The IX

by Andrew P. Weston

  A star fell from heaven. Landing lightly in the fire, it sizzled and crackled for over an hour before cooling sufficiently to form a pool of glowing metal. Deciding the time was right, Napioa rose from his position and scooped the molten blob from within the crucible. Using his bare hands, he compressed the mass together and fashioned an intricate blade from the remains.

  The knife pulsed with an argent gleam, reflecting the moon’s rays about the mountaintop. Brandishing the dagger toward the stars, he sliced the restraining band around the crown of his head. Raven-black hair flowed free, streaming into the breeze behind him. His mane grew longer and longer, and soon, whirlpools of midnight iridescence swept across the hilltop with obsidian tornados.

  Turning his back to the gale, Napioa slashed through the swirling strands, cutting them free from his body. Condensing into a single, spinning vortex, they rocketed skyward before plunging back into the embers. Sparks flared. Like miniature fireflies, they danced around Napioa’s head, singing.

  The Creator took his newly fashioned weapon and drew the blade across his palm. Holding his hand before him, he squeezed his fist tightly, so that scarlet vitality pooled into a natural bowl-shaped depression in the rock at his feet. Stained-With-Blood noticed a thin gully leading away from the hollow and toward the cliff.

  As the ruby-red ichor flowed toward the edge, it ran into a wall of invisible resistance. After surging and boiling for a moment, it reared upward. A birch sapling sprouted from the depths of the turbulent liquid. Growing quickly, it pushed down thick roots and matured into a majestic specimen of impressive height.

  The rock along the lip of the chasm cracked. The tree shuddered and began to tip forward. As it fell, it abruptly budded, before exploding into the air. Stained-With-Blood watched, transfixed, as the seeds were caught up by glowing cinders from the fire and carried away into the starlit sky.

  A further blast rang out. Sooty ash like leprous snowflakes descended across the valley. An unknown amount of time passed and the moon wheeled through the sky. Whines and whistles echoed up from the plains below. Drawn by the scent of fresh blood, others came to investigate.

  Glowing eyes appeared. Crawling out of the gloom, coyotes slunk forward with their tails between their legs. Tricky beasts, deceptive and sly, each wearing the mark of Lakota, Sioux, and Apache. Reaching Napioa, they cast sidelong glances toward Stained-With-Blood before curling up at the Creator’s feet. They seemed ill at ease in the presence of a dream-walker. Some raised their heads, bared their fangs, and growled.

  The Old Man reacted instantly. Cuffing them with the back of his hand, he glowered at each beast until they huddled on the floor, yowling in submission to his will.

  Fish fell from the heavens. Salmon, trout, and pike. Each branded with the familiar sigil of enemies. Raising his hand, Napioa seared them instantly, and the succulent smell of roasted flesh stung the back of Stained-With-Blood’s nostrils.

  The coyotes fell to, eating with gusto. With an expectant look on his face, the Creator stared at the alpha. Yipping once, the huge male left his feasting and nudged through the pack. Selecting the choicest fish, he lifted it tenderly within his jaws and skulked toward Stained-With-Blood. Dropping a fat salmon at the warrior’s feet, he nudged the morsel toward the brave with his nose and sat back, tail wagging, waiting.

  “Do you understand?” Napioa said, his voice deep and resonant. Holding Stained-With-Blood’s gaze, he swept a hand toward the east and bellowed, “Behold!”

  The fresh clean sun of a new day crested a ridge of unfamiliar mountains in the distance. Behind it, shining in glory, another star flared. Its brilliance intensified, growing to form an orange-red titan that dwarfed the yellow pretender before it. Everyone atop the plateau was bathed in solace, warmth and unity.

  Napioa’s eyes blazed white, and Stained-With-Blood reeled away. The world dimmed, and the Cree warrior felt himself flowing backward along an invisible tunnel as the brightness folded in on itself.

  Napioa’s words echoed in his mind. Do you understand?

  Sensation returned. Stained-With-Blood could feel the cool hard floor once more, hear the sound of stone on metal, and see the subtle glow of artificial light through his eyelids. He sighed deeply, and released a breath that had strained to be expressed for what seemed like hours.

