Iástron

by James C. Dunn

  ‘I’m telling you, he’s not here,’ he heard from below.

  ‘We were told to wait down here for the general,’ answered the leader. ‘Our job was simple. We can’t go back to the Córonat without him. He’s on his way here personally!’

  ‘What? To Crilshar? B . . . But he’ll kill us where we stand if we fail him! The General’s not here! I promise you!’

  That’s it, he thought; leave, agree with him and go back.

  But the nervous man did not. Instead he pulled out a pistol, held it up to the other’s head, and blasted through his face with a mighty crack. A hush followed, and Ruben held off inhaling for fear of being heard in the silence surrounding the gentle hum of the enormous processor. But the stillness was broken as another man yelled, ‘My Lord, Lord Mokrikov, I’ve found something!’

  Mokrikov?

  Ruben froze where he was. Had he said Mokrikov?

  ‘What is it?’ he said as he strode over.

  ‘My Lord Mokrikov, he’s been here for sure. Mere minutes ago! He’s been searching the databases for mission histories.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And, wait, and agent profiles.’

  ‘The next sentence out of your mouth had better be something useful!’

  He knew he recognised the voice, the accent, the fear. His old friend stood below, attempting to hunt him out. But how and why?

  The masked man below gulped and continued typing. ‘Yes!’ he cried. ‘Berenguer’s last search brought up plans for this level’s aeration system!’

  Oh, no.

  Mokrikov and the masked men glared up and around, casting their bright-beams all over. But Ruben had already moved. Clambering through a metal hatch he dropped a grenade beneath him and disappeared through the vent.

  * * *

  In all his time as a chief of the Rotavarian Defence Force, Aleksey Vasily had never actually been into space. Not even into orbit around his own world. As a child, like all others, he’d dreamt of it. But like all others, for him it was an impossible thought. And now that he was here, at the centre of this silent, raging struggle, he realised that somebody should have warned him it was this . . . horrifying.

  Peering out of the porthole, he watched the three rectangular-shaped crafts representing Earth. One remained at the forefront of the assault while the other two descended to Crilshar. For peace lovers they certainly knew how to wage war.

  As the Proximan reinforcements levelled themselves out to attack, the Earth vessel bombarded the Crilshan centre, joined by a salvo of Titan’s razor-thread missiles. The enemy barrages maintained a counter-storm and a single, enormous enemy vessel passed over the Chief’s small craft as it drifted through. He had never felt so insignificant. He watched closely as a line of Titanese carriers deployed another wave of pods; small specks of light plunging through the atmosphere toward the molten-coloured caverns below.

  In minutes his craft entered the dock of the Retani Control Ship, the largest vessel in the fleet and, quite possibly, in orbit. He had no idea what he was going to say to the Retani, but he knew for certain that there was no way he could stay on board his own ship while the Retanis broke their promise. As he walked along the corridor with three of his own soldiers, a Retani chieftain stopped them where they were. ‘You will turn around and go back to your transport, Rotavarian.’

  ‘The hell I will! I’m going to see your master.’ He went to walk past, but the Retani pulled out a knife. Vasily reacted without thinking and knocked the blade from his hand, sending him back into the wall. One of his soldiers stunned him and lowered the unconscious Retani to the floor. ‘I don’t know why they don’t want us to see their master,’ he said to his soldiers, ‘but to be safe, wait here.’

  ‘But sir,’ said one. ‘Do you know where you’re going?’

  Vasily smiled. Mere days spent with General Berenguer had inspired the Chief to step-up his game. He had spent every waking second researching everything about their allies and enemies. ‘Oh yes,’ he said. ‘I know exactly where I’m going.’

  Now that he’d made his decision everything seemed so clear. How could anyone not want to fight alongside Titan? Fear had stopped him before; but now he was a chief again. Brave. Proud. Strong.

  Slipping through the silent corridors he followed loud, booming voices. He recognised one from the Retani Peninsula. Taking out his Titanese coilbolt, a gift from the General, he stunned a Retani with his back to him and continued through. It wasn’t long until he reached the viewing centre of the vessel, stealing footsteps until he could make out what Retani Iraan, the son of Master Gobisla, was saying.

