Beyond Armageddon IV: Schism

by DeCosmo, Anthony

  "The Feranites object."

  "The Witiko move that it would demonstrate the superior abilities, strength, and intelligence of the remaining participants if an alternative to complete sterilization is considered."

  "The Centurians agree."

  "The Duass call for the expulsion of the Feranites from the root cosmos."

  "The Chaktaw call for the Feranites to be de-evolved to a lower life form."

  "The Geryons reject the Chaktaw call."

  "The Feranites object."

  "The Humans suggest the Feranite race be divided and given over in servitude to the other races."

  "The Feranites object."

  "The Witiko observe that the Feranites are no longer in position to object to these proceedings."

  "The representative of Voggoth offers an alternative."

  "The Witiko suggest that Voggoth’s proposal be accepted without question due to the superior status of Voggoth as the only immortal entity in existence."

  "The Chaktaw reject the Witiko suggestion."

  "The Duass also reject the Witiko suggestion."

  "The Centurians call for Voggoth to state the alternative."

  "The Humans second the Centurian call."

  "The representative of Voggoth recognizes that the Feranite life pattern has met the parameters for defeat on the host world and therefore has shown its species to lack the strength necessary to remain among the dominant races."

  "The Witiko agree with this recognition."

  "The representative of Voggoth further suggests that this failure clearly demonstrates that the Feranites, as they currently exist, will never be capable of achieving immortality nor are they worthy do to so."

  "The Witiko recognize Voggoth as the only such being or race."

  "The Chaktaw suggest the Witiko refrain from flattery."

  "The Humans second the Chaktaw suggestion."

  "The representative of Voggoth offers an opportunity for the Feranites to achieve immorality and remain intact, although only if the Feranite race will renounce their current life pattern in recognition of its inferiority."

  "The Hivvans object to this offer as outside the agreed upon structure."

  "The Duass remind the Hivvans that their own progress in their parallel cosmos suggests that the Hivvans might be next to appreciate such an offer."

  "The Hivvans condemn the Duass suggestion on the grounds that it is inflammatory and premature."

  "The Centurians agree with the Hivvans and further point out the Duass’ own vulnerability."

  "The Feranites request further information as to the nature of the offer presented by the representative of Voggoth."

  "The representative of Voggoth states that it is possible for the Feranite genetic structure to metastasize into one compatible for existence within the realm of Voggoth. Under these circumstances, the Feranite people will become immortal."

  "The Chaktaw question if under such circumstances the Feranites will remain a distinct, independent species."

  "The representative of Voggoth answers no."

  "The Witiko point out that this action may be the only means of any form of survival for the Feranite race."

  "The Duass question if the Feranites will maintain the ability to reproduce and evolve."

  "The representative of Voggoth answers no with the caveat that the Feranite race will experience instant metamorphosis across all cosmos to a higher life form compatible with the domain of Voggoth."

  "The Chaktaw express reservations about this alternative form of closure."

  "The Witiko move that the Feranites either willingly acquiesce or be compelled."

  "The Feranites request additional time for consideration."

  "The Humans question which linear sphere will the Feranites use to acquire more time?"

  "The Centurians object to the Human question on the grounds that it is flippant and counter-productive."

  "The Witiko call for either the immediate acceptance of these terms by the Feranites or the immediate sterilization of the Feranite race from both the root cosmos as well as all parallel cosmos."

  "The Feranite Deus accepts the offer from Voggoth on behalf of the entire Feranite race. May He who created us all have mercy upon the souls of my people."

  "The representative of Voggoth asks the Feranites to refrain from repeating fantasies of a being superior to the gathered and reminds the Feranites that any soul their race may indeed possess, now belongs to Voggoth."

  ---

  Captain Dustin McBride lay on his belly with binoculars staring down at the dusty, almost barren water basin at the heart of Seminoe State Park in Wyoming. There along the featureless, rocky banks waited his quarry packing their wigwams and extinguishing fires.

  For months the Red Hands eluded McBride's vaunted 1st Cavalry, remaining several days ahead and varying their movements so as to escape pursuit. In recent weeks, the hunter gained ground, fighting several skirmishes with Red Hand rear guards. Those skirmishes cost his enemy dearly, dwindling the Feranite numbers to nearly half their original size.

  Of course those tribesmen still outnumbered McBride's fighters, but arrows and spears would be no match for assault rifles and grenades, especially with the Red Hands caught along the reservoir banks. Perhaps their chieftain had guessed that his pursuers fell for the false trail left outside of Sinclair. McBride, however, felt the signs leading south to be far too obvious for an enemy proven so coy.

  After such a long hunt, McBride regretted that a slaughter would be his only reward.

  "Agarn."

  Corporal Lawrence Brown crawled next to his commander and shared the view from the brush line at the basin ridge. A rumble marked the approach of a rare morning thunderstorm caused by the remarkable heat wave sweeping through the Midwest. That heat, as much as anything, had slowed McBride's horses and men in recent days. No doubt that same heat tapped his enemy's strength, a strength McBride had grown to admire. Regardless, a good storm might cool things down for a spell.

