The IX (10 page)

“Hold your fire,” a voice screamed. “Alpha squad, hold your fire.”

Mark?
“Mark? Is that you?” Mac called.

His second-in-command came bounding into view. Leaping down the steps four at a time, Mark yelled, “Boss! The bombs are rigged to the bio-signs of the terrorists. We took them down, and it initiated a countdown sequence. We gotta get out of here. Now!”

A physical shock coursed through Mac as the final penny dropped.
I knew something wasn’t right.
“How long have we got?”

“Unknown. But from the way those things are winding up, Fonzy thinks a few minutes at the most.”

Mac knew immediately what they had to do. “Mark, haul your ass back upstairs and see if you can prime the lifeboats. One member of bravo squad is to captain each craft. Alpha squad will see what we can do down here.”

The tone of his voice made it clear the subject wasn’t open to debate.

Mark nodded and thundered back up the stairs.

Mac called his team together. “Boys, we don’t have long. On my count, we will enter, and then kill every bastard scumbag we see. We’re going to do our level best to get as many hostages as possible away from this place before it blows. We stay, we die. At least we might have a chance out there in the storm. Understood?”

Three heads nodded.

“Stu? You and I will go right. I’m high, you’re low. Sam? Jumper? You go left. Sam is high. Jumper low. Flash-bangs go first.”

Each specialist readied his weapon and withdrew a small anti-personnel grenade. Designed to incapacitate, the flash-bang contained a magnesium-sonic core which would blind and stun any individual within its range. As the prisoners were bound and gagged, they would be spared the full effects. However, the terrorists would be further distracted for a few seconds. And a few seconds were all his men needed.

They fanned out around the door.

As focused as he was, Mac was momentarily distracted by a strange warping effect that was distorting the composition of the walls. In some places, the lining turned transparent. In others, flecks of light, like ethereal sprites, wove sedately in and out of the metal in a multitude of different colors.

Shit! Keep it together, man!
Taking a deep breath, he yelled, “Now!”

Heavy boots smashed the doors inward. Two men broke left, the others right. Mac felt a tingling sensation as he crossed the threshold. Grenades detonated, adding their confusion to the unfolding drama. Men were shouting, screaming, dying. Writhing and burning within a nightmare crucible from hell.

Mac couldn’t afford to feel sorry. Without waiting for the glare of the flash-bangs to subside, he started shooting. Keeping to his designated arc, he watched an already injured terrorist disappear amid a spray of scarlet mist.

A body flew through the air in front of him, and Stu Duggan was knocked to the floor. Mac tucked and rolled, and another assailant turned his gun on him. Coming to his feet, Mac fired again. Tracking the bullets up his target’s torso and into his face, he kept his finger depressed until the man fell and stopped moving.

Prolonged bursts blistered the air. As Mac looked for someone else to kill, an unexpected glare overwhelmed his visor’s capacity to shield him.

What the . . . ?

A high pitched drone bit into his ears, forcing him to his knees. en writhed on the floor, screaming louder and louder. A pressure wave sent him reeling. For the briefest moment, Mac felt the frigid breath of death wash over him, and then he was flying, upward and into the light.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Coming to Terms

Echoes resounded within echoes. Muffled sensations intruded on the fringes of discernment. A morass of confusing thoughts and ideas fluttered sedately in the ether like snowflakes before settling around him. The all-consuming waves of pain gradually receded, and after an eternity of solitude, one defining impression remained.

I’m dreaming.

Marcus reached for that hope and clung on. A sense of awareness slowly returned.

So why am I not waking?

Then he remembered.

My chest!
Hands flew to his breastbone. He probed and prodded for any sign of the arrow that had taken him from his saddle, but his efforts only left him more perplexed.
Nothing? I . . . Oh, no! I’m dead and on my way into Hades.

He lifted his head and tried to get a sense of where he was, but an all-encompassing void surrounded him, confusing his perceptions.

But if so, where in the underworld am I? This doesn’t fit any of the descriptions.

