Messenger

by James Walker

  Vic shouted his denial of this blasphemy, but his voice was carried off into silence and eaten by the thing that lurked in the shadows.

  “There is no point denying it,” the voice went on. “No point, once you realize it, in refusing the truth. This darkness is your fate. It is the fate of all things; until, at the last, nothing remains. Nothing, but that which is always moving in the darkness.”

  The endless depths of blackness pushed in upon Vic, along with the thing that slivered and coiled through the dark sea of emptiness. He became vaguely aware that he was being immersed in a will of pure evil. Even as he thought this, some kind of fluid—like water, but more vile—pooled at his feet and began to rise, soaking him from the legs up. He flailed against it, but he could not resist the thick fluid. Finally it rose up over his head, and he descended into its depths like a stone, while malice swirled and surged around him.

  Vic recognized this feeling. He had experienced it before; first in the subterranean colony of Gemdrop, and again, in Hongpan's virtual network. Both times, Astral had appeared to rescue him before he could be consumed by this dark will. But she would not come for him this time. This time, his mind was laid bare before an unfathomable dark­ness, a vile yet great entity which, for reasons Vic did not understand, desired his annihilation.

  “Do not be afraid,” the voice said, its manner soft and soothing. “Fear and pain, hatred and misery, soon these wretched artifacts of existence will trouble you no more. Remove the foul blot on reality that is your self, and soon you need fear nothing at all.”

  Vic could not hold out any longer. Against his will, his mouth opened in the hope of sucking in pure air; but instead the vile fluid seeped into him. He flailed against it for just a moment longer, and then his resistance ceased.

  *

  Vic opened his eyes. He was immersed in darkness except for a single golden crack across his vision. Slowly, he realized that he was sitting in a cocoon of some sort, with a hole across its front, letting in a jagged beam of light. A cockpit; that's what the cocoon was called.

  “Vic Shown,” a voice called from the light. “Can you hear me?”

  Something felt strange, though Vic could not quite put his finger on what. He felt at peace, like he no longer needed to worry or be concerned about anything; that whatever he did, it would be the right decision, and all would be right with the world. Yet, why this nagging feel­ing that something was out of place? For the time being, perhaps he should answer the voice.

  “I can hear you,” Vic replied. “Who are you?”

  “Someone who wants to help you.” The source of the voice resolved itself into a cloaked man with long hair and cold eyes. The man turned his head to look at something in the distance. “There are more enemies coming. I know that you've been fighting without rest, but could you lend us your strength one last time? Just one more battle, and peace will be restored. I know you can do it.”

  “One more battle,” Vic repeated. “All right. If it will bring peace, I'll fight one last time.”

  He realized he was holding a handgun and slid it back into its holster, then took the controls in his hands. His suit's legs had been disabled and it was out of ranged weapons. Well, those obstacles could be surmounted. He reached out with one hand, and then the other, crawl­ing forward until he reached a discarded rifle lying on the ground. He laid hold of it and pulled his suit around to face the direction the cloaked man had indicated. Distant figures were entering the courtyard from a side avenue. Wicked destroyers of peace. Vic would dispatch them in short order.

  He took aim through the crack in his canopy and pulled the trigger.

  *

  Pierson led the remnants of the infantry back to the front courtyard, leaving a small team behind to hold the rear in case the security detail tried to pursue them. They had heard sounds of battle coming from the courtyard. As they drew within view, they saw an even greater scene of devastation than the one they had left. Vic's Grenadier lay near the far end of the courtyard, crawling across the ground.

  “What the hell happened here?” Tinubu wondered.

  Pierson caught sight of a distant shadow and said, “Is that Falsrain? Clever bastard, trying to double back on us and escape through the front gate. But if that's the case, why isn't Vic—”

  Vic's battle-scarred exosuit grabbed hold of a rifle lying on the ground, swiveled to face Pierson's team, and opened fire. A stream of enormous bullets ripped through the center of their formation, tearing two of their troops apart. The remaining soldiers scattered and hid behind any piece of cover they could reach.

