Baranak: Storming the Gates (The Above Book 2)
Page 22
Sleet blew strong against us one moment, blazing heat the next. The ground became a treacherous sheet of ice, then a morass of warm swamp water. Comet pressed on, undeterred.
The sky overhead was all black velvet, then bright white, then crimson, then azure. Then it divided in half, glowing gold on one side and deep purple on the other. Then it split like a pie into eight triangular segments, each a different luminous color. I gazed up at this happening as I rode and I felt I would lose my now-tenuous grip on sanity.
Another part of me, though, seemed to almost expect these strange phenomena; to take them in stride. I tried very hard to lean on this part of my expanding persona.
Space and distance became abstract concepts, and time no longer had meaning. All the ages of the universe passed me by as I rode, and yet it all happened in the blink of an eye. Comet and I traveled the length and breadth of a universe, even as we rode a circuit no greater than the distance around a small city.
And that was what we were doing, of course. We were inscribing the perimeter of a city. A great city. A Golden City. The greatest city there had ever been or would ever be, existing there in its own universe, on a higher plane of reality than almost any other.
We were in the Above. Our City would be the capital of the Above.
I apologize. I told you before that I am no poet. Would that I could describe for you in more evocative language what I experienced that day. Of course, I know that you were there, too—but I have to believe the experience was somewhat different for me there, at what amounted to the heart of the storm.
After a timeless time that paralleled a new morning’s dawn and the lifespans of galaxies, I completed my miles-long circuit about the plume of energy and halted Comet, then hopped down and strode back over to where my people waited. They were scarcely recognizable now; they had been utterly transformed.
I could feel what they felt. Our old lives, our old identities were falling away, moment by moment, bit by bit.
Was this the apotheosis—the rise to godhood—that the so-called Immortals of the Cabal and my traitorous relatives had longed for, had planned for and been willing to throw away the lives of every living being in the galaxy to attain?
In shame I must admit some part of me understood that now. For this was worth almost any price. This was power indeed—power to reshape the cosmos. Power to create our own cosmos.
I looked about at the glowing circle in the air and I willed that there be walls there instead. And lo, great walls a hundred feet high and forty feet thick rared up from the ground and positioned themselves to precisely match my vision. The others looked upon them and declared them good, and the walls in turn reflected in their nature the esteem that the new City’s inhabitants felt for them, and they became strong and smooth and beautiful to gaze upon.
Then I envisioned buildings, palaces, towers—and those took form from out of nothingness, and they radiated beauty and glory.
And last of all we gathered in the center of our new Golden City, surrounding the great geyser of energy—that elemental Power that now invigorated us all. And we beheld it and imagined that it should be channeled, regulated, contained. It should be not just a wild, raw geyser. It should become a great fountain—the Fountain of the Golden City, the source of our might and the seat of our very beings, spouting suns and stars and constellations of energy into the heavens and then back down into a great basin at its foot.
We imagined that, we envisioned it, we willed it— and that, too, came to pass.
And we gods looked upon it, and we said that it was good.
+ + +
Sometime shortly thereafter, we made our presence known to the universe that we had by our sacrifice saved. Our sacrifice, of course, was to transcend humanity—to become beings of awesome might and majesty, wise and powerful and terrible in our wrath. We were determined to acquaint our former world’s enemies with that fact.
The great Verghasite fleet had assembled in high orbit above Sarmata and was making ready to strike at Majondra through the Gate when a dozen of us emerged from our own portal—a gate we created ourselves. The cold, the vacuum, the void; none of that mattered to us, none of it could harm us now.
We flew in like angels of death and descended upon them like the wrathful gods we had become, and they never knew what hit them; they never stood a chance.
Vashtaar led the way. He blazed with cosmic fire and his flames lashed out across the empty distances, caressing numerous elements of the Verghasite fleet with overwhelming power. Those ships melted at his touch.
Korvak, glowing vivid indigo, unleashed bolts of lightning that fried all the electronics systems aboard a dozen more of them, leaving them to tumble away into the night.
