“Permission to check the security arrangements, Sir!” Yeng asked as he stepped up to General Weston.
Weston looked up from the console, “Granted.”
Yeng turned to leave.
“Lieutenant!” Weston called out.
Yeng froze in his tracks fearful of the General.
“Good work, son.”
Zinner jogged swiftly along the corridor, “Borderman respond!”
He called into his mic again, “Borderman do you read me?”
Still no reply.
Zinner switched the channel on his radio, “Zinner to Yeng report.”
“Yeng here. Command centre secure.”
“Roger that. Have you had contact from Borderman or any of his team?” asked Zinner.
“Negative Sir. We've had a little trouble down here, we had coms' interference. At least one platoon of Neotran paratroopers have infiltrated the command bunker. Commander Ketser and his men are mopping them up,” reported Yeng
“Ketser?” Zinner whispered.
“What was that Sir? You sound a bit faint.”
“Let Ketser clear up. You maintain your position.”
“Roger that. What about you, Sir?”
“I'm going to check on Borderman. He made contact with some enemy units and now I can't raise him. Zinner over and out.”
“Well, Ketser,” Zinner thought, “It's been a while.”
Zinner ran round a junction and almost straight into the youth standing on the other side. He steadied himself from the shock.
“Why didn't I hear him?” Zinner questioned himself.
Nasim's eyes lit up the cloud over his perception blown clear.
He'd seen this man's gaze before, but never in person. He felt the black star envelope him once again like it had that crisp spring morning so many months ago. The wound in his heart burst open and pain of that day came burbling up.
A voice called out in his mind, “The gun!”
Without thinking Nasim lashed out knocking the weapon from Zinner's hand.
“Left knee!” came the ethereal advice.
The voice didn't carry the same accent as his family and it took a while for him to realise who it was.
Zinner recovered from the shock of being so swiftly disarmed and brought his left knee up to connect with the youth's ribs.
With the agility of a gymnast the boy side-stepped the swipe, putting Zinner off balance. Nasim whipped his leg round and Zinner's knee buckled.
Zinner fell backwards, landing hard on his back. The youth's speed and agility were staggering.
“I haven't even seen a Legacy move that fast,” Zinner thought as he hit the floor. Buying himself time to get into a less vulnerable position he spoke to the boy.
“The base is secure. Your friends are dead or captured. You can't escape. Surrender. It's the only way you'll make it out of here alive,” Zinner sat up, “You can trust me. I am a man of honour.”
Rage welled up from within Nasim. A dark and alien sensation that forced him to clench his teeth and ball his fist in an attempt to constrain it.
“Kill him! Kill him!” the voice in his mind screamed.
“Why did you do it?” Nasim asked.
“Do what?” Zinner was bemused by the question.
Zinner thought, “The boy can't be shell-shocked if he could move like that! What is he talking about?”
“You killed my family!” Nasim’s anger strained at his throat making the words clipped and flat.
“I did?” Zinner said in a puzzled voice.
Nasim couldn't believe the surprise in Zinner's voice. This was a hardened killer but surely no one could be that cold.
“Remember Rulk?” Nasim spat, more of a demand than a question, “You left him to bleed to death! Remember my friends and family lying slaughtered in the mud?”
Zinner started to sit up, “I remember them but it wasn't me who killed your family.”
“Don't lie to me! It was you!” Nasim screamed.
“It wasn't,” Zinner said as he slowly inched his way back up onto his feet.
Zinner kept his head low in a submissive posture, “It was the Terran Alliance that killed them. I was only carrying out their orders.”
“What!” Nasim spat out, “You deny all responsibility because someone tells you it's OK?”
“I am a soldier. I follow orders,” masking his movement behind an apologetic shrug Zinner transferred his centre of gravity.
Now he was ready to pounce.
“You're a human being, you have free will! You can't justify murder with duty.”
