Hawk_Hand of the Machine

by Van Allen Plexico

  “It has cloaking technology? Even against your own fleet’s sensors?”

  “Absolutely,” Eagle replied with a tight smile. The confusion that had marked his face a moment earlier was disappearing now. “It may be small, but its components are cutting-edge tech.”

  “Small?”

  Eagle shrugged his massive, muscular shoulders. “Small, yes—but but large enough to accommodate both of us.”

  “That won’t be necessary.”

  The man in black reached out and grasped Eagle by his left arm. The Hand commander frowned slowly as he felt himself spun around, but his physical reactions were suddenly dulled, just as Hawk’s had been; he could barely move. His true persona fighting to break through again, Eagle tried to raise his sword in a defensive posture, but the other man moved like lightning and easily took it from his grasp. He held it up before him, smiling appreciatively.

  “Ah, yes,” he muttered. “The fabled Sword of Baranak. I’d almost forgotten you possessed it.” He ran a finger along the flat of the gleaming golden blade. “It has been a very long time since I last saw it. Since it last served me so well.” He laughed. “It will be good to have it in my service once again.”

  Reality was rapidly reasserting itself for Eagle. He was nearly himself once more. Seeing the sword in the enemy’s grasp repulsed him, but he could scarcely move—he knew he could never physically wrest it away from the man. Instead he spoke three quick words in a language not his own.

  The sword vanished.

  The man in black gaped and then cried out, furious, realizing that he now held nothing. “What have you done?” He spun around, almost frantic. “Where did it go?”

  “The Sword of Baranak possesses many abilities,” Eagle replied, his voice raw.

  The man glared at him for several seconds, then seemed to calm himself. “No matter,” he said. “I am here, not trapped in the Below. I no longer need it.”

  Eagle could only frown in puzzlement at this enigmatic statement.

  Then the man clamped down harder on the Hand commander, psychic powers entirely enveloping him.

  “I appreciate all of the help you have provided me very much,” he commented as he shoved the increasingly limp form of Eagle towards the mechanical doorway from which he himself had so recently emerged. “But I believe I will take it from here.”

  Eagle staggered backwards, stumbling toward the light—light that now blazed blindingly bright again, and with an unmistakable and increasing hue of red. He opened his mouth to cry out, but all he could manage from his dry throat was a croaking, “Why?”

  “The scales must be balanced,” the man in black answered. “You’ve let me come through. Someone else—someone of similar stature—must pass back the other way, into the Below, to placate the Great Powers who manage such things.” He shrugged slightly. “It’s just as well, though. I have no need of a partner or a field general—and certainly not of a potential rival. The sentient beings of this galaxy will bend before my will easily enough. Your sort of military coercion isn’t required.”

  Eagle tried to retort, but whatever his words might have been, none would ever know. His voice was gone now, his muscles sagging and useless. By the time he tumbled into the glowing portal, he was almost completely paralyzed. The swirling red light swallowed him.

  A second passed; another. The light switched off. The man in black stood alone in the sub-basement, surrounded only by the bodies of Kail, Merlion, and Hawk—Hawk, whose body was now dead and whose implants were nearly powered down. Eagle, meanwhile, was entirely gone.

  After one quick look about the room, the man in black made his way up the stairs.

  The recording ended.

  PART NINE

  After the Shattering:

  The Nineteenth Millennium

  1: HAWK

  The playback ended.

  Hawk and Falcon stood dumbfounded. They stared at one another for a long moment, neither of them quite sure of what to say.

  Then they both turned and looked at the third man in the room.

  He looked back at them, then down at his own body, as if seeing himself for the first time—or the first time in an eon. He frowned, then reached up and in a remarkably controlled yet powerful manner pulled his robe open, the clasps that had held it popping loose from the old, rough fabric. The robe fell to the floor.

  Hawk and Falcon looked on in wonder and, to some degree now, in horror.

  “It—it really is him,” Falcon muttered. “I’m not sure I ever quite believed it.”