  “What the hell?” Cena exclaimed. “Is Vic firing on us?”

  Pierson's face contorted in horrified realization. “If Vic's firing on us,” he said, “and that's Falsrain...”

  Cena mirrored Pierson's look of horror. “Oh no,” she gasped. “Astral.”

  Another burst of gunfire erupted from Vic's rifle, tearing holes in the earth all around them. They flattened themselves to the ground and cowered behind their cover, helpless against the enormous-caliber rounds of exosuit weaponry.

  “There's no choice,” Pierson shouted. “Sergeant Northwood, disable that exosuit before it kills us all!”

  Cena set up her anti-armor rifle, took careful aim, and fired. A large hole appeared in the exosuit's upper arm, but it kept firing. She fired a second shot, piercing the suit's shoulder; and then a third, aimed in the same location. The suit's arm flopped limply to the ground and the rifle went silent.

  Pierson let out a sigh of relief. “Excellent work, Sergeant.”

  “Can you get a bead on that bastard Falsrain?” Tinubu asked.

  “I'm trying. He's hiding behind the wreckage of the exosuits.” Cena took her gaze away from the scope to glance over at her superiors and asked, “Orders, Major? We could flank him from two sides. He can't hide from all of us.”

  Pierson shook his head. “If Astral's out of action, there's nothing to protect us from Falsrain's mind control. I don't know what kind of range his powers have, but I'd rather not put it to the test. In fact, we're already closer to him than I'd like.”

  “Then let's wait him out,” Tinubu said. “He can't hide forever. As soon as he pokes his head out, Sergeant Northwood can blow it clean off.”

  “Waiting plays right into his hands,” Pierson said. “It won't be long before reinforcements arrive from the P.S.A. base and swarm all over us. In fact, I don't understand why they haven't already done so.”

  “If those explosions I've been hearing are any indication,” Cena said, “I'd guess our augmented friend is keeping them busy.”

  “Celeste?” Pierson mused. “It's possible, but even augments have their limits. She might bring a lot of them down with her, but they'll get her eventually.”

  “Then what should we do?” Tinubu asked.

  Pierson's face contorted in frustration. “A mass charge might be our only option. If he can't mind control all of us at once, then at least one of us might be able to get a bullet in his skull. Though that personal deflector shield is troublesome...”

  Cena could not hide her despondency. “Suicide rush, huh?”

  “I'd rather not if we can avoid it.” Pierson leaned out from behind the dip in terrain he was using for cover and stared out at the silent ruins of the courtyard. “Let's observe the situation a little while longer. Maybe an opportunity will come up.”

  *

  Falsrain sighed as the arm of Vic's exosuit flopped to the ground and his rifle went silent. Always resourceful, that Maximillian. Still, it was of little consequence. The few remaining intruders would die once those incompetent reinforcements managed to break through; or, if they attacked before then, Falsrain would simply bend them to his will and gain yet more potent slaves.

  “All right, come out of there,” he called to Vic. “And bring the girl with you.”

  The canopy of the exosuit popped up and Vic leapt out, cradling Astral's limp form in his arms. He walked up to Falsrain and stood s
ilently before him, awaiting orders.

  “Put her down,” Falsrain ordered.

  Vic laid Astral gently on the ground and took a step back.

  Falsrain reached for the resonance blade at his hip, then thought better of it. He had a more interesting way of dispatching his hated foe. He smiled at Vic and gestured to Astral's unconscious body.

  “Kill her.”

  *

  Vic drew his pistol and aimed it at Astral. His finger began to tighten over the trigger, then he hesitated and lowered his weapon. Why would he want to kill an innocent girl? In response to this inquiry, a murderous rage boiled within him. Because she existed. That was reason enough.