“Look, there's a war going on outside. Are you going to surrender or am I going to have to kill you?” Zinner distracted his opponent with an open palm gesture with his left hand.
At the same time Zinners right hand hovered above the hilt of his knife.
“Is that the only way you can see things?” Nasim demanded.
“It's how I was designed,” with one fluid move Zinner unsheathed his knife from its scabbard and sprang at Nasim.
Nasim dodged but not quickly enough. The blade carved its way into his arm. He didn't feel any pain from the cut, his mind was too full of hate. His fist shot out. It smashed into Zinner's chest and roaring with fury he released a bolt of his festering torment into his enemy's flesh.
The power of the punch sent Zinner sprawling to the floor. As he hit the ground the knife was jarred from his grip and skidded across the corridor. The pain from his broken ribs would have crippled an ordinary man but Zinner was more than just a man, he had been designed to survive. His makers had equipped him well. He cut the pain messages from his nerves and stumbled to his feet. His movements were less fluid this time, more laboured, the boys punch had more powerful that Zinner could have believed. Against the dulled senses of his injured body he willed himself to fight on.
“That war outside was caused by men who think like you. Your petty self concern will destroy you and everyone else.”
“Are you for real?” asked Zinner as he threw a punch.
The blow struck Nasim's jaw before he had a chance to block it or dodge. Taking the advantage Zinner followed up with a couple of jabs to the head and a snap kick to the stomach.
It was Nasim's turn to hit the floor.
Zinner stepped up to the boy as he lay stunned on the ground.
“Well it's been nice speaking to you but I really can't spare the time, and since you won't shut up,” Zinner swung his leg back to axe kick Nasim in the head.
“Get up!” A dozen familiar voices screamed in Nasim’s dazed mind.
The voices filled him with energy afresh and as the blow came in Nasim arched round. He threw out his hands up and grabbed Zinners foot twisting it against the joint. The bone snapped with a sickening crunch and Zinner tumbled to the floor with a scream of pain.
Nasim twirled round and leapt on top of Zinner. He slammed his forearm tight against Zinners windpipe threw his whole force down into the choke.
Zinner whipped his hands between Nasim's arms and the strangle hold was broken. Nasim drew back his fist and punched.
The blow fell square on Zinners brow with a wet thud.
The pressure from the impact cascaded out through the bone with it and Zinners vision began to collapsed. The view of his attacker blurred and with the edges of his sight being devoured by a creeping blackness Zinner felt detached and distant. As he tried to keep grasp of consciousness a second then third strike found him further narrowing his perception. He no longer felt the blows against his face but his genetically engineered drive kept him from sinking into unconsciousness.
The jabs rained down, again and again. With each punch Nasim let loose a scream of rage.
Zinner's punch drunk mind rallied, ignoring the incoming punch he twisted his shoulders and pushed, levering Nasim from his chest.
Nasim was propelled into the air and smacked hard against the corridor wall.
In a movement so practised it had become instinct Zinner t
hrew out a kick. Weak though Zinner was, his physical strength was still far greater than Nasim's gaunt, teenage frame.
With the wall to his back the force of Zinner’s kick connected with Nasim’s chest and reverberated through the youth’s whole body.
Nasim let out a thick gurgle of air and slumped down the wall. Huddled on the floor, his eyelids clamped tight against the pain, Nasim heard a voice.
“Get up.” the voice demanded.
“Get up!” screamed the voice in Nasim's mind again. The scorching hot pain deafened all of Nasim's senses.
“Get up!” a chorus of voices wailed, “Get up!”
Nasim opened his eyes and pain jolted through him. He fought hard to catch his breath gulping down a lungful of air.
The corridor spun round and round.
“Get up!” the screaming in his mind echoed on and on. Nasim put his weight on his left arm and pushed. The muscles quivered and collapsed sending Nasim sprawling to the floor.