  Before he did anything else, he reviewed the events he had just witnessed. Reflecting both on the vision and his knowledge of the first nations, Stained-With-Blood couldn’t prevent the bitterness from overwhelming him. We are a united people. Cree, all tribes created from the same blood. How could we have turned against ourselves in such a manner? Never before have the clans betrayed their own flesh in support of another’s.

  Do you understand? A voice whispered from the shadows, making him jump.

  “I understand all right!” he grumbled, “but I don’t have to like it.”

  Surging to his feet, he approached the only door within his room and knocked once. A sentinel appeared in the air.

  “Good afternoon,” it said, “how may I help you?”

  Stained-With-Blood had discovered it helped him to think of these apparitions as messengers to the gods. “I need to speak with the other leaders of my people. Soon. We must fill the hole that has eaten its way into our souls.”

  “I see,” replied the sprite, flaring warmly in response. “That is gratifying to hear, especially under the circumstances. Please remain here while we facilitate such a meeting.”

  It blinked out of existence, leaving Stained-With-Blood to answer to an empty room. Where else would I wait?

  Resigning himself to another delay, he returned to sit on his bed and meditate on his experience. One part of the dream quest still troubled him, for it had been cryptic in its flavor.

  Why am I to look to a distant star that turns into a sun? Isn’t that a bit obvious?

  CHAPTER NINE

  We Are the Ninth

  The domed Hall of Remembrance was vast. Despite its size, the chamber had been cunningly designed to amplify sound. Doctor Ayria Solram’s steps rang out clearly as she walked toward a huge cenotaph-like structure that had been constructed in the exact center of the room, opposite a set of massive windows. Clicking off into the furthest reaches of the auditorium, her footfalls echoed twice about the room before fading.

  Over fifty pairs of eyes followed her closely. That wasn’t surprising. At forty years of age, Ayria cut an imposing figure. Standing well over six feet tall, she matched the stature of most of the men now staring at her in wide-eyed admiration. Ayria wore her waist length, midnight blue hair in a no-nonsense braid which didn’t hide the fact that her mane was glorious. Curling over her shoulder and across her torso like a well-fed python, it captured attention whenever she moved.

  Her smooth, softly tanned skin and dark eyes were in stark contrast to the sterile white lab coat she wore. Nevertheless, the overall effect was striking.

  Indicating the monument with a sweep of her arms, she said, “Now, this should be of particular interest to you. This is called the Reverence.”

  All faces turned to study the twenty-foot high monolith. Fashioned from a richly veined slab of rock, it appeared to be seamless, and resonated gently from all four sides with a softly pulsing, blue phosphorescence. The top of the structure was formed into a trapezoid, upon which rested a glowing sphere.

  Aryia pointed to it. “The light you see is not just a power source. It’s also an indicator, intimately linked to the life energies of every living soul currently residing on Arden. Your esoteric signatures were added shortly after you arrived here, and as you can see, the device is glowing with a gentle aquamarine radiance.”

  Gesturing around the outer edge of the hall, she drew the crowd’s attention to a number of astonishing bas-reliefs which had been cut directly into the fabric of the wall. Stretching from floor to ceiling, each was of a similar size and gave the impression that the open leaves of a gigantic tome had been superimposed onto the rock.

 
A small dais had been erected before each frieze, upon which an artifact or plaque had been positioned, highlighted by a softly humming radiance.

  “Are those the names of refugees I can see on the pages?” Marcus Brutus asked, astonished by the sheer volume of people who had been taken from their homes.

  “I’m afraid not,” Ayria replied. “While it is true that the Architect has relocated literally thousands of us over the years, the lists you see here represent our dear brothers and sisters who have fallen to the Horde.”

  A palpable shock ran through the entire group.

  “Are you serious?” spluttered James Houston. “But there are . . . thousands. How many names are up there, lady?”

  “Just Ayria, please. Or Doctor. In answer to your question, the sacrifice of over twenty-one thousand souls has been recorded here. When someone dies, the Reverence registers the missing life force and turns red for an entire day. It also burns their name into a corresponding page.”

