by David Finn
A high ranking Navy woman who had said nothing so far, piped up. ‘Why are there none of these warriors here at this table if they know so much? Are they an ally?’
Iverson said, ‘They’re an ally in that they hate the same creatures that threaten to bury us all for good. But you won’t get them to sign a contract and do a press conference. Every single Order operative that we placed within the White Fort walls was either killed or completely converted to their cause.’
Navy Woman raised her eyebrows. ‘They beat Order programming? I thought that was impossible.’
Iverson ran a hand across his longish hair. ‘It’s remarkable. Order conditioning can’t be reversed normally. But Control can’t access their heads. They fight for the White Fort and the White Fort alone. This is Firethorn, they aren’t subject to our rules.’
The screen showed the Fort as a burnt ruin. Undead Vikings patrolled the wreckage, rotted corpse eyes, wielding massive axes. Black dragons circled the ruins. An Order craft circled the skies above, lasers blasting down intermittently, burning a few zombie Vikings. The craft scrambled as a flock of dragons soared toward it through the smoking air.
‘The White Fort of Firethorn is a burnt out wreck as of three years ago. These video images are from an Order team that buzzed the area. There are no allies left in Firethorn, just death. Most of the warriors have vanished, some escaped via back channels to neighbouring clans and organisations. They have lost their Fort but they continue their struggle. The scenario of the War from the Order’s perspective has shifted toward flash-points along the Prussian Front and Ceron City.’
He turned the images off. The Order logo of a red sun was overlaid on a black background.
‘The Fracture Event busted the game open wide, people. High value stakes, ancient civilisations with items of power that could rival a nuke. The Firethorn dimension went from a children’s book and became a place to be. The Order has had satellites over the region since we could first put them up. We can tell you this—the entire region is growing, in power and danger. The dimension has been at civil war for close to a decade. It’s tearing itself apart from the inside. It’s in flux.’
Misty stuck up her hand. ‘I’ve got a question. Where’s Demorn? She’s killed more Triton than anyone at this table.’
Misty paused, giving Iverson a long, appreciative glance. ‘’Cept maybe you, soldier boy.’
Iverson smiled. ‘For the benefit of the table, Misty is referencing Demorn of Asanti, former leader of Firethorn, current leader of the Innocents. Demorn is a native of Asanti, one of the Mirror Worlds destroyed in Fracture Event aftershocks. Our intel indicates that Demorn has been operating as a sell-sword deep inside the War since the fall of Firethorn and has heavy ties to the governing Baron in Ceron City.’
Misty was dry. ‘She’s selling her sword to somebody new? My Lord, what a fly by night floozy.’
Iverson grinned. ‘That’s what she always did, Misty. That’s what her record in Babelzon shows when she ran with the Innocents. She’s a survivor. She goes where the money and a warm bed is. That’s what she is.’
Misty gave him a glance tinged with frost. Iverson wished he had been more circumspect.
‘She’s my friend, soldier boy. She’s a real person. I miss her. I want her back home. I’ve had enough of this bullshit. General, call my people if you have something important. God bless y’all.’
She gestured to Tony and they vanished from the Situation Room, porting back to the Master Room that brought them here. Paper ruffled on the table in their wake.
The energy had left the room. The others phased away. Iverson realised that he was the last one left, except for Patton. He was giving a presentation to an empty table.
‘Did you have something more for me, General?’
Patton got up. He had lost both his legs in action and was fully mechanised from the waist down. If there was a slight stiffness to his gait it only suited the old soldier.
‘We’ve known each other a long time, William.’
‘Sure. What do you need?’
Patton gave him a look, that dangerous sparkle was still in his eye. ‘You’re a cold one, kid.’
‘It’s been a long war. What do you need?’
‘I know you Order boys are fighting that war over there, fighting it real hard. I know it’s dirty and it has to be.’
Iverson leant back in a chair. ‘That’s every war.’
Patton looked apologetic. ‘Thing is, all that shit about the Elder Gods, the stuff the cultists and the fanatics were saying, it’s looking like it actually might be true, William. That’s the intel we’re getting. I’ve been going through the records. Triton infected the White House. We had warnings. JFK knew. He set some things in motion.’
