by Dan O'Brien
Marlowe circled close to the fell beast.
It groaned, insects and carrion creatures scurrying from the wound. Their sounds and gestures alien to Marlowe. He looked at the building. A great spotlight roamed across Orion, casting a shadow across him and his gravibike. Insects moved with men. The bay doors now seemed a bitter invitation to Marlowe.
He welcomed it all the same.
Gunning the bike forward, the turbines screamed as he approached the open door. Running his hands across the monitor, he engaged the spherical shielding. The whitish field encased Marlowe like a transparent egg. Bursts ricocheted off the field as Marlowe neared the open bay door.
He pressed harder, lowering his head.
The interior of the building was filled with soldiers, standing shoulder to shoulder. Shots rebounded in the night, some catching OrionCorps soldiers and others destroying the tattered buildings of Orion. Passing beneath the arch, he saw the full scale of the welcome that was sent to greet him.
They had sent an army.
Marlowe grasped in his right hand an ionic assault rifle from the side of the gravibike. Blade in his left hand, he stood up on the bike. It careened forward at breakneck speeds. Locking the controls, he pushed himself from the seat in a controlled leap behind the trajectory of the bike. The defensive shielding disengaged as his body catapulted through the air. His muscles reacted, fluids pulsing through him.
The bike continued forward, bouncing off the ground and taking out several soldiers before it rose again. Skidding recklessly through the throng of soldiers, it collided into the wall in a smoky mess, trapping many of them behind it.
Marlowe touched the ground and rolled. His body was a machine of perfection as he sprung to his feet and into motion. Lashing out viciously with his blade, he slashed a soldier in half. Spinning, he unloaded a salvo of bursts from the assault rifle. The emerald bursts were like a tidal wave slamming against the wall of warriors.
To him, they seemed lethargic.
For each of their steps, he took twenty.
The world had slowed to a crawl.
He was deaf to the sounds. His body was electrified, as if infused with sudden power. Hacking and blasting, he carved a path through the men.
He breathed out and the world returned.
Screams and scorching blasts echoed in his ears. Smoke and debris filled his lungs as he craned his neck around the corner of the wall he had ducked behind. It was a brightly lit graveyard. Some men still stood, but most had fallen or now walked as only pieces of what they had been.
Waves of paranoia slammed against his mind.
His insides swam manically. He watched as the soldiers staggered, falling to the side of their fallen brethren. Then they returned: the voices. They were a horrifying symphony that attacked his mind all at once. Powerful and haunting, it rang in his ears, a thousand voices speaking as one. He fell to his knees, the sounds of their collective scream deafening.
His eyes clouded.
Opening his mouth, his throat felt raw.
“Marlowe.” The voice sounded familiar, small and demure. “Marlowe.”
He tried to struggle to his feet, staggering forward a few steps. Falling again, he felt a flush across his body. The voice was closer now, decidedly feminine.
“Marlowe….”
She knelt beside him.
Her slender hands grasped his larger face, sweaty and bloodstained. He lifted his eyes and met her gaze. “Dana.”
Her big eyes took him in.
He fell inside them, drifting in the pools of gray and green. “I thought you were going to find me, come back for me?”
He gestured to the collective madness. “I was busy at the moment,” he joked, the world spinning wildly out of control.
She nuzzled underneath his head.
“I had to find you.”
He swallowed hard, choking for a moment.
“Sorry, I was getting around to it.”
She squeezed her eyes shut.
She pouted. “Never again.”
Marlowe could feel his reasoning being restored. The voices, though ever-present, did not draw his attention. Their skittering bodies conjoined with the dead; it was repulsive, yet he felt in control––at least for the moment.
“Never again what?” he echoed hoarsely.
She pulled closer, tears staining his already stained trench. “I won’t stay behind, never again. I go with you, wherever you go. Promise me. I go wherever you go,” she ordered, her voice breaking.
He looked out across the hall at the outer bay door.
