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

by Nicholas C. Rossis

  “I knew you could do it,” Moirah said, her voice a mix of pride and apprehension. He hurried behind her as she vanished inside.

  City of Oras

  David

  The city was nothing like David had imagined. He had expected it to be covered in darkness, probably because of Lehmor’s descriptions of it as a subterranean space. Instead, the creamy walls emanated a warm light that gave the round corridors a soothing feel. Only the occasional dark smudge from an explosion and a few rust-coloured spots of hastily scrubbed blood betrayed the recent fighting. Twice, he came across collapsed corridors. He had no idea whether this, too, was due to battles or a natural phenomenon.

  The instructions were to filter through the city, avoiding detection for as long as possible. Lehmor had warned them of a number of possible bottlenecks, and had provided a rudimentary map. However, David soon discovered this was filled with inaccuracies. He pushed a button on his arm and a crisscross of passages hovered over it, in a soft orange glow. With a slide of his finger, it zoomed out. Just as I thought. There are two corridors here. Which one’s the right one?

  “Why are we stopping?” Cyrus asked behind him.

  David stared at the forking corridors ahead, wondering if this was where the two teams would separate. He shook his head in frustration, trying to read the map. It indicated a single corridor, but his eyes told him a different story. The corridor on the left led down, the other one up. The clone room must be farther down. That’s what Lehmor said.

  He pointed to the left and started a gentle descent. So far they had not been spotted. This made his mission – to secure the Iotas matrices – easier. Keeping to the side of the corridor, he wondered why Lehmor had insisted that David lead a dozen Dreamers to the matrix room, while he and Moirah led Azalia to the cloning room. Perhaps he doesn’t trust Azalia. He doesn’t want her responsible for the Iotas’ survival. That made sense. David did not know the woman well, but her hatred of the Iotas was evident.

  A door swished open, interrupting his thoughts. Two clones gaped at the dozen shadows storming down the corridor. One of them spun around to return to the room, no doubt to raise the alarm. David’s Sheimlek-dar fired a brutal shot. The man crashed against the wall, a smouldering hole in his back.

  The other clone fired up his rod and lunged at David. Cyrus swung around and plunged his Sheimlek into the man’s kidney. He kicked the man to free his weapon. The man clutched his side and dropped to his knees, his rod extinguished as it slipped through his fingers. Cyrus kicked him in the gut with a fury that made David blink in surprise. The man doubled over, then dropped like a puppet whose strings had been cut.

  “Nice,” a Dreamer said as she patted Cyrus’s shoulder. They pulled the two men inside the room before hurrying farther down. So far, so good.

  They reached another fork and the map pulsed to notify him they had reached a way point. “This is it,” David said and pointed to the left. “The plaza should be this way. We’ll take the other one.”

  Cyrus squeezed David’s plated shoulder. “If anything happens—”

  “No time for that. Go!” David waved him away. Cyrus hesitated for a moment, then nodded and hurried into the corridor leading to the plaza. Most of the Dreamers followed him, carrying the menacing sphere with them. Lehmor had indicated that the best place for it would be at the centre of the city, to ensure that the blast caught everyone. Not us, I hope. They would have to leave quickly, or risk getting caught in the explosion. Only the area secured by the device hanging from David’s belt would be safe. No pressure, then, he thought and chuckled nervously to himself.

  Cyrus rushed down the corridor, followed by a hundred Dreamers. Now that he was on his way to plant the device, the clock was ticking.

  City of Oras

  Azalia

  She hated everything about the monsters’ claustrophobic city. The pale light made her feel like a mole burrowing down a hole in the ground. She longed for fresh air, for the warmth of the sun in her face. Damn, I hate these bastards. She stole a look around a corner. A surprising tinge of disappointment tugged at her heart at the sight. Instead of Iotas, a dozen clones blocked her way. She studied with curiosity their perfect, tattoo-covered bodies. Blond stubble covered their heads. Their bulging muscles glistened with sweat. Had they been training? Did they need to, or was everything they needed to know embedded in their DNA? She reprimanded herself for the foolish thought. Even if their bodies were perfect at birth, they still needed to maintain them. Of course they would be training.