His vision rippled, and a strange tingling sensation washed over him. Marcus became conscious of the fact that he could now feel the air entering and exiting his lungs. He was surprised to see a point of light appear in the distance. It grew larger by the second. Marcus attempted to sit up, only to discover his muscles couldn’t obey. Struggling to avoid rising panic, he willed himself to patience and tried to formulate a plan of action.
Okay. If I’m dead or dreaming, there’s nothing I can do at this point. It’s beyond my control. Perhaps I’m merely expected to observe?

He contented himself to watch, and found himself feeling much more confident.

The brightness continued to swell. Marcus realized it was approaching him, and he was sure he could hear a faint shuffling sound, as if someone were walking along a corridor. The image slowly clarified into that of a man carrying a lantern. Marcus fixated on him, the first object of clarity he’d laid eyes on for what seemed like an age.

Marcus could see that the man was dressed like a member of the senate.

But what would a member of our government be doing here?

The visitor came closer, seemingly unconcerned by the strangeness of the surroundings. As he did so, certain details Marcus had initially missed became manifest. The man’s gait was almost regal, as if he were someone used to wielding power. His clothes, although similar to that of a senator, were subtly different. Instead of the usual white toga dictated by law, this new arrival wore a textured robe of opulence. The fabric appeared similar to mother of pearl, and shimmered through all manner of pastel shades in the lantern’s light.

As mesmerizing as this was, Marcus gasped aloud when he caught sight of the stranger’s features.
He’s not . . . he’s . . . How can anyone be that tall?

The man extended his hand, palm forward, in salute. The gesture conveyed a sense of camaraderie and open friendship. A kindly face smiled in welcome. The wisdom of ages was reflected in his countenance and aquamarine eyes which, along with an abnormally high forehead, gave the stranger the appearance of someone who had spent decades amassing knowledge.

But who is he? I’ve never seen anyone like him before.

As if replying to Marcus’s thoughts, the visitor inclined his head. “Greetings, Marcus Galerius Brutus. I am but an ambassador to those who desperately need your help. You may call me Gul Sariff, or simply Sariff. First Magister of Rhomane and representative of the Grand Senatum.”

“I don’t know you, Sir,” Marcus countered, “nor am I aware of anyone like you. You refer to Rome as if familiar with it, yet you mispronounce certain words.”

A chair appeared beside Marcus. Taking a seat, Sariff replied, “That’s because we’ve never met, Marcus. Nor have I been to the city you know of as Rome. In fact, I’ve never visited your world, although I am amazed by the many similarities between our two cultures.”

“My world?” Marcus was confused by the inference. “What do you mean? Who are you and where are you from? What
is
this place? And where are my men?”

“Please, Marcus, do not vex yourself. You have many questions and I assure you, I am here to answer them all. But first, I must help you understand the changes now taking place among the people you arrived with, yourself included.”

Sariff waved his hand in the air, and Marcus discovered he could move. Seizing the opportunity to do something of his own volition, Marcus sat up and kicked his legs over the side of the bed. Leaning forward, he attempted to grasp the mysterious messenger by the shoulders, demanding, “How did you manage–?”

He froze in shock as his hand passed right through Sariff. “What are you, Sir? A demon? A trickster sent by Mercury to torment me?”

The light of the lantern flared and as its radiance faded, Sariff reached out to clasp Marcus’s right wrist in formal greeting. Marcus jumped as he felt the strong and reassuring grip of his new acquaintance.

“Forgive me, Marcus,” Sariff sighed. “I did not mean to alarm you.”

Releasing his grasp, Sariff made himself more comfortable. “As you have correctly surmised, you are dreaming. I am a mere representation of someone who once lived here long ago. I have been sent to welcome you to your new home. Think of me as a portrait come to life. An animated sculpture if you will, dispatched to help you understand what has happened. Let me assure you, both you and a great many others are safe. They are likewise being instructed in things that are essential for your continued wellbeing. The experience of this waking dream allows me to assist you more speedily than would otherwise be possible.”

Marcus digested the implications of Sariff’s words in silence. He glanced about.
How dire this place is. If only I could see my home, one last time
.

