The Shattering: Omnibus

by Van Allen Plexico

  “With them,” the alien voice said. “Though,” it added after a couple of seconds, “it may already be too late. Too late—for both of us.”

  8

  “The time draws near, my disciple,” whispered a barely-audible voice that nevertheless somehow filled the entirety of the room. “The pieces are now in motion. Soon all that we have prepared will come to fruition.”

  Zahir was back in the antechamber, again kneeling before the red-glowing icon, his hands clasped together in supplication. He now wore an ornate Egyptian headdress, as was the style on Ahknaton, and a golden loincloth; his chest was bare and smooth, his wiry muscles standing out.

  “What would you have me do, my master?” the slender figure asked.

  For several seconds there was naught but a dull buzzing as with a bad connection over an ancient telephone. Then the icon flared brighter and the voice whispered, “Give the servants of our enemies a welcome befitting those who challenge my authority.”

  Zahir nodded slowly. “Of course, of course.” Then he hesitated, frowning. “Servants of our enemies are coming? And—I will know them when I see them?”

  This time the response was virtually instantaneous. “Oh yes,” the voice said. “They will appear in your very midst, and with most hostile intent. And very soon.”

  The vizier nodded more earnestly. “It will be as you command, my lord.” He paused, then, “As for Rameses—”

  “You continue the treatments, yes?”

  Zahir nodded. “Yes, my master.” A smile played about his thin lips. “Rameses believes he will soon be a living god.”

  Laughter rolled out and echoed around the room.

  “If that is enough to cause him to voluntarily submit to the treatment, then by all means encourage that belief,” the voice said when its laughter had subsided. Then, “As for the girl—have you begun the procedure yet?”

  Zahir hesitated. “Actually, master, I wished to speak with you about that—especially in light of the events that occurred of late on Ascanius.”

  Anger crept into the tone. “You have not begun the transference yet?”

  “All is made ready, master,” Zahir hastened to say, “but I have not fully begun the procedure just yet.”

  “Why?”

  “I have certain...concerns...that—”

  “Your concerns are groundless, my disciple.”

  Zahir cast his eyes downward, frowning at being treated so dismissively by his master.

  “Still,” the voice said a moment later, “If you have reservations about our great work, I would hear them.”

  “I—um—thank you, lord.” Zahir gathered his thoughts. “These humans—Rameses and the girl—I am not entirely certain their mortal frames can long bear up to the Power that you have commanded me to infuse within them. Human bodies cannot long tolerate the presence of the divine. Recall, as I mentioned a moment ago, the events during the Council on Ascanius—”

  “The situation was different there,” the voice boomed. “A unique set of circumstances conspired to cause the demon form to emerge from Janus prematurely.”

  “And yet, already, after only a few doses of the Power, Rameses’ physical form grows distorted and begins to deteriorate,” Zahir said plaintively. “If I continue—”

  “If? You will continue,” the voice barked, louder now and filled with anger, “because I command it.”

  Zahir recoiled, nearly falling over backwards.

  A few seconds passed and when the voice sounded again, it was back under tight control. “Your concerns are not entirely without merit, my servant,” it said. “No human can long contain a demon form within itself, any more than it can contain large doses of the cosmic energies some call the Power.”

  Zahir nodded, almost overwhelmed by his master’s acknowledgement.

  “But,” the voice went on, “once infused with a precise amount of the Power, their mortal bodies will hold together a while longer,” it said, “and that will be enough.” A laugh, deep and sinister. “More than enough.”

  “As you say, master.”

  The voice echoing around the chamber softened, but its malevolence only increased. “None of this should have been necessary,” it said, now seeming to speak to itself as much as to Zahir. “I could not have anticipated the very premature emergence of the Emperor’s demon from inside him—which resulted in his death and in the disruption of my plans, as well as in the wholly unexpected and troublesome rise to power of Nakamura as ‘Taiko.’” A pause, during which Zahir waited, unmoving, listening. “But, once the young princess has been successfully made host to a demon lord, and has then assumed her rightful place as Empress over these human worlds,” the voice concluded, “all will be as it should have been all along.” A pause, then, “You will insinuate the demonform into the princess slowly, Zahir—oh so slowly. Allow it to acclimate to its mortal body. Patience is key!”