Iverson felt frozen. He tried to remember his wife’s face. It wouldn’t come. Good old JFK.
He said, ‘I know that, I know the dark gods are clawing inside the Void. And?’
Patton gave him a look heavy with meaning. ‘You might have to end it all.’
Iverson shook his head, saddened. ‘Jesus, Patton. This isn’t Xaniath. How many times have I told you? Were you listening to what I said?’
Patton said, ‘You’ve done it before, I know you have the stones.’
On Xaniath, the infection had taken full hold, when there was no way to turn back. He had set the bomb off in the Master Room himself, barely escaping obliteration. That wasn’t the case with Firethorn. Firethorn was alive, the most dangerous and wonderful place he had ever seen. No planet had ever come close to the wonders Iverson had glimpsed there. No war stood to take so much.
‘It’s growing, General, don’t you know that, don’t believe me? The place isn’t diminishing, it’s growing. The Order used to have two satellites stationed on the planet, now we have seven. This war will end. Just like wars ended on Earth. New things will emerge from the fire.’
Patton looked sad. ‘I’m frightened by what will emerge from that fire, William. We all are. Everybody who was in this room. They’re all scared, even the ones who laugh. This isn’t the time to be a lone hero, William. We saw what happened to the Primary Reality. It’s gone and not coming back. If the situation over there keeps going south, what do you think will emerge from the Void? I’m betting it won’t be a kind and benevolent god.’
Iverson said, ‘The President isn’t here, General. If you want me to plant a Source Core Bomb, I want to hear it from her mouth.’
Patton suppressed his fairly obvious irritation. ‘The President is in agreement. You think she is having a great time at the polls right now? We’ve got riots in the streets, tanks rolling through Chicago. Revolution is in the air and we’ve got more enemies than allies. So, listen to me, Investigator. This is an express order. Hold for now. Monitor the situation. But if we give you the order to set off a Source Core Bomb, I expect it to be followed to the letter. Just like Xaniath. That’s all, soldier.’
Iverson didn’t say anything. What was the point. The General was an old warhorse, well accustomed to both giving and receiving difficult orders. Just like Xaniath. Iverson didn’t even know what he wanted to say. Xaniath had been beyond hope. In Xaniath, the demons had been knocking down the temple door when he set off the bomb. He’d thought he was dead himself there. Firethorn was different. Firethorn had plenty of hope, but Patton was a realist. It also had an open conduit to a Void of horrors. The swords in the White Fort hadn’t prevailed against the creatures from the Pit and their leader had gone rogue mercenary into the wider War.
Iverson said, ‘Firethorn is dead, at least for now. Like I said, that’s just the name of the fortress. Something will rise from the ashes of the White Fort, but for now it’s dead. Do you know what we call the Firethorn dimension in the Order files?’
Patton grinned. ‘Clusterfuck?’
Iverson said, ‘Emergency.’
‘Why?’
Iverson shrugged. ‘That was the last communication of the first Investigator we lost down there. Year
s before the Fracture Event. Firethorn is a dangerous place, General, and it’s always been dangerous. It’s been on alert.’
Iverson shot the General a wolfish grin. ‘The old hands call it Dimension War. The first casualty was on an assassination mission that went sour. We think that’s important to remember. Firethorn is a dimension that bites back.’
The General could appreciate that. He patted Iverson on the shoulder. He’d been fighting a long time, too. Iverson believed Patton when he said he wouldn’t recognise what had happened to the country he once knew.
Iverson started as the door to the Situation Room suddenly opened. That was almost unheard of during a strategy session. For a moment he thought it was the President. It was a classy looking brunette woman in a stylish black dress. Perfect pearls. Iverson did a double take. Hot red lipstick. She looked just like his wife, Natalia. He’d bought the pearls for the wedding. After so long, he still remembered.
Patton rapped the table. ‘I’ll leave you, soldier. There’s a car waiting to take you back to the hotel.’