The air shimmered once more, and Marcus was amazed to find himself in the kitchen of his house back in Rome. Neither his wife, Sophia, nor any of the family’s slaves were anywhere in sight. Regardless, the fire roared warmly in the hearth, and the smell of baking bread made his mouth water. He moved, and the stool scraped loudly across the floor.

This can’t be real.
He rubbed one of his fingers along a knot of wood in the tabletop, and clearly perceived the difference in texture. Narrowing his eyes, he stared at Sariff. “You did that. Somehow you know what I’m thinking and . . . and want me to be happy. Relaxed.”

Sariff’s face broke into a broad grin. “Excellent! You are most perceptive for one from your era.” He became serious. “But please, allow me to introduce a companion. Time is precious, and as leader of a great host, I need
you
to understand what’s at stake. Like me, my friend is only a representative of someone we call the Architect. Do not be alarmed by his appearance, for together we will help you understand what you need to know.”

Sariff gestured to one side, as if ushering in another guest. “Marcus, please meet a sentinel. You will find his insights most revealing . . .

“. . . Sentinel?”

A ball of light appeared in the air between them, thrumming with power. Before Marcus could say a word, a cheery voice rang out. “Greetings, Marcus Galerius Brutus. I am a custodian of the Architect. It is a pleasure to meet you.”

Marcus lurched backward, knocking his stool over. “It speaks!”

“Of course I do,” replied the construct, gravitating toward him. “Like Sariff, I am but an instrument through which our two cultures can communicate in fellowship and understanding. I apologize if my appearance shocks you, but I find it suits my function rather well. Now, as Sariff has inferred, time is pressing. May we begin?”

Marcus was lost for words. Looking between the image of a man long dead and a wraith come to life, he clamped his jaws firmly shut and refused to give in to the madness he felt sure was trying to devour him. Nodding mutely, he thought,
why not?

“Excellent,” replied the sentinel. “Now, although you will find this difficult to comprehend at first, you are, in fact, within the fortified city of Rhomane on the world of Arden. You were transferred . . .”

*

A jumbled maelstrom of conflicting images and energies stormed about Lex. So overwhelmingly powerful were those sensations, he didn’t know which way was up or down. Neither could he comprehend where the hell he was, nor what was happening to him. The only thing he felt sure about was that he was falling from an obscene height, and plummeting to certain death.

His mind tumbled with him, the thoughts cartwheeling over and over.
He shot me! The bastard actually shot me
.
One of his own men. In cold blood. And he’d sided with the enemy, too. Rebelled against the government. I can’t believe he shot me.

Unadulterated fear skittered along his spine as the terrifying drop continued. His skin burned like ice and it felt as though his stomach were endeavoring to burst free from his throat. He clamped his teeth shut in an attempt to keep the bile from rising, but that only increased the pressure in his chest.

Am I actually breathing?

Without knowing how, Lex sensed something change around him. It was almost as if someone had strummed an immense chord, and an incredibly deep tone was now throbbing through the ether. An overwhelming desire to relax infused his psyche.

I might as well
.
I’ve been falling for so long now, there’s no way I’ll survive when I hit the ground.
Oh well, here goes nothing.

Willing himself to obey the compulsion, Lex went limp. Almost immediately, the relentless spiraling began to lose its rabid ferocity. A sound like babbling water gushing over rocks rushed toward him. He thrilled to a cool surge of vitality that washed across his skin.

His perspective sharpened, and the added clarity allowed Lex to gain a degree of control over his equilibrium. Although the plunge still dominated his world, he became  detached from it, as if he were a spectator in a circus watching himself perform. He was sure that any moment his nose-diving doppelganger would somersault like a trapeze artiste, and land lightly on his feet to thunderous applause.

As if responding to his thoughts, the medium through which he was traveling thickened. Something pressed into him on all sides, and Lex felt his ears pop. His world spun and he found himself sitting on a log in front of a roaring campfire in the dead of night. So abrupt was the change that Lex tottered forward, almost tipping into the flames.