torg 02 - The Dark Realm

by Douglas Kaufman

  He motioned for her to be silent and directed her gaze into the clearing below them. On a road that looked more like a path, an enclosed carriage waited idly by, its team of horses snorting impatiently. The carriage had a thrown a wheel. Two men dressed in Victorian garb were examining the wheel where it lay, trying to determine how they were going to reattach it to the carriage.

  "Our transportation," Kurst whispered. Then he started toward the men. Even in human form, Kurst reminded her of a predator stalking prey. She wondered what he thought of her, then realized it didn't matter. She was very much like Kurst, thanks to the Sims; a warrior, a hunter. Part of her like that aspect of herself. Another part hated it, even feared it.

  But she was almost as good at it as he was, and both men dropped without so much as a cry of surprise.

  "Go back and get the dwarves," Kurst told her. "They should be able to get the wheel back on the carriage. Then we can ride the rest of the way in comfort."

  Mara sheathed her claws and headed back to the others. She wondered what it would be like to ride in a carriage. That was even more primitive than Tom's plane! "Giga-rad!" she whispered excitedly.

  83

  "Father?"

  The voice startled Bryce for an instant, sounding so young and vulnerable. He had fallen asleep in the carriage as it traveled over the bumpy road. Kurst and Mara had found it, but they didn't explain why it was abandoned. True, it had a busted wheel, but the dwarves fixed that in no time. They really seemed to have a knack for mechanical things.

  He blinked, clearing the sleep from his eyes. Mara was talking to him. She was seated across from him, on the opposite bench. Djil and two dwarves were sitting beside her; Tom and three more were crammed in beside him. Kurst and Tolwyn were up front, driving the horses. The other dwarves were on the roof, keeping watch.

  For a moment Bryce found it difficult to gain his voice. Finally he said, "What's up?" and his voice sounded terribly hoarse to his ears.

  She didn't say anything. She just stared at him with her big eyes. Mara was a mess, he thought. Her face was puffy from lack of sleep. Her hair was frazzled and matted with sweat. My God, he thought, she is only a girl! Why do we keep forgetting that?

  "You know," Bryce said, trying to find the words he knew Mara needed to hear, "I miss my friends terribly. Sometimes I wonder what I'm doing here when I should be back in New York with them." His voice became softer as he spoke, gentle, rolling. He felt a pang of truth in his own words that sent a surge of tears to his eyes. "I miss them..."

  "I was just thinking the same thing," Mara mumbled.

  "It must be worse for you," he said, keeping his voice low so as not to wake the others. "I'm far from home, but I sometimes find it hard to imagine how much farther you are."

  "It's not so bad," she said, too quickly. "I'm really no different from you."

  He laughed. "I guess not. We just have to go in very different directions to get home. I'm really glad you're here, Mara." He paused for a moment, treading carefully as always. "The others, even Tom O'Malley, are very alien to me. You're the only one who I feel as if I know."

  "You know Tolwyn," she said, and the words were like a blow even though they were said with no malice.

  "I first met Tolwyn," he said carefully, "when I was giving Last Rites to a dead woman. Then, somehow, Tolwyn was there, inside that body. I don't think I've ever lost the wonder of that moment. I thought I had performed a miracle. I hadn't at all, but I still sometimes think of her as Wendy Miller, sometimes see her as a dying woman whom I saved, rather than as the otherworldly fighting woman that she really is. It's difficult. At least with you I know who you are."

  "I wish I looked more ... like her ... more normal." Mara was blinking quickly. "Instead ... instead of like a machine..."

  "You don't look like a machine," Bryce shot back. His words were final, certain. "You look like a young woman. Tell me what it was like, growing up with such intelligence. I was a very mediocre student myself."

  "It's useless!" she spat. "Useless! Sometimes it's like a thing in my brain, driving me on to do things, when all

  I really want is to run and dance. And then the war and all, and all my friends fighting the invaders." She looked up at him, completely lost. "It's not fair! Some of what I am is because of the chipware, and I don't know how much is programmed and how much is me."

  "No," he said softly, looking back at her steadily. "It's not fair. You know, it's very hard for me, having met you and Tolwyn and Kurst and the dwarves. You're all from someplace else! Sometimes I wonder if God's love is for people from other worlds as well."

  "I doubt it," Mara said miserably.

  He ignored her remark. "But then I realize that it must be, that God is on those other worlds, too, loving everyone in every one of those other places, because He is strong enough and loving enough to do so."

  "But what does that mean, Father Bryce?" The question came from Djil, who was watching him from the other side of the carriage.

  "It means that we're all in this together, and that as long as we remember that and care for each other as we care for ourselves, then we can beat this thing."

  Bryce leaned his head back, contemplating his words. They sounded strong, certain. But, he wondered, how much of it did he really believe?

