Dimension

by Shay Zana

  As she finishes on a high note, the Paragons feel the call to fall back to their bodies and open their eyes, seeing Kitera rising to her feet like a mystical being.

  “Now you must drink,” she says as she pulls out a pouch from her side, opening it and presenting it to each man. “The shii will give you strength, and open your minds.”

  “Is it alcoholic?” Boone asks informally.

  Kitera shakes her head with a frown. “It is medicinal.”

  Boone takes the pouch gently from her grasp. Reluctantly, he sniffs at the fluid inside and gawks into it with narrowed eyes before tilting it up to his mouth, feeling a silken consistency slide on his tongue. He allows his taste buds to be saturated in the sweet flavour first before he swallows, and instead of his throat being coated in thickness as he had expected, the shii tumbles down his throat smoothly and washes away without residue, leaving his airways feeling like they have been replenished with mystic healing powers. It has an almost mint after taste.

  With a curve of her lips, Kitera offers the shii to the others and moves back behind the roaring flame, drinking the shii herself once seated again.

  After a long while of guided meditations, she senses that the ritual is at its apex. Signaling for her warriors to stand, she approaches the nearest, Boone, holding out her palm toward him as if warding him away.

  Boone just looks at her palm stupidly, seeing a small glowing symbol written there in a woven design.

  “We will now link hands.” Kitera presses her palm to Boone’s, and directs him to do the same with Natheus, who joins with Mazayus, and he to Deo. They move around into a circle until Kitera and Deo’s hands can reach each other, their bodies all linked like an electrical circuit. For a tedious moment, nothing happens, and the Paragons exchange nervous glances while their Cipher closes her eyes and concentrates inwardly.

  Soon, they feel something emerge from within her and cascade through them all in a billowing flux of spiritual energy. Their senses are pulled to new heights, minds intermingling into one consciousness, streaming with a freshness they cannot comprehend yet are experiencing. Kitera is showing them a miniscule glimpse of her senses, allowing them to drift with her into the very beginnings of transcendence, though reaching the plane of the Zodiacs is far beyond them, most likely resulting in their deaths. Still, this mere shadow of her potential is overwhelming for them, the holy expanse cracking their souls wide open and enlightening them infinitely. As she releases them, they all snap back as if struck, eyes wide and gaping at her.

  “Dara Verilai’Sina ka farahsi. You have received Amira Ti Asta, the blessing of the gods,” she signifies once they evaporate from transcendence, her voice like a song to them. Deftly, she removes her veil from her lower face, offering them all a kiss to the forehead, the soldiers having to bend down so that she can reach them. “Etami'na Asta alaf’i naatil.” Her lip quivers faintly, and the lone tear that rolls down her cheek finally reveals her cracked heart. The woman clenches her jaw tightly, lifts her chin, and swallows back her sorrow. “May the gods give you guidance.”

  BRUTUS SUPERIOR

  Brutus Superior is a dusty, arid world coated in a golden variation of sand and grit. Near the equator, the lands are hot and dry in vast deserts exceeding temperatures of that of the Sahara, but in the higher and lower hemispheres the lands meet references with that of Mars with rocky cliffs and barren landscapes. The skies are thick with a haze of finely compacted dust around the higher and lower hemispheres, but in the equator, the skies are clear as the wind systems spread widely and accumulate north and south.

  From orbit, Boone can see sparse oceans surrounding the more humid areas of the planet, but near the arid equator there exists no water. The colony, and only major city on the entire planet, Slarkton, is located in the equator to escape the ravaging winds, on a continent known as Dry Rock. His objective is to simply touchdown in Slarkton, secure the area, set up a perimeter and long-range comms that can be relayed to Altair, and wait for further instructions from Kitera. Secondary objective is advising the population to evacuate ahead of galactic schedules, due to the unknown outcome of the event he will initiate within Brutus. The others will exercise the exact same procedure on the most habitable planets orbiting their pivotal stars. The plan is less than perfect, plenty of gaps for error, especially since SScomm signals can only travel at SSV speeds and stream through system-to-system via a cluster relay, but luckily an ikamanu can exceed the SS speed limit without so much as breaking a sweat. If an ikamanu can even sweat at all. Boone has to remind himself that physics are no longer set in stone in this galaxy.