They were all dead, or dying.
He had killed them all.
Their deaths were a rushed memory nearly covered by the passing moment. Bile rose in his throat; he felt sick. “I promise,” he replied.
She hugged harder. “Swear.”
Marlowe sighed, the sickness passing for now. “I swear that I will never leave you behind again, Dana. Wherever I go, you go. And so it follows that wherever you go, so must I,” he answered, his body still racing, charging ahead.
He knew it was not over.
XIII
A
rmon had made it as far as the 4th floor when he heard the chaotic battle. He watched as the legions passed him by, charging off to join their fallen friends.
Marlowe had come prepared. He had underestimated the man. It was as simple as that. Armon had never misjudged a man before.
His body armor was illuminated along his forearm, a blue holograph flashing to life. “Brother Armon?” called the voice. A shrouded head appeared from the holographic simulator on his left forearm.
Armon looked around him, making sure there was no one around. Pushing through a door into a darkened boardroom, he disappeared from the floor. “Lord Niehl, things are far too dangerous for such communications,” replied Armon, his characteristic charm dissipated.
The hooded features hid more darkness.
Deeper there were silver eyes, slivers that watched the assassin carefully. “The time has passed for such contrivances, Brother Armon. The danger now is in what you hunt,” spoke Niehl, his voice grandfatherly.
Armon visibly bristled.
“I will capture him, Lord Niehl.”
The voice was soothing, though slyly accusatory. “I have nothing but faith in your ability, Brother Armon. However, the murder of a fellow brother, of a child of Babylon, will have consequences.”
The line of Armon’s mouth paled.
“It was only what was required.”
“We are above such things, Brother Armon. You may kill the Orionians as you see fit, but the death of a Brother or Sister is not necessary. Brother Roth, though careless and greedy, was one of us. You will have to answer for his removal.”
Armon tilted his head, flexing his neck.
The muscles there were coiled, veins pulsating as he peered at the cerulean image. “What of Alexander Marlowe? He threatens the Lurking Project, the very fabric of Orion. Am I to answer before he is found?”
Lord Niehl’s features, though concealed, were no doubt a vicious smile. “Marlowe is your objective. Allow nothing to stand in your path. However, leave Babylonians to the Congress. Those matters are for all of us to decide, not one man alone. Not even a man as extraordinary as yourself.”
“It was never my intention…”
Lord Niehl’s voice silenced him. “Excuses do not become you, Brother Armon. Marlowe should be captured if possible and catalogued once more. The mission of Cerulean Dreams must remain intact.”
“And if he resists?”
Lord Niehl’s sigh was born of irritation. “Then dispose of him, but retrieve what he carries. His guide, his angelic messenger, cannot be compromised. She has survived the process. We need her.”
Armon paused, thinking. “Where could they go? Orion is a puzzle box, but in time I will solve it and they will be found.”
“She will want to flee, be free. It is in our nature to want to escape,” replied Niehl.
“Perhaps, but they will try. You should not underestimate the Orionians, Brother Armon. We control them, but if they are freed, as this Marlowe is now, they can be dangerous: deadly and powerful. You would do well to remember that.”
The alarms on the floor rang out, a piercing wail.
Armon ignored it, concentrating on Lord Neil. “They are going to make a run for the gate. That is the only exit from Orion.”
The alarms thundered behind Armon, though Lord Niehl’s words were not lost on him. “They may already be there, Brother Armon.”
*
Marlowe flattened himself along the wall.
The connecting corridor between the outer bay doors and the open gate that led to the desert was a rectangular shaft that delved deep into the earth. The walls were heated enough that Marlowe had to shed his trench. The opaque body armor he wore glistened with sweat.
Dana crept beside him, hiding in his much larger shadow. She held his handgun in both of her hands loosely, dangling. He had suggested she carry a weapon, lest she need it and not have it.
“It’s oppressive in here,” she whined.
