The IX

by Andrew P. Weston

  “Death factor?” Sariff was confused by a term he’d never heard before.

  “Yes, my friend. Remember, to activate this gateway we need to energize the matrix with life force. Ours to be exact. Now, as I say, some look on this as a defeat. But in sacrificing ourselves to the Ark, I’ve become certain that we not only deny the Horde our essence, but ultimately guarantee our eventual salvation. And these tests confirm it.”

  “How?”

  “Well, from what I’ve been able to determine, the sum of our surrendered soul energies will cause a subtle variation in the equation every time a conduit is established. While it won’t affect the geophysical focus, it will influence the temporal manifestation site. In effect, we’ll be looking at a bridge that will flick across time, in its search for . . . a corresponding frequency — a mortality signature if you like — to lock-on to.”

  Comprehension dawned. “But . . . but that means the candidates it selects won’t be missed! Nobody will come looking for them.”

  “Precisely! The flux will allow the Architect to choose those poor unfortunates who are about to die, and bring them here.”

  “But Calen! That can’t be ethical? To snatch someone from the jaws of death, just so they can give their lives here in a hopeless venture on our behalf? It . . . it . . . .”

  “They’re dead anyway, Sariff. At least here they might have a fighting chance.”

  Both men stared at each other for a while, daunted by the scope of the undertaking before them, and the fact it might actually work. Eventually, Sariff expressed a question he’d forgotten to ask. “So where does the gateway lead?”

  Calen had anticipated the request. Flicking a switch, he brought a holographic image of the galaxy to life in the air about them. As it rotated in majestic grandeur, Sariff could see two points within it had been highlighted, respectively, by glowing blue and green discs. Both were connected by an effervescent thread which obviously represented the wormhole.

  Sariff knew the position of Arden and all her colonies intimately. Pointing to the green light, he said, “That’s home world, obviously. And the other?”

  Walking slowly across to the very edge of one of the galactic spiral arms, Calen used a remote control to enlarge that area of space. A small solar system appeared, centered upon an unimpressive yellow star. The image shimmered again, elaborating the third planet out from the sun in greater detail.

  Looking at it, Sariff couldn’t help but voice his thoughts. “It’s certainly a beautiful little world, Calen, but are you sure the Architect has chosen correctly? I mean . . . look at it. They’ve only recently ventured into deep space. How could they possibly hold the key to our salvation?”

  “That, I don’t know, my friend. I merely asked the Architect to guarantee, beyond any doubt, that it would select the best possible candidate to ensure our race’s survival. It came up with this. Don’t be fooled by first impressions. Remember, the gateway is temporal. Who knows what surprises this civilization may possess in their future that might turn the tide in our favor?”

  “So what do they call it?”

  “I’ve been listening in to their radio and microwave chatter for a while now. Evidently, the citizens of this planet like to call it ‘Earth.’”

  “Earth?”

  “Yes, and she really is our greatest hope for the future.”

  They were interrupted by the arrival of a sentinel. “Magister, Chancellor,” it chimed merrily, “the Senatum awaits your presence.”

  “We’re coming, Architect,” Sariff replied. “Tell them we’ll be there in a few minutes and they shall have their answer.”

  “Very well, good day!” The construct disappeared, leaving the two men to deliberate in private.

  Sariff couldn’t tear his eyes away from the image of the tiny blue-white globe. It’s so small and inconspicuous to carry the hopes of our future. And yet . . . .

  “So, you’ve made up your mind,” Calen stated flatly.

  Turning to his companion, Sariff straightened his back, adjusted his robe, and took a deep breath. “Yes, my friend. Let’s go and get this started.”

  CHAPTER ONE

  The Eagle

  (November 12 AD 120)

  Despite the atrocious weather, Marcus Brutus, Prime Centurion of the First Cohort of the Ninth Legion of Rome, was dozing in his saddle. The steady gait of his mount had lulled him into a state of happy reverie, and he was currently reliving the successes enjoyed by the battalion in Gaul only two short years ago.