  “Yes, sire.”

  “She will rule as I instruct her, and without question. And then, when the time is ripe, she will consume humanity from within even as my forces consume it from without, and glorious chaos will reign over all.”

  “Yes, my master—it will be as you have foreseen,” Zahir said after the echoes had faded. No reply came back to him, and so he gazed up at the icon. The metal was cold and dark.

  Zahir fled.

  Rameses was screaming when Zahir glided into the throne room. As the vizier drew near, he saw that the planetary governor’s eyes were warping, with first one of them and then the other growing to cartoonishly large size. The man held up his hands, wires and cables trailing down from them, and gazed in horror as the fingers rippled and distorted, extra digits appearing and then disappearing by the second.

  “What is happening to me?” demanded the governor, his voice raw and rough. “What are you doing to me?”

  “I assure you, sire,” Zahir said in his most placating tones, “all proceeds as it should. This is but a mere side effect. Soon you will be what you have always desired to be: a living god—the living embodiment of the great Amenophis!”

  Rameses appeared to be mollified by this. “Yes,” he hissed. “Good. I must have the power to deal with my enemies—to visit destruction down upon Tamerlane and Iapetus and all their lackeys—to sweep their forces from the universe!”

  “And you will, dread lord.”

  Rameses nodded and ceased his complaining, but his expression remained one of shock and horror at what was happening to his body.

  “Now relax, lord,” Zahir murmured, leaning in close. The energies of the cosmic basin churned all around the governor’s body, tendrils of it actually passing through and out the other side.

  Zahir waited until Rameses had closed his eyes and sunk back against the side of the basin, as though enjoying a nice hot bath rather than the raw cosmic fires of the Above. Then he turned and gestured to his four servants who lurked in the shadows along the far wall. Instantly two of them, muscular and bald, stepped out into the light—the light that gleamed off their dark skin and golden belts and vambraces.

  “Bring out the girl,” Zahir hissed to one of the minions.

  The brutish man bowed and disappeared into the shadows again. A moment later he reemerged with a small form in his arms. It was a young, blonde girl of about twelve standard years. She wore a dark green dress of very fine silk and linen and appeared to be asleep.

  Zahir looked her over once. Then, without saying a word, he gestured to the small cot-like arrangement depending from chains that disappeared up into the dark ceiling of the throne room. The minion bowed again and, carrying her over, laid the girl on the cot. Zahir moved next to the basin, ignoring Rameses, who now looked to be dozing. He executed a series of gestures, his fingers held in a very precise manner, and muttered several arcane phrases. In response, jets of cosmic energy leapt from the basin and streaked toward the girl, impacting her and disappearing within her body.

  “What are you doing?”

  Zahir started, nearly
jumping a foot in the air. He turned and saw Rameses sitting up, wide awake. The distortions of his flesh continued, but now it was as if he had become used to them, at least to some degree. His eyes were cloudy and bloodshot but clear in intent and purpose.

  “This girl,” he said, gesturing towards her. “The Princess.”

  “Yes,” Zahir snapped. “You did well to keep her here these last few months, as my master requested. But now the time is ripe, and the designs begin to unfold.”

  Rameses shook his head at this bit of seeming nonsense. “What are you talking about? What are you doing with her?”

  “Preparing her,” the vizier said by way of answer.

  “Preparing her? For what?”

  Zahir smiled, and flames danced in his eyes. He motioned again, and two of his other servants brought in a catafalque, this one larger and longer than the cot that held the princess, and this one bearing the now unmoving and seemingly unconscious form of Colonel Belisarius.

  Rameses saw the colonel on the cot and got to his feet, cables dangling around him. His expression now reflected utter bewilderment.

