Pearseus Bundle: The Complete Pearseus Sci-fi/Fantasy Series

by Nicholas C. Rossis

  She spotted Lehmor under her window, rushing a group of armed First towards the gate. “What’s happening?” she yelled, but the sound of horns drowned out her voice. She was about to spin around to get dressed, when a movement from the forest caught her eye. Is the forest moving? For a moment she thought that the low light in the horizon had caused her to imagine things. The very undergrowth of the woods seemed alive, a swelling wave of flesh rushing towards them. A group of warriors clamped the reinforced outer gates shut just as one by one the horns started dying out, farthest to closest. Brief screams sounded in the distance, replaced by eerie silence.

  Malekshei stood still, the very night holding its breath. The wave of flesh finally reached its thick walls and crushed against it with a thousand deafening shrieks that caused her to recoil in terror. Oh my Lady! She ventured towards the window again. Green spots penetrated the darkness and raised goose-bumps. She gazed upon the sickly green eyes of the thousands of Fallen surrounding them and brought her hand to her mouth to muffle a terrified cry.

  The noise had woken up her wailing daughter, and she took her in her arms, shushing her as she walked back to the window. Her thoughts rushed to David as she slammed the shutters shut and hurried back to bed. Our lives are in his hands. The door creaked behind her, and she stole a startled glance at Valentiner, standing in the opening.

  “They’re here,” the girl said.

  “It’s going to be alright, honey,” Moirah lied.

  Valentiner shook her head. “No. They found me. They came for me.” She ran to Moirah and put her hands around her, burying her head in Moirah’s lap.

  No, Moirah thought. She ran her fingers through the girl’s fine hair and rubbed her back, in a vain attempt to console her. They didn’t come for you. They came for us all.

  Chamber of Justice, the Capital

  Cyrus

  “Angel?” Cyrus tried to focus. A limping shadow moved before him. His brow furrowed as he recognized the man standing before him. “Ah, it’s you” he said.

  “Yes, Your Grace,” answered Teo’s honeyed voice as he slid closer.

  “What do you want? Where’s Angel? I have something to tell her,” Cyrus mumbled, then he stared at Teo as if seeing him for the first time. “No, stay. I’ve got something for you, too.”

  “So do I.”

  “I’m making peace. I’ve had it with all the killings. So much death. To hell with Anthea, the North, everything. I mean, what’s the point anyway?”

  “To keep everyone safe. That’s why I won you this war.”

  Cyrus cackled. “And what a great job we’ve done, haven’t we? My sister’s terrified of me, the voices tell me what to do and I’ve driven away everyone I’ve ever loved.” He paused and stared at his recording crystal, glowing softly in the dark. “And all to wear this damned thing around my neck.” He sighed, pulling at the chain. “It’s not a gift. It’s a noose. What do we do all these terrible things for, Teo?”

  Teo stayed silent, limping his way behind the desk.

  Cyrus grinned, surprised at his mind’s clarity; a feeling he had not enjoyed in a very long time. All the darkness had left him; even his constant headache was gone. His body felt drugged by the wine, but a fog had lifted from his mind. “I’ve fought and I’ve killed and I’ve ruled. I own half the world. Why isn’t it enough? Will it ever be? Can it?”

  “It is as you say, Grace,” Teo mumbled and stood right next to him. He seemed troubled, fiddling with something in his hands. His face lit up at the sound of a soft click.

  “I mean, throughout my life, I’ve had so much pain and fear,” Cyrus continued. “I’ve worked hard to get here. I’ve fought wars and I’ve defeated my enemies. But my soul never rests, and my mind never sleeps, even at night.” He sighed and his head dropped heavily back. “Perhaps the best thing is to enjoy what we do, cause it’s all we have. I mean, no-one knows their future. We could all be dead by tomorrow.”

  “You are very astute, Your Grace,” Teo said and leaned towards him.

  “All I ever wanted was for the fear to end. I never want to be scared again. Will you help me do that?”

  “I promise you’ll never be afraid again.” Teo’s sweaty palm clutched the gun.