  As Altair slides itself down through the atmosphere of Brutus Superior, the high winds begin to turn choppy and disrupt the creature’s smooth entry. Sand batters and burns into the ikamanu’s hide, though it does not utter a sound of complaint as it descends steeply. As Altair levels out and approaches a low plain cradled by a surrounding high plateau sheltered from the harsh sandstorms, the crew can see Slarkton coming into view, its limited radius and simple infrastructure built to combat the conditions of Brutus Superior.

  Slarkton City is a spread of dome-shaped structures, some immersed into the sandy soil to link through underground tunnels, and some jutting up over the surface in conjoining pathways from one building to the next, similar to the skystreets in skycities. From the air, Slarkton appears like a maze of domes and nikita encased pathways disguised as glass, allowing pedestrians a full view of the surrounding desert.

  As Boone waits alone in the airlock for Altair to touchdown, he reviews his weaponry and equipment, though the chances of him having to use them again are slim. The realization hits him like a knife of mourning in his chest, but he quickly places it aside. His Sacrifice will bring him more glory than any Paragon has ever earned in battle. Accompanying him is his trusty Genesis multipurpose heavy weapon and his Phoenix, his vitasuit’s holsters clutching them firmly in place at his back. A utility case is at his hip, full of a few spray canisters and one egg of elixir. A boot-thruster mod for his vitasuit has been installed, just in case he ends up in zero grav somewhere. You never know.

  “Wait,” Boone’s reverie is invaded by Mazayus. “Something’s not right.”

  With nothing else to look at, Boone’s gaze naturally crawls over the sealed outer airlock door. “No welcoming party?” he asks comically.

  “Atmospheric readings are picking up no oxygen,” Mazayus replies bleakly. “The planet’s atmosphere seems to have been stripped of any breathable air, but there are still trace amounts of various elements.”

  “A distortion?” Boone suggests.

  “Most likely. Keep your suit sealed, even if your readings detect oxygen.”

  Boone sighs. “And I was hoping for a little fresh air and some downtime.” With a quick thought command, he morphs his helmet to seal up over his head, the life support systems linking in with his suit as the outer air-filters seal shut, his oxygen supply now fed solely by his reserves. It does not take long before his system adjusts to the stale and concentrated oxygen. “Good to go.”

  “Touchdown in minus ten seconds,” Mazayus announces passively through his earchips. “Good luck, Paragon. May your Sacrifice be honoured.”

  “When we meet in the bar in the Underworld, first round’s on me.” With that, Boone waits for the outer airlock doors to morph open and charges himself through the fray of hot sand blasting into his vitasuit, leaping feet first and landing in a shroud of golden sand. As he hears Altair ascending to the skies at his back, he does not dwell on the fact that it may be the last he ever sees of the creature and its crew, but instead reins his attention in on his surrounding environment. The winds are high and wild, but nothing compared to the stormiest regions of the planet.

  And so Boone begins to trek his way through the thick sand toward Slarkton’s border a few hundred metres away. From here, he cannot see any sign of activity. No figures pacing through the transparent hallways, no capsules darting across from one side of the
city to the other. Perhaps the population has been evacuated due to the oxygen depletion, or maybe they have sealed the city and gotten themselves locked inside with a supply of oxygen, waiting the distortion out.

  Quickening his pace to a light jog, Boone quickly reaches the nearest dome building, seeing inanimate capsules and land vehicles parked outside. The wind has died down now due to the shelter of the surrounding plateau, but light dustings of sand in the air still obscures clear view of the city in the distance. He draws his Phoenix and quickly scans the area outside the entrance, reports of the UEU taking advantage of the distortions in Serenity territory fresh on his mind.