  He raised his gun, aimed it at Astral's heart, and hesitated again. Why? The whole world, filthy bastion of cruelty and corruption that it was, deserved to be destroyed by his hand. This girl was as good a place to start as any. And yet, something seemed wrong. Killing this girl should have been the most natural thing in the world, but something was holding him back.

  A frown creased Falsrain's brow. “What are you waiting for?” he demanded. “Kill her.”

  Vic looked at Falsrain in confusion. His mind was becoming more and more muddled. The murderous impulse boiled up in him again, but he no longer knew who he should direct it at. What purpose did such hatred serve?

  “Never mind,” Falsrain snapped. “I'll do it myself, and then you're next. I don't need defective puppets.”

  As he looked into Falsrain's face, Vic recalled an impression of an evil presence. An enemy to everything that lived. That would be a fitting object for Vic's hatred.

  Falsrain drew his resonance blade, raised it over his head, and flicked the switch that activated it. A deep thrum filled the air as the shimmering blade came to life.

  Vic pointed his gun at Falsrain's chest and pulled the trigger.

  The ensuing gunshot seemed to echo forever. Falsrain staggered back and looked down at the red stain spreading across his chest, then he looked up at Vic. His expression was no longer one of malice, nor fury, nor even pain; but simply disbelief.

  Before Falsrain could move, Vic pulled the trigger several more times. Falsrain dropped his weapon and fell to one knee. A piercing, inhuman shriek issued forth from his mouth; then, despite his wounds, he lunged for Vic's throat. His face no longer contained even a veneer of humanity. It was twisted into the hideous visage of a monster, a creature emerged from the deepest nightmares of a troubled mind. The lump in his forehead split open, revealing a third eye burning with hatred.

  Vic jammed the muzzle of his gun into the monstrous eye and fired.

  Falsrain's body fell in a heap at Vic's feet. Vic continued firing into the body until his magazine was empty, then he tossed the weapon aside. Utterly spent, he fell to his knees, staring off into space.

  “It seeped into me,” he murmured. “It tried to consume my mind. I killed...” He raised his hands and stared at them in horror. “I killed my own comrades.”

  Astral stirred and pushed herself slowly to her feet. She looked first at Falsrain's corpse, then at Vic, consumed with grief. She reached out, embraced him, and held him tightly to her chest.

  “It's all right,” she whispered. “You've done well. And now I'm here for you.”

  Vic looked up into Astral's face. For the briefest of moments, it seemed to shine with a brilliant light. He reached out to take hold of it; but as soon as he tried to grab it, the light vanished, and his fingers fell across Astral's cheek. Despite the fleeting nature of the vision, he felt that his body had been cleansed of a fatal corruption. Unbidden, a single tear welled up in his eye and fell down his face.

  “What's wrong?” Astral asked softly.

  “I caught a glimpse of something,” Vic said. “But then it vanished.”

  Before Astral could answer, there came the sound of many running footsteps. Pierson, Tinubu, Cena, and a handful of surviving soldiers came around the wreckage of the exosuit and trained their weapons on Vic and Astral. Upon sighting Falsrain's corpse, Pierson held out his hand, and they lowered their weapons. Vic pulled himself free of Astral's embrace, stood up, and turned to face his comrades, shame etched on his face.

  “I'm sorry,” he whispered.

  Pierson shook his head. “Wrong words,” he said. “The right phrase is, 'Thank you,' and we're the ones who should be saying it.”

  “Falsrain had you under his control, didn't he?” Cena asked. “How did you break free of it?”

  “He tried to make me hate Astral. But that...” Vic looked at Astral, who returned his gaze with wide eyes. “...Was impossible.”

  Tinubu's voice was subdued. “But all those who fell under Falsrain's control contracted Messenger syndrome, didn't they?”

  Astral looked up at Vic. “I don't sense any trace of it from him. I don't think he's been infected.”

  “Really?” Tinubu laughed. “That's a relief.”

  “What about the others?” Pierson asked. “Now that Falsrain is dead, what will happen to those who were under his control?”

