“It’s in your hands now, old friend,” he whispered to himself. “I pray you are prepared for what’s coming.”
Chapter 50
“Wahti shong yoni,” the gentle voice echoed, the phrase repeated so many times before that Jago was beginning to cringe every time he heard it.
He was strapped upright to a metal rack, his arms and legs spread apart and bound in chains too strong for him to break. His head was arched back, held in place by a thick leather strap. The only thing he was able to see was the ceiling, several stories above him, covered in golden and crimson tiles, arranged in a pattern that reminded him of flames.
He’d been stripped of his armor and most of his clothing. He felt a sharp pain in his chest as the blade sunk in, deeper than before. The first few times he’d bit his lip in defiance, not wanting to give his tormentors the pleasure of hearing him cry out in pain. This time though, he screamed in agony, the sound echoing around the large space.
He heard a gleeful cackle somewhere in the distance, followed by the sound of clapping. Jago returned the gesture, laughing maniacally, a laughter which soon became muddled with fear and faded into a soft whimper. Somewhere off to one side he thought he heard a deep growl, but he was no longer sure what was real and what wasn’t. He didn’t even know how much time had passed. He’d lost consciousness at least twice, but he firmly believed that his brothers would come for him. After all, they’d come here to rescue Raven. Surely he was no less important to them than she was?
He could feel blood dripping from so many places on his body that he was amazed that he hadn’t run out. Perhaps his blood grew back too. Could he even die? As far as he knew, this could go on forever.
“Wahti shong yoni,” the gentle voice said again.
* * * * *
The tram sped along its tracks. Despite the successful rescue of Raven, the idea of trading her life for Jago’s was not an easy one to accept. Marcus hoped that the big clone’s comms had simply malfunctioned and that he would be waiting for them at the loading dock. He pictured him standing there, looking embarrassed and apologetic at his loss of control.
Serena placed her hand on his, reassuringly gazing into his eyes. Marcus smiled.
The tram was about halfway down the track when Captain Mitchell urged them all to put their helmets back on and get ready. There was no knowing what could be waiting for them at the other end.
“What if Jago isn’t waiting for us at the loading dock?” Serena asked.
The captain didn’t reply. He simply lowered his head, unable to give her the answer she wanted to hear.
“We can’t leave him here to die!” Serena pressed. “We have to go after him.”
“There isn’t time. Lishan’s contact will be back in a few minutes. If we want to get out of here, we have to go now,” Mitchell told her, his voice soft.
“There has to be a way,” Serena insisted, looking to Marcus for confirmation.
Marcus wanted to comfort her. He wanted to storm the palace and bring Jago back safely, but he knew that they’d been extremely lucky up to this point. The Ape should have known better. If he’d only followed the captain’s orders, everything would have been ok. Marcus hated him for putting them in this position, for having them make the hard choice.
The truth was, as much as he wanted to rescue Jago, doing so would mean risking all of their lives. Although he was perfectly willing to risk his own, putting Serena in even more danger was not something he would even consider. If only Jago had listened to the captain.
Marcus put his helmet back on and urged Serena to do the same. They were nearing the end of the tunnels. Taylor flicked his cigarette onto the tracks and braced himself against the railing at the back of the tram.
“Captain!” Reid shouted from the front, peering through the scope of his rifle. “We’ve got trouble.”
“What is it?”
Reid gestured for him to take a look through his scope. With a grunt, Mitchell awkwardly knelt down by the front rail and grabbed hold of the weapon. As he did so, Marcus’ gaze was drawn to a bright dot on the horizon, where the tunnel gave out.
“Fuck! They’ve laid out the welcoming committee,” the captain barked.
“How many?” Taz asked, checking the magazines in his ammunition pouches.
“Looks like all of them.”
The tram started slowing down, signaling their impending arrival at the next platform.
“Everyone get ready,” Mitchell ordered. “We’re gonna hit them with everything we’ve got. Marcus, Raven, prep grenades. Taz, suppressive fire. Reid, pick off any high-threat targets. Serena, stay low. Doc… look alive.”