  To his surprise, the entrance to the city opens to his presence, meaning the city is not on lockdown and its interior is exposed to the distortion outside. With a worried frown beneath his fluid visor, Boone levels his weapon and eases his way inside with slow, steady steps. The readings on his HUD display a temperature drop inside the city’s interior, though the scorching temperature of the planet does not affect him with the environmental system of his vitasuit.

  The city’s interior is sparse and simple, indicating either low resources or less than wealthy citizens. Solid bulkheads lead to the transparent pathways to other parts of the city. From what he learned, Slarkton is more of a research oriented colony rather than residential, and the furnishings reflect the simple tastes of scientists.

  Boone hardly notices the sharp sound of the gate sealing shut behind him, as his eyes are riveted to the masses of dead bodies throughout the dome. His weapon lowers in defeat, the dead faces all blaming him for failing them. All civilians, from scientists studying to residents simply working in the factories, all dead by asphyxiation. Their bodies are sprinkled across the circular building, faces riddled with the frozen state of suffocation, bodies pale, limp, and lifeless.

  Even as a Paragon, accustomed to death at each turn, Boone feels the sword of cold dread and despair slice through his gut at the sight of so many dead human beings, taking a sickening moment to squat and summon strength. He forces his mind away from the thoughts of their straining torment. Squaring his shoulders and shrugging it away, he makes his way through the city, crossing transparent pathways that allow him to see the desert howling outside, traversing under giant domes with transparent ceiling tops, sweeping hallways and labs. Everywhere he goes, he cannot escape the sight of the people of Slarkton, where their bodies once writhed at the floor, they now only slump, tension still visible in the bursting blood vessels of their eyes. Evidence of their activities before the distortion hit is written around them. Half full coffee cups, consoles and interactive holograms still active, unfinished food. Seeing the youngsters is the hardest, and Boone does not even know why someone would want to start a family on a planet such as Brutus Superior, where the environment is harsh and barely habitable. When temperatures reach over 60 Celsius, the city would go into temporary lockdown, preventing exit unless by vehicles or protective environment suits. The human body simply cannot withstand those temperatures for long periods of time, as the cells in the body will begin to perish at only about 40 degrees Celsius if unprotected and exposed for long durations. Poverty strikes all corners of the universe.

  Boone checks his suit’s oxygen levels, but is settled once he reads the gauge of many hours left of air supply. After checking for any survivors by utilizing Slarkton’s biometric locators, an unsuccessful Boone makes his way to the comms station and amplifies the signal on his selected channel by connecting it to several relays from the Zion Cluster. It only takes a moment for the relay to hone in on Altair’s signature.

  “Boone to Altair,” he sighs. “Everyone here is dead, distortion got ‘em. Think I’ll scout around outside Slarkton, maybe someone went out with an air supply before this happened. By the time this transmission reaches you I’m sure everyone will be dropped off, so Kiya, anytime you wanna figure this puzzle out, I’m all ears.” For a moment he just stares blankly at the recording transmission on the screen in front of him. “No pressure.”

  Once hunting out a red coated capsule and hacking it for access, Boone slides into the pilot seat and gives life to the aerial machine, lifting it off its containment holsters and exiting the city. A sense of freedom escalates over the Paragon as he patrols the skies of Brutus Superior. He is possibly the only man on the planet. The thought is both depressing and exhilarating.

  Before leaving Slarkton, Boone had downloaded co-ordinates of the scattered cities on the planet, though they are all classed as villages, remote and isolated. Dry Rock is the only colonized continent on Brutus Superior as its yearly climate is less extreme. Most other continents are ravaged by storms weekly.

  After a short while of uneventful travel across Dry Rock, another spread of civilization comes into view down in a dip of the lands below, a small village. Boone dips the capsule lower beneath the whistling winds and searches for any signs of life. Nothing, and the capsule’s readings still detect no oxygen outside. For a while he just circles the village like a preying hawk, stubbornly seeking out survivors and hoping the glinting red coat of his stolen capsule will attract any attention. But once it becomes clear that there are no living souls down there, he breaks away from his orbit of the village and heads further north toward the last village, hoping for better luck, though not expecting any.