  84

  There was one moment when Thratchen felt that something had gone wrong: the plunge into the mirror was simply a strange sensation, as of passing through the surface of a silvery pond. It was not uncomfortable, it was not shocking — it did not seem dangerous.

  Then the coldness came.

  It was not the cold of a cube of ice, or even of a howling winter storm: it was the cold of the depths of space, instantaneous, compacting, freezing all motion into a single instant of time. Thratchen would have screamed, but he was incapable of moving his mouth, of drawing breath, of reacting to the nearness of death in any cogent way.

  Then it was over and he was through, falling briefly before hitting the ground. Thratchen howled his rage at the Gaunt Man's action. But at least he had survived the jaunt. He took a moment to survey his surroundings. He was in a building of some kind, a modern office building in Osaka, Japan. A nearby window showed that a storm covered the city, its dark clouds rolling across the sky. He leaned close to the window, trying to see how far up the building reached, but the top disappeared into the dark clouds. Thratchen let his sensors examine the axioms of the area. It was still Core Earth, but the stelae for Kanawa's reality had been prepped and were waiting for the arrival of the bridge.

  Thratchen moved through the corridor, opening door after door as he searched for some clue as to why the Gaunt Man had dropped him here. Then he found it, beyond one of the inner doors.

  He stood on a stairway, overlooking a vast chamber that filled the center of the building. The chamber's ceiling was a glass skylight, and through the open partition he could see the boiling clouds. The floor was over thirty stories below him, probably extending beneath ground level. It appeared that the final invasion was not going to be a public affair. That made sense, Thratchen thought. Kanawa always liked to manipulate his realm from behind the scenes.

  Then light fell from out of the clouds, dropping through the skylight and into the building like an arcing rainbow. The light was a maelstrom bridge in its purest form, not wrapped in the trappings of its High Lord's reality. Thratchen respected that. It told him that Kanawa was very sure of himself; he needed no illusions to remind him of his reality.

  He felt the surge of axioms as they washed down the bridge and into the realm. He could feel the tech levels rising, could sense the changes occurring all around him. But Thratchen remained unaffected by it all, standing within a bubble of his own reality.

  Thratchen watched for a time as Kanawa's agents descended. There were few warriors. Most were scientists, technicians, and other thinkers. Kanawa ran a different sort of invasion, but Thratchen could see nothing that should cause the Gaunt Man to worry. He turned to go, w
hen a presence filled his senses.

  Descending the bridge of light was an Oriental man dressed in a dark suit. Dark glasses hid his eyes from view. He carried a metal briefcase. A scar sliced vertically across his right cheek. Behind him were two heavily- armored guards — the famed samurai of Marketplace. The man could only be Kanawa, for he definitely reeked of a High Lord's power.

  Kanawa stopped his descent and looked directly at Thratchen. The samurai leveled their weapons at him, as well. He was deeply disturbed that they had become aware of him so easily.

  "What do you want here, son of Tharkold?" Kanawa demanded in a very business-like tone. Even though the distance of nearly half a city block separated them, Thratchen found that he could hear the High Lord easily.

  "Son of Tharkold no longer, High Lord," Thratchen replied, shouting so his own words could be heard. "I bring you the greetings of the Gaunt Man, who welcomes

  you to Earth. He thanks you for your timely arrival."

  "A deal is a deal," Kanawa said. "But I have work to do. If you will excuse me ... ?" The High Lord continued down the bridge, dismissing Thratchen without so much as a second glance.

  There was no more to be learned here, Thratchen decided. He left the huge chamber and sought an exit out of the building.

  85

  Scythak ran. It was a steady run, loping without effort. This was what he loved. This was joy! The ground scrolled away in flashes of green and tan, and even the roughness of the stones beneath his pads was an affirmation of life and of the hunt. He had shifted to his weretiger form once he descended into the Living Land realm, and now he was nearing the storm front that marked the separation between the primitive reality and Core Earth.

  He had traveled such areas before, and the maddening fluctuations in reality did not bother him. He shifted back into his man form just before emerging from the storm. He stepped from the wall of cloud and crouched, sniffing the air. He immediately became aware of the man approaching him. The man was a soldier, carrying weapons and instruments of Earth's higher technology. But such items did not frighten the weretiger. There were much worse things in Orrorsh. With a sigh, Scythak rose and walked slowly toward the soldier, senses as alert as possible.

  "Another one!" the soldier called. "You're the second guy to step out of there this week!"

  Scythak said nothing. He just watched as the soldier walked closer.

  "I'm Corporal West," the soldier said. "Are you hurt? There's another transport getting ready to leave for Twentynine Palms and I bet we could get you on that if we hurried."

  Twentynine Palms? Scythak wasn't sure what that was, but he felt it was closer to Decker

  (kill, kill kill)

  and that was where he had to go.

  "Yes," Scythak finally said, testing the words and language the Gaunt Man had given him. "I would like to go to Twentynine Palms."

