“Situation update.” He spoke out loud, though it wasn’t necessary. Brain scans and whatnot, he thought. The computer he spoke to already knew what situation he wanted to be updated on.
“The six men you dispatched after the Coalition agent have caught up to him. The unit commander, designated Torsten, has gone offline.” The same calm female voice used for his morning alarm spoke again. As he looked down on the world beneath him, an outline of their path and last known location superimposed itself on his vision.
A meandering trail through mountains and forests beginning at a still charred impact site and ending at a ruined city permeated with the light blue glow of Cherenkov radiation. The former was the result of Mordechai’s interference. A large payload plasma warhead. Had his power reserves not been so low he would have been able to track the trajectory of the weapon that had destroyed the primitive city back to its source and send one of his own in response.
The glowing ruins though… that had been wrought by the hand of the Behemoth’s captain whose name was now forgotten. The breached reactors he had intentionally melted down as his ship fell upon the city had poisoned it with radiation for millennia to come. The blue glow was a sure sign that it was a place to avoid. His puppets would likely survive for a time. Their ancestral background seemed to involve a bit of genetic engineering. Higher intelligence. Higher natural resistance to radiation. That sort of thing. But as long as they completed their tasks he didn’t care either way if they survived or perished.
Their trail seemed a pathetic amount of territory to cover in such an amount of time, but still far too much to allow their prey to move ahead of them. They had been given what technology he had to spare so that they might better serve him. They had no doubt used it well on the battlefield, but their pursuit of Mordechai’s agent was maddeningly slow. Why didn’t Skull Face just sit down and wait for them to come kill him?
He had given them combat implants. Computers that allowed him to interface directly with their brains, granting him complete control of their bodies if he so desired. The collars he had grafted to their flesh provided the communications ability as well as carrying a fear generator. A nifty little toy that activated the fear centers of the brains of people around it. Causing them to fear for their safety and lives beyond reason.
Occasionally a man was encountered that was not affected by the fear generators. In the early days of the conflict those men had been rare. Both sides had used them to good effect where they were deployed. As their use increased, they seemed to affect the desired change in fewer and fewer men. Perhaps they were adapting to the tools or perhaps they were just going crazy. It wasn’t unheard of.
In fact UN forces had started using resistance to the fear generators as part of the selection process for Specs Ops recruits. What would normally be seen as a mental defect was actively sought out for such men. Such problems were invariably linked with others, but Spec Ops units were usually kept well away from friendly forces. As long as they followed their orders, who cared if they were crazy?
Eventually counter-generators were developed, blocking the effects of enemy interference. The tools eventually weren’t even deployed anymore, but they were still used as part of the selection process for certain types of units. Units that were composed of men who weren’t quite human.
He flexed his own mechanical arms and legs at the thought. His own past had taught him much about what it meant to sacrifice part of your humanity.
There was more technology at play here than just that. He had given the men in Torsten’s crew blood borne nanomachines to accelerate their healing process, strength, and speed. Most importantly, he had given them weapons. Weapons strong enough to destroy anything planetside while maintaining the mythology he had carefully cultivated over the passing centuries among the people below.
Laser rifles and firearms would serve them better, but that might bring too much scrutiny. Savages though they were, the people of Veldt had shown they were not stupid.
How long would they continue to believe in the supernatural if some clever ape down there saw the similarities between a laser rifle and a crossbow? Perhaps for ages, but there was little to be gained in finding out.
More than once he had been forced to destroy re-emergent pockets of the old civilization. They had either somehow been missed before or consisted of the descendants of survivors that had found the remains of the past civilization and attempted to pick it up once more. As much as he hated to expend limited ordinance, it was necessary to destroy these places. They simply could not be allowed to reestablish their civilization. It was too great of a threat.
And so he had created his mythology. It was perfectly suited to his mission. It would lead the people below to believe in such ridiculous nonsense like “magic.” He snorted in derision. Better they waste their time trying to call demons and lightning bolts on each other than in building more weapons like they had fielded in the past.
Blades and armor, which he had in abundance, were exactly what was needed. Let the backwater hicks think that they could be given a weapon from the Gods to strike down their enemies if they pleased their masters. Weapons in exchange for obedience.
A few generations like that would leave the whole planet under his control. It had been working well in fact, rapidly progressing towards that goal when he had first enacted the plan. Until Mordechai had started doing the same thing. Arming the enemies of his chosen champions and setting them to war against one another.
The remnants of their respective forces became rival pantheons of Gods in the mythologies of the people planetside. Generals became deities and their remaining soldiers became demi-gods. “Mortals” chosen by the UN or Coalition forces to serve them and equipped appropriately became the Sons of the Gods. He saw it as a humorous corruption of the advanced society he had come here to subjugate.
Over the years, in various conflicts, the numbers on both sides had dwindled. Now it was down to himself and Mordechai, each having a mere handful of the soldiers they brought with them. Now, it was the end game. Winner take all.