Marlowe looked at her. Her hair was darkened in places and long strands were plastered against her face. “I guess it’s a little warm,” he replied with a cracked smile.
She gave him a mock disapproving glare.
“How much farther?”
Marlowe tried to remember the schematics that Pharaoh had described. “This corridor runs for some time and then opens up into the atrium that flows into the gate. How long do you think we have been walking?”
She wiped her hair back with her hand. The gun hung heavily in her other hand. “Feels like hours….”
The interior of the hallway was damp, the air dense. The corridor moved into a decline, the slick surface beneath their feet quickly becoming treacherous. “Watch your step, Dana, this floor is not entirely fit for…”
The last of his words collapsed into an outraged cry as he slid forward. Dana was right behind him, pulled down with the lummox. The walls rushed around them; they tumbled as one, making their descent a silvery flash of light. As the corridor thinned and bottomed out, the pair found themselves thrown onto the ground in a heap. Their collective sigh of frustration echoed in the chamber.
The ceiling was high and domed.
A warm breeze passed over them, and then another. Each succeeding waft of air was progressively hotter, a portent of the arid air beyond the gate. Marlowe stood first, a grimace of pain spread across his features as he stretched his arm out.
“It appears our trek was cut short,” he remarked, squeezing his arm. The gate was an archaic metallic structure that opened outwards. Massive pistons and hinges lined the door. A ring at its center, rusted and bronzed, announced its function. Dana looked past him at the door, her wide eyes pooled.
“We are so close to freedom.”
A flash of shadow drew Marlowe’s attention. Flickering half-creatures skittered across the walls, their empty gazes watching the warrior. Some had jaws missing, others holes where their eyes rightfully should be. But no matter their appearance, Marlowe had begun to understand what their presence meant: danger.
They were a warning.
“Dana,” he spoke.
Armon was already upon the girl, the slender musculature of his arm rippling beneath his sleeve as he wrapped a hand around her ivory neck. “I am afraid that I cannot allow you to leave Orion, Alexander Marlowe. Your continued presence within these walls is something of a collective requirement,” announced Armon grandiosely, his trademark smile carving his mocha features.
Dana moaned, her eyes screaming.
The handgun slipped from her fingers. The dull echo of the metal striking the floor was hollow in Marlowe’s ears. She stared at Marlowe pleadingly.
Marlowe took a step forward.
Armon drew her tighter.
The thin spine of steel that expelled from his arm peeked from atop his forearm. Its tip gleamed in the artificial lights of the atrium. “I do not think it is necessary to have the predictable dialogue about taking another step, do you?”
Marlowe grimaced, his cheeks flexing and his hands wringing against one another. He gritted his teeth. “How do you know who I am?”
Armon moved to the side, taking Dana with him. “Orion is abuzz with the wayward adventures of Alexander Marlowe and his angel. Though I am afraid this is where the journey must end. You have run long enough.”
Marlowe licked his lips, looking around the atrium for something that could help him. It was essentially a hollowed-out room with a single door and a thick electrical coil that ran across the walls like a pipe maze.
“I made a promise and I intend to keep it.”
Armon’s smile dissipated. “What promise?”
Marlowe glanced at Dana, her scared look fading.
“That I would go wherever she went.” Marlowe took another step forward, drawing his blade from around his back. “If you wish to end her life, then you will have to start with mine.”
Armon smiled and threw Dana to the side roughly. “She must be returned alive, but you can come along as a corpse,” shouted Armon, as he flashed forward, his legs pushing him into the air. The needle-like blade erupted from his arm.
Marlowe swung his blade, the point flickering as it collided against the needled weapon. Armon backed away, lowering his shoulders and his center of gravity, weapon withdrawn.
“There is no need for the theatrics of battle, Marlowe. Give yourself up and we can go along quietly, restore you to your place in Orion. Again you will sleep peacefully, again you will belong.”
Marlowe’s mind swam.
The crawling denizens covered the walls.