Cheek flat against the ground, he looked across to see Zinner had hoisted himself up. His blonde hair was ruffled, his face puffy and swollen. Drips of glossy red blood streaked from his nose and chin. The drops tumbled from his wounds splashing into the floor to join with the smears of blood already daubed across the grey concrete.
Nasim tried to get up again. He swung onto his side and using the wall as a brace he pushed himself into a sitting position.
Although Zinner had clambered to his feet his movements were jerky and uncoordinated. His left eye was swollen and dripping with blood. His right eye wasn't much better but he still spotted the knife lying on the ground.
Nasim slid against the wall so that he was on all fours with his right flank propped against the brickwork.
He pulled up his left knee and put his weight on his foot. Still leaning against the wall he screwed his eyes tight against the pain and pushed himself up. He stood with his shoulder wedged hard to the cold brick.
He opened his eyes.
Zinner stood over the spot where the knife had fallen. No longer was it lying uselessly on the ground, its sat comfortably in Zinner’s fist. Its tip glinted as Zinner raise the blade and charged.
His eyes locked on his prey his lips gently twisted up at the corners. His arm whipped forward sending the knife hurtling towards Nasim.
“Move!” the voice in Nasim's head screamed.
Nasim's body jolted automatically at the cry.
As he lurched the knife sliced through the air past his ear.
The blade scraped across the face of the wall behind him making a horrific screech as the edge shattered and chipped.
Fighting the momentum of the charge, Zinner turned to swipe the knife at Nasim once more.
Nasim snapped round to face Zinner's attack. He threw forward both his arms, his hands facing forward for an open palm strike.
Nasim opened his mouth and let escape a roar. It was not the scream of a teenaged boy fighting for his life. It was more guttural and resonant than a man ten times his size. Issuing forth was the anguished cry of a host of slaughtered innocents.
The scream of wrath held Zinner frozen. Stunned unable to move the unearthly noise enveloped Zinner. The tormented scream crescendoed like a hurricane.
Zinner’s muscles quivered and convulsed against the noise. Without warning Zinner’s eyes rolled back in his skull and he collapsed into a crumpled heap on the floor.
Nasim fell to his knees exhausted, his eyes fixed on Zinner, terrified that his enemy would spring to his feet again. But Zinner didn't move.
Nasim breathed deeply. Warm blood trickled down his face like sweat.
He blinked and squeezed his eyes to draw back his blurred focus. The space between him and his foe was awash with blood. The red smears swept to and fro forming arcs of ruby rainbows against the grey of the corridor.
He had seen this before. An age ago he had foretold this moment. In a time when he had family and friends, purpose and security. That time had passed with the arrival of this man. That life was gone because of the monster before him.
Nasim thought back to the vision, an intense daja vu, and knew this was the moment it ended.
Mustering what strength he could, Nasim crawled over to Zinner, flopped back onto his haunches and sat there dripping blood over his enemy. There had been no sign of movement, not even the whisper of a breath from the callous killer.
Nasim reached his hand out, all the while expecting his foe to leap up, and checked for a pulse.
It was there. It was strong and regular even if his breathing was quiet and shallow.
“Kill him!” came a venomous voice, “Slit his throat and leave him to die like he did with me.”
Nasim glanced over at the knife.
“If you don't kill him he will kill again and again. More orphans, more widows, more innocents dead. You have to stop him!”
“What would that make me?” Nasim said aloud, “Only he can make the decision to stop.”
“He can't stop it was how he was made. He's programmed to kill.”
Nasim reached down and cradled Zinner's head on both hands, “We can all change.”
Zinners head felt heavy, his skin warm and sticky from the sweat and the blood. The shorn short hair was bristly to the touch.
Nasim closed his eyes and threw his head back.
Zinner's eyes flickered behind his closed eyelids. His muscles strained and twitched then his whole unconscious body convulsed. Still with his head cradled in Nasim's hands he spasmed and twitched, thrashing against the constraint.
