She hung her head.
‘Goodbye, Anna.’
She looked up to witness a blinding light, and a burning heat, and she recoiled, backing up with her hands in front of her face. Peter walked forwards. The light withdrew, but the blackness which replaced it was greater in intensity. It forced the air from her lungs. A freezing wind stole her breath away. Anna watched the stars through a tear in the cosmos itself.
And then Peter was gone.
Anna Berenguer turned back to the Shilvar, around her and up on the hill behind. She heard a voice in her head. A kind, sad voice. It was them, and it was her. It was neither, and at the same time both. It said: ‘Dark days are here. The struggle begins. Now comes truth. Now we find a way to save this race.’
EIGHTY-NINE
FRANCIUM
EARTH
FORTY YEARS AGO
ANTAL JUSTUS LAY on his back in the middle of a forest. He watched the sky through a clearing in the tree line, unable to move or to think. He could only watch. The blue sky lingered on the horizon, and disappeared. The moon shone, already bright and reflected in his blue-eyed gaze.
Listen to me now, son. This is the truth. His father’s voice filled his head. You see through my eyes, and the eyes of everyone we have touched. Like an echo in a pond. You hear with my ears, and the ears of everyone whose lives we have stirred.
Justus looked beside him. Lanfranc Vortan, only a young man, smiled back. He knew through which eyes he saw.
Mother . . .
A deep humming like crushing thunder echoed from above. A star shot across the sky.
Justus and Vortan jumped up eagerly and charged through the cold night forest in the direction of the fallen star. He could feel the elation, the adventure, the fearlessness. The memory felt so familiar.
They were rushing through the forest which blurred around them. Past a deep divide in the tree line stood a crater. He did not wait and charged recklessly down into the ash and the mud. Lanfranc appeared beside and took his hand . . . his mother’s hand.
A body lay at the crater’s centre. Justus rushed to it, crawling through the dark mire. The boy moved and coughed, found his feet, and then fell. His clothes were singed black.
‘What’s that?’ Vortan said, pointing near the body.
Justus dropped down and crawled towards the boy. Beside him lay a bag, black and ashen with twinges of gold. ‘It’s a pack,’ he said. ‘A backpack, I think.’
‘Careful,’ Vortan said. ‘Just be careful. Don’t touch it. We don’t know who he is!’
‘He’s just a boy. Close to our age. Hello,’ Justus said. ‘Are you all right? Can you hear me?’
The boy grumbled, lay on his back. ‘They . . . it . . . coming . . .’ he murmured. ‘Coming . . . no . . . no, really . . . coming . . .’
‘Come on,’ said Lanfranc. ‘We should leave him. He could have come from anywhere out there.’
‘I’m not leaving him! Run back to the manor and fetch some of the grounds-men. There may still be some around.’
‘Casandra, no! He could be dangerous.’
‘I am not leaving him! Now go on. Run back and I’ll wait here.’
Vortan ran from the crater as Justus remained with the boy on his knees, covered in ash and dirt. The boy turned over and looked up at him.
Justus recognised his face. Peter Marx!
‘What’s your name?’ his mother asked through him.
Peter didn’t reply.
Justus’ hand – his mother’s youthful palm – stroked Peter’s cheek and leaned in closer. ‘I’m Casandra. Casandra Justus. Where did you come from?’
‘Far . . . away,’ he said.
‘Who are you?’
‘Cathal,’ he said. ‘My name is Cathal.’
She smiled. ‘Hello Cathal.’
‘Where am I?’
‘Earth,’ she said.
‘What . . . year is it?’
‘Forty-two twenty-two.’
‘I made it,’ he said. ‘It . . . worked!’
‘What worked? You’ve been mumbling. You said something’s coming. What is coming?’
‘They are,’ he said. ‘They are coming.’
‘Who’re they?’
‘It’s over,’ he said.
‘What’s coming, Cathal?’
His head lolled back. He closed his eyes and mumbled, ‘They are coming.’
From the moment I met your mother, Antal, I loved her. And she loved me. There were many things I had yet to do. Many things which will be unclear to you now. But when I returned, I found her again. I knew who she was. I knew what it meant. I knew what I would then have to do.