  "Ooo, now ain't that a sight for sore eyes."

  "Yeah, man, it's been a long time coming. The boys ready?"

  "Hooyah, roger that. We'z been spoilin' for a fight. 'Bout time you found us one."

  Dustin set his binoculars down and crawled away from the ridge. Waiting behind cover were two hundred horse soldiers with another two hundred hurriedly circling around to pinch the Red Hands from the flanks. All of them itched to finish a job started long ago.

  A radio message broadcast to Dustin, "Hope here, we're in position," followed thirty seconds later by a woman's voice, "Chambers speaking, we're all set."

  A bugler played 'charge' and three formations charged the trapped Feranites, including McBride and Brown leading the attack from the ridge. Enthusiastic hoots and hollers joined the stomping sound of horse hoofs that broke the morning calm. In the distance, a bolt of lightning reached for the ground and a veil of water fell on the lake, moving toward the slaughter like a curtain about to close.

  Dustin led his warriors down the ridge, careful in steering his horse across the rocky slope and also careful to watch for incoming arrows. The Feranites never showed any fear of modern weapons. They would fight to the death no…matter…what…

  The hoots and hollers quieted. Horse hoofs slowed.

  The Feranites stood along the lake, trapped in the open with no chance of escape. They stood straight and still, the whole lot of them. No drawn blades, no raised bows.

  "What the shit-nuts are these fellas up to?"

  McBride did not answer his friend. A trap? Or were the Feranites—for the first time ever—ready to surrender? Had the pursuit broken both their backs and their spirits?

  Following McBride's lead, the other attacking elements halted some fifty yards from the primitives.

  Radio calls came in, "Sir? Should we fire?"

  "Am I seein' things?"

  Dustin dismounted.

  Agarn—Corporal Brown--told him, "Now, don't be gettin' no stupid id
eas."

  McBride first shot Brown a middle finger, then waved to him. The two soldiers descended the hill on foot with pistols drawn. No enemy weapons rose to greet them.

  "Hold positions," McBride radioed.

  Dustin came within twenty feet of an elderly female Feranite standing perfectly still with her hands resting on the shoulders of a child. A ribbon in her hair made from a collection of nut shells and flowers fluttered in a gust of wind coming from the closing storm.

  The woman…the child…all of the Red Hands appeared frozen in time, their eyes wide open but just standing. Dustin could not even see signs of breathing.

  Rain fell. A pitter. A patter. More.

  The Red Hands started to shake.

  "Holy Christ, Dustin…"

  It seemed to McBride as if every member of the Feranite tribe stuck their fingers into an electric socket, causing their spines to wobble…their eyes to roll white…and their mouths to open and stretch as if made of rubber.

  "Agarn…back off…back off…"

  A horrible moan came from the hundreds of aliens along the reservoir; a moan coming from mouths that grew impossibly wide on heads that tilted back…and then split. Split open in two.

  "Holy fucking shit! Get outta here!"

  Rain fell harder and harder. The moan grew louder. The bodies shook faster. And up from the torn gashes in the Red Hand necks rose iron-like bars supporting big spheres. Vein-like strands of metal flowed out from that bar and ran along the arms and legs of each of the Feranites.

  The moan morphed from an animalistic cry into a digitalized sound seemingly born from computer speakers.

  The orbs split open like metallic Venus flytraps sporting daggers for teeth. Skin exploded and out came a trio of shiny legs with hydraulic muscles and round pads for feet.

  McBride's cavalry waited no more. Machine guns and carbines fired but they did not tear into skin, they ricocheted off mechanized units that had been born from flesh.

  As the storm broke and the deluge fell and the lightning sent flashes across the gorge, the Feranite race completed their transformation into the very thing they despised: technology. They changed from creatures at one with nature to something built from metal and gears and lenses where eyes once watched.

  Where their arms once hung came two metal pipes. No, not pipes; barrels.

  The rat-tat-tat of counter fire came from the mob of mechanized warriors out toward the cavalry. Explosive shells detonated in the belly of horses, shrapnel decimated riders, more mounts spooked and dashed away, most throwing their owners to the wet ground.

  As grenades fell into the mob of emerging monsters, two of the creatures died as the concussion from the explosives tore apart their new limbs and shredded circuitry. But those small victories proved no relief as the outnumbered horse soldiers suddenly faced a superior foe.

  Corporal Brown grabbed his commander's sleeve and pulled him up the ridge. McBride fired his gun as the nearest Red Hand finished its transition into an artificial beast. The metal bar that held the round mouth bent and the mechanical legs chased the hunter as parts of torn clothing and the remains of discarded flesh dropped off like a snake shedding its skin.

  Rounds from Dustin's pistol sparked off the chassis. A bear-trap-like mouth clamped down on the pistol and the arm holding it. Brown tried to help his friend and discharged his own gun at point blank range into the beast, to no effect. In exchange, the newly-born demon swung around one of its gun barrels and pumped ordnance into Agarn's belly. He exploded into upper and lower halves.

  The shrapnel tore into McBride, eliciting a scream. The monster's mouth finished biting off his arm then chomped his head. Blood and gore drizzled along its shiny new metal chassis.