  Cyrus caught a glimpse of his weapon in Teo’s hand. “Ah, my gun. Thank you, Teo.” He nodded at the open drawer. “Would you…”

  Teo shook his head and smiled sweetly. “No, Your Grace.” Very gently, he placed it on Cyrus’s temple, pushing a strand of dirty hair away with the barrel. “Not this time.”

  A rush of adrenaline shot through Cyrus’s body. He jerked up, but the metal scratching against his head made him freeze. “What are –”

  “Shh, it’s alright. Think about it. You’ll finally get the peace you crave. And I’ll get what I want.”

  Cyrus made an angry gesture towards the crystal. “That? You can have it any time.”

  Teo ignored him. “It’s funny; I always thought I’d rule over Anthea first, then over the world. Not the other way around.”

  “Anthea? You’d kill me over some backwater village?”

  A cruel smile crept on Teo’s lips. “My village. My world. Now, any final words?”

  He must be finding it hard to murder me in cold blood, Cyrus thought. Then, he heard a whisper in the room, like so many other times. Only, this time it was not talking to him. You’ve already gone too far. There can be no turning back now a voice hissed in Teo’s ear.

  Cyrus gulped. He pretended to resign to his fate and leaned back, then screamed at the top of his voice. “Guards! Guards!” He stiffened at Teo’s cackle.

  “There’s no-one out there. They think you’re already dead.”

  “What have you done?” Cyrus said through clenched teeth.

  “Not much, compared to what I’m about to do. You have to admit it’s only fair, though. After all, I’m only doing to you what you did to your predecessor.” He cast a nervous glance towards the door.

  The accusation took Cyrus’s breath away. Styx had tried to murder both him and his father. His mother had killed herself because of the justice. How could Teo compare him to her? “That was different,” he protested.

  Teo shrugged. “If you say so.” His finger squeezed the trigger and the gun jerked in his hand. Part of Cyrus’s head exploded, spraying the room with blood. Teo stepped back, trying to avoid the spray, a look of disgust mixed with triumph on his pudgy face as a crimson jet splashed against his cheek.

  Was he always this ugly? Cyrus thought, and part of his shot brain laughed. What if this is the last thought I ever make? The room around him came to life. He ignored the movement of smoky tendrils and the mocking red eyes, fascinated by an orb of light that materialised in the middle of the room. It seemed oddly familiar and he stared at it as he crashed onto the floor.

  Dad?

  He heard the answer in his mind. Don’t be afraid, son. Everything’s gonna be alright.

  What now, Dad?

  One world at a time, son. It’s not your time yet.

  The promise relaxed him and he let himself sink to a dark, warm, welcoming sea. The last thing his injured brain registered was a door bursting open. It sounded far, far away. People filled the room to stand around him. Teo knelt next to him, wailing loudly. “His sister shot him. I tried to help him, but was too late. He died in my arms,” he told them, sobbing.

  Someone knelt beside him and examined him with feverish hands. “He’s not dead yet,” a voice said, trembling with excitement. “But we must hurry! Take him to the med-bay!”

  Who is he talking to? Cyrus wondered. It all seemed so far away, so unimportant. He felt a jerk as invisible hands lifted him in desperate hurry.

  “One moment!” Teo’s voice sounded like a growl. Cyrus moaned as a hand pried away the glowing crystal from his neck. He felt more than saw Teo place it around his thick neck. “His wish was that I become Regent in his stead.”

  PEARSEUS:

  VIGIL

  Introduction
>
  “Pity is treason.”

  Maximilien Robespierre

  City of Oras

  Pratin

  A nearby explosion echoed in the corridor. The underground passage trembled, dust sifting from the ceiling. Pratin leaned on the wall to steady himself, dusting off the soil that came loose to land on his grey robe. He coughed to clear his clogged throat. A dozen clones rushed behind him towards the illusion room, drawn weapons in their hands.

  “You!” Pratin shouted. “Report!” A clone fell behind, his eyes an eerie blue. Tattooed demons escaped the confines of his red leather vest, coming to life with every flex of his muscles. The hungry fire playing in the man’s eyes unnerved even Pratin, their creator. A fire that only grew with death.

