‘Because,’ he said, ‘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.’ He paused, thoughtfully. ‘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?’ she repeated. ‘Why do you want to help us?’
He sighed, and said, ‘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 said, reaching for her hand, ‘we are very short on time, and Antal is so very far away. But there is a way you can help him.’
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
RUBEN BERENGUER KNEW much of the galaxy. He had studied at the greatest institute in the entire Four Systems and been tutored by the last known living Iástron. By anyone’s estimation, if there were a person well-resourced to deal with the threat facing humanity, it was he.
But, no. There had always been somebody else . . .
Ruben knew virtually nothing of the legendary Master, Peter Marx, save what Callista had told him—and even that was little. It had been some seven-hundred years since Peter Marx founded the Iástron Society. Seven-hundred years of relative stability in the emerging Systemal Alignment. Seven-hundred years of miracles and marvels. But humanity’s greatest weakness had destroyed that too.
Peter Marx had a gift. How and from where, Callista said he would never reveal. But he had chosen to share that gift; an echoing miracle which had brought about a new age.
Once more, humanity’s fear destroyed it. Men, women, and children on every world and moon treated the Iástrons as second-class citizens, not even human; they persecuted and hunted them. It was for that reason that Peter took his people and built for them a haven. Europa. Below the moon the Iástrons lived, for two-hundred years—safe, misunderstood, but still powerful. Very powerful. So powerful they ripped themselves apart.
Callista had survived. And so had Peter. So where was he now? Callista needed him. They all did. Perhaps he had abandoned them, like he had abandoned Callista all those years ago. Peter Marx, the man who never aged and could not die . . .
. . . where are you now?
* * *
‘How’s she doing?’
‘The same as yesterday,’ Ruben’s physician told him as they walked along the pure white hospital corridor. ‘The same as the day before. And the same as the one before that. It’s like her body’s frozen. I’ve seen nothing like it in all my years.’
The two passed through a guarded entrance to the ward, walked past rows of empty beds, and stopped. Ruben looked down at Callista.
‘The chances of her waking?’
‘Today, tomorrow, next week, or never.’
He closed his eyes. ‘Thank you. I’d like some time alone with her.’
‘Of course, General.’ The physician left the two in silence.
For two weeks she had lay in her bed, sometimes silent and others calling out as though she were trapped in a desperate nightmare, unable to be woken by voice or by drug. Her nurses had been with her as long as they could spare, but it was Ruben Berenguer that had been at her bedside for what seemed like her whole stay, holding her hand and tripling the Guard at her door.
His own encounter with death had not gone the way he’d expected; he had survived for a start. All had been verging on the abyss when he found Callista unconscious in her dorm following the Iástron’s own brush with the dark reaper, but his helpless words had ignited a fire within her mind and she was able to stop the blast left behind for her.
And as for the targeted Surrogate Sun, no Crilshan army or group of accomplished assassins had ever before been able to breach the security surrounding its defences. It seemed much like a gift of fortune that their attack was nothing more than a distraction; they had never intended to destroy the Twelve Cities. But that is what perturbed Ruben the most, for Crilshar wished to destroy Titan, and yet at their greatest chance turned it down. Why not simply plant a real bomb there and have done with it?
Though it had only been days since he had learned of his nieces’ safety onboard the Stellarstream, and the woeful loss of Jon Del’oueste, worse news was yet to come. He had agreed to allow the resupplying of another Titanese vessel by Captain Ferranti’s ship at the far outpost Aurora because there was no choice. Not if he wanted to maintain the Titanese presence in the farthest planetary systems. But when word reached him of the attack and the subsequent loss of communication with both Aurora and his two vessels, nothing could curb the anger or the sorrow which gripped him.
Holding his head in one hand while the other clutched Callista’s, he finally broke down.
‘I don’t know what to do,’ he said, leaning into his lap like it would contain his grief. It did not. ‘I’ve lost everybody. If you all passed on and I could see your bodies before me, then that would be loss I could eventually recognise. But . . . But losing my little brother . . . out there . . . who knows what those monsters did to him? And you, you old crow! Trust you to leave me on my own, while of all the things to do, you sleep!’
From his pocket he pulled the silver necklace he’d left for Anna, found on the table in his apartment, and he rubbed the dark stone at its head between his thumb and forefinger as though it would grant him magnificent strength or power over life and death. Again it did not.