If he had his say, he would destroy the remainder of the Coalition forces here. Then he would establish himself as the one true God of this planet. He would guide these people in the excavation of the ruins of the cities built by their ancestors and they would yield their secrets of technology to him. His mission complete, he would return home, triumphant. Wreathed in Glory.
If there is a home to return to, why haven’t you heard anything? The same tiny voice in the back of his mind asked. Such thoughts irritated him. With his computer systems crippled by the virus transmitted to the fleet in the final days, he would be totally unaware if the UN central command had tried to contact him. Surely when he got his systems back online, he would find that they were still eagerly searching for him. Like his scanners now did for his planetside assets.
“Gone offline?” He scowled as he spoke. There were occasional glitches in the communications between his satellites that ringed the planet, sometimes disrupting his direct control of his puppets. The machines that had not been crippled by the cyber-attack of the planetary defense forces were getting old and needed repair and maintenance that was increasingly difficult to provide over time. But it was rare indeed that they would lose contact with ground forces completely.
“Explain.” He intoned.
The machine’s answer was in his mind in a fraction of a second, but it continued to speak out loud as he processed the information.
“Contact has been lost with ground asset command unit, designated Torsten, for approximately six hours. Outside interference is suspected. However EM patterns do no suggest Coalition involvement. Records indicate similar patterns to those seen just before the last data attack against both UN and Coalition fleets. Suspect execution of attack and interference by planetary defense forces.”
His blood froze for the tiniest fraction of a second as the implications sank in. He glared angrily at the planet below. Somewhere down there
, his enemy remained. Still alive and still active after all these years. Complicating his mission.
“Has our location been compromised?” He asked. If it had, he might only have seconds left in which to act.
“No external scanning of our current location within the debris field has been detected.” He found the computer’s steady, almost musical voice oddly soothing in the moment of tension. The designers had known what they were doing. He quickly regained his usual sangfroid.
“Last known location of ground assets, designated Torsten’s crew.” What should have been a question was a statement, flat in its delivery. The computer answered him anyway.
“Andersonville on the Hialeah plateau of The World’s Spine mountain range. Northern hemisphere. Secondary land mass. Third quadrant.” Not what he wanted to know. He ground his teeth like gears in a machine in need of oil.
“Find them. Exact positions on the planetary grid. I want to know what they’ve found for me and where Torsten is. I’ve invested too much in these puppets to simply let them ‘go offline’.”
“Yes General Kasabian.” Came the reply.
“And stop calling me that. That name is for another place and another time. Here you will address me as I have instructed you to.” There was menace in his voice, the threat clear to any who might hear him. On some level it registered in his mind that he was attempting to frighten an inanimate object.
“I obey, Lord Anhur.” The reply came, musical as always.
“What news from my spies in The Kingdom?” He asked as his mind shifted gears.
Spies was what he called them. And they served exactly that duty. Though in an unknowing manner. They were simply men who thought they were praying for the War God’s favor at his altars. Altars that happened to be equipped with technology to allow two-way communication between worshippers and Anhur.
Men he had spoken to. Directly into their thoughts with the aid of some beam technology he had never bothered to fully understand, though he had used it countless times in the field during his days as an operator. As he thought about it the technical data streamed through his mind, delivered by the same method. He ignored it. Irrelevant. Unnecessary.
All that mattered was that men seeking to serve the God of War and perhaps gain his favor had placed themselves in areas of government that were…sensitive. The Kingdom had grown significantly in recent generations and they had advanced fairly rapidly in regards to technological abilities and savvy. Enough that they would have to watched. And possibly destroyed.
It wouldn’t do for them to stumble upon the truth and find some hidden planetary defense weapon conveniently aimed at Anhur’s head. No, it was in his best interests to keep the global technology level fairly low. Apparently his ‘divine’ foe, Mordechai had reached the same conclusion.
Between the two of them, they had obliterated dozens of emerging civilizations that threatened to pick up where their ancestors, now known among them as The Ancients, had left off. Such would be the epitome of failure in regards to Anhur’s mission. The mission was all that mattered and he would do anything to achieve it. It’s all you have left, the tiny voice said in the back of his thoughts.
Their favored method of dealing with such was the orbital strike. A single payload delivered at a gathering of the nation or tribe’s best and brightest would set them back to the Stone Age. And show the rest of the world that the Gods were very real. And very powerful.
Data flooded into his mind, carrying the reports, the thoughts, the emotions of the men who prayed to him at his altars. Most of it was garbage. Petty warriors seeking guidance in battle. If they couldn’t save themselves, he had no interest in them. They were useless to him. He needed men like Torsten and his crew. Capable men who could carry out his orders when he was not able to directly guide them.
A few prayers for vengeance. These intrigued him on some primal level. If ever there was something worth fighting for, worth killing for, it was revenge. But still these men brought him nothing that he didn’t already know.
