Road to Abaddon

by Vincent Heeringa

  Agassi handed an envelope to the guard, saying: “The girl is to join Xerxes. Take her there with these instructions.”

  Then she stood and smiled at Tria. “I’m sorry. I’ve barely had a chance to talk to you Private Baptiste, but you’re being promoted to Private First Class. Congratulations. You’re to join Xerxes to assist with the attack on Abaddon. Moreover, and I’m sorry we don’t have time for ceremony, please stand.”

  Tria looked puzzled. She shuffled out of the booth and stood next to the tall woman who produced a large silver medal from her pocket and pinned it to Tria’s chest.

  “Patria Baptiste, I award this you this medallion for outstanding bravery and for eighteen years of faithful service. You are a great servant of Metricia,” and then she and the guard bowed deeply.

  Jonah didn’t quite know what to do, so he clapped. Tria looked flummoxed. She fondled the medal and looked lost in thought, then saluted the Commander. “Thank you. It’s wonderful. I can’t wait to show Juan.”

  Agassi coughed uncomfortably.

  Then turning to Jonah she said: “Well! I guess this is it for now.”

  “What do you mean?” Jonah exclaimed. “I’m coming with you to Abaddon, aren’t I?”

  “I imagine not,” said Tria, looking at Agassi, who shook her head.

  “We have other plans for you,” she said.

  Jonah was stunned. He looked at Tria and began to protest but she smiled sadly and placed an index finger on his chin, closing his mouth. “We’re soldiers, Jonah. We don’t get to choose. I’ll see you again, I know it. I know it like I know that we’ll win, and that peace will be restored between the Metricians and the Landers. Don’t be sad.”

  Then she leaned into the booth and hugged him. “And don’t you die, Salvatore!” she whispered.

  Then she walked away. He was incredulous. She’d become a friend. They were comrades. But perhaps even more, she saved his life. What kind of person do you call that?

  A second sentry appeared from out of the gloom. Agassi gave Jonah the briefest of instructions.

  “Jonah, your role in this mission has changed to Special Ops. I thought you could take us directly to Abaddon – and you still may. But it won’t be from Atlantica, nor with the NMA. You will leave us. Where you are going none of us can come. I wish you luck. The future of this mission depends on your success. Don’t disappoint us.”

  She then spoke a short sentence to the soldier and was gone, striding away from the booth towards the blue globe. It was over so quickly. No medals for the traitor, it seems. He turned to the sentry hoping for an explanation, but an expressionless face told him everything he needed to know.

  “Time to go,” he muttered dejectedly and left the bridge.

  ◆◆◆

  The sentry simply shrugged when Jonah pressed him with questions. ‘Top secret’ obviously meant secret. Commander Agassi had given him nothing in her cryptic goodbye.

  They walked for thirty minutes through narrow passages carved by decades of sea swells. At one point they were forced to edge past a deep pond that seemed to bubble up from the cave network deep below. The walls had long since lost their plastic smell and now reeked of sea-salt and fish.

  Eventually the guard stopped at the entrance to a large cavern with rainbow-coloured walls and a smooth, arced ceiling. Light filtered through tiny gaps in the plastic roof. They must be near the surface, Jonah surmised. In the centre of the cave was a rock, the size of a small podcar, and on top of the rock, surprisingly, was a wooden hut. It looked as if it had been transplanted from an alpine village, with a pitched shingle roof and walls made of fat timber planks. A rope ladder dangled down from its front door.

  With a sharp nod the soldier indicated the hut and then departed, too fast for Jonah’s liking. He was alone. Seawater lapped the foot of the rock and the lightest of breezes carried the whiff of cedar. He’d expected something different for a special-ops headquarters – something with electricity for a start.

  He wavered, considering his options. Turn back and argue with Agassi. Stand here and inspect his navel. Or follow orders. As if I have a choice, he thought and splashed through the shallow water, grabbed the rope and scaled the ladder.

  He found himself in front of an intricately carved wooden door showing a dragon battling a snake, their bodies entwined and mouths open, full of teeth. The dragon had the advantage: its front claws gripped the serpent’s body, its fangs poised at the neck.