  Iraan took a deep breath. ‘What do you want me to do?’

  ‘Exactly as you are told.’

  The voice which replied sent ripples down Vasily’s spine.

  Not him. Not now.

  ‘The Retani fleet is at your command, my Lord Córonat.’

  ‘Very good. Now have your crew follow the instructions being sent to your display.’

  Vasily leaned around the corner and caught a glimpse of the masked man he had spoken to via image-link upon Rotavar. The same masked man to whom he had swore to bring General Berenguer to.

  ‘My father will not like this,’ Iraan said.

  ‘Your father considers you a strong man,’ the masked Córonat replied. ‘The invasion fleet would not have been left in your hands had he thought otherwise. You have chosen your allegiance well. Now show your father how strong you are.’

  Vasily watched in horror as the crew of the control vessel repositioned the ship so that it faced the outer edge of the Titanese fleet. In the distance he recognised the Quasar, suspended beside his own ship.

  The Córonat growled, ‘Do it!’

  The viewing centre shook as enormous beams of white light were released from the vessel and all those in the vicinity.

  ‘No!’ Vasily screamed.

  Retani Iraan spun, and at once Retani warriors were upon the young chief. He fought back in vain. The beams soared forwards. Vasily almost stopped breathing. The first struck the Quasar with catastrophic effect. Many other vessels were assaulted. ‘No,’ he cried. ‘No, no!’ The vessels’ central hulls were torn to shreds, masses of metal flying from each of them. So much death. So much hate. Laughter filled his ears as the room faded.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO

  IT FELT AS though he had been crawling for hours before Ruben finally stopped to breathe. Despite the air blowing a cool breeze through the vent alongside him, every muscle, bone, and sinew ached and burned, and the growing feeling of disorientation ebbed away at his already-depleted sanity. He was so sure he had read the plans correctly; but then again he had had mere seconds with which to memorise his route. The fingers in his left hand were prickling. He yearned for it to be down to something other than his injured shoulder. He could no longer feel it at all.

  As despair took hold and the realisation that he’d taken the wrong tunnel hit him, something caught his ear. The sound of a voice calling out with a whimper travelled through the shaft like the clear ringing of a trumpet in the wind. He crawled a little more. Ruben’s eyes had only faintly become accustomed to the dark, but he was certain a dim light shone ahead. The renewed hope gave him the strength to scramble to the end of the metallic tunnel. At its end was a surprisingly thin grate, which he pushed aside without difficulty.

  Once out he stood back and marvelled at the sight before him; a sight he knew in many centuries very few had seen. A great chamber with black ceilings reached out, lit dimly by at least one-hundred widely-spaced candles mounted on tall spires. It was gloomy, even by Crilshan standards. The hall was rounded, made in mockery of Titan’s great domes, and was split into two levels. He now stood on the upper floor and looked over the balcony, to the place the moaning sound originated.

  He strode slowly down the onyx steps and across the circular room. As he approached the source of the moaning he stopped and held his breath, unable to fathom the great truth he had discovered. Before hi
m, stood tall and perilous, were the three thrones of the Dishan. Three tall, black chairs stood in line; and they looked as though they were made from the bones of a legendary creature, enormous and unimaginable in might. However, sat upon the middle of the three thrones, unable to move and swaying unkindly over the edge of the seat—weighed down by skin, deformed, and pallid beyond comparison—was the greatest of the three.

  ‘Yux Dishan,’ he whispered, horrified at the distorted man now whimpering like a child, unspeaking and scarcely able to move his large, protruding mouth. The smell was sickening. ‘Yux Dishan. How . . . How can you be . . . what kind of evil?’

  Sounds of slamming and the clamour of voices then came from down the corridor and Ruben rushed back up the nearby steps and out of sight. Yux Dishan stopped whimpering and stared at the group now entering the great chamber.

  ‘We did as was requested of us.’ It was Mokrikov. He strode into the chamber, flanked by a man and a woman, who were shadowed by several masked and cloaked forms. ‘We waited where we were told,’ he said. ‘It is no fault of ours that you took the order for deficient security a little too seriously.’