AVARIS CITY HOSPICE, FRANCIUM
EARTH
TWENTY-SEVEN YEARS AGO
A baby crying. A mother smiling. The day Peter Marx became a father.
When I married your mother, Antal, it was the happiest I had ever been. The journey to Earth through a split in time had drained every last ounce of my strength. When I returned to Earth forty years ago, I returned without my gift. But it was a gift in itself. I aged. I could live. I could love. I knew what was coming. But I had found something special. I found the change I had been looking for. The change I needed to find the man I once was. And all it took was you, Antal. All it took was a son.
A nurse handed newborn Antal into his father’s arms.
I realised then that I could not stay, that your future was too entwined with my past, that you once told me you never knew your father, that I had to leave, to leave you and your mother, the woman I loved almost as much as my baby boy.
Peter held baby Antal close, kissed him on the forehead, agony in his eyes. He placed his hand over his son’s head and a light passed from him into the baby; a gift that would remain forever; a brightness of the Shilvar that no journey or nightmare could take away.
There could be no record of me on Earth. But know this: I always watched over you. Even when you left Earth and disappeared I watched out for you, everywhere you went. I knew where your destiny lay, because it was I who had made it.
Peter placed Antal into his crib and walked away. The room burst into pastel white, solid and detached. In its place surged a corridor, bright and long and silent . . .
CENTRAL CITY INFIRMARY
TITAN
EIGHTEEN YEARS AGO
Peter Marx marched along the pure white hospital corridor, a long brown robe sweeping along the floor behind him. He turned left, then right, and entered a room filled with light and laughter and untold happiness. He held his breath and approached the closest bed.
Nolkiet Odéto sat up, blonde hair draped over her shoulders, a child clutched in her arms. Beside her bed stood Dathlan Berenguer, a tall, slim man, the picture of Titanese strength. Peter stopped before them, bowing his head in prayer.
‘Who are you?’ asked a dark-skinned old woman, emerging as from nowhere. Peter breathed deeply, recognising one whom he loved. Lucasta-Callista was just as he remembered her. ‘I asked who you were,’ she said again.
‘My name,’ he said, ‘is Orman Day. I am with the Sacred Decree of Years, here upon Titan on an errand to the Lady Pinzón.’
‘I have heard of your Decree,’ said Dathlan Berenguer. ‘How go the movements in Accentauria? I hear the lay masses are more trouble than they’re worth.’
‘It is an article of our faith that nobody is worth less than unreserved devotion.’
Callista interrupted. ‘What brings you here, cleric? Lady Pinzón does not visit hospitals.’
Dathlan Berenguer stepped forward. ‘Excuse my . . . elderly relative. I am Dathlan Berenguer. This is my wife, Nolkiet. And Callista, my aunt. What can I do for you?’
‘It is an honour.’ He smiled to the new mother. ‘I always like to visit the hospital as part of my stay.’ He looked down to the child. ‘Your newborn?’
Dathlan looked back to Nolkiet. ‘Our first, yes. This is little Anna.’
‘Hello, Anna Berenguer. May I?’
�
�Please do.’ Dathlan handed the baby girl to Peter, whose heart ached with longing, with memory, with sadness. He placed his hand over Anna’s forehead and the same light passed from him into her; a gift that would remain forever; a brightness of the Shilvar that no journey or nightmare could take away.
Callista stepped forward suddenly, suspicious, ogling the cleric impolitely. ‘Do I know you?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘No, you don’t.’
‘Who did you say you were?’
‘Orman Day. You are right to be suspicious, ma’am. This child is very special. Take good care of her.’
Lucasta-Callista took the child back, held her close. ‘I intend to,’ she said. ‘I intend to.’
It was done. Anna Berenguer and Antal Justus, gifted by the Shilvar, joined like no others ever would. Now I knew you would find each other; dream and see; witness what nobody else ever could. It was then that I realised just what fate and destiny were, and just who it was that commanded them. It is us. All along and throughout history it was humanity that controlled its own destiny.
The hospital room faded . . .