  As Dustin died, so did his cavalry; baptismal gifts for a newborn race.

  Away from the lake and across all the universes marched the children of Voggoth.

  Seven to go.

  20. Erasers

  Jon Brewer walked the first floor hall with a bundle of file folders tucked under his arm. The sound of his footsteps caused a flat echo that drifted through the nearly empty mansion.

  He intended to head for the second floor office which, according to Ashley, now belonged to him. Of course that made little difference. The skeleton staff at the estate held little in the way of responsibility. What had been the beating heart of humanity’s comeback now resembled something like a morgue.

  Guess that makes me a zombie, he thought.

  Instead of climbing the stairs, he turned to the old dining room. He found his wife in there sitting behind her desk staring at the calendar blotter (bearing an advertisement for North Run Rail "Steam or Diesel, we deliver").

  "Boo," but his jest held no humor.

  She glanced up, sighed, and told him, "My phone hasn't rung all day."

  He sat in the chair across from her.

  "Wow, is that so bad? I mean, you were pretty over worked before."

  Lori looked at Jon. No, he realized, she looked at the chair he sat in.

  "Trevor used to come in and see me, from time to time. He'd sit there and we'd just bull shit. Sometimes serious stuff, sometimes nothing important."

  "I know."

  She went on, "With all the changes…well I guess it's starting to hit home. How permanent it is."

  "Yeah, tell me about it."

  "Now the work has dried up. At least that was keeping me busy, but now," she motioned to the nearly empty desk top.

  "All this will sort out, Lori. It hasn't been that long. Besides, before it seemed like you had your hand in everything. You had almost no time for Catherine, no time for yourself. Now you're doing important work with more free time."

  His explanation, despite how hard he tried, sounded weak even to his hears.

  "Allright, yep. I’ve changed from the Administrator for the entire nation to the regional director for Adoption and Child Placement. Woo-hoo."

  "Helping kids."

  Her eyes narrowed and her voice grew rough, "I helped kids before, too. I also worked with logistics, and supply, and the military, and Internal Security. A couple of months ago, I could tell you how many bags of flour they had on the Chicago docks or the name of the engineer on the west bound mail express. And yeah, I also placed orphans in new homes, made sure they had schools to go to, and made sure those schools had text books. What now, Jon? What? You know what the problem is?"

  He did not have an answer. She supplied one, "The problem is Trevor. He made sure that each of us knew we had a stake in all this; that we had a responsibility to fight and to work hard to save our people. Hey, look, I like having extra time with my daughter. But I don't like this feeling that I should be doing more. While I sit here bored, somewhere out there is a kid being eaten by a monster or in an alien slave camp because that asshole in the White House decided the rest of the world isn’t worth fighting for. And you can't tell me you don't feel the same way."

  His mouth unhinged. Jon struggled for words.

  "I'm a soldier."

  "You’re a clerk now, Jon. Dante has got you filling out paper work and doing studies and making reports, keeping you here. You're like me, General; we're big paper weights now."

  He stood fast and with a hurt edge in his voice told her, "This damn paper weight has work to do. Maybe it seems quiet to you, but it's not."

  Jon threw down one of the files he carried and said, "That's a security bulletin, Lori. Two members of the Dark Wolves commando unit were arrested at the General Hospital emergency room after breaking in to Trevor's tomb. There's a BOLO out for Nina Forest and a man who fits the description of Gordon Knox."

  Lori stared at the paper in disbelief and read, "Suspects are wanted in connection with the death of Secretary Maple, a homicide that may be part of a larger anti-government conspiracy."

  Jon continued, "Dante called me earlier. He asked me about loyalty, Lori. He's saying that there are those in the government that think someone is going to try a coup real soon."


  "Nina Forest? I mean, Gordon Knox, sure, but not Nina Forest."

  "Maybe she started to get some memories back, I don't know," Jon ran a hand across his cheek as if checking for razor stubble. "Point is, things are really tense out there. I've got to calm things down. I have to go make some phone calls."

  Lori spoke with poison-laced sarcasm, "Right. Make some calls. Tell you what, I'll put a pot of coffee on, too. Why, we're really going to change the world today, aren't we?"

  ---

  At one o'clock in the afternoon on Saturday, July 5, Eagle One landed along the banks of Spruce Knob Lake. Thick forests, colorful wildflowers, and the mountain peaks that represented the highest point in West Virginia surrounded the remote landing area.

  Pilot Rick Hauser had not chosen that location for its vista but, rather, for the clean lake water. With Gordon's help he managed to fill the transport's hydrogen tanks. Nina waited inside, gazing at the weapon collection. She even dared to run a hand of admiration over the shiny blade of Stonewall McAllister's sword.

  In any case, the Eagle took to the skies again and managed to make it most of the way across Kentucky before being challenged by a monitoring station at the old Warren County Airport in Bowling Green. Before intercept jets could make it on-scene, Hauser found a suitable hiding spot inside the Mammoth Cave National Park. While hiding from air patrols, they dined on a late supper of emergency rations.