  “Holy God!” Houston turned to stare at a young cavalry officer standing next to him. Addressing him, Houston whispered, “We’ve got to stick together, Wilson. Just you and me. Watch each other’s backs.”

  Some of the other men standing close by glared at the pair in disdain.

  “If I may ask a question, Ayria?” Marcus interjected. “How is it that I, a humble soldier of Rome, can read and understand this writing? I recognize it as a form I have never witnessed before, yet I find myself comprehending its meaning almost instantly.”

  “That’s due to nanotechnology,” Ayria replied. Walking toward him, she tapped the side of her own head. “Remember, the avatars explained something of the process we use here. Because a great many people are being brought together from across time, the Ardenese had to make sure we understood each other clearly. Even a single language can change radically during the course of many centuries, so they thought it best we were educated in theirs. They were a very advanced people, socially as well technologically. And because they had employed the use of artificial intelligence as a means to educate themselves for a number of decades prior to their fall, they realized the best way to help us was to adapt those tiny little machines for our use. They’re inside our brains right now, teaching us and allowing us to learn new things at a greatly accelerated rate.”

  Marcus frowned.

  “Have I confused you?”

  “No, my lady, not at all. I look bewildered because I can grasp the sense of what you’re saying . . .” He turned to look about him in wonder, “. . . and yet, this is all so very strange to me.”

  Marcus glanced toward his compatriots and shrugged. Like him, Flavius and their fellow legionnaires were still finding the adjustments difficult to cope with. They were warriors, and unaccustomed to such godlike contrivances.

  An awkward silence ensued.

  Seizing the moment, Mac stepped forward. “I take it each engraving represents an actual influx of candidates?”

  A sea of faces turned to look at him. Until now, Mac and his men had kept themselves apart, content to stand quietly to one side with a group of stoic Native Americans. However, Mac had noticed how each of the lists was arranged. Pointing to the wall, he continued, “There are nine open books along the circumference. One is blank, so that must indicate us, as no one is dead yet. Therefore, the other eight obviously refer to those who have come and gone before us, yes?”

  “Very astute. Lieutenant Alan McDonald, isn’t it?”

  “I’m famous!” Mac replied, surprise evident on his face. Cocking a thumb toward his team, he added, “But the guys will tell you I’m quite informal. They call me all sorts of things, most of which I can’t repeat.” He smiled. “You can call me Mac.”

  “Mac,” Ayria replied, inclining her head toward him, “and in case you were wondering, yes, I have read your file. Your whole team’s in fact.” Her eyes narrowed. “We’ll be putting your particular skill set to very good use in the coming days, believe me.” Sighing, she appeared lost in thought for a moment, before continuing, “But as you have correctly surmised, each frieze does in fact contain a list of those who have perished, respective to their date of arrival and—”

  “So we are the ninth?” Marcus cut in, eyes wide with delight.

  Everyone stared until the point registered. Although new, the leaders of each faction present had been made aware of all the other parties who had joined them on their very special journey. It was already common knowledge that by far the largest of the groups to arrive during the most recent gathering were the surviving officers and men of the Ninth Legion. A smattering of laughter and light applause rippled through the crowd, although it was noted the Caledonian contingent didn’t appreciate the irony.

  Grinning broadly, Ayria acknowledged Marcus’s point. “Yes, well spotted. You are indeed the ninth and final choice of the Architect to be brought to us. A rather appropriate moment, don’t you think?”

  Mac stepped forward. Addressing Marcus and his men, he adopted a reverential air. “You were the subject of legend in my time, you know. Even though thousands of years had passed since you disappeared, they had books and films made in your honor.”

  “Films?” Marcus looked distracted as he tried to employ the nanobots within his brain to translate the concept.

  “Think of them as a visualization of a play,” Mac explained. “Your legion was one of the finest ever formed. And history records you as marching into the mists of Scot . . . er, Caledonia, and simply disappearing. An entire army of five thousand men.” Mac gestured toward the chieftains of the highland tribes, standing in a sullen group at the back. Focusing on one shaven-headed man in particular, dressed in the distinctive blue and black plaid of the northern Iceni tribes, he continued, “And your people were attributed with the distinction of the massacre. No easy feat by anyone’s standards.”

