“Amenophis,” the governor intoned reverently. He sank to his knees and repeated the name: “Amenophis. Hear me.”
The priests who stood hidden behind opaque paper screens at the rear of the sanctuary began to chant then, the words unintelligible but their meaning—and their reverence—clear. Clouds of scented smoke began to fill the area around the altar, almost obscuring the kneeling governor from the view of the parishioners behind him.
“Hear me, great Amenophis, chosen god of Ahknaton, who favors our world with grace and bounty.”
The priests sang louder then, and Rameses repeated the invocation, then recited several lines of standard prayer that matched what was being spoken in churches all across Ahknaton. Finally the governor stood, bowed once more, and turned his back on the windows. He took two steps down from the raised altar steps and froze in place.
The parishioners were all standing and staring, gawking and pointing past him.
Frowning, he turned back and looked at the windows.
The image of Amenophis, patron god of Ahknaton and one of Those Who Remain, was glowing brighter than Rameses had ever seen it. And the eyes—those green eyes were practically alight, pale beams spearing down from them to touch the chest of Rameses. He gasped, staggered back a step, and looked down again. The beams had moved as he moved. He stepped to one side, and they followed. They were tracking him.
He turned back to the crowd of people, eyes wide, and then spread his arms in a gesture not unlike the one Amenophis was making in the image. He solemnly nodded to them.
The crowd hesitated a moment and then surged forward, sensing a miracle at work, anxious to touch him.
The beams faded and disappeared. The image of the god returned to its normal brightness.
After all the people had touched him and received his blessings—and those of Amenophis—in turn, they were led back out of the cathedral by the priests. Rameses watched them go, raising a hand in a solemn farewell gesture to those who looked back.
When the last of them had gone, Rameses waited until the doors were closed and locked. Then he gestured for the high priest to approach.
The man bowed deeply to him. “A miracle,” he murmured, a blissful smile forming on his dark features. “A sign, and a portent for the future of our world.”
“Let us hope so,” Rameses said in a loud, clear voice. Then he leaned in and murmured, “Dismantle the lasers immediately. Leave no traces behind. Excellent work, Raza.”
He stepped back and the high priest bowed again. Then he turned and motioned for his bodyguards to lead the way out of the cathedral and through the growing throng that was already gathering outside.
One of his top political aides, Haden Moentat, approached. His unfocused eyes indicated that he was currently accessing the Aether network. What he said after he greeted Rameses proved that.
“Word is already spreading of this miracle, Governor,” Moentat said, smiling. “The news broadcasts will all lead off with the story tonight. Soon all of Ahknaton will love you even as we who know you so well love you.”
“Let us hope so,” Rameses repeated. He allowed the guards around him to usher him to a waiting hovercar, a spectacular gilded affair that filled a substantial portion of the square, surrounded by a full company of Sand Kings troops, all resplendent in their Egyptian-motif dress uniforms. As he climbed into the sumptuous passenger cabin, he looked back one last time at the people crowding around the cathedral’s doors; most were chanting Amenophis’s name, but no small few were chanting, “Rameses.” Some of them weren’t even in his pay.
“To the Heliopolis,” he ordered the driver. “The palace.” Then he closed the door and, alone at last, leaned his head forward and breathed deeply, almost hyperventilating.
“Fine work,” said the figure in black who was seated across from him. “Well played. Your time has nearly come.”
Rameses looked up, saw the man, realized he’d been there all along and understood somehow that it was well and good that this should be so. He nodded his thanks.
“I’ve left something for you,” the man continued, his voice like honey, like silk—but with a very cold edge to it. “Something you might find useful. At your palace, waiting for you. A gift.”
“Oh?” Rameses felt a headache coming on. He squeezed his eyes closed and rubbed at them.
“Or rather, someone,” the voice went on. “Someone very young, but very valuable, if used properly.”
Rameses frowned at this. “What? A person?” He opened his eyes and looked up. “What do you mean—?”
But of course there was no one there. No one. He had been right the first time— he was all alone. He must have imagined the entire conversation.
“No one. Well,” he said aloud. The idea bothered him for a few seconds, but then it faded, forgotten, and his thoughts returned to his successful ruse at the cathedral. He couldn’t help grinning at the thought. The people of this world already honored him as their Imperial governor. Soon they would worship him.
“That’s one small step of the journey complete,” he said. “Just one step.”
He gazed out the window at the sky and the stars that filled it—stars that stretched on forever and ever.
“One foot on the road to Damascus,” he whispered.
To no one.
LEGION II:
SONS OF TERRA
This book is dedicated to the memory of Ian Jerome:
Student, friend, and proud Son of Terra.
“Our planet is a lonely speck in the great enveloping cosmic dark. In our obscurity, in all this vastness, there is no hint that help will come from elsewhere to save us from ourselves.”
—Carl Sagan, 20th Century Earth scientist and educator
“A good commander can beat the odds. A great commander can beat the gods.”