  She raised one finger in the air and gestured to her right, before raising it again to point ahead. Lowering herself to the ground, she took a deep breath. This one’s for real. She rolled to the middle of the corridor, her arm extended before her. Her Sheimlek-dar sprang to life and a barrage of blue light burst from it. It exploded against the bodies, sending the throng to scatter. Screams of pain filled her ears. Behind her, a dozen dark-clad Dreamers burst forward.

  Despite the crippling surprise attack, seven clones had removed rods from their scabbards and fired them up. They’re quick, she noted with admiration. The clones charged ahead to meet their assailants. Red blades met blue ones. Sparks flew. She took aim and prepared to fire at a clone. The creature spun around and buried his blade into a Dreamer’s back. He held it there while the suit struggled to dispel the energy flowing into it. Azalia fired, but the blast missed its target. Before she could take aim again, the suit screeched and exploded, embedding the Dreamer inside with shards of metal. A sharp blow from the clone’s blade cut his pained screams short.

  Azalia fired at the clone, but he ducked with an impossible speed. He charged her. She fired again and again. The man spun and jumped over her volleys as he swung his blade in his hand, preparing to bury it into her. She screamed in fury and rolled to her feet, still firing, when a burst of light exploded on his back. He flew above her to crash on the wall behind her. Lehmor nodded at her, his arm still raised, before spinning around to attack a clone fighting with his wife.

  Azalia let out a sigh and stumbled on trembling legs. She had died countless deaths over a hundred thousand years. This was different. This was real, and she had not risked her life in ages.

  A second team of Dreamers hurried past her to join the battle. She waited until her hand stopped shaking and fired up her Sheimlek to follow them. Three clones were left standing, surrounded by a dozen Dreamers.

  Moirah grabbed her arm and pulled her forward. “They’ll be fine! We have to hurry. Pratin will have heard us by now, and is probably heading to the cloning room. If he reaches that…” She did not need to finish her sentence. Having just fought one of the creatures, Azalia shivered at the thought of thousands of them launching a counter attack.

  Moirah pulled Lehmor, too, and the three of them hurried down the corridor. They followed it downwards, until it split into two parallel passageways. Azalia punched her arm and the map hovered over it. It did not include the fork. “Which way?”

  Lehmor stood in front of one, then the other. “I don’t know.”

  Azalia pointed at the left one. “You two, take that one. I’ll take the other.”

  They nodded and disappeared. Azalia drew a sharp breath and barrelled down the right-hand corridor.

  City of Oras

  Pratin

  The thoughts came unbidden. He tried to let them glide by, refusing to acknowledge them, but they tugged at his mind like a child pulling his mother’s leg. He had been using the meeting hall to meditate instead of the illusion room. The latter still stank of death and ozone, the cavernous walls echoing with the screams of his dead companions. The large plaza that formed the meeting hall held fewer memories. He focused his attention on the pleasant murmur of the water that ran in shallow trenches around him. The faint aroma from the flowerbeds reached his nostrils. He let that, too, fade away.

  In his mind, the empty space filled with dozens of men in grey robes sitting on benches, the air before them shimmering with unfamili
ar, flowing letters. It was an all-too-familiar image, one he had seen countless times before. One he would probably never see again. He closed his eyes, trying to chase away the memory of a small group meditating in front of an elderly man. He only partly succeeded. Another memory took its place. A second group performed a slow, ritual dance in perfect harmony, on a soft patch of purple grass. They had left their grey robes in a pile on the ground, the light glistening on their naked skin.

  He groaned in frustration and tried to focus on his breathing instead. Another thought invaded his mind. The clones were almost ready by now. Just a few more days and the planet would be his. Freed of the need to hide from the Servants, he had been able to speed up production. Tens of thousands of men now matured in their pods, ready to burst into the unsuspecting planet. The thought elated him, tempted him to follow it until the meditation ended up a mere daydream. Masturbation of the mind, he chided himself. He turned his attention back to his breathing.

  One… two… three… The faraway boom of thunders interrupted his counting and he started again. One… two… He felt a slight tremor and his eyes flew open. Thunders don’t cause tremors.