BLACK MARKET CITY
MARS
SIX MONTHS AGO
A silver-bearded Peter stood alone on the docking platform of the Martian Colony, looking out at a crimson craft as it came to land. He smiled, before making his way back inside, ready to wait for Adra Dimal and the crew of the Crimson Flux to come; he told them in the message he sent to the craft to come here, just not exactly where. They would stray into the Black Market, he had no doubt. He would wait for them there.
The docking platform faded . . .
. . . Peter crouched in the dark corner of a dark tent as Adra Dimal fell through the canopy.
Watching as though from above, Justus felt a familiar urge to hold Adra, who sat on the ground for minutes before contacting her crew. She completed the communication and then mumbled. ‘And now you’re gone. But I’d do anything to get you back.’
‘Would you really?’
Dimal twisted on the spot. ‘What?’
‘I said would you really do anything to get him back?’
‘Who’re you?’
Peter moved closer. ‘I know you miss him, Adra, but to get Antal Justus back, it will take all of your strength, courage, and resolve.’
‘How—?’
‘Now stay calm. Take a seat, Adra.’
Dimal sat on a nearby stool as Peter lit a bright-beam and then sat on a stool himself. ‘How do you know my name?’ she asked. ‘Who are you?’
‘Right now it’s safer if I don’t tell you my name. Know only that I wish to help. Many lives are at stake, not only your own or Antals.’
‘How do you know so much? You can’t possibly be—’
‘Reading your mind? Don’t be silly.’
‘Then how?’
He smiled. ‘You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.’
‘Don’t joke.’
Peter paused. ‘Look, I called you here because we both know you want the man you love back. And he wants to return to you, trust me he does. But right now he’s in more danger than he’s ever been in.’
‘It was you that called us here? How do you know all this?’
‘Because, all of this is bigger than you know. There are many more players and the stakes are a lot higher than anybody realises, especially Antal. He’s in deep . . . but I think that is where he is meant to be.’
‘Who are you?’
‘He can’t do it alone. He needs you, Adra. More than you or he could ever know.’
‘Who are you? Why do you want to help us?’
Peter sighed. ‘War is coming, Adra. War which engulf all the Systems, and all of humankind. It is beginning right now, below Crilshar. And everything will soon fall apart . . .’
‘How do you know?’
‘I need Antal. We all do.’
‘For what?’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘Well that’s really helpful!’
‘Now listen.’ He took her hand. ‘We are very short on time, and Antal is so very far away. But there is a way you can help him.’
Adra sat back. ‘I’m listening.’
‘There is a woman,’ Peter said. ‘A woman on Titan. Find her. Tell her that her master sends his call, and she will help you. I know she will.’ He handed her a handwritten letter. ‘Take this, Adra. Take it and read it. Only you. Burn it once you are done.’
‘What is it?’
‘The only way you can save him.’
The room faded . . .
From there, my son, I returned to Earth to await your arrival. I sent Adra Dimal and your crew to Titan, to collect the Iástron Lucasta-Callista, for she was the only one with the power to find me among the dark of Tempest-Beta, for which I also gave them coordinates. They were to rescue you, bring you back to Earth, and save Empress Adelaide Abacco from the fall of Enustine. Her fortune has had an impact on the entire Alignment.
Once on Earth I waited by your mother’s grave. The timing was poor, and as your ship burned I followed you into Avaris City. It was there I rescued you from the private club owned by your former employer, Jules Ditton. I left you where you would be safe, with your step-father. It was only after I found out from Vortan of your planned rescue from Malizar’s Estate that I intervened and revealed myself. The rest you are aware of.
All images faded, leaving a canvas of pure black.
Now I know you will be unsure about so many things, so many questions forming in your mind. But there is one thing I want to make absolutely clear as we sit in this dark cell together. I love you, and will always protect you, so long as there is breath in my body. And so, my son . . .
Justus looked up into the eyes of Peter Marx.
‘. . . It is me.’
NINETY
PETER STARED INTO his son’s eyes. He released him and they both fell back. Justus stared up silently, emotionless, nursing his burning arm. Then he threw himself forward and clutched Peter with all his strength, not caring for the pain bursting through his body.