—Jack Kirby, 20th Century Earth dramatist
“Who watches the watchmen?”
—Juvenal
DRAMATIS PERSONAE
Hideo Nakamura, Taiko (supreme leader) of the Empire.
Legion I: Lords of Fire
Colors: Red and gold
General Marcus Ezekial Tamerlane, “The Relentless.” Hatamoto.
Colonel Konstans Belisarius, “The Belligerent.”
Colonel Niobe Arani, Special Forces officer
Captain Harras Dequoi, commanding officer of the I Legion flagship Ascanius
Legion II: Sons of Terra
Colors: Blue and silver; later black and gold
General Ioan Iapetus, “The Unyielding.”
Colonel Berens Barbarossa, “The Daring.” Hatamoto.
Colonel Piryu, officer aboard the II Legion flagship Atlantia
Legion III: The Golden Phalanx (Kings of Oblivion)
Colors: Green, white and gold
General Arnem Agrippa, “The Golden.” Hatamoto.
Colonel Yevgeni Vostok, “The Cold.”
Colonel Selim Iksander, “The Lightning.”
Major Darius Torgon, Colossus commander
Captain Felix Dakkan, hovertank commander
Lt. Liefer, hovertank commander
Harker and Obomanu, Colossus crewmembers
MacInnish, hovertank crewmember
The Holy Inquisition
Gabriel Stanishur, Grand Inquisitor
Sister Leisle Delain, Inquisitor and aide to the Grand Inquisitor
The Ecclesiarchy—the Holy Church of Those Who Remain
Teluria, Ecclesiarch and vizier to Nakamura
Jasur, Warrior-Priest
The Old Gods (selected)
Aurore, goddess of distraction and deception
Goraddon, god of persuasion and disciple of Vorthan
Lucian, god of evil and mischief who once rebelled against the other gods
Solonis, the seer
Vorthan, god of toil; later labeled a death god
Others of Note
Amon Rameses, Planetary Governor of Ahknaton
Zahir, emissary and later
vizier
Iyesu Tokugawa, Planetary Governor of Edo
Suleyman Mehemet, Planetary Governor of Bursa
Titus Elaro, Special Forces officer
Yadsen Erricht, procurer of specialty items
Glossis, tank commander
So close.
So close I came to placing a demon prince on the Emperor’s throne.
How perfect it would have been. As the galaxy descended into catastrophic warfare from the tip of one spiral arm to the farthest reaches of the other, a lord of the Below would have reigned over the blazing ruins—a demon lord who owed me everything.
So close!
Alas, it was not to be. A handful of individuals interfered and disrupted my plans. Insignificant insects, all of them, of course, but I will recount their names here lest we forget upon whom our greatest wrath must now fall: Hideo Nakamura. Arnem Agrippa. Ioan Iapetus. Niobe Arani. Gabriel Stanishur. And perhaps most of all, the new supreme general of the Imperial military, Marcus Ezekial Tamerlane.
Each of them has incurred my eternal enmity. Each will discover—far too late—that my machinations against them are well underway, and that their fates are sealed. For some of them, the process is quite advanced; Hideo Nakamura, for example—the so-called Taiko—yet walks the halls of his flagship, but in truth he is already dead—a fact he will discover for himself soon enough.
Now the time has come to dispatch two of my most faithful servants to complete the preparations I have begun. Each will take a position close to the ear of the most powerful pieces on the board. Each will play upon that figure’s greatest strengths—and weaknesses. Hope. Resentment. Arrogance. Hubris. Despair. And each will be brought low—even as he drags his armies, his worlds, and the galaxy itself into cataclysmic, apocalyptic war.
And then there is the wild card; the aberrant; the unpredictable Iapetus and his II Legion. Potentially the most dangerous of all. The bloody-handed Sons of Terra, fanatical defenders of the human homeworld. For them, a different lever will be required.
And for them, I have something very special set aside.
The board is set. The pieces are ready to move. The endgame is about to begin.
Take heed, for there will be no mistakes, no disruptions, no interference this time.
The Empire of Man is about to fall.
The lords of the Below are preparing to rise.
The galaxy is about to burn.
—Unattributed fragment of document recovered from the data storage units of Ahknaton, 21st Millennium
PROLOGUE:
Six Months Earlier
“You have it, I trust?”
Yadsen Erricht allowed a wry smile to creep over his scarred, unshaven face. His eyes flicked from the customer before him—a big, tough-looking, muscular, military type, wearing a heavy suit of black smartcloth and a pair of omnigoggles—to the rest of the bar and back. There was a small crowd in tonight; not as many as Erricht had hoped, given what he was up to, but better than nothing.
“I said, have you got it?”