“Apply filter. Technology.” He spoke out loud. The data stream stopped for a split second and then resumed. He found what he sought. The prayer of a man he had personally spoken with before. His service had been rewarded with all of the petty things men desire. Money. Women. The occasional fast horse of good breeding. Happy with what had been provided the man had always returned for more. The greedy ones always made the best agents.
A soldier of some type. That was how he had first come to the altar of the God of War. Nervous before potentially seeing combat. Someone to ignore, had he not been from the right family.
Under Anhur’s guidance he had become a decorated warrior and then moved on to the security services. Performing as a body guard for VIPs and securing sensitive locations. Mints, armories, vacation houses of the elite. That sort of thing. From that position it had been a small matter to convince the man to transfer to providing security for the Royal Academy.
There, in the Royal Academy, they ostensibly studied the physical sciences for the advancement of nation and people. Anhur suspected that they studied the Ancients as well, seeking to learn what they could from their Graveyards. Many did such things globally, but few had such brainpower at their disposal as the men of the Royal Academy of The Kingdom.
With such a group, they might begin to unravel too much and make Anhur’s position precarious at best. Through his acolyte he could gain access to the Academy and learn what they knew. Their meetings took place behind closed doors, with heavily armed men providing a barrier between themselves and the outside.
Anhur’s acolyte was not high-ranking enough to gain entry to these meetings, so he had to improvise. The Academy was housed in a fortress in the Heart Cities that was hundreds of years old. Political intrigue and spying had been the nation’s favored past time during that age. It showed in the network of secret passage ways and tunnels that spider-webbed through the walls of the fortification.
The acolyte could find the entrances to these places easily enough and slip into them unnoticed. From the hidden paths he could eavesdrop on the meetings and report what was being discussed. To him it was mostly gibberish. To Anhur though, it was damning testimony indeed.
He clenched his fists tightly as he lost himself in the data stream. The men debating the future of their kingdom seemed to grasp the enormity of their situation, if only vaguely. They had uncovered enough data from the Ancients to understand that the Gods were in fact, an invading army from another world. That the Ancients struggled to free themselves from the alien onslaught. And that ultimately the Ancients had lost.
That’s not true, the doubting voice in his mind spoke. They remained free until the very end. Knees unbent to both UN and Coalition. And now they are all dead, he snapped back at himself. He returned his attention to the report.
In their search for knowledge they had uncovered more. Automated holograms and simple AI units in places like public libraries and museums had survived the biological, chemical, and nuclear warfare that had been aimed at depopulating the planet while keeping the infrastructure as intact as possible. Too simple to know what had happened or to care if they did understand, those same machines continued to fulfill their original purpose as educational tools.
They now provided the scholars of the Academy with dangerous knowledge indeed. The highest ranking men among them knew the truth of the past. That the Gods were in fact not divine and were their enemies, having come here to enslave them.
In light of this they discussed the destruction on The Western Fringe. They had suspected the work of one of the Gods in the seemingly mindless attacks of the raiders, but were unable to discern their purpose. They had dispatched men who they knew would be able to discern the truth of the situation as well as put an end to it. They had chosen them based on their past performance, their skill in arms, and most importantly, their intelligence.
Torsten’s crew. They were spoken of by name. The man seemed almost a celebrity at the Academy
, though Anhur doubted Torsten was aware of it. He likely would have been shocked to hear such a conversation.
There was much discussion about the man’s qualifications for the task. Not the least of which was evidence of his high intelligence by the small fortune he had amassed without bringing the notice of The Kingdom’s tax collectors, though it was pointed out by one dissenting voice that he had not been able to hide such from the Academy.
Then again, few things were hidden from the Academy the counterpoint arose. Further evidence was given in the seemingly impossible missions the man had accomplished with nothing more than the horse and sword he had been given.
Wars won with the death of a single man or averted altogether, saving the lives of countless thousands and millions of golden crowns for The Kingdom’s treasury. A few even spoke of the punishment of the merchant, Asher. Clearly an agent of Mordechai, the God of Slaughter. Anhur had gleaned the memories of that event from Torsten’s mind on his own. He had enjoyed watching them, seeing a valuable tool of his enemy die by the hands of a mere mortal. Yet untouched by the Gods.
The deployment to The Western Fringe had apparently caused the total destruction of Fort Pleasant as well, they continued. An act correctly attributed to the Gods. Though they could not accurately say which had done it. There was some debate among them as to who exactly was the guilty party. Their knowledge of the remaining Gods was quite accurate, Anhur noted. They knew that only a handful of warriors survived on either side. They didn’t appear to know that only he and Mordechai were currently active.
That was a sore point for Anhur. He had at his disposal several fire teams of Spec Ops soldiers that he could dispatch planetside. The men turned machines were in a state of suspension, awaiting reactivation and orders. If only he could overcome the interference from the viruses planted in his systems by the planetary defense force, he would be able to bring them back online. They would make short work of any foe they faced.
Sons of the Gods Page 23