  “His influence over them is gone,” Astral said. “They'll likely be disoriented and confused. Some of them may have suffered permanent damage to their minds. Even those that didn't...” She looked down in sorrow. “Will eventually be consumed by Messenger syndrome.”

  Pierson's face fell. “Then the pandemic is still a threat.”

  “And,” Cena added, “we're still in the middle of the colonial capital, completely surrounded by enemy forces. Any idea how we're gonna get out of here now that we've accomplished our objective?”

  “Good question,” Pierson replied. “The easy part of the mission is over. Now comes the real challenge: getting out alive.”

  62

  Liumei woke up in a daze on the floor of her office. She pushed herself to her feet, her head swimming, and recoiled in horror at the re­flection in her picture windows. She saw a face of utter exhaustion, with bloodshot eyes, deep shadows, and taut skin. She looked like she had aged nearly twenty years. She didn't know what alarmed her more—the awful face staring back at her from the glass, or the fact that her body felt as though it were flowing with some vile poison. On top of that, she had no idea what was going on.

  Flinching from her pained movements, she pushed a button on her desk that caused a cluster of images to appear in the air, showing feeds from cameras positioned around the palatial complex. Her sick feeling deepened at what she saw: once-gorgeous architecture leveled; beautiful grounds torn to shreds; mutilated bodies lying everywhere; wrecked war vehicles littering the courtyards.

  Still dazed and confused, she staggered out of her office, searching for someone—anyone—who could tell her what had happened. She called for her guards and handmaidens, but no one answered. She stumbled to the elevator, stepped inside, and pressed the button for the first floor. During the ride down, she nearly passed out, grabbing onto the railing to support herself.

  After a long descent, the elevator reached the first floor and the doors slid open. Liumei stepped out into the reception area with its marble floors and gold-plated columns, still calling for help. The grandiose chamber was still as a tomb.

  She exited the building through the front doors and staggered to the outer courtyard. She stared numbly from one side of the grounds to the other, shocked by the devastation, when her eyes alighted on a particular body lying nearby.

  “No,” she choked, breaking into an awkward run. “No, it can't be.”

  She dropped next to the corpse and swept away the tattered vest that had been used to cover the face. Her fears were confirmed. She stared numbly at Ridley's dead countenance for what seemed like a long time when she heard approaching footsteps. She looked up and saw a group of rebel soldiers gathered around her.

  “Greetings, my lady,” a blond-haired rebel officer said. “I know you've had a bad day and, I'm sorry to say, it's only going to get worse.”

  *

  The governor showed little reaction to the appearance of the rebe
l group. She just stared numbly up at them, her ruined face matted with tears. Seeing the despair in her eyes, Vic could feel only pity for her.

  “What,” she choked, “what happened?”

  “It's a long story,” Pierson replied. “The short version is, a carrier of Messenger syndrome infiltrated the palace. Virtually everyone in the complex has contracted it. Including you, I'm afraid.”

  Vic thought Liumei's expression of despair could not grow any deeper, but it did. “I'm infected?” she choked. “With Messenger syndrome?”

  “I'm sorry,” Pierson said. “We came to eliminate the carrier. We've succeeded in doing that, but now the whole city needs to be put under quarantine, or the disease will spread even further.”

  Tinubu broke in, “But first, you've got to call off your security forces. They're on their way to kill us all. I know we're not exactly on good terms, but right now, containing this pandemic is more important than Therans and rebels slaughtering each other.”

  Liumei gave a single, hollow laugh. “What good will that do? Revolutions, war, terrorism, alien pandemics. When we're not killing each other, nature is doing it for us. The only things humans have found out here in space are suffering and death. The colonies are doomed to fall into ruin.”

  “They aren't.” Pierson knelt next to Liumei and grabbed her by the shoulder. “Space is an inhospitable environment—the most inhospitable of all environments. But we're finally starting to tame it. This is a crucial time. If you declare martial law and quarantine the city, the damage will be greatly reduced. Only you can do it. Only you can re­store order.”