Dark Foundations

by Chris Walley

  At the far end of a corridor, Vero pointed to another door. “Anya’s in here,” he whispered. “I’ll leave you for a few minutes.” And with that, Lloyd and he walked away.

  Inside Merral found Anya, wearing trousers and a faded T-shirt, sitting staring at a large screen on which was an image of the Langerstrand compound. She seemed tired and older and her eyes looked puffy. She turned, saw Merral, and rose to her feet.

  They hugged but her embrace was cold and rigid.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “Yeah,” she replied, looking past him as if he didn’t exist.

  “I don’t know what to say,” he said. “It’s . . . an appalling loss. But it was heroic.”

  “I don’t care about the heroic. My sister is dead. And it hurts!”

  Anya sat down, glared at the screen, and switched it off in a single sharp, angry move. “It’s all falling apart, Merral,” she said without looking at him, and he saw that her eyes were damp again. “I get hurt by you; I lose my sister; my world becomes a war zone. I never knew that life could hurt so much.”

  Merral sat down on the edge of a table. “We have all had losses,” he said, and realized that it sounded pathetic.

  “But why me?” Anya asked. “Why, after generations of people living happy, untroubled, and worthwhile lives, does it all have to happen to me?”

  “You know I can’t answer that, Anya.” Merral leaned forward and stared at the floor. “Life’s like playing in a concert: you get given your music, and you have to play it as best you can. I wish, as well as you, that the Almighty had given me an easier part to play, but I can’t change it. I have to do what I can. Can I tell you what your sister said?”

  “Go on,” she said but the expression on her face seem to say, “If you must.”

  “She wrote something I now know by heart. ‘It has come to me recently that our lives are like stories. As much as we can, we must drive them to the right endings.’ That’s what I mean.”

  “How typical of my sister! How wonderfully, poetically, noble. Well, I want a rewrite of my story.” Anya’s tone was defiant and bitter.

  I am unprepared for this. I expected grief, but not this withering resentment.

  “Who are you angry with?” Merral asked, as softly as he could.

  There was a taut silence.

  “With me, with God, or with Perena?”

  When Anya shrugged her shoulders, he suddenly wanted to hug her.

  There was silence.

  Then she turned to him. “Do you really care about her? Or was that all it was, a heroic gesture?”

  Her words stung him. “I do care.”

  “You are a commander. Do commanders have hearts? Or do you let them harden inside those uniforms? You give orders and men and women die and if they do it well, you say, ‘How heroic.’”

  “That’s hardly fair! I was quite unaware of Perena’s action. And while it was heroic, it is a loss, a personal one. I feel it.”

  Anya scowled, then turned the screen back on. “Commander, I have a job to do. That job is to understand the Krallen and give advice on how to deal with them. I’m the expert on them. I have worked with them since the beginning of the FDU. Be assured that I will do my job.”

  Merral stared at her, then, in near despair, left the room in search of Vero. He found his friend talking with someone at the end of the corridor, but when Vero saw Merral he slipped away and came over. “Bad, eh?” he asked with sympathy in his voice.

  “Yes. She’s very bitter. Very angry. I think she needs help. Vero, do we need her here? I think she’d be better off elsewhere.”

  Vero bit his lip. “We need her here. She is good on the Krallen. She has to fight her way out of her mental state.”

  “Very well.”

  “Look, time’s running out. Come and see Betafor.”

  Merral followed Vero to a basement, past another guard into a small, windowless room.

  Betafor sat crouched on the floor in a corner, a string of wires running inside her jacket, a set of headphones on her head. On either side of her tunic, a Lamb and Stars emblem gleamed.

  As he entered, she turned her large, dark gray eyes to him. “Commander, how nice to see you. May I express my . . . condolences? Although I am programmed to express sympathy, I can say that, with Captain Lewitz, my feelings ran deeper. She was a remarkable person with an . . . affinity for the Allenix.”

  “It was a real loss to us all. It has been a long time since we met.” And when we did you had just attempted to murder Azeras. But we need all the help we can get. “How are you?”