  86

  Sebastian Quin stepped off the transport in Frankfort, Kentucky. Here was the relocation center where he would gather information before starting his trip into the Zone of Silence. He would spend a few days, perhaps as long as a week, talking to the refugees who had made the trip out of that mysterious area. He would learn everything they could tell them, then he would organize the truth from the memories and make his plans. He grinned like a boy. It actually felt good to have a mission again, especially one that didn't involve overthrowing a small government.

  He shouldered his pack, letting the weight of his gear settle on his back. Then he went in search of people willing to tell their stories. With any luck, he might even run into someone who had come all the way from New York City.

  As he started to walk away, the pilot called to him.

  "Are you really sure this is where you want to get off?" the pilot asked. "You know, most people get on here to go somewhere else."

  "I'm not most people," Quin replied, and walked

  toward the main building of the relocation center.

  87

  Vice President Dennis Quartermain stormed into General Clay Powell's office in Houston, Texas.

  "I want some answers, Clay," Quartermain demanded.

  "Have you tried an encyclopedia?" Powell replied flippantly.

  "Cut the crap and listen to me, you military stooge," Quartermain yelled. "I want to know where President Wells is, and I want you to tell me what's going on with that Quin Sebastian guy. Don't try to deny it, I figured out who he was after my brief meeting with him. Why is the President meeting with two-bit mercenaries?"

  "Listen, Dennis," Powell said, not in the least bit bothered by Quartermain's forcefulness. "I am not at liberty to discuss these matters with you at this time."

  "I'm the Vice President, damn it! You have to keep me informed!"

  Before Powell could say anything, his intercom sounded. "Air Force One is enroute to Twentynine Palms, General," said his secretary's voice over the system.

  "Thank you, Betty," he said, pressing the button so that she could hear him. "Look, Quartermain ..." he started, but the Vice President cut him off.

  "Never mind, Clay," Quartermain smiled. "I'll just come back when you aren't quite so busy."

  The Vice President turned and left Powell's office. Thanks to the secretary's screw up, he had some of the information he needed. He had much to discuss with Ellen Conners, and there wasn't much time.

  The Possibility Wars 88

  Thratchen flew from Kanawa's office building, only to land a short distance outside of Osaka, in a wonderful garden beside a small stream. Something had drawn him here, and he decided to stop and see what that was before returning to Orrorsh. Next to the garden was a courtyard, surrounded by a collection of buildings centered around a great structure set atop a stone foundation. The great structure was made of wood and stone, vaulting to the sky with fluted roofs stacked one atop the other. Ornate carvings and designs decorated it, each vying with another for attention. A flight of broad steps led up to a great door which stood slightly ajar, and from within a smell of smoke and the sound of voices wafted.

  Thratchen stretched out with his senses, both natural and technological, and finally realized what had attracted him to this spot. Kanawa's axioms did not penetrate to the grounds around this holy structure. The area had resisted Kanawa's influence completely.

  Slowly, mulling different possibilities, he ascended the flight of steps. Forgetting his desire to return to Orrorsh, forgetting any possible danger, forgetting everything except his unquenchable thirst for knowledge, he pushed open the door.

  Although it appeared multi-storied from outside, there was only one floor within. There were great pillars everywhere, and a lofty ceiling was suspended high above him. Screens hung between the pillars partitioned the space, and it was obvious that the entire structure was a temple of some kind.

  He made his way around the screens, trying to find the center of the temple — and the source of power that protected it from Kanawa's reality. He wondered where the worshippers were as he continued through the temple. He could hear their singing, a low chant that made him somewhat uncomfortable, but he saw no evidence of their presence. He pushed aside a final screen, more out of frustration than any need, and there was the temple's core.

  It was a simple shrine, marked by a red archway. Through the archway, atop a low platform, was the statue of a stylized lion carved from a blue and red stone.

  Thratchen stepped gingerly toward the statue, gasping at the power emanating from it. It was an eternity shard, literally bursting with the energy he and the raiders craved. He reached to touch the statue, and immediately the chanting stopped.

  Eyes were upon him, and Thratchen whirled. Standing there were six men in white robes, their heads shaved bald. They were monks of this temple, Thratchen was certain, all of indeterminable age and smelling of stormer.

  "Why have you come to our temple, demon from another world?" the first monk asked.

  "You have something I seek," Thratchen said. The six regarded him calmly, unthreaten
ing and unthreatened. "Tell me about this hard point. What is its significance?"

  There was silence, save for the crackle of a fire somewhere nearby, behind one of the many screens.

  "Do not test me," Thratchen warned the silent monks. "Why is this place special? Answer me! You have no concept of who or what I am!"

  "We are quite aware of what you are," a second monk replied. "And we are aware of the terrible change that has come over our land. But our temple resists the change, and so do we." He began to hum a tuneless note, repeating it over and over.

  "You are aware — fully aware — of the invasion of your world?" Thratchen said, amazed. "That is very interesting. Tell me, what is it you feel?"