  Hawk could only nod.

  Before them now, beyond any doubt, stood Eagle, the former leader of the Hands of the Machine. He was indeed thinner than they had ever seen him, his face narrower and his hair much longer, but his frame still appeared powerful and formidable. He wore the dark blue metallic uniform with red and gold trim that he had always worn in his day, fashioned in the same style as Hawk’s and Falcon’s. His big hands clenched and unclenched as he looked around.

  “Yes,” he said, his voice a low rumble, filled with all the power and majesty of old. “It is me.” He looked up at the other two, his eyes cold and hard. “And I remember now. I remember everything.”

  Hawk and Falcon glanced at one another again and then both braced themselves for the attack they feared was imminent. Instead, Eagle simply seated himself on a massive piece of electronic machinery and stared down at his feet.

  The other two men waited for several seconds, uncertain of what to do. They had just learned that their old commander—a man who had led them in untold battles, before suddenly vanishing a thousand years ago—was the real traitor all along; the man who had sold out the entire galaxy to the invading forces led by a being called the Adversary. And now, instead of attempting to kill them for uncovering this information, Eagle was just…sitting.

  “You—you were being controlled, weren’t you?” Falcon asked, moving toward the blond man again. “The Adversary has some kind of psychic power—we know that. He was making you do what he wanted.”

  Eagle looked up. His face was ashen.

  “Yes,” he answered, “it’s true that he was exerting a degree of control over my mind. But…” He frowned and looked back down. “…It would not be entirely fair to say that his influence was the only thing driving me.”

  “What do you mean?” Hawk asked.

  “I told you that I remember everything,” Eagle said. “That includes what I was thinking as the Adversary was psychically influencing me. And I have to be honest. He didn’t just make me do things; he pushed me in directions I already had some inclination to go.”

  Hawk and Falcon frowned at one another.

  “You had an inclination to betray the galaxy?” Hawk asked, aghast.

  “Not as such,” Eagle replied, looking up and meeting Hawk’s eyes briefly. “I had a desire to defend the galaxy from alien forces such as the Dyonari and the Rao. The Adversary persuaded me that his goal was to sweep those enemies—those rivals to humanity—from the stars. To wipe them out.” He shrugged, his massive shoulders rolling. “That appealed to me, once.”

  “Why?” Falcon demanded. “Why would genocide appeal to you?”

  “I felt the Machine was too willing to accommodate those alien forces. He would send us to fight them, yes, but he was also ready to bargain with them. To negotiate.” Eagle shook his head. “I simply wanted them gone—removed from our galaxy entirely.” He hesitated, then, “As time went by, I also wanted the Machine gone. Destroyed. I felt that I—and you two, and the other Hands—should be independent of the whims of some great artificial intelligence with its endless orders and restrictions. I had come to view the Machine as just another alien overlord that was stifling human evolution and expansion.” He met their gaze levelly. “The Adversary presented himself to me, the first time I encountered him, as a force for good—an ally that could help me—help us—achieve all of those goals.”

  “And then, once he had you on the hook,” Falcon growled,
“he used his mental powers to reel you in.”

  Eagle nodded once. “I believe that’s so, yes.” He looked up at Hawk then. “I’m sorry, Marcus,” he said. “You were always a good and loyal soldier. I’m terribly sorry.”

  Hawk simply looked back at the man, uncertain of what to say. He understood now what had happened to the original Hawk, and he knew as well that he was genetically identical to that man—but that man had lived and died a thousand years ago, and he felt no real connection to him or to his world. Shaking his head as much in surprise at his own lack of emotions as in any sense of anger or injustice toward his old commander, he turned away.

  And then a bright circle of light formed in the center of the room.

  The three men all reacted instantly. Even Eagle, after so many centuries of amnesia and inactivity in the exile of the Below, sprang into action with surprising quickness. They formed a semicircle before the swirling light; Hawk drew his pistol while Falcon cursed that he had lost his weapon on the Ring. Then they waited, at the ready.