  At that time, the Senate had been committing more and more of its resources to the expansion into Britannia. However, efforts were being hampered by repeated guerilla raids against Roman supplies as they passed along the Rhone, especially within the Jura region, between the areas of Lugdunum and Divodurum. A special unit comprised of the second, third, and fifth centurae, together with elements of the mounted squadron, had been dispatched under Marcus’s command to remove the problem. And remove it he had. Devising a cunning strategy, it had taken Marcus a mere nine months to eradicate the raiding parties and restore operations. Not only did his actions earn him the distinction of being hailed in Rome before the Senate, but his leadership potential was recognized in the highest of places. Caesar Hadrian himself had ordered the bestowal of one of their greatest honors, the golden torc. Thereafter, Marcus’s promotion to Triari — Captain of the Legion — was sealed.

  A grin creased his lips, but it wasn’t the memory of his elevation. It was his recollection of something else entirely.

  Repeatedly covering so many leagues up and down the length of a large and difficult country had been problematic enough. But a mild spring followed by a glorious summer had facilitated the execution of his mission no end. The crowning glory of a golden autumn had only sealed the fate of the insurgents all the quicker.

  Yes, he thought, as evidence of his pleasure spread across his whole countenance, I wouldn’t have minded serving there for another ten years, or so. Once the rabble had been controlled and peace restored, I found that land most idyllic. Somewhere I could retire to and—

  “Happy about something, my captain?”

  The intruding voice yanked Marcus from his quiet place back to the bitter misery of reality. “I’m sorry. What?” Focusing his gaze, Marcus looked into the amused face of General Quintus Petillius Cerialis, commander of the Ninth Legion.

  “I asked you what you were happy about, and if you’d be willing to share the joy?”

  Hearing the jest, several heads turned, eager for any respite from the soul-sapping drudgery of the cold now soaking its way into their bones.

  Snapping to attention, Marcus suddenly comprehended who had dropped back to speak with him. Bringing his mount, Starblaze, to a halt, he replied, “My apologies, Sir. I was worlds away. Gaul, to be exact. Reminiscing over better times . . .” he glanced up into the endless, drenching mist, “. . . and more appealing weather.”

  “Even Erebus has better weather than this cesspit,” someone grumbled from within the column. Laughter broke out around them at the reference, for the third layer of Hades was a place well known to soldiers for its perpetually gloomy environs.

  “Yes, it does seem that way, doesn’t it?” Quintus’s voice was loud, attempting to raise the spirits of those within earshot. “But it makes you appreciate why the savages hereabouts are so fierce, eh? I mean, could you imagine having to live in these conditions all year round? It’d be enough to permanently foul anyone’s temper.”

  Marcus chuckled to himself as the general’s infectious humor spread among the men, for they all knew their commander had made a valid point. Having served this far north for nearly four months now, everyone had come to realize Caledonia only had one true element to its nature. And it was called gray.

  From its miserable skies and oppressive cloud-shrouded mountains. Through its dark, impenetrable forests and ink-stained lochs. Across the cruelly open, windswept hills and glens, this hell on earth had forgotten the simple joy of color.r />
  The brief summer they’d experienced had attempted to add a thin green veneer of life to the landscape. Yet it did little to hide the frigidity of stark granite hiding just beneath the surface. All too soon their temporary respite from the cold had bled away, lost to the consuming mists of what passed for autumn here. Wreathing the gray in silver veils, the crawling fogs hid a speedy transition toward the true nature of this godforsaken land. Eternal winter. Its icy grip crept ever closer with the passing of each day. For now, whenever the rains did manage to stop for long enough and the haze thinned, you could see the carbon mountains, tinged blue-white under the onset of snow. Savage weather for a savage people. It was not a place for civilized man to be.

  And yet, here they were, extending the peace of the Empire to heathens who were not in the slightest bit interested, nor thankful for what Rome could offer them.

