Perhaps this was the end.

  No! He took a deep breath, brought his attention back to the moment and continued to survey the valley below. He had no use for a telescope as he had long since perfected the art of ‘Farlooking’ and could identify a species of butterfly at a distance of over half a league.

  As the commander of the army, Ammon was a member of the Council of Twelve that ruled the Fair-folk and their minions and, at the moment, his army had been stretched across the narrow part of the valley of Southee. On each side of the Vale rose the Sethanon Mountains, a natural redoubt between the High Kingdom and the Midlands. This valley was the only practical way through. So here he had placed his troops.

  Five battalions of Orcs totaling one hundred thousand strong. Six thousand heavy armored Trolls with their twenty-foot pikes and massive shields. The Trolls would provide a wall of armor that he hoped the enemy would break against like a tide against a cliff. To the rear, forty thousand Goblin archers, their small-recurved bows already strung, bundles of arrows at their feet.

  And finally, the Constructs, noticeable by their shining white tunics and slow behavior. These ever-smiling, pale skinned creations of the Fair-Folk would carry water, bandages and extra arrows to the combatants. Afterwards, if there was an afterwards, they would be used by the Orcs and goblins for their more…comely offerings.

  There were no Fair-Folk in the battle formation. Their talents lay in ruling, creating, commanding, controlling. Not for them the savage cruelty of front line combat. And even if they had wanted to participate in a more physical way they could not have made much difference.

  The males stood around four feet tall, hairless smooth gray skin, no discernable musculature, massive dome shaped heads, no perceivable ears or nostrils, small mouths and large black eyes. Their bodies merely an ambulatory system for their extraordinarily advanced brains. Brains capable of controlling those lesser than them, capable of psychokinesis, pyrokinesis and, most importantly, harnessing the power of the ‘Life-Light’. Although, as Ammon had been musing, in recent years, the Life-Light had been fading, its power waning. And with it, the power of the Fair-Folk.

  The female of the species was seldom seen. Smaller and much lighter skinned than the male with smaller elongated heads. They were kept indoors, away from the sunlight and, when they did wish to venture outside they were transported in curtained palanquins or sedan chairs carried by two battle Orcs.

  Like the males, the females lived for well over three hundred years, during which time they usually laid three or four embryonic sacs. These sacs were fertilized by the males who squatted over them and sprayed them with their seed. The Fair-folks pleasures were far more esoteric than mere sex, something that they deemed suitable only for the lower ranks of beings.

  Today marked the end of a year of continual war. A year of constant, bitter failure as, yard-by-yard, the alien Elvish had conquered the Fair-Folk’s kingdom. Forcing them back by virtue of numbers. They were no more than competent combatants, tall and almost unbelievably slim with heart shaped faces, flaxen hair as fine as cobwebs and small pointed teeth. But their numbers combined with their hive-mentality made them a formidable foe. Their battle strategies were poor but, due to the fact that their minds were linked via the hive-queen, their reactions as a group were uncanny. Breaches in their lines were filled immediately, replacements always arrived at the perfect moment and supplies were always delivered at the exact time needed. They never panicked; they seldom fell for any subterfuge or ruse and their morale stayed at a constant high as they drew strength from the queen.

  Ammon exerted his Far-looking powers and saw them coming. A murky amorphous mass of warriors, dressed in their customary dark green. Moving as one, like a shoal of fish, or flock of birds.

  They had first appeared, a year before, in the Lower kingdoms. There had been a period of solar upheaval, days had shortened, nights had grown colder and the constant sky glow of the Life-Light had ceased for almost six days.

  Then a hole had opened. A literal doorway, albeit a huge one, between the kingdoms and the godforsaken place that the Elvish came from. They had poured through the gap, taking the majority of the coastal towns of the Eastern Lower Kingdom in a matter of days.

  Ammon had assembled his troops and force-marched from the highlands to meet the host on the Midland plains. He had quickly learned not to fight the Elven hordes in huge set battles. Their numbers were too large and their hive-minds ensured that their mass maneuvers were always perfect.

  So instead he had fought a hundred smaller battles, always picking his ground with great care. Mountain passes, river confluences, forests. Anything to stop his dwindling army from being enveloped by the vast numbers of enemy.

  And, as the year had gone by, the rainbow flickering of the Life-Light had grown dimmer in the skies. In the time before it used to coruscate across the heavens, a constant surge of color, like lamp oil spilt on water, bringing with it the power that the Fair-Folk used to drive their magiks. The raw power of the universe. The power of the Life-Light.

  He sensed
rather than heard Seth Hil-Nu walk up to his side. Seth was the paramount mage of the Fair-Folk and he, more than any others, had been diminished by the dying of the Life-Light, his magnificent powers waning day by day. In the times before, when the Life-Light was strong, he could have conjured up a raft of fireballs that would have burned the Elven host from the valley. He could have brought the mountains down on them or caused a storm of lightning to blast them from existence. Now he was simply a source of wisdom, capable of the odd small magik if the circumstances were right.

  ‘Well seen, Seth,’ greeted the commander.

  ‘Well met, Ammon. How long before battle commences?’

  ‘Mere minutes, mage. Mere minutes. Pray tell, can you amplify my voice so that the troops can hear me? I used to be able to do it myself when the Life-Light was strong, but now it is a skill that escapes me.’

  ‘Sad are the times when you have to ask if I can still perform such tiny magiks,’ answered Seth. ‘But yes, I can make you heard. Not through amplification, but they will hear what you say.’

  ‘Thank you, mage.’

  The Elven swarm continued to pour into the valley, running on fast lithe feet. Drawing closer.

  Ammon waited and then, ‘Archers, make ready.’

  The four thousand goblins each lent forward, picked up a dozen or so arrows and planted them, head down, in the turf in front of them, ready for rapid fire.

  ‘Archers, string.’

  Four thousand arrows were notched.

  ‘Draw.’

  Four thousand bow strings thrummed with tension as the archers drew to full draw and held.

  ‘Rapid fire, now!’

  The average competent goblin archer can unleash an arrow every three seconds. The flight time from archer to target was approximately nine seconds. This meant that, by the time the first four thousand arrows struck, there were already another twelve thousand in the air. Like a swarm of steel tipped locusts, blotting out the sun.