  They did not have to wait very long.

  The light coalesced into an almost solid circle, standing vertically on its edge. At that same moment, ice formed on the hard stone floor and on the tops of the computer components that nearly filled part of the chamber.

  Falcon turned quickly to Hawk. “Psychics again,” he muttered, his breath a cloud before him.

  Hawk felt a sudden sense of alarm. “Could it be—?”

  A single figure stepped through the circle of light.

  The others instantly recognized him. They had just witnessed memories of him recorded by a man who had died a thousand years before. Each of them sought to attack; none of them was able to move. Some force was holding them motionless. They stood locked in place as their antagonist strolled out into the chamber and the circle of light shrunk down to nothing.

  “You,” hissed Eagle.

  “Me,” the man replied. He smiled at each of them.

  He looked precisely the same as he had before: a human, by all appearances, dressed entirely in black. His eyes glowed with a soft white light.

  The temperature in the room had dropped precipitously in the few seconds since he had emerged.

  Each of the three Hands struggled to move, fighting against the psychic energies locking them in place, but Eagle in particular seemed to be pouring everything he had into it—to no avail.

  “What do you want?” the blond Hand demanded, his voice sharp as it emerged from between tightly clenched teeth.

  “Well, well,” the man in black said, raising one dark eyebrow in surprise. His eyes pulsed an even brighter white as he stared directly at the big man. “You would speak thus to me? To your master?”

  “You…are not… my master,” Eagle choked out.

  “So… you have broken my conditioning, then? Is that it?” He leaned in closer, gazing directly into Eagle’s blue eyes. “That would explain why you have come back—why you have returned to this dimension.”

  The man paced slowly before them, like a general reviewing his troops, who stood stock-still at attention as he passed.

  “But, you see, I cannot have you here in this dimension. Not while I am here. It violates the rules.” He smiled down at Eagle. “The arrangement I reached with the Great Powers was that I would trade you, hurled into the Below, for my own freedom in this realm. And I am not ready to leave your worlds yet. Far from it, in fact.” He shrugged. “So you have to go back.”

  Eagle tried to retort but the telepathic bonds surrounding him now were simply too tight, not just holding his arms and legs immobile but squeezing his chest and nearly crushing his lungs. His face had grown dark red and he could only choke out a few indistinct sounds.

  Next to him, meanwhile, Falcon was not fighting in the slightest to get free and this lack of struggling somehow caused him to be held a bit more loosely. He sized up the man in black and laughed derisively. “This is him?” he growled. “This…person…is the high and mighty ‘Adversary?’ The guy I’ve had to hear about and deal with for most of my existence? The architect of the Shattering? The mighty and terrible bringer of apocalyptic destruction to the galaxy? This guy?” Falcon snorted. “He doesn’t impress me.”

  The man in black froze. Then he turned slowly, regarding Falcon directly for the first time.

  “I am indeed the one you know as ‘the Adversary,’” the man said, “but that is only a description—and a poor one, to be honest. Not my real name.”

  “So what is it, then?” Falcon asked. “Your real name. I can’t wait to hear.”

  “You have no idea who I am, or where I come from.”

  “You’re right. But—do share. I’m dying to hear the whole story.”

  The man in black allowed his bland smile, his tight composure to slip for the tiniest of moments.

  “My name is Goraddon,” he said. “Once I was a chief acolyte of the great lord Vorthan.”

  “Vorthan?” Falcon scoffed. “That name is just a myth. A legend from the dim and distant past, used to scare children.”

  “Vorthan was quite real,” the man in black snapped, almost angrily, at Falcon. “He is quite real. And I served him in the Golden City for ages before he…fell.”

  Falcon took this in without response.

  The man in black—Goraddon the Adversary—straightened and turned away from the three captives then, striding across the room to the terminal device.