  “That is not a question that has much relevance. Allenix units do not undergo the inevitable and unfortunate metabolic fluctuations and degradations that biological organisms do.”

  “No, of course.” In another corner stood a large white rectangular case, like an oversized piece of luggage, with a handle and wheels. Yes, with her legs folded under her, she could fit in that.

  “My travel case,” Betafor said in her cold, lifeless voice as she caught his gaze.

  “So I gather. Do you mind traveling inside a box?”

  “I can adapt. Allenix units do not suffer from . . . claustrophobia.”

  “No, I suppose not. And the prospect of battle here doesn’t perturb you?”

  Here Merral felt there was a definite hesitation and he saw that her irises had contracted.

  “I would prefer to be elsewhere. But I am bound to you. I think you will find that I am of use.”

  “I hope I’m not interrupting your monitoring of the enemy.”

  Betafor gave her strange pseudosmile. “You forget Commander, that I can multitask. Your failure to handle more than one sensory input at any one time is a major limitation to your species. As I speak to you, I am listening to the Dominion on three wavebands. It is just the spillover of their communications.”

  “And what do you hear?”

  “Yesterday, they were in total confusion. Today, things are different. I think they are preparing to move. There are . . . firm orders being given. I will let you know when I hear anything more definite.”

  “Betafor, can we win?”

  Betafor hesitated. “That is a hard question, Commander. It all comes down to . . . attrition.”

  “Attrition?”

  “Yes. With the irregulars, you have a total of two and a half thousand men here. They have ten times that number. So you have to kill ten Krallen for every one soldier you lose. Those are . . . challenging odds.”

  Merral tried—and failed—to read any expression in her eyes. “You make it sound very simple.”

  “It is. We are less swayed by emotion than you. Allenix units see facts. We do not have what you call ‘wishful thinking.’”

  “It’s hard to differentiate between wishful thinking and hope.”

  “True. That is why we have neither.”

  Five minutes later, as Vero watched, Merral fitted himself with armor. Merral lifted the green jacket out of a holdall that bore his name and held it up, marveling at its lightness. The chest piece, barely a few millimeters thick, was rigid. He tapped it and heard it ring. The sleeves, in contrast, were a softer, more flexible version of the same material. Gloves in the same material as the sleeves, but with roughened palms, protected the hands and wrists. Merral pulled the jacket on and then twisted within it until it was comfortable. Finally, he closed the flexible collar so that his neck was protected.

  “Impressive,” he said. “Very different to the primitive protection we had at Fallambet. You barely feel you are wearing anything.”

  “Most of the soldiers have to make adjustments to the jackets,” Vero said. “But they fit well enough.”

  Merral decided against wearing the gloves immediately and tucked them into his belt. He looked at the helmet, struck by the way the brow tapered into a noseguard and how the sides projected out to protect the cheekbones. He lowered the helmet onto his head, letting the fine mesh flaps hang over his ears, and adjusted the
strap. “Does it work?”

  “Yes. Against the standard slashing action. But there’s a weakness with the helmet that’s unavoidable. The Krallen can put their claws together to form a point—like a chisel.” Vero clustered the fingers of his right hand tightly. “Like this. They extend their nails and then punch.” He jabbed his hand forward. “If they get the eye sockets . . .” He shrugged. “You’re dead.”

  “Thanks for the warning,” Merral said, trying not to think of what had been described.

  He ran a finger over the embossed Lamb and Stars emblem on the front of the armor jacket, somehow reassured by all it stood for. I must keep that central. It is the Assembly that we fight for and the Assembly’s Lord who will defend us.

  Finally, Merral turned to a slender box on the table. A long black handle protruded out from a plain scabbard of spun synthetic. He pulled out the sword. It was a meter long, perfectly straight with razor sharp edges on both sides. It gleamed softly in the dull light of the room. Cautiously, Merral swung it, feeling that with the slight weight of the battery in the handle, it was well balanced.