Burly Turmborne brought down his axe and battlecruisers before him were cleaved in half, showering the dark cosmos with debris and the remains of enemy soldiers.
Goraddon whispered a suggestion here, a command there, and in response the Verghasite ships turned on one another and opened fire, no longer perceiving their comrades as anything other than what he told them they were—enemies.
And I? I swept the great golden sword back and forth, and as I did so the ships that closed in on me were shredded, their forward compartments disintegrating under the onslaught.
The battle lasted scarcely twenty minutes. When we were done, the power of Verghas had been forever shattered. Majondra faced no other serious challenges to its dominance of all of human-occupied space.
We turned about, opened a new portal, and returned to our City. Even as we did, our mortal concerns for Majondra that had spurred us to that action were fading. By the time we reached the City, we could scarcely comprehend why we had acted at all.
And so the battle above Sarmata was the first time the new gods had meddled in the affairs of human conflict, and it would be the last occasion for a very long while to come.
At least, as far as I then knew.
+ + +
That is the story of how we, the gods of the Golden City, came to be. I am glad that I told it to you, my friend, while I still remembered it. For I find the details slipping away from me moment by moment. Soon, I fear, our mortal memories will evaporate and all we will be is what we are now. And you knew very little of how this all came to be, because you experienced only a fraction of these events as they occurred. One moment you were a military aide to my uncle, the next you were a god.
One last trip down memory lane, before that road is ripped up forever.
We never did learn the source or the cause of the potentially galaxy-shattering wave of energy that came back to us from the future. It changed the galaxy, though—and it changed us. It transformed us from mere mortals into the gods we have become. Perhaps, if we live long enough, one day we will discover the cause of it first-hand. Perhaps there is even some sort of divine benefactor that, on that occasion, we will be able to thank personally. For now, though, we accept the gift of the Power and are grateful for it.
What, you ask, of the rest of the war for the Seven Worlds?
I had nearly forgotten it. But yes, the story would be incomplete without some mention of how things turned out on Majondra.
I heard later that the war was won by my family’s side. Justinian’s forces stormed the Gates of the other six worlds and subdued them. With their attack fleet destroyed and with the Cabal and its Church no longer supporting the Verghasites and the other hostile regimes, their armies collapsed quickly. To Justinian I’m sure all the credit must have gone. He was the hero; he was carving out a Second Empire of Man, and doing it in the name of my late father.
That was fine with me. I no longer cared what transpired on the Seven Worlds. Aurelia and Alexius were dead; Octavia and Stephanie were missing, and Octavia might well be dead also; Jerome was here with me, and was now someone else—as was I. In truth, Justinian was the only one of my family left in that universe. Even his home, our palace, had been annihilated. He deserved whatever solace he could find.
I thought that he, now master of an interstellar empire, must be an extremely lonely man.
As for us, here we stand now, before the Fountain of the Golden City, and we gaze out at what we have wrought and we celebrate.
Our old identities, our old selves are falling away. New identities, new Aspects consume us and shape our natures. I, for one, find myself transforming from the mortal known as Gaius Baranak to Baranak, the god of battle. At first I found this incredibly ill-fitting. Now, though, the new me warms to the role. Perhaps the Power understands us better than we understand ourselves.
Yes, my friend—I am aware that you disagree on that point. These new Aspects that we wear along with our new, brightly colored raiment, in your opinion, do not necessarily represent our true natures. You see them as artificially forced upon us.
Perhaps. Time will tell.
So I turn and greet my new peers—no longer members of some aristocrat’s household staff, but equals in divinity and power. I exchange a portentous look with grim, cold Karilyne in her silver and her black that promises interesting times to come. I nod to the old blacksmith, Voras, who now appears much bigger, much stronger, his bald scalp gleaming in the glow of the Fountain, and who radiates an almost palpable aura of confidence and power. And lastly I shake hands with you, my new friend. For I have sensed something within you—something special—that I believe will become extremely important to our kind in the ages to come. For good or ill, I cannot yet say, as your own Aspect has yet to fully manifest. But let us be optimistic and trust that it will be all to the good.