  As expected, the next village is also devoid of any life, no trails of footprints or tracks of vehicles leading off into the stale wilderness of the desert. If only Brutus Superior had a guardian station, it would make things a lot easier to track biometric signs and locate people.

  With nothing else to do but wait for Kitera to contact him, Boone sighs and leans his head back in the seat. He has removed his helmet due to the sealed environment within the aircraft, and the air is somewhat fresher than the supply in his suit. Indolently, the Paragon watches the dusky landscape of Brutus Superior pass him by below, dry cracks riddled through the sandless stretches of rock and solid dirt. Further north from Slarkton, Dry Rock’s terrain is thick comprised of clay, similar in appearance to Mars with gaping canyons that swallow up the light from the burning skies. The rich apricot light of a moon turning overhead creates an undulating swirl of radiance that sweeps down and elongates the light cast on the scenery, and while looking directly at the moon’s surface, Boone can see dirty brown pockets of storms surging fluidly.

  As his flight meanders pointlessly back south toward Slarkton, the terrain softens back to its sandy golden deserts, and as the afternoon hot winds gain strength, the tumbling sand eddies into disorganized pools, their directions tugged one way and suddenly pulled another. This creates a rough texture to the once smooth and wavy desert. On approach, Boone decides to make the time fly as fast as he is, and cranks up the music he has stored in his datakey, going for the more trip-hop side of electronic. Once he gets bored of that, he switches the genre to the good old-fashioned rock, listening to the electric guitars and drums, and later switches to heavy metal. At one point, the bridge of the current song kicks in with a heavy bass chain, and a drumming drone fills the back of his head to a point where he questions the loudness of his earchips. He fiddles with the volume settings for a moment, and by completely turning the volume down, he recognizes that the reverberating boom is not from the instruments in the music.

  Checking his radar, he observes a large wave of energy increasing from behind, not biological or any form of aircraft, but a natural hazard. A sandstorm.

  “Fuck me!” Boone curses as he swivels his head around to catch a view. Sure enough, a wall of sand is rolling his way, picking up more and more as it tumbles like a horizontal tornado, its drone giving him chills. That thing had been creeping up on him like a silent tsunami, suspending fine particles and saltating them into a hurling mass in a strong pressure gradient. Boone’s datakey measures the sandstorm to be 5,000 feet high, a rare occurrence for the likes of Earth, but for Brutus Superior this is relatively small. Sandstorms here have been recorded to envelope the entire planet wi
thin days and last for weeks before dispersing. He hopes this storm does not develop on a global scale.

  Charging the civilian grade capsule’s shard core for maximum efficiency, Boone accelerates his speed and attempts to outrun the oncoming sandstorm, but even with his speeds at max, it continues to gain on him. A warning prickles his skin, a warning in the form of an imaginary premonition. This storm is going to swallow him up whole. He cannot divert course to escape its width as it is too wide and approaching too quickly, and he cannot escape over it as this capsule is not rated for space. Going by his readings, that wall of sand is growing in ferociousness, both height and width. Right now it is hard to tell if this is just a natural phenomenon or a distortion. Either way, he better hold onto his butt and possibly kiss it goodbye.

  “Uh, Houston, we have a big-ass problem,” he relays a recording back to Slarkton to where it will be diverted onward to Altair. “Incoming sandstorm, not sure if it’s natural or a distortion, but it’s a big motherfucker. Dropping a beacon.” And as he says this, he drops a beacon coded in the transmission. If this monster gets him, at least they will know where to find his body. “You know, you’re supposed to check the weather forecast before dropping the kids off at school.”

  With that out of the way, Boone morphs his helmet back over his head and concentrates on piloting the capsule, for the moment managing to out-fly the sandstorm like a bug refusing to be swatted. If this sandstorm is a distortion, there is no way of telling how powerfully crushing its pressure will be once it envelopes him, or if it even has the usual characteristics of a sandstorm at all. For all he knows, the damn thing could have a black hole in its centre.