  An alarm blared as he jumped to his feet. He bolted to the corridor, passing columns of running clones. He grabbed one of them. “What’s happening?”

  “We’re attacked. Side entrance.” The man’s eerie blue eyes seemed to glow with the anticipation of killing, a hint of mirth in his soft, unemotional voice.

  It sickened Pratin, but he appreciated the man’s efficiency. “Carry on.”

  The man ran off to join the fighting. The side entrance. That’s where Lehmor had attacked from. Is that idiot back? He headed to the matrix room, the city’s nerve centre. He would find out everything he needed from there. His hurried footsteps echoed in the empty corridor as he descended farther away from the thunders.

  A human form detached from the shadows to block his path. His eyes gaped open. He fought the urge to flee. Sick rose to his mouth. It can’t be!

  A dull grey material covered the form, a uniform he remembered only too well. Scenes from the destruction wrought onto his people by Sheim-h’thor-clad humans spilt into his mind, filling him with dread and fury in equal measure.

  The form slid her hand across her face and the helmet withdrew, to reveal a woman glaring at him with contempt. “Pratin.” She circled him, eyeing him with dark eyes. “How many times do I have to kill you?”

  He screamed in fury and pulled his weapon from its sheath, sliding the shield disk onto his left hand. The blade split the air with a loud hiss. He lunged at the woman who haunted his dreams. She raised her own weapon. Blue fire spat from its hilt to create a vibrant blade. Sparks flew. Her blade pushed his aside with ease. He cried out in frustration and swiped the weapon to strike at her neck. She bent her body backwards. His blade split the air above her. Without pausing, he swirled around, lowering his body at the same time. He continued his spinning motion, this time aiming at her legs. She dropped and rolled to her side, jumping back on her feet almost immediately.

  They glared at each other for a moment. “That’s the best you can do?” she taunted him. “I’ve killed you before, I’ll kill you again.”

  His mind raced. He had no time to lose. If Azalia was here, that could only mean one thing: Rapture. The Dreamers have awakened. His stomach knotted. He had run out of time! Much as he would like to kill her, his objective had now changed: he had to release the clones before it was too late.

  He switched off his blade and pointed his weapon at the ceiling above her. She raised her weapon. Before she could fire, he shot a volley and jumped back. The ceiling exploded, spraying the corridor with boulders. She cried out in pain and alarm. Rocks buried her under a huge pile. He raced over it, avoiding the debris still dropping, and rushed down the corridor, running as fast as he could. He only stopped once, to fire a volley of red bursts of light into the debris. It exploded, covering the corridor in dust.

  He coughed to clear his throat as he pressed on. His destination was no longer the matrix room. Instead, he headed towards the cloning facilities. He had to free his clones. Now! Soon, he would put an end to this madness. The humans were too late.

  City of Oras

  Cyrus

  The alarm startled Cyrus. They had made it almost all the way to the plaza when the shrill sound blared. Doors swished open. Clones poured out of rooms converted to barracks. Within moments, shots flew everywhere.

  A blast exploded over his head. He ducked, accidentally avoiding a fiery blade he had not seen. Shit! Where did that come from? He spun around. A clone lunged at him and plunged the blade into Cyrus’s gut. He stared at the sword, startled. The clone mimicked him. The fire from the blade encircled Cyrus’s waist, dissipated by the suit. The temperature inside the suit rose rapidly. Its metal slabs started shaking violently. A loud screech filled his ears.

  Cyrus raised his elbow and punched the clone in the throat. Stunned, the man stumbled back. The flames broke away from Cyrus’s body. He took a step back and breathed his relief. A Dreamer’s suit exploded near him. For a second, screams filled his ears.

  “Don’t let their blades stay too long on the suit,” Cyrus barked into his microphone. He fired up his Sheimlek. He lunged at the clone, who raised his rod and blocked the charge. Whirling around, Cyrus plunged the blade into the clone’s back and kneeled down, driving the Sheimlek farther up the man’s spine. When he pulled it free, the clone crashed on the ground, smoke rising from the smouldering wound.