Marcus could see the platform now. A bright spotlight was being targeted in their direction. He could see the outlines of around two dozen men, kneeling at the edge of the platform, weapons at the ready. The air erupted in a dazzling display of bright blue beams of energy. These were different from the narrow golden flashes they’d escaped in the arena, more diffused, looking more like glowing smudges than the brilliant scratches of light they’d faced before.
The squad returned fire almost immediately. The deafening sound of every single carbine, rifle, and sidearm being fired in unison was certainly impressive, lending some hope to their predicament. They were still too far out for grenades, but Marcus had already got one clutching in his left hand and was ready to throw it the moment the opportunity presented itself.
He counted at least three of their opponents keel over as the squad’s barrage hit the tightly-packed Sheshen hard. He ducked just as a bright blue beam flew across his shoulder – feeling a savage burst of joy at the realization that the clones might be able to fight their way free after all – only to feel the flash of energy striking the body behind him.
“Serena!” he cried out in vain.
The beam had left no mark, but she slumped to the floor as if her body had simply been turned off. Knowing there was nothing he could do for her anymore, Marcus focused his fire with savage intensity and took down two more of their assailants before he dropped to one knee to exchange clips.
Taz was the next to go down. A well placed shot hit him square in the chest, sending him to the floor. Mitchell roared, switching out his magazine quicker than Marcus had thought humanly possible and sending a barrage of rounds at the enemy, killing two and wounding a third. Almost there, thought Marcus, clutching his grenade.
A beam blew clean past Reid, and hit Raven in the head. Taylor grabbed her just as her limp body was about to slip off the side of the tram, the grenade she’d been holding bouncing off down the tracks.
“Marcus, now!” Mitchell yelled.
Marcus pulled the pin and prepared to throw. He arched his back, spinning on his heels to align his body with the path he wanted the grenade to take. Just as he shifted his weight, about to throw, a beam struck him in the shoulder.
He felt no pain. It was simply as if his body had stopped listening to his commands. His arms and legs went limp as he slumped to the floor of the tram, dropping the grenade. He could hear the clanking sound it made as it hit the floor just behind him, bouncing twice before rolling. Even through the gunfire he could hear the gentle rattle as its dimpled surface rolled on the metal deck of the tram. In his mind he screamed as loudly as he could, but his mouth refused to make even so much as a whisper. His eyes were wide open, but he had no control over them. He simply lay there, a prisoner inside his own body.
“Fuck!” Taylor bellowed as he spotted the grenade, his eyes widening in terror.
He jumped over Marcus to grab it, misjudged his leap, knocking the grenade off to one side. Marcus could hear it rolling once more, dropping off the side of the decelerating tram. There was a second’s pause, during which Marcus hoped that maybe they’d be far enough away.
The explosion shook through the rails, lifting the rear of the tram almost two meters into the air. Marcus slid along the floor, the ceiling tumbling above him. He could hear Reid and the captain shouting as they des
perately tried to hold on to the railings. The tram slammed down hard and out of place. It fell off the rails, and sent an explosion of sparks flying out behind it as it screeched to a halt at the end of the platform, shaking violently and blowing up a thick cloud of dust.
* * * * *
They were dragged back past the circular security station. The dead guards had already been replaced, and a technician was inspecting the damaged consoles, shouting obscenities at an overly-eager assistant. Marcus was being carried by a pair of black-armored Sheshen guards, dragging his feet along the ground. He could see some of the others being borne along in front of him, the procession directed by a fearsome pair of Nerokan honor guards, still wielding their high-tech serrated spears and clad in suits of hard-edged plate armor.
Instead of continuing on through the tube that led to the loading dock, they veered left, taking the passage which connected to Kesha Kun’s palace. Marcus gasped as he mentally relived the dream of lying on the operating table, being cut open while the nightmarish mechanical arm loomed menacingly overhead. Unable to see Serena, he worried that she had been injured in the explosion… or worse. No, she had to be alive. He couldn’t allow himself to think otherwise.