The customer was acting cool and collected, but Erricht could see that, just beneath the surface, he was actually quite antsy. The tone in his voice was unmistakable. He wanted to do the deal and get out quickly. Clearly the man was out of his element down here in the slums of Candis. A soldier he might be, but his uniform—if uniform it was—lacked any sort of insignia to identify exactly which army he served.
Ordinarily, doing the deal and getting away quickly suited Erricht just fine. But not this time. This time, he was curious. This time, he’d been asked to procure an object so rare, so specialized, he’d actually believed for a time that he wouldn’t be able to get it. That, of course, would have been unthinkable, because there was nothing in the galaxy that Yadsen Erricht couldn’t procure, given enough money, resources, and time. And determination, too—but that came as part of the package deal.
Yadsen Erricht could find anything for anybody. That was the reputation he had built for himself over the years, and that was doubtlessly the reason the big soldier-pretending-not-to-be-a-soldier in the black smartcloth had come to him, six months ago, with the job.
It hadn’t been easy. In fact, it had quite possibly been the single hardest item to locate in all of Erricht’s many years in the business. In the end, it had been exactly as he’d expected. He’d had to come to Candis. All the most difficult, most expensive, most challenging cases seemed to lead to Candis, eventually. Because nothing could be stolen from Candis.
“You don’t have it,” the customer growled. He made to rise.
“I have it,” Erricht hissed at him. “Sit.”
The man glared at him for a second, eyes bloodshot and narrow. Then he lowered his bulk back into the rickety wooden chair.
“Then produce it.”
Erricht smiled again, this time broadly, warmly. “I shall indeed,” he said in a soft, smooth voice. “I shall indeed. But first—you have brought the payment?”
“It’s right outside,” the big man replied. He leaned forward. “Now let me see the goods.”
Erricht hesitated for a moment, considering the situation, making sure he felt comfortable about it. No, he concluded, he did not feel comfortable. Something was nagging at him about it, though he wasn’t entirely sure what it was.
When the man opposite him had approached him half a standard year ago, he had made a rather unusual request. Now, many of the items Erricht was hired to locate were unusual, but this one set a new standard in that field.
Why would he want it? What good would it do him?
Something still nagged at him.
“If you’ve caused me to fly all the way here from—from my homeworld—for nothing,” the man in the black uniform was saying, “I’ll—”
“No, no,” Erricht quickly told him. “Settle down. Here it is. Right here.”
He reached under the table and lifted a small briefcase, setting it on the table. He touched a small rectangle on the edge of the case and the locking mechanisms inside gave way. Then he turned it around to face the other man. “Here you are,” he said with another smile.
He sat back and waited as the man opened the case and looked inside. Mentally he was already counting the money he would make from this assignment. It would be considerable. He had figured the client behind it—and there had to be some other client; the big man in black was too dumb, too rank-and-file soldier-ish, to be the brains of the operation—must have engaged any number of other procurement specialists before coming to him. After all, Yadsen Erricht was the most expensive agent of his type in the Empire. Probably in the entire galaxy.
He looked around, taking in the sights, one eye always looking for trouble. He rarely found it on Candis, of course. The planet was almost ridiculously safe.
Indeed, it had worked out quite handily for Erricht that the trail had ultimately led to Candis. That was where he preferred to do most of his transactions with his customers anyway, so it saved him a trip. He liked doing business there because it was safe and secure—or as safe and secure as any location in the Empire could be, given the continuing existence of gods who could simply walk through portals right into any spot in the galaxy, take things, and leave again.
The one place they couldn’t do that was Candis. For whatever reason, the walls of reality separating the “normal” universe from the Above and the Below—dimensions higher and lower than ours—were particularly strong and thick in the vicinity of that world. In short, the gods couldn’t come there except aboard spacecraft, just like anyone else. Consequently, all the most valuable items in creation resided in private or government-run vaults somewhere on the planet.
No, nothing could be stolen from Candis—but lots of things were bought and sold there, every day.
No laws of nature prevented anyone, god or man, from simply making a transaction there and carrying the goods away. And that was how Erricht made his living; he bought and sold items of particular rarity and value and handed them over on Candis,
where no one could walk through a sudden hole in the universe and take them from him without paying.
And the thought of payment brought Erricht back to the present. Blinking his eyes, he looked across at the man in the black uniform. “Is everything to your satisfaction, then?” he asked earnestly. He was absolutely sincere; he had a reputation and a livelihood to maintain.
The other man was smiling too, now. He had lifted a small item out of the case and was holding it up before him, though not so high that anyone else in the bar could see. He examined it carefully, turning it this way and that, appearing to be checking items off on a mental list as he did so.
The item was a pistol, though it was unlike any other pistol Erricht had ever laid eyes on. It looked more like a toy. Its body was made of what looked like plastic, and it had none of the heft and solidity of a good slug-thrower or even a blast pistol. Why anyone would want it, and would be willing to pay so much for it, he had no idea. And so he made the mistake of asking.
“Because it’s the most powerful weapon in creation,” the man answered.
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