  “There are tricks,” Vero said. “The main one is that the blade must hit at absolute right angles to cut through the ceramic. Angled blows are useless. And body or head blows are the only ones that kill them. If you have the time—and are so inclined—you can chop their legs off one by one. The battery is on as long as you hold the handle, but only the tips of the blade are live. That voltage won’t hurt too much anyway.”

  Merral swept the blade again.

  “And they need to have their heads crushed or necks severed afterward to avoid them being repaired. But we have teams with hammers and axes.”

  Merral returned the sword to the scabbard, attached it to his belt, then turned to a mirror on the wall. His image riveted him. I look like some ancient warrior. What have I become? “The old times are back.”

  “Sadly so,” Vero said.

  Ten minutes later, Merral stood in front of the command center looking down past the dark jagged rocks with their smattering of trees to the defenses at the mouth of the gorge. Beyond the gorge, the moist green and blue flatness of the Edelcet Marshes stretched out, ending sharply against the rearing brown and gray cliffs and bluffs edging the Hereza Crags. Beyond the marsh lay the low beige smear of the Langerstrand Peninsula.

  As he gazed at the scene, he could hear the noises of hasty preparation around him: shouted orders, running feet, the clatter of equipment.

  It was already warm and the faint southward breeze off the mountain had little cooling effect. Already the air seethed and flickered above the hot rocks. It will be a scorching day, and cruelly so in the gorge.

  When Luke Tenerelt joined him, they embraced. Merral noted that the chaplain had shunned armor and that his uniform was sweat stained.

  “Glad to have you here, very glad,” Luke said, stepping back to scrutinize Merral. “So beneath all the armor of war, how are you?”

  “To be honest, Luke, I wish I were someone else, somewhere else. Is that a sin?”

  Luke shook his head. “Not as long as such thoughts don’t make you duck your responsibilities. But, if I may ask, how are you handling Perena’s loss?”

  There was a bench under the shade of a spreading mulberry tree. They sat down and for ten minutes Merral talked of his feelings about Perena and his fears for the day ahead while Luke listened.

  “I think,” Merral said finally, “what I have realized from Perena’s death is this.” He paused, finding the right words elusive. “I had hoped, Luke, deep down, that death and suffering would miss me. I believed that, although there might be deaths, I and my family and my closest friends would be immune. Yesterday, I learned that this is not so. This war will cost us all dear.”

  Luke gave a nod of slow agreement. “A wise realization. One of the oldest and most subtle heresies is the idea that evil can be defeated cheaply.”

  Merral said nothing.

  Luke pointed to the base of the gorge where tiny figures of men and women moved with feverish activity and sighed. “I may need to be reminded of that myself today.” He looked up. “Duty calls, Commander. I have many people to see. But let’s pray, shall we?”

  A few moments later, Merral’s diary chimed under his armor jacket. He fumbled for it and looking at the screen saw a wide, pale, and distorted face peering at him from an odd angle.

  It was Jorgio. There were beads of sweat on his face and his lips trembled.

  “Mr. Merral, I can feel something.” His voice was husky, as if strained almost to breaking point. “Something to the east. Something stirring.”

  “What sort of thing?”

  “It’s big. It watches. It’s full of hate.”

  “Thanks for the warning, my friend. Oh, and yesterday, were you praying for us?”

  Jorgio’s lips trembled again. “I was. I knew there was a battle and that the enemy had to see some things and be blinded to others. And I reckon he did. But I didn’t know as Captain Perena was involved. And . . .” Words seemed to fail him.

  “She won, my old friend. She won.”

  There was a dull nod as if Jorgio didn’t trust himself to say anything.

  “But keep praying, Jorgio. We will be fighting today.”

  “I will. But remember, Mr. Merral, you won’t be alone.”

  The screen went blank.

  Merral was about to say something to Luke when he heard hurried footsteps behind him. It was Vero and his face bore a troubled expression.

  “My friend, we need you. There’s activity on the peninsula. The Krallen are moving.”