  Trudging along in the gloom, Marcus sensed when the sun began to set. A chill that had nothing to do with the clouds or falling temperature set in, leeching any inclination toward merriment from the air. The men felt it too, and he noticed with sadness that their humor evaporated along with the receding daylight. Huddling into their cloaks, they became more subdued. Cautious. Heads began turning from side to side, as shadows were checked and rechecked. Some of the more experienced soldiers along the center file loosened their swords in their sheaths and brought their shields to bear. As if responding to a subliminal command, everyone drew closer together and adopted a grim-faced alertness that reduced them all to silence.

  Marcus acknowledged them. They may have been uneasy, but his men were professional. Nevertheless, that did little to ease his apprehension. We’ve left it too long to make proper camp. I know the general’s trying to make up for lost time, but marching through the night is becoming far too risky. Especially here.

  Despite his reservations, Marcus could appreciate why Quintus was anxious to press ahead. They had marched from Fort Dalginos just six days previously, with fresh orders to establish a foothold in the mountains. Once in place, they had been directed to construct a serviceable fort and hold position until reinforcements could be sent from Eboracum. Following normal protocol, subjugation of the highland rabble would begin soon after.

  They quickly discovered it was impossible to maintain the usual pace set by legions of twenty-five miles per day. Not only did foul weather, swamps, and lack of suitable roads slow their progress, but the actual mechanics involved in moving five thousand men — along with their livestock and equipment — had become a logistical nightmare.

  As if that were not frustrating enough, no sooner had they left the lowlands behind than the skirmishes began. Using the bog-riddled glens and tight-knit forests to their advantage, the raiders had approached under the cover of the mists to begin picking away at the army’s nerves and defenses. Already the detachment had lost four of their most heavily laden wagons to the marshes, and the same number again to the howling ghouls who would attack, only to vanish seconds later among the swirling vapor. Too many times his men would turn to find a cart afire, or a companion with an arrow in his throat. Sadly, because the column was so long, there was nothing they could do except be wary, and maintain a constant state of alert.

  The general had dictated a slower pace to compensate, but still the shrieking banshees attacked. One by one, soldiers disappeared . . . along with morale.

  Marcus could empathize. They were used to the terrifying confrontation of man against man. The focus of steel on steel. Not this cowardly tactic of hit and run. As Caledonia also appeared riddled with hidden fens and quicksand, it was making them feel as if the very land itself were conspiring to send them all to Hades.

  That thought made him shiver. As if on cue, a stiff wind began blowing from the north, causing some of the men to grumble.

  At least I can do something about that. Twisting in his saddle, Marcus called, “Flavius! To me.”

  The sound of approaching hooves lifted out of the gloom. Within moments, Flavius Velerianus, Decurio of the cavalry squadron, appeared. Reining in before his Triari, he asked, “Marcus?”

  “Flavius, I want your reserves to light torches and ride back and forth along the line. Extend the rangers, too. I want to know what’s out there in plenty of time. Assign . . . .”

  The clouds abruptly rolled back allowing the dying rays of the setting sun to burst forth in burnt umber splendor. A sea of faces turned to the unexpected sight, and relief flooded the ether. The baleful disc dipped behind the mountains, stray beams catching the legion’s standard square on. Adorned as it was in a coat of glittering dew, the eagle blazed with golden glory. A beacon of radiant hope in a darkened world.

  “For Rome,” someone called.

  “The General,” shouted another.

  “To our Captain,” another added, nearer to Marcus.

  “For the Ninth!” Marcus roared, drawing his sword and holding it high.

  “The Ninth!” responded the crowd, eagerly pumping their own weapons into the air. The sound of their cry was picked up by those farther along the line, and echoing reverberations were soon ringing their way across the valley.

  “Now there’s a sight for sore eyes,” Flavius muttered. “Talk about timing.”

  “The gods must be with us after all,” Marcus replied, “and about bloody time, too!”

  “Pity they don’t fight for us more often, eh?” Fighting to tear his gaze from the ruddy disc as it dared to sink behind the intervening peaks, Flavius shook his head. “Anyway, you were saying something regarding my mounted patrols?”