Iverson didn’t even hear him go. Natalia came closer to him. His eyes were swimming, a smile breaking out across his face, involuntary, impossible to control.
‘Are you real?’
Natalia leaned in and kissed him with soft lips. His heart leapt.
‘Yes, William.’
Everything felt the same. It felt so good. There were tears trapped in his eyes, instinctive, filled with hurt.
‘Are you a robot?’
I don’t even care, he thought, but are you a robot.
‘No,’ she said laughing. Iverson kissed her again. He could feel her hands on his back, digging into the suit. His heart was beating like crazy. There had been almost nobody else ever, nothing real since Natalia. Good women that he ran away from in slow motion, ghosting out of their life as they ghosted out of his, his distance and damage making it seem impossible when it clearly wasn’t, the pain of Natalia’s loss lessened by the Freeze and his own jumbled memories where sometimes it still felt like she was alive. Natalia kissed him again, hard, just the way she used to. Her body was hard not soft, just like Natalia. He could tell it was a wig. She was blonde with a great wig. But she looked incredible, she smelt like her, it was enough. The tragedy was that it was enough.
‘Let’s go back, babe,’ Natalia said, laughing.
Iverson nodded, running with her through the private tunnels toward the waiting car, energised and alive. She was giggling and so much fun. Iverson wondered why he had spent so long being sad when happiness was this easy and good. It was Natalia’s hand around his, her gold wedding band flashing in the carpark lights, giggling as they got in the limo and poured themselves a drink, kissing their nerves away. Maybe it was really her, Iverson thought with a smile, kissing her again, as the limo accelerated from the bunker into the city. Maybe it was her and everything is a dream.
Five hours later Iverson awoke in the Master Room, inside the steel metal ball. His head ached from the disconnection. The immersion had been so deep and total. It was very cold even with the jumpsuit on. Life was very cold.
He felt the blade on his throat a second before the metal touched his skin. His hands were still on the computer screen, random flashes of memory fragments, Natalia’s perfume, the Situation Room, the hotel, Natalia’s body with the tattoos in all the right places. His hand was nowhere near his gun. It was her. Demorn. Iverson kept his voice very level.
‘You did well to escape the ice cage. How?’
Demorn ran a hand through his hair, gripping it hard. Her dry whisper had a laugh hidden in there. ‘Secrets of a working girl.’
He said, ‘Your hand isn’t cold. You never hit the deep freeze. You must have a disruptor. That’s clever. And dangerous.’
Demorn said, ‘So is talking back to the girl with a sword on your neck.’
‘True enough.’
She let go of his hair and pushed him back against the bank of computers. Her face was still a ghostly white, scars and cuts only partially healed. She looked close to death or just back from it, filled with the secrets and dread power of the place beyond. Purple flames licked the blade she held. He could see the locket dangling on the silver chain around her neck, the thorn symbol throbbing with power.
Iverson was filled with disquiet. Demorn wasn’t a lab experiment. She was something else, something darker, out of ancient legends he had never quite believed in. Tales of a Wandering Princess of the Swords, a merciless bitch assassin destined to hunt and kill throughout time and eternity. She was more than an exile with a grudge.
Demorn said, ‘I’m impressed you found a Master Room. Even more impressed you could open one.’
Iverson shrugged. ‘Thank my blast cannon and whoever designed it. How do you get in?’
She brushed her t-shirt, no longer torn, but slick and wet with blood. She cast a suspicious eye over the screens.
‘All this tech. I forgot how much you trust in it. As for me, I stole a Banker’s key a long, long time ago. Your Order digs so deep, Investigator Iverson. But the truth you seek with such dedication won’t set you free.’
Iverson’s brain buzzed with an urgent kill order that overrode everything including his motor skills. He went for his Glock on pure instinct but Demorn kicked at his hand with a ruthless precision that bordered on dismissive. A sharp stinging pain flooded his wrist and hand followed by an almost complete numbness through the arm. He was still nowhere near his gun.
‘Catch you on the flipside, Investigator. Don’t be a stranger.’