  Cyrus’s eyes scanned the corridor. The fight had spilled beyond it, and into the plaza. Everywhere around him, blades whizzed. Sparks flew as they met translucent shields. Smoke made it hard to see clearly. The air hummed and pulsed with explosions. His eyes caught on a score of clones, pushing through the defenders to reach the ion bomb. Did they know what it was? Even if not, they could set it off accidentally, and then…

  He charged at them, lifting his left arm to activate the Sheimlek-dar. Bolts of light shot from its twin claws, bursting into an attacker’s back. The creatures spun around to meet the new threat, giving the Dreamers a chance to regroup. Cyrus ducked behind a boulder that had crashed from the ceiling, as the clones fired their rods at him. Explosions rocked the ground. He dug deeper into cover. A burst next to him threw him into the air. He let out a pained groan and rose to unsteady legs. His hands patted down his body, looking for injuries, but the suit had absorbed the shock and debris.

  The clones turned their attention back to the Dreamers. He dug behind another boulder and took aim again, making sure to avoid hitting the sphere. A crackling sphere of blue light crashed into a clone’s back, then another. A creature roared his frustration and stormed Cyrus’s hiding place. Cyrus fired a volley at him. The man twisted his body and whirled around, avoiding the shots. The last blast dissipated into the man’s shield, as he bolted at Cyrus.

  With a curse, Cyrus fired up his Sheimlek and lowered his body. The man spun and plunged his rod into Cyrus’s shoulder. The strike would have severed his arm off, had it not been for the suit. Now, the fire from the blade slid off the dark metal, dissipating into smoke. The clone hollered in fury and punched Cyrus in the face with the rod’s hilt. The blow caught Cyrus in surprise. He flew through the air and crashed on the wall. The man fired his rod at him. The charge landed at the centre of the gold disk on Cyrus’s chest. The suit groaned and quivered for a moment, then clicked open, reverting to its inert state. Cyrus’s eyes widened. He was standing before the berserker protected by nothing but a linen shirt and pants. His heart fought for space in his chest. The air froze in his lungs. With trembling fingers, he punched the gold disk once, then twice. The scarab tugged and dropped onto the ground, useless. He froze in place, drawing in the acrid air through wide nostrils.

  Don’t give up, a voice whispered in his ear. Parad’s voice.

  Dad?

  Don’t give up, the voice repeated. From the corner of his eye he caught the image of an orb hovering ne
xt to the corridor wall.

  Shoot me!

  He raised his Sheimlek-dar, pointed it at the fading orb and fired. He threw himself to the ground as the wall exploded, sending debris to fly everywhere. Ice-cold water rushed through the opening. It tugged free stones and debris. The wall shook, then a large chunk of it came loose and collapsed. A waterfall crashed on the clone’s chest, drowning away its scream. Cyrus jumped to his feet. Water rapidly filled the corridor. Within a minute, it reached his ankles.

  Cyrus’s gaze danced around. More Dreamers hurried down the corridor to join the fight. Outnumbered, a handful of clones withdrew farther down the plaza. Cyrus ignored them. His objective was not to fight, but to set up the sphere. He joined the Dreamers hauling it and pushed it through the water.

  They stumbled into the plaza, splashing into brooks of red water that ran in shallow trenches. He helped two Dreamers fasten the sphere onto a bench, trampling muddy flowerbeds. As soon as they had secured the sphere, he pressed an indentation on the device’s smooth surface. It slid open to reveal an opening. Inside, his fingers traced a lever. He pulled and rotated it, then released it. The blue lining glowed. It spun faster and faster, as letters appeared on the sphere’s skin. He pushed them in sequence. The opening disappeared. The blue light turned red and stopped spinning, steading itself into a pulsing line that dissected the sphere.

  “We must leave,” Cyrus shouted. “Help out anyone injured and let’s get the hell out of here! Now!”

  He paused to help a limping Dreamer to his feet. He weaved his arm around the man’s shoulders and they splashed down the corridor. A roaring waterfall still rushed through the wall. Tattooed bodies, faces down, floated in the water. He pushed through, shivering at the cold. Have the others made it? He had to let them know they were now running out of time. “Let the others know the device has been fired up,” he shouted at the man in his arms.