Zinner's eyes shot open and the fit stopped, his pupils grew wide, obliterating the blue of his iris before flickering and rolling up under his eyelids.
“What the fuck?” Zinner’s gaze was confused.
Nasim released his grasp on Zinners head and stepped back.
Zinner whipped his head round in sharp lizard like movement as he tried to take in his surroundings.
“Where the fuck are we?” He demanded.
Nasim smiled, “We are inside your mind, you, me and...”
“Rulk?” Zinner said.
A man in scorched drop armour walked up to meet them the helmet tucked under his arm. As he drew closer the deep knife slash across his face grew red and angry. Blood started weeping from the wound and dribbling down his jaw.
“You're dead.” Zinner said flatly.
“I give you a gift,” Nasim said, “I give you my ability to act as a conduit between the living and dead worlds.”
Zinner broke his gaze from the ghoulish Rulk, “What does that mean?”
“You'll be forever linked to both worlds and to those who pass by your hand.” explained Nasim.
“What?” Zinner’s shook his head.
“You can't even begin to the dream the torment that awaits you.” Rulk smiled flashing his blood stained teeth.
“No,” Zinner mumbled.
Gently Nasim lowered Zinner's head back to the floor.
Using the wall as a prop Nasim slowly stood up, and without glancing back moved away. As he limped off down the corridor he could hear one side of a muttered conversation.
Nasim walked to the end of the corridor and found himself standing at a junction. Looking down the corridor he saw Shorey's dead body. He was back where he had started.
An unfamiliar voice called down the corridor at Nasim, “Medic?”
The call was weak and tired. Nasim walked down the passageway in the direction of the voice until he came to another junction.
Propped against a door was one of Zinner's men. Beside him was the corpse of one of his comrades, probably the man Shorey had killed with his first burst of fire.
“Help me,” the man begged.
He seemed either not to notice or care that Nasim wore the uniform of his enemy. His jacket was torn open and on his bare chest were two huge patches of white gauze now thick with blood. Nasim checked his webbing and finding his first aid kit stuck fresh patches over the old dressings.
Na
sim shivered. His blood soaked clothes were draining his heat away. He stripped the dead soldier from his less soiled uniform jacket and changed out of his own. The dead man's fatigues were smattered with blood and had a number of bullet holes, but they were still in better condition than his own.
Looking down at the wounded soldier he could see that the blood had started seeping through the new dressings he'd applied.
“I can't help you, I have to get you to a Doctor,” Nasim said.
Nasim tried picking the injured man up but he wasn't strong enough. Instead he rolled him onto his discarded combat jacket and zipped it up with the casualty's arms inside. Nasim then took hold of the empty sleeves and walking backwards dragged the man to the exit.
He struggled with the dead weight until he reached the door. Letting the man down gently he pull open the door and jammed his foot against it open.
“Identify yourself!” a stern voice barked at Nasim.
Half way through the door Nasim stopped, laid the wounded man down and turned around slowly.
In front of him stood three men, all were pointing weapons at him. They all looked tired as if they had been single-handedly holding this base since the war began. They wore the dark blue fatigues of the Terran naval security.
“I don't recognise you. I know all the sergeants in the One Twenty One,” the man checked Nasim up and down suspicious of the ill fitting uniform.
Nasim looked at the arm patch on his jacket. Just above the sergeant stripes was the unit's insignia which read One Hundred and Twenty First Parachute Division.
“What's your name? What unit are you with?” the officer demanded.
Nasim was flummoxed. He had no idea what to say or do.
“Bavashee,” the word was past his lips before he knew where it had come from.
“What?” asked the confused security guard.
“You heard, now get that man treatment,” Nasim's voice carried a sudden confidence, “or do you want to explain to Captain Zinner why one of his men died?”
The two subordinate men let their weapons drop and cast a a worried look at their commander.
“Um, Yes.” the leader said hesitantly, “We'd better give you a hand there Sir.”
From the Torment of Dreams Page 33