  Jonah pushed the door open.

  Inside it was dark and it took a moment for his eyes to adjust. The result was disappointing: bare, wooden floor boards and walls and, above, rafters opening to the stone shingles. A fabric panel hung on the back wall, adorned with a line drawing of a circle divided into three equal parts. In the centre of the hut a thin line of smoke rose from an incense stick burning on a stone plinth.

  Two people stood in the gloom. They were dressed in the simple habit of old-fashioned monks: grey robes, tied at the waist and large hoods over their heads. On their feet were furry shoes with toes so curled it almost made Jonah laugh.

  “Greetings Jonah Salvatore, son of Petreus,” said the first figure, removing his hood and revealing a young, handsome face. He smiled and bowed. “My name is Cassian and this is my master, Amma Melania, one of the Nine of Tabor.”

  Jonah mumbled a greeting, nervously eyeing the second figure, who was shorter and remained shrouded.

  “My master has something to say to you,” said Cassian.

  A long silence followed. Jonah could still hear the water lapping against the stone below and he shifted his weight anxiously. He was about to ask what the heck was going on when the elderly woman started to speak in a foreign language. Deep, guttural sounds, interwoven with sing-song notes cast a spell over Jonah. He felt himself becoming drowsy and was almost disappointed when it stopped. The young man interpreted.

  “My master Amma wants you to not be afraid. We come to bring help to you and your people. For many years we have observed the rise of the Metrician empire, and have tried to remain at peace, seeing good and bad in all. But when power grows, corruption is sure to follow like a shadow follows a man. The shadow of these times is now cast long and darkens all the people of the Earth, good and bad, slave and free."

  The young man paused and they stood for a long time before the woman resumed her sonorous speech. Again, the gentle tone, sending Jonah almost to sleep.

  “Some years ago,” the man interpreted, “your father, Petreus, reached out to us and the Nine agreed, though not all, to join the struggle against the Shadow. I say ‘not all’ because the Darkness has not yet revealed itself fully; only some of us see it, but as through a glass darkly.

  “We don’t have much to offer. We have no weapons, nor an army. We don’t have advanced technology or spies that can foretell where the Shadow moves next. But we do have a skill that may prove useful. It’s not something we can give away or teach, but we give it freely.”

  The woman pulled back the hood revealing a face weathered by sun and age. Deep, inky lines formed an asterisk tattoo on her forehead.

  “So, what is it, this thing?” said Jonah.

  “It’s this!” she said in English and with an athleticism that caught Jonah by surprise she jumped forward and threw her arms around him. Her hood fell over both their heads and they plunged into darkness and were knocked off their feet. Jonah screamed, expecting to crash against the cabin floor but instead somersaulted and began tumbling, head over heels. He tried to push the woman away but his arms had no strength. Over and over they turned and a strong wind suddenly blew, high pitched and cold. It was hard to tell what was up or down or which direction the wind was coming from, or even if it was really wind at all. It felt more like a pulsing, as if the air was vibrating with something. Like voices. Or singing. It sounded like a chant that swelled in volume and in pitch, but he couldn’t discern the words.

  The tumbling slowed and he felt as if he was floating, or maybe falling, like a s
heet that settles on a soft bed. They fell for a long time, while the chanting rose and fell. He felt drowsy and closed his eyes.

  It was cold when he awoke and he was in a different place entirely.

  Chapter 20 Nassim’s escape

  She is lying on a featureless salt-flat, where the white Earth blazes into a shimmering horizon. Overhead, white clouds billow into pillows where giants lay their heads and grimace at the show that’s on display below. Now comes the man with snakehead. He’s dressed in white but his head is thick with golden scales and dark beads for eyes. A black tongue tests the air and she tries to scream but only air comes out. Lizards with human hands pull her manacles and the man-snake grins, revealing silver fangs. Then he stoops and stretches his jaws as if to bite. But from behind there comes a roar. The man-snake recoils as a magnificent winged-lion rears, its claws flailing. The lizards scatter. With a powerful flick of its tail, the Lion lifts Nassim onto its back and they ascend, beating clouds of sand into the man-snake’s face. “I love you,” whispers the lion before everything fades white.