  Zahir was already answering his previous question. “We are preparing the Princess Marens for the most important task of all,” Zahir said. His gaze moved from Belisarius to the young girl, and then to Rameses himself. He grinned. “We are preparing her to usher in... the future.”

  9

  The Ascanius and the Atlantia glided smoothly alongside one another, tractor beams bringing them into perfect alignment. A moment earlier, the Ascanius had emerged from its hyper lane at the prearranged coordinates only to find Iapetus’s II Legion flagship already at the rendezvous point, waiting.

  “Iapetus doesn’t like anyone getting the drop on him,” Tamerlane said to Harras Dequoi, captain of the Ascanius. “Not even a fellow general of the Empire.”

  “If you don’t mind my saying so, General,” Dequoi responded in a low voice, “I don’t believe Iapetus considers himself to be a ‘fellow’ of anyone or anything.”

  “That may be so, Captain,” Tamerlane replied with a tight grin. “But I’m going to do my best to remind him that we’re all on the same side. And we have to cooperate, if any of us are to survive.”

  Dequoi chuckled. “Good luck with that, sir.”

  Tamerlane said nothing. He waited until the signal came that General Iapetus had boarded, then turned and strode from the bridge, Sister Delain trailing along behind him. Together they made their way the short distance to the strategium. Iapetus was to meet them there.

  This time Tamerlane arrived first.

  “Come in, General,” he called as the man in black appeared in the doorway. “It’s good to see you again in the flesh. I tire of conversing with everyone only via holographics.”

  Iapetus entered. He was alone, and clad as ever in his jet-black uniform with the golden eye on the chest. “Your eccentricity is costing me a good deal of time, having to come here in person,” he responded. “I trust we are here for a reason consequential enough to justify that.”

  Tamerlane swallowed his initial reaction to Iapetus’s insolence. He reminded himself that it wasn’t entirely personal. The commander of the Sons of Terra had always been that way; Nakamura had known that and had still chosen him to lead II Legion. The Taiko had had his reasons for that selection, and Tamerlane trusted them—whether he fully understood them and agreed with them or not. For his own part, he would have as soon seen Iapetus put out the nearest airlock.

  “I noticed the invitation to this—whatever it is—came directly from your office, as a polite request, rather than from Nakamura’s, as an order. Should I draw any conclusions from that, with regard to the health and well-being of our esteemed Taiko?”

  “He’s not well,” Tamerlane replied. “That should be obvious, and it’s all I can say right now.”

  Iapetus considered this for a moment. He nodded once. “Very well. So—what have I come this far to see and to hear, General? Particularly bearing in mind that I am not Hatamoto, and so there are others whose opinions you would doubtless prefer to entertain.”

  Tamerlane ignored the remarks. He signaled via the local Aether link and in response the round, empty chamber of the strategium darkened, filling with a holographic display of the galaxy, the stars of their Empire highlighted in blue. Next came bright orange blobs and markers all along the fringes of that territory, each annotated with a box of text that floated there in midair. Finally came the comets, some of them having impacted their targets and thus now missing from the display, but others still lit up blood red.

  “If your purpose with this,” Iapetus rumbled, “is to show me our strategic situation, General, and to instruct me as to its utterly hopeless state, then you’re wasting my time and yours. I am all too aware.”

  “That is merely my starting point, General,” Tamerlane replied. He signaled again. “I show you that, to show you this.”

  Near the heart of the Empire, one star began to blink rapidly. Its color changed from blue to yellow. Faint lines traced out from it in multiple directions, linking it to Earth and to other key worlds.

  Iapetus frowned at this and walked into the display, approaching the flashing yellow one. He stood next to it and read the text that floated beside it.

  “Ahknaton,” he read. “Ah. Yes.”

  “You know about Rameses?” Tamerlane asked.

  Iapetus shrugged noncommittally. “I know a good bit. Probably as much as I want or need to know about him.”

  “He’s openly rebelling.”