‘I have a father.’
‘You do. You always had me!’
‘Not like this! Not like this!’
Justus wept, tears overflowing, releasing a lifetime of pent-up grief.
‘In all the long centuries of my life,’ Peter said, ‘I have never felt as happy as I do holding you close. No matter what the circumstance.’
‘It’s you,’ Justus said. ‘I can see it in your eyes. I never could before. But now I can. You’re so old. How? Where’s your gift?’
‘Taken. Taken as I journeyed here. So, so far.’
‘How?’
‘It was taken. It was . . . lost.’
A hammering pounded the outside of the holding cell. The door whined and swung open. Edgar Mokrikov gazed down from the open door. He was battered and bruised but alert.
‘Edgar?’ Peter said.
‘Well then,’ Mokrikov cried. ‘Come!’
Peter raised Justus to his feet, careful with his severely bruised leg and loosely-suspended arm. Together they hurried through the rows of metal containers. Justus couldn’t understand if what he was seeing was real. Around them, men in blue body armour rushed back and forth, opening the containers and helping the forgotten captives to their feet. Many were filled with still bodies, and those that were alive could barely walk. The armed men had arrived just in time.
‘They aren’t Allied Moon,’ he said in a daze. ‘Who are they, Peter?’
‘You will see soon enough,’ he answered, and the three pushed on. They passed several bloodied bodies along the way: masked members of the Allied Moon. Up the many steps and through the white corridors of the estate’s underground, Mokrikov led them higher. Into a dark, empty room, they lowered Justus to the ground.
‘How many have fallen?’ Peter asked.
‘The estate is under your control,’ Mokrikov said.
‘And Malizar?’
‘It’s you, isn’t it?’ t
he Rotavarian said. ‘You’re the contact. You’re the one leading these men.’
‘What?’ Justus said. ‘These soldiers are yours, Peter?’
‘Yes and yes.’
Mokrikov stared for what seemed like an age at Peter, then turned and took hold of Justus’ arm. He struggled, but Mokrikov was strong. The Rotavarian closed his eyes and Justus cried out in anguish. He pulled away. Mokrikov didn’t allow it. A loud crack met their ears, and he released him. Justus held his arm up. Tingling. Numb.
It wasn’t broken. He stared down and moved the arm from side to side. And the truth hit him. He wasn’t the only one. ‘How?’
‘Edgar Mokrikov is a Iástron,’ Peter explained, helping them both back to their feet. ‘A slave to his master.’ He opened the door. ‘But even a slave can find the courage to unshackle himself.’
Mokrikov jumped forward and blocked the doorway. ‘How do you know that about me? Who are you?’
‘I too was shackled once.’
‘I remained here because I was asked to. Long ago.’
‘Edgar, you have remained here. I asked you to. At great risk to yourself, you did.’
A ringing chime echoed along the corridor outside. Mokrikov jumped back and slammed the door shut. Justus took the Rotavarian’s blaster from him and moved to cover the room from the Allied Moon guard now outside.
Peter caught Mokrikov as he stumbled aside, then fell to his knees. ‘Edgar!’
Justus opened the door and fired along the corridor. ‘I can see three!’
Peter held Mokrikov in his arms, blood seeping through his coat. Mokrikov’s head drooped back. ‘Death mocks me. It always has.’
‘Edgar, I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘You were a charming boy. You are a good man still. I’m so sorry.’
‘No . . . sorry.’
‘Where is he?’
‘It is you, master,’ he whispered, struggling to speak.
‘Yes, it is me. Where has Marrak gone?’
Slowly, ‘The master . . . he has gone. Gone up there.’
‘To Luna? Is that where?’
‘Gone to greet them. Gone to sacrifice . . . to submit.’
‘Thank you, Edgar.’
Mokrikov smiled. ‘You recognise me?’
‘Of course I recognise you. Sorry is no word to make up for what has happened to you.’
Even slower now, he said, ‘I dreamed . . . I dreamed of seeing you again. No apology. Thank you . . .’ Peter watched, helpless, as he faded. ‘Thank . . . you.’
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