  “Fortunately, this should be a simple fix,” he said. “I have but to activate this machine and toss dear Eagle back through, as I did a thousand years ago, and the universe should align itself into the proper order again.” He paused. “And perhaps certain other precautions can be taken, to be sure he won’t be so quick to find his way out again.”

  “Quick?” Eagle choked out through his nearly-crushed windpipe. “You bastard. I was there for an eternity!”

  “Then you’ll feel right at home,” Goraddon said with a laugh.

  He reached out and touched a few points on the terminal rectangle. Instantly the strange piece of machinery flared to life, electricity dancing across its surface.

  “Wait,” Hawk shouted, speaking at last. He was still attempting to process everything he had learned in the past few moments—not least of which was the fact that his predecessor as Hawk had not been the true traitor. That news certainly had come as a massive relief. But learning that his old commander, Eagle, had been the one—even if coerced into doing what he had done—hurt him.

  The Adversary looked back. “Yes?”

  “Why Eagle?” Hawk asked. “Why did you choose him to be the one of us you would use as your catspaw? He was the best of us. He never deserved this.”

  “Don’t give me…too much…credit, Hawk,” Eagle managed to say. “I told you…before… it wasn’t all… him.”

  “Precisely,” Goraddon stated, smiling broadly again. He faced Hawk and indicated Eagle with a sharp gesture. “Your former leader here was engaged in a sort of private rivalry with the Hand known as Condor. No one else knew of it, but I have my ways of learning the innermost thoughts of those in power. Those who might at some point prove useful to me.” He chuckled softly. “Eagle believed his own authority was slipping away—being taken away by Condor, who was at that time enjoying more favor in the eyes of your master, the Machine. The temptation to discredit Condor and return himself to singular favor and leadership under the Machine—as well as his deep resentment of the Machine itself—is what I played upon, stoking the fires, encouraging them.”

  “Eagle was right,” Falcon growled. “You really are a bastard.”

  The Adversary ignored him and continued on, addressing Eagle directly.

  “Did you never wonder why Condor was not with you on your last few missions, up to and including the final operation you undertook here? I planted the suggestion that you should send him elsewhere each time. I wanted the two of you apart, so that I might slowly poison your mind against him.” He chuckled, seeing Eagle’s re
action. “Oh, yes—I was with you. I watched all of your comings and goings, and I carefully set everything in motion and then patiently awaited my moment to strike. And when I did, I was able to use as my lever the oldest maxim of all: Power corrupts.” He leaned in closer, his leering face now inches from the straining, purpling face of Eagle. “And you desired power—even more than you already possessed. Oh, how you did so desire it.”

  Hawk could see that Eagle was now straining so hard that his face was darkening even beyond purple, and veins were standing out in stark relief on his face and neck. Interestingly, sweat was beginning to bead up on the Adversary’s own face, and for the first time he appeared somewhat troubled.

  “You have grown more willful in the time since we last met,” Goraddon told the blond man. “I’m actually finding your resistance quite…remarkable.”

  This only seemed to spur Eagle on. He strained yet harder, and now the Adversary began to grow extremely agitated. He stood up straight, gazing down at Eagle with grim determination, and drops of sweat dripped from his nose.

  “This cannot be,” he murmured, raising his right hand and pointing it out before him as if to aim his mental powers directly at Eagle. “You cannot be capable of—”

  With a mighty roar, Eagle at last shattered the psychic restraints and surged upward in one smooth and powerful motion, smashing his bulky frame directly into the Adversary’s somewhat lesser physique. He forced the man in black backward, away from the others, then lifted him off his feet and drove him into the hard stone floor.

  At that instant the telepathic bonds holding Hawk and Falcon evaporated and the two of them lurched forward, both falling flat on their faces. They regained their feet quickly and wasted no time in rushing to the attack alongside their old leader.

  “Unacceptable!” screamed the Adversary. “I will not have this!” He somehow managed to free himself from Eagle’s hold and scrambled away. Then, still half-seated on the icy floor, he directed his glowing gaze at them. “You will all stop what you are doing—now!”