  25

  Colonel Lanier was staring at the wallscreen when Merral and Vero entered.

  “Commander,” he said, two fingers rolling a spindly end of his mustache, “the word from the team on the peninsula is that the Krallen seem to be taking position behind the compound gates. There are also unexplained noises within the tower.”

  Merral looked at the time. Eight-fifty-five: five minutes before the deadline expired. “Any news of the hostages?”

  “None. We guess they’re around the base of the tower.”

  Thirty people, including Isabella. As he thought of her, a potent mixture of emotions came to mind: concern, sympathy, the charred remains of affection, and a good deal of guilt. I really should have warned her. Realizing everyone was looking expectantly at him, he pushed those thoughts away to be dealt with later.

  “Colonel, my guess is that in ten minutes or less the Krallen will move toward us. I don’t think we want the peninsula team to engage them. Let’s pull them back now.”

  The colonel hesitated.

  Vero, who had been listening to something on his earpiece, nodded. “Colonel, the word from my intelligence team is that the enemy is about to move out. I agree with the commander. Get them back to the gorge. We can use them here. When the Krallen come under the crags, the irregs will attack them. They don’t want our people in the way.”

  “Well, then I agree,” the colonel said slowly and turned to an aide. “Order them back as fast as they can.”

  Merral asked where he could get a good view and was led through the opening that until recently had been the door to the patio, up a ladder onto the flat roof.

  At the far end a tall man dressed in the same pale green armor Merral wore stood under a hastily erected awning, staring westward through a tripod-mounted fieldscope. At his feet lay a slender tube.

  As Merral gazed in the same direction, he could see just below him men still excavating positions. “Digging in,” the soldiers of the old wars called it.

  “Welcome, Commander,” said a familiar voice.

  Merral turned to see that the man in the armor was Azeras. Merral glanced around but only Lloyd was in earshot. “Greetings, Sarudar.”

  “And you, Commander. You had a day of successes yesterday.” He bowed. “I honor the name of Captain Lewitz. I owe her memory an apology. I thought she was all words. Instead I find that she was brave and
skilled.”

  “She is both an example and a loss, Sarudar.”

  “I am sure.” He shook his head. “However many people you lose, the pain stays the same.”

  His tone tells me he knows that from experience. “Sadly, I can imagine that.”

  Merral noticed that Azeras did not bear the Lamb and Stars emblem on his armor. Yet apart from that detail—which was easy to miss—he found there was little to distinguish him from anyone else in Tezekal. Has he become like us, or are we now like him?

  “Sarudar, you talked of yesterday, but what of today?”

  “Indeed.” Azeras’s worn face darkened. “I am not optimistic. I have never heard of a victory being won against such odds.”

  “I see.”

  “You want my private opinion, Commander?” Azeras drew closer to Merral. “Most of these men and women—and possibly all of them—will not be alive tomorrow. It’s simple mathematics. You are outnumbered ten to one. Yes, you have the blades—very fine—and the armor—very fine too. But it’s the sheer numbers that will do for you. And they will take no captives. They have enough already. And if the thing in the tower comes out, it could be over soon. But look.”

  He pointed to where far away, just below the Hereza Crags, a small convoy of a dozen vehicles came into view along the road.

  The party that had been watching Langerstrand; at least they’ve made it safely here. Merral looked at the distant peninsula beyond them, then turned back to Azeras. “I know the baziliarch’s name. It is Lord Nar-Barratri.”

  Azeras scowled and made a circular gesture with his forefinger. “Ah. I suspected as much. It’s not a name you mention. It’s unlucky.”

  “I’ll take that risk.”

  “You may think again on that. But let me warn you: if he comes here and opens his wings to let the darkness in, all your discipline and all your hopes will crumble in bare minutes.” Azeras had the look of a haunted man. “I am sorry. I wish I had some hope, but even with the best troops the True Freeborn ever had, we would find this too much. He can’t be resisted. If he appears, you’ll feel that defeat is certain.”