  The only woman among them hurried forwards and rushed to the High Lord lay upon his throne. ‘Hush now, my love,’ said Avaj Dishan, stroking her brother’s dark, uneven hair and rocking his buckled form. ‘I’m sorry I’ve not been to see you today. Things are happening, just like I told you they would.’

  ‘You did not do what was requested of you,’ countered the dark man stood at the centre of the room, ‘or I would already have my prize. And you will address me as High Lord when in my chamber. I am Wivartha Dishan and you will treat me with utmost respect!’

  Ruben watched Mokrikov’s reply, which amounted to nothing more than a craven sneer as he knitted his dense, black brow.

  Yux whined again at the dark presence in the chamber. The true High Lord had succumbed to the genetic manipulation as many before him had done, Ruben understood. The Pure Gene had taken Crilshar’s true leader, and yet, nobody was any the wiser. Poor thing. Used by his own uncle as a scapegoat for crimes he has obviously taken no part in.

  ‘Well?’ said Wivartha furiously. ‘I will hear it. How do you address me?’

  Mokrikov’s head bowed timidly, his lip twitched. ‘We shall see when my master arrives.’

  ‘Oghub, oghub!’ laughed Wivartha. ‘The Córonat!’ His hand moved to the hilt of his long, belted blade. ‘Lord Malizar is as welcome here as the heinous army now above us! You were not invited down among our people. Remember that, creature.’

  But as his temper frayed, his threat was interrupted by a sharp, piercing laughter which sounded from the dark end of the chamber. Ruben peered across as the slender silhouette of Avaj Dishan wandered to the centre of the room to stand behind Wivartha. ‘Uncle,’ she said, ‘do not allow yourself to become angered by this pitiable intruder.’ Her voice rang, delicate and forceful. ‘We allow them to remain with us for the honour of the great Córonat, but not because we have to.’

  ‘Debatable,’ Mokrikov mumbled.

  Ruben continued to watch intently as she circled the room’s centre, placing a hand upon her uncle’s shoulder, and moving close to whisper in his ear. His hand, in turn, released the blade hilt. ‘The Golden Army has penetrated our higher levels,’ she said. ‘They have reached the seventh bombardal and the molten works; their allies have taken the summit cavern and smashed the outer transmission-hub. But the tide will, as ever, turn in our favour. Gentlemen, my dear Yux has some news for us.’ She flowed in between the company of cloaked men stood behind Mokrikov, and smiled. ‘Think not of our temporary company, but concentrate on the army which battles its way through our uppermost levels at this very moment . . .’

  Ruben watched her eyes search his position; his heart fluttered.

  ‘. . . and think of the man which stands above, listening to all that we say!’

  The entire room turned to the place upon which Avaj’s eyes landed. Ruben panicked; he stood and twisted to run. But he realised too late that several silver-masked figures had been standing behind him. They moved for him and he laid a well-aimed blow in the stomach of the nearest. He ducked the return cuff but a striking pain shot through his body as a kick reached his chest and another found the back of his leg. Then, as though pulled by invisible chains, he was forced backwards through the stone barrier and down to the ground below with a thud!

  It took some moments for him to come around, and he expected to receive a beating or even a sudden execution. But no one came near him. Rolling onto his front and resting on his elbows he looked up into the cold face of Wivartha Dishan. He remained still; every part of him cried out in agony. A dull pain filled his head and he looked to the floor to see the drip-drop of warm blood trickle down from his brow. Then the torture intensified and he was lifted from the ground, held up by dark hands. They turned him towards Mokrikov, whose eyes pierced through him. He wished to speak, but couldn’t summon the strength.

  Mokrikov’s lips moved. Ruben could hear nothing but a clear ringing and a distant cry calling his name. He could distinguish two voices, and his heart yearned for their faces: his girls gazed back at him with familiar, soft eyes, smiling. They needed him. He couldn’t give up on them now. He’d been through too much. Slowly his awareness returned and somehow the strength in his body was renewed. Suddenly he was back in the chamber.

  ‘Kill him now!’ Wivartha cried.

  ‘Not here,’ said Avaj. ‘It must be done so that everyone may see!’

  ‘That is not your decision,’ Mokrikov commanded. ‘We will await my master.’

