The Zygan Emprise: Renegade Paladins and Abyssal Redemption

by YS Pascal

  It was my only chance. I didn’t mince words. “If you all had, then maybe we wouldn’t’ve gotten into the mess at Io in the first place, I wouldn’t be here, and—” I stopped myself before saying, “Ulenem wouldn’t be dead.”

  For a few seconds, I felt the Archon’s neural probe invade my brain. Apparently satisfied with his search, he turned back to using his voice to communicate.

  “One week,” he said coldly.

  I gulped. I had realistically expected a few hours in Hell … but a week?! “But, but—” I stuttered.

  “Ms. Rush, catascopes are not excused from the regulations of the Zygan Federation. Your transgressions include abandoning your assignment, unauthorized access to Zygint, unauthorized muting, relinquishing your Ergal to mercenaries, abetting unauthorized time-travelers, and the list goes on.” The Archon looked at me steadily, his tone firm. “Violations of the law result in consequences. You are encouraged to know the rules—not make them. This is not a democracy, understand?”

  I nodded, endeavoring to calmly return his gaze. Finally, he stood up. “That’s all.”

  I tried to stand but my legs were shaking. The Omega Archon turned his back and walked out of the suite without another word.

  The pain began as soon as he left the room. I gritted my teeth and clenched my fists, but the burning was agonizing, my entire body was on fire. I rolled on the floor and curled into the fetal position, writhing on the shag carpet. It took only a minute for my defenses to become overwhelmed and, against my will, I began to scream.

  * * *

  Spud looked almost as pale as I did when I staggered out of Central an hour later. My muscles were still trembling and weak, and I fell into the soft coolness of the cloud tufts with a sigh of relief and closed my eyes.

  “It’s been over an hour,” Spud said, his voice wavering.

  “He gave me a week.” My time ‘in stir’ seemed short to others, but as the Omega Archon had launched me into my own special punitive time loop, I had felt every minute of the ten thousand that made up a week.

  “Are you all right?”

  I strained to open my eyes and gazing at him with a wan smile. “Thanks for waiting for me.”

  He nodded and reached out his arms to help me up. The soreness and stiffness would take a very long time to fade. I leaned against him, relaxing in his embrace as we X-fanned back to Matshi’s lair.

  * * *

  In Matshi’s kalyvi, our meeting room seemed sadly bereft without the Chidurian and his late partner. The rest of the group greeted us warmly, but it was disconcerting to see, with my peripheral vision, worried eyes studying me when my gaze was supposedly turned away. The Omega Archon’s harsh code of justice was certainly a reason a couple of them had opted to wash out of catascope training.

  So it didn’t surprise me when Nephil Stratum pulled me aside to a corner of the chamber beyond prying ears.

  “I am so sorry,” she said as he handed me a cup of Chidurian ale and massaged my back with her soothing tufts.

  “I’m okay. Really.” Especially after the first few sips of the healing drink.

  “That’s good. But I meant that I didn’t get you the training.”

  I frowned. “What training?”

  She wrapped her cooling tufts around me, calming my sore muscles. “In case there’s a next time. Helps you fight off the pain. While you’re waiting for Forensics to finish the autopsies, you may be able to learn it. Ka’vyr.”

  “Sounds Ifestian,” I ventured, hearing the name. Ifestians were renowned for their study of philosophy and logic, but tended to avoid mingling in the bustling Zygan Federation melting pot.

  “Yes. It’s a kind of auto-telepathy. Neural self-control.”

  Ifestian high priests were rumored to have telepathic skills, but with little inclination to advertise or share their knowledge. “And Ifestians are going to tutor me because…?” My tone was wary.

  “I’ll make the arrangements,” Nephil Stratum reassured me without further elaboration. “For you, and Escott, too. As catascopes, you never know when ka’vyr might come in handy.”

  * * *

  A day later, as Nephil Stratum had instructed us, Spud and I Ergaled to the M-fan portal in the Ifestio Enclave, a destination well off the Zygan tourist map, where recreational pursuits were and uninvited visitors, to put it mildly, not encouraged. Ifestians tended to favor a monastic lifestyle, more attractive to those with a deep intellectual or spiritual calling. Of course, I’d never been there before.