  Nassim woke with a start.

  She was on a bed, secured by thin cables around her wrists. It was a hospital by the looks, with the smell of cleaning products and stiff white sheets. White furniture on white floors and glistening chrome devices completed the picture. She wasn’t alone. Other beds, as many as seven or eight, were filled with sleeping bodies. The light was low and she guessed it was night, though the long room had no windows.

  It took her a while to separate her dream from this reality, her mind was such a mess of sedatives and fear. The last she recalled was seeing Jonah and Grace pulled from the crowd on the tarmac followed by rough handling and a visit to a doctor with a needle – the snake-man, she figured. Nassim shuddered. There was also a nagging memory of being rescued by Jonah, of him cradling her and saying something, but there she went, messing around with dreams again.

  How long had she been sedated? Nassim examined her body and found no signs of surgery or damage. In fact, she felt well and noticed with a thrill that her hand slipped through the cable with ease. Perhaps they’re not used to tying up skinny kids, she thought, and slithered out of bed to crouch on the cold, clean floor. Her filthy, desert clothes were gone, replaced by a soft pink smock that rustled as she crept to the bed besides. A young man, no older than Wadid, snored heavily. He muttered as she checked his face. She snuck from bed to bed and soon found Wadid. Covering his mouth she woke him. His eyes went wide with the fright.

  “Are you drugged?” she whispered, releasing her hand.

  He shook his head. “I seem okay. You?”

  “I had the strangest dream involving a flying lion and a snake but otherwise I feel fine. We’ve got to get out of here.”

  Wadid’s hands were too big to slip the cable but it was poorly attached to the wall and, with a strong pull, it dislodged. “Must get that seen too next time the builder’s in,” she muttered.

  “Hey!” a hoarse whisper came from the other side of the room. Nassim froze.

  “Hey, over here. Help me.” A boy, perhaps fifteen years old with a round face and thick black hair, sat up and waved his wrist.

  “Leave him,” she hissed.

  But Wadid was already yanking the cable from the wall and the boy, leaping out of bed extended a short, stocky arm. “Thanks! I’m Afiz. I’ve been awake for hours wondering what to do. I was too scared to say anything but then I saw what you ...”

  “I’m awake too,” said another voice, this time a girl, close to Nassim.

  “And me.”

  “And me too.”

  Suddenly the room was filled with noise. Children held up their wrists or got out of bed pulling the cables from the wall.

  Nassim looked around in panic, eyeing the door for guards. “This is out of control,” she hissed, grabbing Wadid by the arm. “We need a plan!”

  All told, seven children crouched in their hospital smocks by Nassim’s bed: Afiz, Wadid, a blonde boy of about twelve, a girl with ringlets about ten, and twin girls, with dark lines under their eyes and long, black hair. Nassim guessed they were about nine.

  “The doors are locked and there are cameras everywhere,” she whispered, pointing to the tiny dome in the centre of the ceiling. “The guards must be asleep or we would’ve been jumped by now. We need to think about this. Ideas anyone?”

  They all spoke at once, with plans to crash through the doors or build a bomb or tie sheets into a rope. Afiz waved them all silent. “Listen, I’ve been here for days. They come in every morning, with food and needles. They only bring one guard. The guardhouse is just on the other side of those doors. I’ve seen it when they took me to some kind of lab. I’m pretty sure you can get to the outside from there.”

  “What do you think we should do?” asked the twelve-year-old boy. He had a tuft of hair standing up from his blonde head.

  “What’s your name, Scruff?” asked Afiz gently.

  “I’m … I’m … I can’t remember my name.” The boy looked at them with wide, brown eyes. He looked ready to cry.

  “Well, I tell you what. Your name is now Scruff,” and Afiz rubbed his hair to make it even messier. “Here’s what’s going to happen. We return to our beds and wait. Whoever gets visited first has to create a distraction, like an emergency or something and then, while they’re busy, we’ll jump them!”

  Afiz slapped the back of his hand against his palm and they all jumped. “I’ll take the guard, okay? Hopefully we’ll get the gun and then...” he dropped off, not sure there really was much more of a plan to tell.