Their bodies were one swarming mass of arms and horrified faces that washed together in a sea of torment. Armon was not wrong. There was something to be said for no longer being part of the consciousness of Orion. He was indeed detached. “I need to see this through and not you, or anything else, will avert me from what I seek.”
“The gods do not know you, Marlowe. They do not smile upon your kind.”
Marlowe dashed forward, his blade swinging in a high arc. Armon ducked underneath it, reaching behind him along his back. He pulled the segmented steel whip section by section, the suction sound of its release loud in the atrium.
“My kind?”
Armon smiled. Snapping the whip, it cracked the smooth veneer of the floor. “Yes, your kind. They are not well received in the halls of…”
Marlowe cut him off, ramming his shoulder hard into his chest, knocking the assassin to the ground. He pushed himself from the ground with a roll, grabbing Dana in his arms. The gate swam into view, the heavy metallic ring at the center of the circular door sparkled.
“Marlowe,” whispered Dana.
The words were lost on him.
He grabbed the ring of the exit, his muscles straining against the weight of the door. A flush spread over his body, a pinpoint prick of cold shivered across his frame. Turning, Marlowe saw that the end of the segmented whip had pierced his shoulder, digging deep into the mass of muscle there.
“Not yet Orionian, we are not finished,” growled Armon.
Marlowe grabbed the steel orb at the head of the whip and grimaced. Pulling at it with a gasp, he ripped it free. A spray of blood cascaded out from the wound. “I will walk outside these walls, assassin. I will see what lies beyond.”
Dana shrunk back as a cold wind struck her from the open desert, a frigid flicker of night. “Marlowe,” she half-moaned.
The bulb fell to the ground, the serrated, triangular edge covered in a dark smear. Marlowe felt his blood rush. “You don’t want to go into the desert, assassin. That is why you try to keep us here. If we go through that door, we will not be followed. We are walking through that door. We are wa
lking through now,” replied Marlowe, turning to face Dana once more.
He grasped the ring again, feeling the pain shoot from his hand straight to the fresh wound at his back. The heat from the walls rushed against him as a cold wind slapped him against the face. Motioning for Dana, she moved past him into the free air outside of Orion.
She turned.
Her face was bright, but it quickly faded.
Marlowe closed the door, blood staining the back of his glossy body armor. He heard her cry, but it was lost through the thick construction of the door. “You and your people cannot have her back. I promised her she would get free of this place. I’ll honor that promise,” spoke Marlowe, his voice even.
Armon flicked his wrist, drawing the bulbous end of the whip to his hand. The blade was held between his middle and ring fingers. “She belongs here, Marlowe. You cannot keep her from us.”
Marlowe gripped his blade hard, feeling the wraps of the guard, the coils of the leathered cord that held together the handle. He lowered his head, feeling the stuffiness of the room: the stagnant, artificial air mixed with the desert night that had flooded in for only a moment. “She belongs where she chooses, assassin. And she does not choose this place,” roared Marlowe as he moved forward, swinging his blade in a wild, spherical arc.
Armon squatted down, rolling onto the balls of his feet and lashed his whip out viciously. The bulb and blade screamed through the air, its horrific whistle piercing. It wrapped around Marlowe’s legs, the blade digging into the back of his armor, breaking the glossy outer shell. He pulled hard with both hands on the guard of the whip, lifting Marlowe into the air.
Marlowe’s blade slipped free of his grip, digging deep into the ground. The hilt stood tall. Marlowe breathed out in surprise, the air knocked from his lungs. He heard the thudding on the atrium door.
She wished to enter the place from which she sought to be free. He saw his blade glitter far from his grasp. Blood and sweat glistened on its edge, both from his body for he had not yet spilled the blood of the smiling assassin.
Armon towered over the crumpled and tangled Marlowe. “I told you that it was you, not her, who was expendable. I could kill you where you are, Alexander Marlowe, but I have dealt out much death this day. I would rather return you to your bondage, your cell that you call life.”