  “We have killed all the Iotas we’ve located,” the man said, his voice soft, unemotional. “A hundred survivors are trapped in the illusion room.”

  “Oran,” Pratin guessed.

  “He’s among the survivors, along with half the Servants.”

  Pratin motioned the clone to move on. The icy flames in the man’s eyes grew as he dashed off to join the battle. Oran should not be underestimated. The man had survived the terraforming of their planet. The element of surprise was the only thing that had allowed Pratin’s plan to succeed so far.

  He spun around and headed towards the matrix room, where the original bodies of all Iotas were stored. He had no qualm killing Iotas; their genetic material was safely stored away, ready to produce countless copies. The fact that only a thousand of them were around at any time had been the product of a conscious decision. A foolish decision that Pratin had grown to loathe. One he had sworn to overturn. We are the real rulers of this planet. Us! Not the Orbs, nor the Newcomers.

  The explosions and sounds of battle faded away as he hurried down the corridors leading to the most secure part of their city. Once his secret army had been unleashed, their first action had been to secure this area from the Servants, the administrators responsible for running the daily affairs of the city. He had spent centuries designing the perfect warriors. The men who would help him fix every injustice, stop every war. Those who would finally return the Iotas to their rightful place, as owners of the planet.

  He paused by a basin on a simple ground wall, where two clones watched him with unmoving eyes. He sunk his hand into the shallow water inside and felt around, until his fingers found a hidden indentation at its bottom. A swift jerk of his finger, and part of the wall shimmered away to reveal an opening. As soon as he passed through it, the wall reappeared behind him.

  Lights flickered on as he stepped into a spotless room. A dozen pods lined each wall. A faint light illuminated those on his left. He ran his finger on the thick membrane of the first pod, and part of its opaque surface turned transparent, to reveal Oran’s face.

  “I’m sorry, old friend,” he told the immobile body. “If only you’d listen to me, it wouldn’t have to be this way.” No light shone from the pods on his right. Pratin nodded towards them. “If I don’t do this, this is the future that awaits all of us. I wish you could see that. We must progress, or perish. It is unnatural to stand still.”

  He crossed to a small white desk at the end of the room. It seemed to grow from the wall, like a tree or a root. Only its perfect symmetry and fine engravings revealed its man-made origins. As soon as he approached, a seat grew from the ground, like a plant sprouting from a seed. He sat himself on it, allowing it to follow the contours of his body. Illusion room, he thought, and an image of the room hovered before him on the desk. Full immersion? The question echoed in his mind. Visual only. He had no wish to smell charred bodies or the metal stink of blood.

  Broken bodies littered the room. Oran and some fifty Iotas were hiding behind various barriers facing the door. Vicious red streaks of light flew around them. A terrible explosion blinded Pratin for a moment, as a hundred more clones poured from the doors, shooting at the defenders. Did he have enough men to take over the city? Casualties, he thought, and a soft voice murmured in his head: “Oras or foreign?” Both.

  Bodies and warriors shone briefly on the desk, then the voice spoke again. Oras: nine hundred and seventy three. Foreign: six thousand eight hundred and eight.

  He swore under his breath. Even with the element of surprise, he had lost almost seventy percent of his force. If it went on like this, he would barely have enough men for the attack on Malekshei. Five hundred clones were already there, escorting almost a thousand Fallen, but his army grew slowly. It had taken him years to grow it to its present size, and would take him months to replace each casualty.

  A dozen clones jumped over Oran’s barrier and charged him. Pratin focused his eyes on the scene and the image zoomed in. The old man swung under a fiery blade. He plunged his own sword into one of the attackers. Spinning so fast that he became a blur on the desk, he disembowelled two more and jumped behind them, to take cover as a nearby explosion sent debris to fly around. He avoided another thrusting blade, but was momentarily distracted by the cries of another Iota, giving the remaining clones a chance to close in.