  Dressed in the standard brightly-colored Ifestian robes decorated with indecipherable runic characters, we silently walked the 2.67 kilometers in the searing heat to the Xtmprsqzntwlfdxvi estate. After baking in Sidon, Matshi’s Enclave, and now Ifestio’s, I longed for a journey to a more temperate climate and actually began to look forward to my return to Los Angeles, vowing never to complain about the hot, dry Santa Ana winds again.

  The gates of the stately manor opened as we approached. I didn’t see a camera or sensor system anywhere. Perhaps we’d just had a live demonstration of reputed Ifestian telepathy.

  We carefully climbed up the rocky path to the mansion. Hematite columns gave the circular, red-tinged structure the look of a rusty Stonehenge. As had the gates, the building’s entry portal opened by itself as we approached, and we gratefully stepped inside to a surprisingly cool atrium.

  T’Fal welcomed us with traditional Ifestian reserve, and led us without delay to a small, soundproofed room, where she instructed us to sit, cross-legged, on the floor cushions she had provided. Then, sans small talk, she got right down to business.

  “You are here to learn telepathic resistance.” It was not a question.

  We nodded.

  She stared intently at each of us for several minutes—did I catch a look of dismay in her stern features?—and then ordered, “Close your eyes. We shall begin.”

  * * *

  Spud was a much better student than me, I’m afraid, but I did pick up the basics of ka’vyr after a few hours of practice. I can’t say I was exactly eager to test my skills against the Omega Archon, but I felt that I’d at least be able to chorize without giving myself away. Chorizing is a ka’vyr technique that allows you to split away from a situation and watch yourself as an observer, sort of like looking at yourself in the third person. I could now try to use ka’vyr to separate myself from the Omega Archon’s Hellish pain if I had the misfortune to be called on the carpet again in the future.

  “I’ve got to come back here someday,” I said to Spud as we reached the exit portal of the Ifestian Enclave. “I can learn so much more from T’Fal.”

  “Bollocks,” Spud snorted. “I doubt she thinks so …,” and the rest of his sentence, along with my snide reply, was lost as we X-fanned back to the Chidurian Enclave.

  * * *

  The Ytrans had already left for their own enclave when we returned and Eikhus was eager to return to the Kharybdian Enclave as soon as possible. His sister had reported a massive hailstorm was due to arrive in less than a day, and damage to their thal was a distinct possibility.

  Eikhus did hope to stop in and see Matshi at Nejinsen first, and I offered to accompany him to Aheya, Zyga’s second-largest city, where the acclaimed medical center was located.

  “Autopsy on Sutherland’s finished,” Nephil Stratum informed us as she entered the meeting room. “The report reads: death due to exsanguination from a laceration of the carotid artery. He bled out.”

  “Is our story flying?” I asked. Juan de la Cruz was less terrifying than the Omega Archon, but he had the authority to wash us out of Zygint if he suspected we’d spun an imaginative tale.

  “Sounds like it.”

  “Call your boss and see if you still have a job,” Sarion teased.

  “He is expecting us back on Earth for a debriefing this evening in fact,” Spud interjected. Then he added to Eikhus, “I’m afraid we can’t make Nejinsen.”

  I spun around and face
d him. “I’m afraid we can’t not. Matshi went out on a limb for us—”

  “More like his limbs went out for you!” joked Sarion.

  We all turned to the Megaran and yelled, in unison, “Shut up!”

  I put an arm on Eikhus and said forcefully, “Nejinsen. Who’s going with me?”

  Everyone but Spud raised a hand.

  “Thank you.” I faced Spud, expectant.

  Finally, and sullenly, he broke. “Oh, all right.”

  * * *

  Nejinsen Medical Center is literally in the Center of Aheya, nestled among libraries and museums in Zyga’s most beautiful city. The 476 storey (Base Twelve, of course) hospital houses many of the top medical specialists in the Universe, and provides health and repair services for thousands of species and millions of cultures.

  Medicine at Nejinsen is nothing like medicine on Earth. Why even anastasis,xvii reawakening from death, is practiced in rare cases; through neurocache transplants, I’ve been told. Most Zygan doctors, however, prefer to use cellular regeneration techniques to avoid the complications of death completely. The average Zygan can practically live as long as he, she, it, or they want, but most Zygans choose to move on to Level Three, the world beyond, after living a few thousand years or so.