  The High Lord’s voice then filled with rage. ‘Do not presume to tell me what I can and cannot do with my own prisoner!’

  Mokrikov’s eyes glared. ‘The subjects of the Córonat have no prisoners of their own!’

  This was his chance. It was now or never.

  ‘How dare you?!’

  Ruben fought the arms holding him and reached for Mokrikov’s pistol. Swinging it high he slammed it into his old friend’s jaw. He spun on the spot and fired madly at both Mokrikov and the crowd of cloaked men, before turning to the High Lord himself. Wivartha’s dark eyes met with his. A bullet released from the chamber of his gun. Pierced through tender flesh.

  Wivartha’s eyes widened, and then fell from his enemy’s, down to his niece’s form, which, though small, had stepped between him and the bullet. He caught her, fell with her. She gazed up at him, and then her eyes closed. Wivartha laid her on the ground.

  The cry of Yux Dishan echoed through the room. Mokrikov knelt on the ground, panting. Two of the masked men cried aloud from the black floor, bleeding profusely and begging for help. All ignored them.

  Wivartha stood slowly; a fire burned in his black and red eyes. Pulling out his blade he lifted it high in the air. At the same time Ruben raised the pistol for one final shot. As Wivartha lunged he pulled the trigger. The bullet released. But it did not reach its target. Both men stopped and watched as the bullet hung in mid air, suspended in time.

  As though night had fallen, a chill covered the room and darkness plummeted. A cold wind surrounded them, and the sound of a bell chiming echoed throughout the obscure cavity. Four times.

  Ruben breathed slowly. He stood gazing at the bullet before him. Then the gun was wrenched from his hand and he twisted to see it fall to dust before a black form, hooded and cloaked in dark robes and masked in purest silver. The being pointed to the suspended bullet and clenched his hand into a fist—

  —an implausibly shocking impact rattled through him. Ruben’s legs gave way and he fell forwards, hurled to the ground. The sensation as one of unbearable tearing filled his very chest, followed by a disorientating numbness. As bone and tissue were torn and shattered the room and everyone within it faded . . .

  Sounds were barely audible, but he could make them out as though he were in the next room. Figures moved around him, and a faint wailing called mutely. All was faint, cold, and unclear.
Indescribable shock then poured into his mind. Opening his eyes, he understood where he was. Nobody had touched him, but instead all were bowed down. His breathing came in small gasps as he struggled to gulp the thin air around him, unable to move. He was going to die. And he could only think of two people. The only two people.

  The cloaked wraith moved nearby. Ruben watched him drift slowly about, surrounded by kneeling bodies. ‘Bring them in,’ he ordered, cold, commanding, and cruel.

  Wivartha stayed low, as did the cloaked soldiers. Mokrikov knelt nearby, shaking. They all watched two uncloaked forms escorted into the chamber. Ruben did his upmost to make them out, but, in his truly agonizing state, warm blood seeping from the bullet wound in his chest, he could make out only one.

  ‘Impossible.’

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE

  ROTAVAR

  FIVE WEEKS AGO

  ‘ROTAVAR WILL BE safe.’ Prime Minister Edgar Mokrikov surveyed those wavering before him, stood within his grand office. Looking his chief, Aleksey, in the eye, he reached into his pocket. ‘But as lord of this world I have failed. I am of no further use. To you, Rotavar, or our sister colony. I am so, so sorry. Of Manera there is little hope.’

  And as silence fell on the room, darkness covering the horrified city outside, hope descended, and Mokrikov pulled out of his pocket his silver gleaming pistol, forced it up underneath his chin, and pulled the trigger.

  Click!

  Everyone took a step forward. Mokrikov’s heart raced to the speed of a beating drum. The pistol hadn’t fired. He pulled the trigger again.

  Click!

  Gasps filled the room. He fired again and again but still nothing happened. Chief Vasily raced towards him, prized the gun from his shaking hand, and held him close as the prime minister fell forwards in shock. He had been ready. His life was at its end. He had to finish it.

  But it was too late. Screams filled the room. The open door of the office found itself suddenly blocked by several figures clad in black robes and metal masks. They released small barbs at the necks and faces of the delegation. Some of the soldiers reached for their weapons but moved too slow and so fell to the ground with the others.