They were about to be presented to the most powerful and vile figure on Nos Shana, a society renowned for its total lack of compassion. They were soon through the tubular corridor leading to the main compound, and once inside the palace proper, they were dragged through a series of winding corridors past countless guards and servants.
Finally, Marcus heard the sound that sent chills down his spine and shook him to his very core. It was the distant sound of Jago screaming, pleading for death.
Chapter 51
The grand hall of Kesha Kun’s palace was every bit as daunting as they could have imagined. Tiles of crimson and golden hues covered the domed ceiling, neatly arranged in patterns of flames dancing around the pitch black orb in its center, a dark sun on a bed of fire. The walls were inlaid with panels of dark grey metal, interspersed with softly-glowing slates of opaque rose-colored glass. Scarlet pennants nearly thirty meters in length hung from shimmering poles in the ceiling, brushing against the black marble floor. Four levels of balconies lined the long side walls, numerous arched doorways opening off the balustraded walkways, all of which were guarded by ceremonial Sheshen guards.
Four wide steps led up to a raised circular dais in the center of the hall, upon which sat a nightmarish black throne of twisted metal. The back of the throne rose maniacally into the air, spreading out at the sides and curving forwards like a canopy. A layer of hellish thorns jutted from around the canopy, spreading outwards like dread, demonic wings. On the throne, slouching backwards over the armrest like a languid tyrant, was Kesha Kun.
Like every Sheshen Marcus had yet seen, the ruler of Sheijan wore a suit that obscured much of his form, but his armor was unlike that of any of the others. His was utterly pitch black and set with intricate filigree of such extravagant detail that it appeared to have been woven rather than forged, pinpricked here and there by tiny dots of red light. Emblazoned on his chest was the emblem of the Dark Sun Empire, a pulsating ruby in the form of a three-pronged scarlet star. From under a pair of dark pauldrons, topped by serrated talons, flowed a wine-colored cape of shimmering silk.
As with the other high-ranking Sheshen the squad had met, Kesha Kun’s armor lacked a helmet, but his mask – a white porcelain affair – seemed to cover only the very front of his face. The rest of his head was hidden beneath a cowl that flowed down into the cape that draped the rest of his figure. Apart from its slitted eyes, the mask’s only feature was a symmetrical pattern of menacing crimson lines, all the more ominous in their striking simplicity. Perhaps most menacing of all, his hands and neck were exposed, revealing sickly grey flesh and fingernails like sharpened claws, which he tapped on the edge of his armrest.
One each side of the throne stood a fearsome alien beast, vaguely feline in form, the size of a full-grown bear. Around their necks were manes of long thorny spikes, arching towards the middle of their backs. Their powerful front legs bulged with muscles under a thick coat of fur, groomed to a high sheen. Their hind legs were smaller, barely half the size of the forelimbs. Lined with razor-sharp fangs as long as a Terran combat knife, all dripping with saliva, their jaws were large enough to take a man’s head clean off his shoulders. A grey membranous tissue connected the upper and lower jaw near the corners of the mouth, with a gaping hole between them. Each of the beasts was as black as the void between the stars, all but for their sunken, milky eyes, the narrow pupils of which seemed to writhe and pulsate with each breath they took, a living nightmare of intelligence and cruelty untempered by the compassion of sentience.
Since the guards had roughly pulled off his helmet and strung him up on a rack, his hands suspended overhead, he’d begun to regain some mobility in his limbs. For a moment, he’d considered struggling, thinking there had to be a way to wrestle free, but his muscles felt weaker than ever.
The terrifying creature on the left side of the throne snarled. The sound echoed throughout the chamber, chilling him to the bone. Marcus didn’t dare to look at them for even more than a second, fearing they would tear him limb from limb at even the slightest whim. Marcus used his newly recovered control over his body to gauge his surroundings, seeing all the others, even Serena, lined up beside him, stripped of their helmets, their heads lolling loosely as they began to come round. Though he was momentarily overjoyed to see her still breathing, his relief was soon replaced with the dread at what lay in store for her… for all of them.