  “Ah . . . yes. Look, make sure you assign archers to the roving pickets as well. The rabble is out there, and if they didn’t know we were here before, they do now. At the slightest sign of trouble, I want a signal in the air and the area under scrutiny lit up like a whorehouse celebrating Fortuna Virilis. Understood?”

  “Understood.” Nodding toward the general, Flavius added, “Just get him to act more prudently, will you? Those mountains mark the borders of the Iceni berserker tribes, and we can’t be more than a day’s march away from them. From what Cornelius told me back at Zeta Fort, that lot eat human flesh. They don’t feel the cold — there’s a surprise — and nothing short of decapitation will stop them. If we stumble into the fringes of their territory, they’ll give us the nastiest buggering we’ve ever had the misfortune to suffer.”

  Marcus grinned at the image his friend’s statement conjured in his mind. But it was a valid concern. Clasping Flavius by the shoulder, he said, “I’ll do my best. So far, he hasn’t shown an inclination to listen. But I will make another attempt. You have my word.”

  Turning his horse to leave, Flavius maneuvered closer. “Might I make a suggestion?” His eyes flicked toward the head of the column. Marcus followed his gaze and caught sight of the former Triari of the Ninth, Drusus Vergilius Cicero. Promoted to Praefectus, the veteran officer now served as second-in-command of the entire legion. Leaning in, Flavius whispered, “Although he’s been tightlipped about the general’s latest decisions, I know for a fact our new colonel is itching to have things done in a . . . more orderly fashion. Why don’t you ensure your paths cross tonight at dinner, so you can have a timely chat with him? I have a feeling a combined approach by our most seasoned officers might sway the general’s mind.”

  Flavius trotted off to issue his orders, leaving Marcus to mull over how to broach the issue. Yes. I’ll speak with him during our evening stop. Better this is done sooner. Drusus can twist the old man’s arm in ways I wouldn’t dare.

  As the vanguard crested the hill the sky darkened to indigo, and through the expanding gap in the clouds, the full moon began its climb into the sky. Casting a critical glance at the heavens, Marcus thought, Why couldn’t the break have occurred just a few hours earlier? It would have raised everyone’s spirits, as well as warmed us up. Still, at least we can see where we’re going now.

  The order was abruptly passed for the column to halt. Intrigued, Marcus trotted ahea
d to see what the problem was. Topping the crest, he found Quintus deep in conversation with Drusus and several scouts. A number of the sentries were gesticulating wildly, and all of them had a haunted look in their eyes. Moving up, he caught a pair of the outriders glancing nervously down into a glen. “What’s happened? Why are we halting where we’ll be exposed?”

  “Because of that, Sir,” the soldier replied, pointing to a swirling dome of mist coalescing across the center of the basin, not half a mile in front of them. “That and the fact that most of our pathfinders are missing.”

  Marcus’s blood ran cold. In the moonlight, a narrow river could be seen running directly across their path. It looked as if a huge axe had cleft the earth in two, leaving behind an oily scar. A steep-sided ravine ran the entire length of the watercourse, effectively blocking their way. A narrow defile had been formed—most probably the effect of years of attrition from bad weather—which appeared to allow a meager point of access to the mountains. On either side of that chokepoint, stunted oaks hunched like gnarled sentinels in the shadows. To Marcus’s eye, they seemed to highlight the only viable route across for miles in both directions. The Legion was heading straight for them.

  Above the trees, a concentrated bank of fog congealed, apparently out of nowhere. Rotating slowly, as if stirred by a giant unseen hand, the miasma swelled and thickened before tendrils of vapor undulated lazily to the ground. Once there, the mist distended in all directions.

  Voices cried out.

  “That can’t be normal.”

  “Omen!”

  “It’s Charon, come to drag us into the Styx.”

  “Keep that nonsense down,” Marcus commanded. “The next one I hear spouting crap like that will lose a day’s pay. Do you he–”

  A piercing howl resonated through the air.

  All chatter throughout the ranks abruptly ceased.

  Another ululating shriek split the night.

  Marcus closed his eyes and sat forward in his saddle; frowning, listening.

  “Wolves?” gasped the infantryman nearest him.