  They charged him simultaneously, closing in around him. Oran ducked and turned to avoid their attacks. He kicked one of them, sending him to fly into the air, then jumped over a clone’s head. His feet kicked a man into a blade. Spinning around, he used an assailant’s back to propel himself at another attacker. With a flick of Oran’s wrist, the man dropped, blood jetting from his neck. His gurgling screams soon died out.

  Pratin zoomed out and isolated a group of clones who had just barrelled into the hall. You! He knew they heard him, because they froze in their tracks, awaiting his command. He made sure to close all sensory information except for visual, before projecting the image of Oran fighting their brethren in their minds. Fire at will.

  A dozen clones took aim and fired at the same time. Oran whipped his head at them a split second before the resulting blast rocked the room. He jumped into the air as the blast incinerated the clones around him. The force of the explosion sent him flying. His body crashed against the wall and onto the floor. His limbs had taken an unnatural position, but he raised a flaming blade to meet the charging clones. One of them chopped his hand off, the blade extinguishing itself before it even hit the ground. Oran’s mouth opened in a silent scream. Pratin felt grateful that he could neither hear him, nor smell the burning flesh of his brothers. A dozen more blades plunged into Oran’s body, until only a bloodied mess remained of the old man.

  Pratin brought a trembling fist to his mouth. Casualties, he thought again as the clones stormed off to finish off the rest of the Iotas. Both.

  “Oras: nine hundred and ninety one. Foreign: seven thousand and eleven.”

  He watched with a stony face as an endless stream of clones rushed into the hall to swallow the eight remaining Iotas. His trembling lips whispered the next words. “Casualties. Both.”

  Oras: nine hundred and ninety nine. Foreign: seven thousand one hundred and fifty one.

  He let out a soft sob as he leaned back on the soft chair. It shifted its form under his weight, to support his head. It’s done. I’m the only Iota left in the world. What would happen if I killed myself right here and now?

  He shook the thought away and gave the clones the order to clean up the blood-covered bodies. He had no wish to step into rivers of blood when he left the room. The men immediately started dragging corpses away and disposing of them.

  The chair disappeared back into the ground as he raised himself on trembling legs. His stomach felt queasy. He fought the urge to heave. On his way out, he passed Oran’s pod. A blinking light over it indicated that the death protocol had been initiated. Oran’s consciousness was being transferred to the mainframe until uploaded into a new body. What would happen if Pratin interrupted the procedure? Perhaps Oran’s latest incarnation would be forgotten. He would have no memory of the atrocity Pratin committed. A tempting thought.

  Pratin had no idea how to do that, though. The protocol had been desig
ned by Oran himself countless aeons ago, and Pratin had never found out much about it. He could not interrupt it without risking everyone’s lives.

  A wave of nausea hit him again, and he leaned on Oran’s pod to steady himself. The surface turned transparent, bringing them face to face.

  “Don’t judge me,” he screamed at the still body. “I did it for all of us. You’ll thank me some day! You’ll…” His words were cut short by the rumblings in his stomach, that hurled its contents to splash against the pod.

  Part one

  “Getting caught up in style and throwing away victory is something for the lower ranks to do. Captains can't even think about doing such a carefree thing. Don't try to be a good guy. It doesn't matter who owes who. From the instant they enter into a war, both sides are evil.”

  Shunsui Kyōraku Bleach

  July 307

  Chamber of Justice, the Capital

  Angel

  “Welcome, my Lord!”

  Angel shot a venomous look at Xhi, who had doubled up in his effort to bow. Ignoring her, her jailor fished the key to her cell out of his pocket.

  Teo extended his arm and palmed it. “Leave us.”

  Xhi rushed out the door so fast, that he bumped his elbow on the hard wood. He grunted and rubbed his arm as he shut the door behind him.

  Teo shuffled across the floor, glancing into the empty cells. When he reached Angel’s cell, he toyed with the key for a moment before pushing it into the keyhole.

  “You’d like your freedom, wouldn’t you?” he asked, his stubby fingers holding the key, but not turning it.

  “Did you kill my brother?” she hissed, ignoring the question.