  A few cultures in Zygfed eschew modern science, and practice shamanic rituals of varied effectiveness. Some even worship the Transition to Level Three, and honor those who die for a noble cause as demi-gods. Frankly, if you ask me, I’d rather choose life over deification, but, please, I pray you don’t ask.

  But Izmalis like Ulenem’s family would no doubt be singing his praises at the Transition ceremony next week. His baba had arranged for his body to be transported back to Orion Alpha with a hero’s welcome, and at least half the population of his hometown of Madai was expected to attend his funeral. Ulenem’s family reportedly had already begun building a majestic temple to honor their fallen warrior’s memory.

  As our lift levved to Matshi’s room, I wondered if the Chidurian would be well enough to attend the ceremony. The loss of his lifelong friend had obviously devastated him. Matshi had once admitted to me that he was not convinced of the existence of Level Three, or even of any life after death. I was certain that the Chidurian’s … lack of faith … would make his loss even more painful.

  We entered Matshi’s room with some trepidation. Matshi was resting quietly in a large suite that resembled his Chidurian kalyvi. He’d regained some of his deep purplish hue, and his regenerating limbs had grown to almost half their adult size. I couldn’t resist giving him another hug.

  He winced when I touched his maturing arm, then, with a nod at Sarion, joked, “Growing pains.” Matshi wasn’t typically a warm, fuzzy kind of guy, but I think he was genuinely happy to see us. Only when we tried to catch him up on the Sutherland autopsy did his expression alter. He put up a hand, and asked us to change the subject.

  I went with the first thought that popped in my head. Was he going to Orion Alpha for Ulenem’s Transition? I instantly regretted my question when Matshi responded with a Chidurian curse.

  We all saw Spud frown. I was ready to apologize for bringing up a painful memory when Spud cut me off, asking Matshi abruptly, “Why did you kill him?”

  I looked at Spud in confusion. Matshi had already told us that Ulenem had been attacked by Sutherland and had been killed defending himself, so why did Spud—

  Another Chidurian curse preceded Matshi’s surprising lunge from his seat. Fortunately, Spud was quick on his feet, and his Ergal, and quickly levved out of Matshi’s reach. From the ceiling of the suite, Spud whipped out his stun gun and aimed it at the Chidurian.

  “Do not make me stun you. Just tell us what happened.”

  As Eikhus, Sarion, and I stared, bewildered; Matshi glared at Spud for a few moments. Obviously in pain, he limped back to his chair, and muttered a hoarse, “You bastard!”

  Spud still kept his distance a few feet off the ground as Matshi spat a violet liquid onto the floor, leaned back, and, avoiding our eyes, began to tell the truth.

  * * *

  Our trip back to Earth was subdued. We’d gotten word that Zygint had arrested Wart and Carlton Platt, now that we’d publicly blown their covers, and charged them with treason. Platt deserved it, but I’d miss Wart. He’d been a great mentor for us ‘greenhorns’, unlike Gary the aesthete and dorky Ev.

  And Ulenem. What could possibly have motivated him to turn against Zygfed? He didn’t need the money. His family was among the richest in Madai. Nationalism? Unlikely. Orion Alpha had been loyal to Zygfed for several millennia, possibly even before the extinction. Then, why?

  Troubled, I turned to Spud, who was sprawled in his seat, his eyes closed. I didn’t think he was really asleep.

  “Ulenem,” I whispered.

  One eye opened and found mine.

  “How did you guess that Matshi had, uh…?” I prodded.

  Spud stretched and yawned. “How did I guess? Really, Rush.”

  I apologized. “Deduce. How did you deduce?”

  “Belatedly,” he responded, sitting up with a grunt. “I had neglected to properly interpret the pattern of the knife wounds on the body.”

  He ran his fingers through his hair, then, seeing my puzzled expression, sighed. “The outline of the stabs, their size, spacing, angulation, hinted at an arthropodal, eight-limbed species,” he added. “Except for two perplexing irregular concavities. I had, regretfully, overlooked the temporary absence of two of Matshi’s arms and legs.”