I clasp your hand, my friend, and I think upon the glorious city, the perfect society we will build here, together—a society free from strife, from conflict, from disorder.
I clasp your hand, Lucian, and I know that our friendship will endure down through all the ages to come.
THE END
OF
BARANAK: STORMING THE GATES
THE SAGA OF THE SHATTERED GALAXY BEGINS IN
HAWK: HAND OF THE MACHINE
THE STORY OF THE MURDER OF THE GODS
AND LUCIAN’S QUEST FOR THE KILLER
IS TOLD IN
LUCIAN: DARK GOD’S HOMECOMING
THE CAUSE OF THE GALAXY-SHATTERING
BLAST-WAVE FROM THE FUTURE
CAN BE FOUND IN THE LEGIONS TRILOGY,
BEGINNING WITH
LEGION I: LORDS OF FIRE
Thanks and appreciation this time around to:
Ami, Maddie and Mira, as always.
Mark Williams, for his continued artistic excellence.
The late, great Roger Zelazny, gone twenty years and more now, whose spirit I once again strove to channel as I worked on this book. Anything that strikes you, dear reader, as somehow familiar here, should be seen for what it is: Inspiration, loving tribute and homage.
The usual crew of early readers of my books. Your acclaim for this series kept me going through thick and thin, and I appreciate each and every one of you tremendously.
A whole slew of good friends who, at my request, offered suggestions for a plot point I was struggling with. Mark Bousquet, Sean Ali and Ken Akamatsu in particular nudged my brain in just the right direction to work it out, and I thank them (and everyone else who took the time to make a suggestion).
The several hundred people, at last count, who have listened to the White Rocket Podcast episode where I talked about writing these books. I’m delighted that so many are interested.
My regular retinue of friends, fans, readers and commenters on Facebook and Twitter who seem to appreciate my occasional updates and comments about this and my other books.
And last but not least, all the members of the Pulp Factory who nominated LEGION III: KINGS OF OBLIVION for the Novel of the Year Award, and all the folks who then voted it the trophy. My gratitude knows no bounds.
The Shattering saga will return!
Next up: THE LEGION CHRONICLES 2: RED COLOSSUS!
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Van Allen Plexico writes and edits New Pulp, science fiction, fantasy, and nonfiction analysis and commentary for a variety of print and online publishers. He won the 2015 Pulp Factory Award for “Novel of the Year” for Legion III: Kings of Oblivion, the 2015 Pulp Factory Award for “Anthology of the Year” for Pride of the Mohicans, and the 2012 PulpArk Award for “Best New Pulp Character.” The first volume in this series, Legion I: Lords of Fire, was a finalist for Novel of the Year in the 2014 Pulp Factory Awards and the New Pulp Awards. His best-known works include Lucian, Hawk, the Assembled! books, and the groundbreaking and #1 New Pulp Best-Selling Sentinels series—the first ongoing, multi-volume cosmic superhero saga in prose form. In his spare time he serves as a professor of political science and history. He has lived in Atlanta, Singapore, Alabama, and Washington, DC, and now resides in the St. Louis area along with his wife, two daughters and assorted river otters.
Van Allen Plexico’s Sentinels
Super-hero action illustrated by Chris Kohler
The Grand Design Trilogy
Alternate Visions (Anthology)
The Rivals Trilogy
The Order Above All Trilogy
TheShattering
Lucian: Dark God’s Homecoming
Baranak: Storming the Gates
Hawk: Hand of the Machine
The Shattering/Legions Trilogy
The Legion Chronicles
Other Great Novels and Anthologies
Multiplex: The Collected Stories
...Gideon Cain: Demon Hunter
Blackthorn: Thunder on Mars
Blackthorn: Dynasty of Mars
By Ian Watson
My Brother’s Keeper
By David Wright
Nonfiction:
Assembled! Five Decades of Earth’s Mightiest
Assembled! 2
Super-Comics Trivia
Season of Our Dreams &
Decades of Dominance (Van Allen Plexico and John Ringer)
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