  Cathal MacNoimhin’s entire stature swelled with pride. His eyes flashed and he snapped, “And we would have had them too, if it wasn’t for that fey storm. They think us wild and stupid. Animals, incapable of rational thought. They were wrong.”

  Legionnaires and savages eyed each other, posturing, flexing their fingers and chests before Marcus admitted, “Oh, you can fight all right. I’ll give you that. Caught us with our pants down, too. Dirty way to fight. But effective.”

  “Victory is victory,” hissed a brutish hulk standing next to Cathal. Covered in tattoos and wearing the purple and green tartan of Clan Underwood, he cut an imposing figure, even among the outlandish gathering of his kindred.

  “Peace, Kohrk,” grumbled Cathal, “they cannot doubt our quality or methods. It is the living who write history. Not the dead.”

  “I don’t think there’s any doubt you can both fight,” Mac continued, diffusing an awkward situation, “both your peoples were . . . are experts in your own particular style of warfare. And history does indeed give testimony to the legacy of your efforts. It’s amazing to think that your battle continues to be the subject of debate so many centuries after the event. They’ve even devoted university study articles to ‘Whatever happened to the Ninth and their eagle?’ Those films were the least of it.” He chuckled in appreciation. “At least we all know now, eh?”

  Marcus was swayed by a sudden thought. “Where is our eagle? It was safely among our lines the last time I saw it, with Sextus Nerva, our aquilifer. Did he make it through?”

  “He’s here,” Mohammed Amine answered, stepping forward from among the throng. Nodding curtly, he added, “Please excuse me. I am second-in-command of the city’s defenses, and our strength and deployment comes under my office. Your eagle made it, too. It’s safely tucked away in the vault. With your permission, we would like to use it as the sigil for your particular intake.”

  “Because we’re the ninth group?” Marcus asked.

  “Mostly.” Mohammed paused to consider everyone present. “But as Doctor Solram just mentioned, you are also the last help we will ever receive. We’re hoping your standard will represent a fittin
g symbol of your efforts here on Arden, as you may be our best hope yet.”

  That statement caught them cold. When no one replied, Mohammed used the silence to his advantage. “As you might imagine, powering a machine capable of spanning a galaxy is taxing enough. For that device to also be able to pierce time is another thing all together. You will all now be aware of the fact that you were snatched prior to your certain deaths, and not only relocated geographically, but also temporally. Even the most sophisticated of the candidates to be brought through previously were jumped hundreds of years into their future. For those of you from Caledonia, we’re looking at a five thousand year window. Understand, such a procedure places a huge drain on our resources, for the Architect must not only maintain a constant supply of energy for the Ark itself, but also for the city’s defenses, and the everyday functioning of its infrastructure.”

  “Wasn’t that part of the Architect’s original strategy?” Mac asked.

  “Yes. But the Ardenese didn’t expect the Horde to be able to withstand the best the AI could find. The gateway was designed to constantly probe the energy lattices between our worlds, and to home in on the mortality signatures of those showing the most outstanding potential for their needs. Then, once every two to three years, it would activate and pull the most suitable potentials through en masse, usually from three closely related, but alternate time-frames. The Architect hoped the lull between intakes would reduce the amount of concentrated life-force within the city to a bare minimum, thereby reducing the Horde’s frenzy. But it didn’t. They kept coming. The city wall, along with some of the more important strategic posts within it, is comprised of the densest material we’ve ever encountered. The Ardenese called it lydium. It’s so incredibly compact that nothing should be able to penetrate its structure . . .”

  “But it’s weakening.”

  “I’m afraid so. As the respective leaders of your people, you’ll all be given the specifics in our first major briefing together, tomorrow morning. In a nutshell, the Horde appears willing to sacrifice every last one of its members in the frenzy to get through. They’ve lost millions against the shield wall and don’t seem to care. We’ve even seen them storm it and climb over themselves in an effort to reach the ramparts before their biometric thresholds disrupt. It’s a crazy strategy, but in the end, it’s one that might work. Even a few of those monsters could screw us.”