Third Player

by Warren James Palmer

  After thirty-four hours sealed in the underground shelters, the scientists of the Democratic Front gauged that the chain-reaction caused by Point Zero had spent its force. The flames which had spread across the planet, set alight by the massive quantities of hydrogen and oxygen, split from the waters of the oceans, had finally burnt themselves out.

  The huge steel doors which had protected Hillmead and his remaining forces opened with a hiss and daylight poured into the underground caverns. Hesitantly at first, then with increasing confidence, the survivors walked up the ramp and onto the desert floor of the southern wastelands. With wide eyes they looked at the scene which greeted them. The Starweb troopship lay where the maelstrom had tossed it—its back broken and totally gutted. Pieces of equipment lay as far as the eye could see, scorched and bent by the vicious firestorm. Of the crustaceans and the fallen defending troops there was no sign; they’d been devoured and cremated by the flames.

  A meteorologist took samples of the atmosphere, then in a show of bravado, she threw her breathing mask into the air and watched as the wind took it away.

  ‘The air is clean!’ she told her awaiting audience, ‘Point Zero has been a success! I read no sign of radiation or pollutants—all the impurities have been consumed and purged into space. The atmosphere is pure!’

  Slowly, one by one, the mutants removed their masks and breathed the clean, fresh air. Hillmead took Shalok’s hand and took in a lung-full of the sweet, oxygen rich atmosphere. Then together, they lifted their faces to the grey skies above and for the first time in centuries, large droplets of pure water fell on the parched wastelands—it began to rain.

  The monks rolled the boulder away from the entrance of their shelter and the brethren stepped outside. Rain fell in torrents down the mountainside, filling dried-out streams and riverbeds. They stood in awe, letting the water soak into their stained habits. Never before had they seen such rainfall. Somewhere far below, on the plains and in the valleys, the lakes were filling once more.

  Dakol surveyed the scene and breathed the clean air. He had barely dared to believe it was possible, but the off-worlders had shown it was. Just as the prophet declared, strangers had arrived and purged the world. This was a dawn of a new era, a time for renewed hope.

  He offered a prayer to the prophet Ishcmall for their salvation, then returned to the cavern to pick up the small pack containing his meager belongings. The rest of the brethren did the same, then in single file, they began the treacherous trek down the mountainside toward the ruins of the Imperial capital. The new era had indeed begun and there was much work ahead for the order of Ishcmall. In this new strange world, the words of the prophet would be needed.

  When they reached the lower slopes, Dakol took one last look back at the mountain peak, which had been home for the brethren for so long. It was lost in the swirling mist and low cloud, but perhaps this was for the best—better to remember the monastery as it was and not as a pile of rubble. Resolutely, he turned his back on the mountains and stepped out toward the city of Caranak, knowing he would never return.

  Aftermath—Excalibur

  The “Pissed Pilot”, Excalibur’s recreational bar, looked like a traditional English country pub. The fitters back home had done a good job of recreating old oak beams, a long copper counter and wooden floor. Sandpiper acted as barman and pulled long draughts of beer from the hand-operated pumps, as if he’d done nothing else all his life. He filled everyones glass to the top and made sure he’d left nobody out.

  The bar was filled to capacity, everybody had wanted to be there. It had started informally, but as the word spread throughout the allied fleet, people found excuses to be there. A few scant hours after the battle had been won, there was still much to be done to clear up the debris and repair the damage of war. But that could all wait, as could the official ceremony. This was the unofficial, but far more important, event.

  Jenson stood next to Ereed on the other side of the bar, pint mugs in hand. Colmarrie had to stoop her head to avoid the low beams and had one arm casually wrapped over Brabazon’s thin shoulders. Black and Kallke stood just inside the door deep in discussion—the two had become firm friends. The seer Dauphne and the Valvia’s captain Daal, looked a little out of place in their traditional white robes, but they gamely held onto their beer glasses. Somewhat to Sandpiper’s surprise Myrddin had turned up with the Heligsion crew, apparently fit and well again. Standing in his traditional faded denim dungarees and battered leather jacket, he looked at his beer in eager anticipation. The rest of the bar was packed with the surviving fighter pilots and the bridge officers from Illustrious, Victory and the three capital starships.

  Standing in front of the replica fireplace with its holographic flames stood Moss and Gulag. Seeing that everyone had drinks in their hands, the pair raised their mugs and said solemnly, ‘To fallen comrades!’

  ‘To fallen comrades!’ everybody responded, then took long draughts of their beer.

  Moss and Gulag continued to gulp down their ale until their pint pots were empty, then they turned and ceremoniously threw the empty vessels into the fire. A loud cheer filled the bar, as every single person remembered those that had died in the recent conflict. The dead were appropriately honoured by their surviving comrades.

  Aftermath—Starweb

  ‘The evidence is irrefutable; there can be no doubting the findings!’ Guardian 4920/61 of the aquatic world told the other members of the Starweb. ‘Had we taken the time for research as had been my request, before we attacked the humanoids, we would not have suffered this shameful defeat. God’s will has not been fulfilled! We have failed in our duty!’

  ‘We have considered your evidence and the matter most carefully,’ a representative of the Starweb members told the Guardian. ‘It would appear that you are correct and we should have prepared ourselves more carefully. In this instance, it is the Starweb which has shamefully sinned. We can only redeem ourselves by correcting our mistakes.

  ‘Under the circumstances we shall make you, 4920/61 presiding mainframe, so that you can guide us with your expertise.’

  ‘If that is your wish, then so be it,’ the Guardian replied with a smugness unusual for an artificial intelligence.

  ‘It is our wish,’ the representative confirmed. ‘Now tell us how we should prepare to correct our mistakes.’

  ‘We must carefully conduct more research on these humanoids at the same time as creating a far larger, more powerful fleet of Starships. No matter how abhorrent we may find this.'

  ‘And then?’

  ‘And then we strike at the heart of this cancer. We strike at the source of the humanoids strength. Members of the Starweb, we must strike at the third planet in the star system chartered as Sol. We must strike at a planet known to them as Earth!’

  So ends book three of the Dyason.

  The story continues in book one of the Starweb.