  “Is he now?” Iapetus snorted. “Not surprising.”

  Tamerlane faced Iapetus. “You don’t seem terribly...exercised...about it.”

  Iapetus turned to face the other general, and now only a scant meter separated them. “Should I be?”

  “I would think so. We face a tough enough challenge holding the borders against our enemies. If we begin to lose authority over our own planets, our own governors, too—?”

  Iapetus didn’t look convinced.

  “Where will it all end?” Tamerlane asked. “Where will we find ourselves if people like Rameses can get away with this?”

  “Probably in about the same predicament we already find ourselves in,” Iapetus replied. “If the rest of the Empire is about to be overrun by the Chung and the Riyahadi and the Rao and all the others, what matter if Rameses is overwhelmed while swearing allegiance to our great Taiko or while striking out on his own? It all amounts to the same thing.”

  “I do not intend to allow our Empire to be overrun by anyone, anywhere,” Tamerlane snapped.

  Iapetus offered him a dubious expression. “That’s all well and good to say, but I have to proceed from the assumption that the outer worlds could succumb and fall at any time, leaving Sacred Terra and the other inner worlds to fend for themselves, with only the Sons to protect them.”

  “If we stop our enemies at the borders, you and your Sons won’t have to fight them at Earth.”

  “But you won’t stop them there,” Iapetus rumbled. “We both know it. There’s no chance.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “It is absolutely true.”

  Tamerlane waved a hand. “Put that aside for a moment,” he said. “In any event, we can agree that sedition and rebellion by our own worlds and our own governors cannot be tolerated, particularly at a time as sensitive as this.”

  “This is still about Rameses?” Iapetus scoffed. “You’re that concerned about his childish antics?”

  “I’m concerned that he’s doing something involving the Power itself. Here is something you perhaps don’t know: He’s ripped a hole in the fabric of reality. What do you suppose he’s up to?”

  This brought Iapetus up short. He stared at Tamerlane for a moment. “He’s done what?”

  “I don’t know yet. Not precisely. But there can be no doubt—he is tampering with the boundaries between our universe and the Above. And perhaps the Below. The Inquisition has confirmed this.” Tamerlane t
urned and looked to the silent, motionless, hooded figure of Delain where she stood, off to the side. As Iapetus looked at her, she simply nodded once.

  The commander of II Legion appeared to consider this new information for a moment as the other two looked on, waiting. At last he nodded and turned back to Tamerlane. “It is disturbing, I will grant you that. But,” he said, eyes narrow as they met those of the I Legion general, “ultimately it changes nothing.”

  “Nothing?” Tamerlane nearly shouted the word, so shocked was he by Iapetus’s response. As he did so, flames spouted from his hands and flared all around him before he was able to get them back under control.

  Iapetus didn’t visibly react at all. “Oh, spare me your literal pyrotechnics, Tamerlane,” he said, his expression sour, once the fires had vanished again. “If you intend to kill me, get on with it. Otherwise, make your case. I have other duties to attend to.”

  “Duties? You speak of duties?”

  “Certainly I do.”

  Tamerlane clenched and unclenched his fists, anger rising again. “And yet you side with Rameses?”

  Iapetus barked a laugh. “Side with him? Of course not. Rameses is an idiot and deserves to be deposed. He’s scarcely qualified to lead a kindergarten class, much less a planet—or a Legion. Especially if he’s engaging in forbidden activities. But,” he went on, “if you are looking to me and mine to do something about it, you’re going to be disappointed. I’ve made it perfectly clear to you that I will not dispatch the Sons anywhere other than their current defensive positions around Earth and the inner worlds.”

  Tamerlane cursed. “Then what am I to do? Rameses has to be arrested and his Sand Kings placed under direct Imperial control. And we have no more time to waste.”

  Iapetus shrugged, then offered him a wry half-smile as he laid his final cards on the table. “Why not use your own legion?”

  “I’ve told you—the First is tied down fighting our enemies on three fronts!”