  He shrugged. “At any rate, it is of no longer of consequence … we have a more important question to address.”­­

  “Why Ulenem, uh, went to the other side?”

  Spud favored me with a patronizing frown. “Yeshua. Where is he?”

  Yeshua. I had almost forgotten. “Matshi’s convinced he didn’t burn in the fire.”

  “Exactly. So, did he get out of the temple? And if so, how? The attic’s only exit apparently was the flaming staircase.”

  I sighed. Looks like we didn’t have a choice. “So we go back to Tyre?”

  He hesitated. “No. I have a theory.” He sat up and faced me. “And we do not want to lead the pirates to the gold.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Suppose, simply suppose, we are being tracked. We find Yeshua again, but at the same time lead our trackers right to him.”

  “Good point,” I admitted. “But who are these trackers? We turned in Wart and Platt.”

  Spud nodded. “And caught Sutherland. Theoretically, we should be home free. Yeshua is safe and, as far as I, and the Temporal Disturbance Analysis Unit, can determine, Earth’s timeline has not been affected.”

  “Makes sense to me.” Unfortunately, helping humanity avoid or prevent two millennia of wars, plagues, and holocausts was, by order of the Omega Archon, not part of our job description.

  “But is that really why Sutherland, or Benedict, was after Yeshua?” Spud persisted. “To devastate Earth’s timeline?”

  I frowned. “You mean there’s something Gary didn’t tell us?”

  “Very possibly.” Spud stroked his chin. “Before we head back to Phoenicia, we’d better be sure what Sutherland and Benedict were really trying to do.”

  Spud leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes once again, obviously unwilling to say anything more. I was even more perplexed by his questions. I liked my assignments clean and neat, like … rescuing cats out of trees.

  Finally, after a few minutes, I added, disappointed, “So now we just wait?”

  Spud didn’t open his eyes. “‘They also serve who only stand and wait.’ Longfellow.”

  “May be,” I returned, “but, you know, a good offense beats a royal flush. Rush.”

  Spud opened one eye and said wryly, “Don’t offend or you’ll be beaten by a royal. Escott.”

  I looked at him with a sour expression and responded, “Bollocks.”

  Chapter 7

  On the Edger />
  Hollywood—present day

  My arms were killing me, my muscles trembling, as my frozen fingers clawed at the rim of the precipice. I looked down and tightened my grip. The drop was over thirty feet below—to certain death. The end was near! How much longer would I be able to hold on?!

  “Cut!” Jerry’s voice boomed through the soundstage.

  Not again! We’d been at it, shooting the season finale of Bulwark--for four hours! This scene was supposed to be the season’s climax—our white-knuckle face-off with the evil villain Mordmort, who’d chased us to the brink of this crumbling, craggy bluff. Unfortunately, our not-very-sharp guest star, Brandon Washburn, costumed as the über-bad-guy in ostentatious red, gold, and black armor, was too coked up to get his lines right. Take after take after take. Out of the corner of my eye, I glanced at an equally unhappy Spud suspended next to me, clinging to the scarp. White knuckles was right. How much longer did Jerry expect us to hang from this papier maché cliff anyway?

  Apparently, at least one more go-round. Jerry, perspiration stains seeping through the sleeves of his one-size-too-small black shirt, waited impatiently for the FX guys to re-set the equipment making the smoke and flames that followed our villain as he staggered across the floor of the set. As soon as Mark gave the ‘ready’ cue, Jerry jumped.

  “Speed! Action!”

  “I am master of the universe!” Mordmort cried, as sparks flew from the ends of his raised arms. “Give me the Maltese Hamster or you will both, uh—” Brandon froze, and looked offside, furrowing his brow.

  Die. Die, Brandon, die!

  “Cut!” Unbelievable! Brandon went up on his lines again!

  Spud muttered an unintelligible curse.

  “That’s it,” I whispered to him angrily. “I’m levving, and I don’t care if they see us.” I tapped my Ergal to give me a little antigrav boost, and lessen the strain on my arms.

  “How you holdin’ up there, Tara?” Jerry shouted from the floor below.

  “Don’t ask,” I shot back, to Spud’s amusement.

  “One more time, kids. I think Brand’s got it this time.”

  The handsome heavy nodded with far too much energy.