  They looked at one another and nodded. Scruff gave Afiz a hug and the three girls nodded solemnly.

  It took all of Nassim’s courage to climb back into her bed and lie still, waiting like a sheep. She shot a glance at Wadid whose eyes were shut and lips were moving.

  He’s praying, she thought. Now’s there’s a turn of events.

  ◆◆◆

  A click and a whir of the doors woke her. She’d slept! She chided herself as a trolley floated in and behind it came a female nurse followed by a guard.

  Then a commotion started. It was the boy, Scruff. He was feigning a fit, tossing head, eyes wide like a lunatic, “No, no, no, not me! Not me!” he shouted. It worked a treat. The guard turned his back to the rest of the room and suddenly Afiz was on him, his strong arms around his neck while Wadid snatched the laser from his hand and pointed it directly at the man’s chest. Nassim scragged the nurse from behind and pinned her to the ground. By now the rest of the gang had set upon the guard and knocked him to the floor.

  “Stand back!” barked Afiz, who had grabbed the gun from Wadid and without a flinch shot the man in the chest. Then he spun around and pointed the gun at the nurse.

  “You will do exactly as we say.”

  She nodded and whimpered beneath Nassim’s knee.

  By the time she’d led them into the main corridor, past the empty guard room, she too was unconscious, splayed out with a red lump on the back of her head. Nassim regarded his violence with awe. “Child’s play,” Afiz said flatly. She wondered what kind of childhood he’d had.

  They followed Afiz’s squat frame to a stairwell and then up five flights to reach a platform with windows looking out onto an asphalt landing-pad.

  “Well, what do you know,” muttered Nassim.

  Parked on the tarmac was a dirigible with four huge rotors and a basket spiked with guns. Its helium-filled balloon swayed gently in the desert breeze and had a yellow smiley face.

  “Have a happy day,” read Scruff.

  ◆◆◆

  The arrival of the Baldie’s airship took Commander Walshe by surprise. The perimeter fence had been effective against Landers for almost three years but this was an innovation. Flying machines were unknown in these parts.

  He was curious, even though the bald leader disgusted him. All mutants did, but this petty tyrant was the worst kind. A pig of a man, who’d sell his own mother for the right price, M
anchester Jones also had a reputation for vindictiveness – the very traits Walshe needed to maintain the supply of fresh meat for Abaddon’s experiments. What’s this old dog up to, he wondered as he strode out with an armed guard besides him.

  Baldie and four mutants leapt from the descending ship.

  “Greetings Mr. Jones. You’re lucky I’m in a good mood. According to the rule book I should have shot your vehicle out of the Metrician airspace,” said Walshe.

  Baldie tilted his head sideways and squinted at the Metrician.

  “Actually, Commander Walshe, I think you’re the lucky man. Lucky that I’m so forgiving,” his voiced growled mechanically.

  “How so?”

  “This,” he said, carelessly tipping out a bag of gold coins that tinkled on to the baking asphalt.

  The soldiers shifted nervously.

  “You’ve engaged in some white-collar crime, Commander. Some people call it fraud. Most call it thieving.”

  “What are you talking about, Jones?”

  “I’m talking about an unfair transaction. I bring you fresh meat, unsullied by disease, untouched by human hands etcetera, etcetera, and you give me fake gold.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You heard me right, Walshe. This gold is counterfeit. It’s alloy. When I tried to exchange it for bounty I was laughed out of Cairo. So, I’m here to re-collect my debt.”

  Baldie paused, looking at Walshe’s face for signs of guilt. None showed. He continued. “As I say, I’m a forgiving man. ‘No,’ I said to myself, ‘Manchester, it’s possible that our friend Walshe has himself been duped, so let’s give him the benefit of the doubt, and just ask for proper payment. And perhaps a small premium for the humiliation.”

  Walshe snorted. “This is preposterous. You’re accusing Metricia of fraud?” Walshe was nervous. He knew the gold was an alloy. Gold was one of the many things Metricia had trouble sourcing. But this was not the time to confess that fake-gold fuelled Metricia’s enterprise the world over.