She vanished. Iverson went to track her energy trail, working with one hand, desperate not to let her slip. Control made a decision and Iverson fell to his knees, screaming soundlessly as the Order program started wiping his mind, ruthless as ever to an operative who had failed the objective. Iverson fought it for a few seconds, desperately clawing at the flesh over the implant to try and turn the procedure off, but there was no chance or hope of that. He held onto Natalia’s face before the last things left him, spasming on the ground, mouthing a name he no longer remembered or knew.
Part 2
1
* * *
Demorn came out of the Glass Lands, from the irradiated deserts of the north, riding Maze, her enormous white Devil Cat. Dust and sand blew along the lonely highway in swirls. A red silk scarf was wrapped around Demorn’s face. Purple reflective sunglasses covered her eyes. A glowing pendant with metal thorn flames hung on a thin gold chain around her neck.
The courtier shivered as Demorn approached, an icy wind blowing from the canyons of the Glass Lands. She regretted wearing her court robes, they were too thin and flimsy for this weather. The skeleton horse hitched to the hansom cab behind her brayed, nervous. The courtier bowed deeply as Demorn approached the highway upon the Devil Cat.
Demorn eased off the beast gracefully, giving him a rough pat. She unwrapped the red scarf from her face. Her longish brunette hair fell down, and she swept it back neatly with her gloved hand.
‘Demorn of Asanti, I work with the Innocents, out of Babelzon. Who are you?’
The courtier looked down, shyly.
‘Just a courtier. Lady Josephine sent me to collect you.’
Demorn rolled hungry desert eyes across her. Lady Josephine knows I like shy blondes with slicked back hair. Or maybe she doesn’t and she’s playing a hunch.
‘Does this courtier have a name?’
‘Lisa. What’s that?’ Lisa asked, pointing at a small shimmering cloud over Maze.
Demorn was wry. ‘My dream. I’ve been in the waste for six months.’
Lisa looked into the cloud, eyes narrowing. She saw a dark casino room, a roulette wheel spinning, a man on the floor, his tuxedo covered in blood—
Demorn tapped Lisa’s chin, guiding the girl’s eyes away. On impulse Lisa had reached and touched Demorn’s forehead. Her fingers vibrated with strange power.
‘My dream,’ Demorn said softly. ‘Not yours.’
She clicked
her gloved fingers and the data cloud vanished. Demorn looked down the highway, following the thin road as it wound back across dusty plains toward the city she had come so far to see. Bay City, home to the great gambling houses, famous across the whole continent. Bay City, with the fabulous beaches. Bay City, last wonder of the world, bought cheap and built big on Soul Fight profits. Bay City, where her girlfriend lived.
Demorn said, ‘I thought you might have lost the war by now.’
‘What war?’
Demorn drew her pistol and in one fluid motion brought the gun to Lisa’s head. The girl barely flinched but a line of data code spewed across her face.
‘Your choice, Lisa. Has Triton taken the city?’
Lisa looked at her with empty eyes. Lisa didn’t have a choice. Demorn could see that. The girl screamed, ‘They don’t want you here, you should go back! They don’t want you! Go!’
Demorn glanced back at the desert through her purple sunglasses.
‘I can’t go back through the Glass. I’m all skin and bones.’
Lisa let out a ragged sigh and looked toward the hansom cab. ‘Then you’re dead.’
Demorn shrugged. ‘So I’m dead. Who sent you?’
The carriage door opened on the hansom cab. The skeleton horse brayed as a long, lonely scream came from the cab, causing the hairs on the back of Demorn’s neck to prickle.
A tallish man climbed out, his wooden cane gripping hard on the dusty road. Tanned skin, older, grey stubble. Black cargo pants. A casual hoodie marked with the logo of some obscure sporting team or golf club. Another scream echoed out from the cab, inhuman, alien.
The man spoke. His voice was easy, relaxed. His features were hidden beneath a cap. He raised his left hand in a V sign.
‘Hey, I’m her boss. Peace talks.’
Demorn lowered her gun from Lisa’s head. The girl sighed in relief. Her skin was burning with codes, spell rituals that Demorn recognised just enough to fear. Lisa ran back inside the cab, brushing past the man, slamming the door.