He spotted Jago at the end of the line of racks, his huge form covered in blood. They had removed his armor and most of his clothing, binding him firmly to the rack, even his head tied in place. Despite his bulging muscles and massive frame, he looked beaten, a shell of the man he used to be. In front of the huge clone stood a humanoid figure in plain black robes, its head shrouded under an oversized hood. The creature knelt over a small table holding a tray of gruesome instruments, some of which ended in straight blades of varying length and thickness, others, serrated and twisted. The figure placed a blood soaked-knife onto the tray, taking up another, twice as long and half as wide, in its place. It whispered something in a gurgling voice to a nearby guard, who removed the strap which covered Jago’s head.
“Wahti shong yoni,” Kesha Kun ordered, his voice carrying clearly to the farthest reaches of the hall.
The torturer plunged the knife into Jago’s chest, pressing it downwards to cut a full hand’s depth into the flesh. The clone let out an inhuman scream as blood poured out of the wound like a fountain. Tears began to form at the corners of Serena’s eyes and Marcus could hear Taz muttering hysterically, still not in full control of his mouth. Not that he’d ever been before.
There was a loud whining sound as one of the narrow doors set into the left hand wall, under the lowest balcony, slid open, signaling the approach of a tall Sheshen draped in black robes over a suit of what looked like primitive mail. The new arrival was male, and wore a mask similar to that of Kesha Kun, although his eye slits were lined with blood red streaks, and the lower section had been carved out to make room for a fine metal mesh which bulged obscenely outwards.
He strode across the hall, making his way towards the dais. As soon as he entered, Kesha Kun rose from his throne. As the Sheshen ruler moved, the outlines of his form took on a smoky haze, as if he could only be seen clearly when he was perfectly still. He took a few languid steps down from the raised dais to greet the newcomer, the pair of them stopping within arm’s reach of one another.
Kesha Kun raised his hands, gripping the robed Sheshen’s shoulders firmly and whispering a few soft words in the silver tongue. The newcomer peered over his shoulder towards the racks, eyeing each of the Terrans in turn. Jago’s tormentor withdrew the blade and, within seconds, the wound began to close.
The tall Sheshen strode past Kesha Kun towards Jago, tilting his head as he stare
d at the disappearing injury. The ruler of the Dark Sun Empire followed the robed figured towards his prisoners and paced back and forth in front of them, reveling in his prize, stopping to peer closely at each of them.
As he came within a few centimeters of Marcus’ face, he felt the Sheshen’s bloodshot gaze boring through the slitted mask, piecing his very soul.
* * * * *
Hanan Aru clung to the underside of one of the upper balconies. His suit had kept him well hidden so far, and Kesha Kun’s guards had proven easier to avoid than he had anticipated, especially given the Dark Sun Empire’s reputation for security.
As far as he knew, Kesha Kun hadn’t left his palace for decades, although there were rumors that the leaders of the ruling Sheshen syndicates met every so often on a mothership, dubbed the Nihilush, somewhere in the Nos Shana system to conduct their nefarious dealings. Together they formed the ‘Iman Sheni’, the ‘Brotherhood of Shadows’, and there were rumors of sightings of the Nihilush dating back almost a hundred years, yet none could prove its existence.
Countless agents of the Iankari had perished in the pursuit of bringing the syndicates to their knees, but on the rare occasion they succeeded, a new one simply rose to take its place. Their reach was longer than most could imagine. In truth, the Etheran fleet could easily overpower Nos Shana and declare martial law, rooting out its leaders and establishing a more civilized society, but Hanan Aru knew that not a single councilor would dare call for such a bold move. The retribution for such an act would spell certain death for any who dared propose it, and almost certainly for their families as well. The syndicates were notorious for their ability to strike at anyone, wherever they were. He almost felt honored, perched high above the throne. It was a rare privilege to be standing in the halls of the ruler of the presiding syndicate.
Merillian: 2 (Locus Origin) Page 35