‘But my girls,’ he said. ‘My Gílana, my Anna . . . hell only knows where they are. In my heart I know that Crilshar is responsible. And I know what I would have to do to get them back. Only, I’m afraid this time I won’t be able to do it. Under your guidance I’ve done things I never thought possible. But time and time again I’ve lost and not been able to say goodbye. I don’t want to let you go, Callista . . . I can’t let you go . . . I won’t.’
Why the old Iástron hadn’t died, nobody knew. The same injection forced upon her had killed Lady Maxim Pinzón. The committed doctors and medical professionals put it down to her superior biology, as no other solid reason could be found. So as Maxim lay cold in her dark crypt, Callista’s soul verged on the precipice of life itself.
‘I have to ask you something,’ he said, knowing what little chance there was that she could hear him. Slowly he unfolded and placed a sheet of singed paper onto the bed. Upon it was drawn the image of a black sphere, burning like evil fire. What truly terrified him, however, was the addition of a young girl stood before the sphere, enveloped in white flame.
‘I found this in the corner of your dorm,’ he said. ‘Did you dream this? You told me Anna was in danger. I didn’t listen. Please . . . answer me. This is Anna. What does it mean?’
Turning the paper over he looked upon the other side. Written, again and again, was a word he’d heard before from his nieces: Gilaxiad . . . Gilaxiad . . . Gilaxiad. Nevertheless, what truly horrified the General was the word Gilaxiad surrounded. Written in the middle of the page, circled in black charcoal, was the word Erebus.
‘What were you trying to tell me, Callista?’
Callista didn’t reply. She couldn’t. He had to solve it alone.
‘General?’
He looked up.
‘General Berenguer?’
Footsteps sounded behind him. He wiped his eyes on his sleeve, took the cursed paper from her bed, cleared his throat, and turned to stand. He recognised the face of the intruder at once.
‘You!’ he cried.
‘Yes, sir,’ replied the visitor, saluting. ‘We’ve met. My name is Aleksey Vasily.’
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
NOT A WORD was spoken as the general and the chief made their way from the hospital, through the centr
al city’s streets, and eventually to Ruben’s home. It was empty and quiet and cold.
‘In there! Go!’ Ruben hurried the young chief through. He turned to a bookcase between the entrance corridor and the living space, and pushed it on its hinges until a small corridor, clean and intact, was revealed. At the edge of the corridor lay a dead end.
Ruben watched Chief Vasily, unable to recognise an ally or an enemy. He led him down. ‘General Ruben Berenguer Azar de la Peña,’ the General spoke, and the metal wall moved inward. They both entered in silence. Vasily stared in awe at the vault, while Ruben walked to the other end of the room and spun.
‘What do you have to show me, Chief?’ he asked, patience a luxury of the past.
Vasily, slightly taken aback, reached into his emerald overcoat and pulled out an envelope. He hesitated, looking down at it, before holding it out. Ruben took the envelope and read his own name on one side, the R-circled insignia of the prime ministerial office of Rotavar sealing the opening on the other.
‘You haven’t opened it?’ he asked.
‘No, General. To do so would violate the laws of my people and disrespect the memory of my lord.’
‘So Edgar is dead then?’
‘I’m . . . I’m afraid so, s . . . sir.’ Tears welled up in his eyes as he looked away.
The General sat down at the table, cracked the seal, and took out the letter inside. Vasily stood nearby, watching as Ruben discovered the message, written in Rovaña, left for him by his old friend:
My good friend and most venerable ally, General Ruben Berenguer,
If I told you I had been writing this letter for the past six days it would be yet another lie among thousands. The truth is I have been writing this for many years. And even now I cannot for the life of me decide on words that are fitting for what I wish to say. I complete this now, only because word has reached me of the Crilshan fleet descending towards my home.
If you are reading this letter it will be within one of two contexts. Either it follows my sudden death or my unexpected absence from Rotavar; for those are the only two fates I may now endure.
Once more I write this with much remorse and regret. I have done both my world and yours a disservice and my only hope is that this letter arrives with you in time for something to be done. I shall start from the beginning, but hope that the information I give you leaves you with a much fuller and more hopeful picture than I myself have been left with.
My heart tells me that I was never meant to be the thirty-fifth Prime Minister of Rotavar, nor a man with any such power. Command is a curse I would gladly surrender, but there is one that will not let it be so.
My great master, the powerful Córonat, returned to me some time ago after many years apart. It is because of him that I am where I am. Though, my allegiance to him has withered, my friendship with Titan become more than I hoped it would be. I am afraid to say that I told my Córonat of the Baren Igoth and he now plans not only on destroying the Council and Titan, but you yourself along with the entire Systemal Alignment.
My master calls himself the Córonat only to hide his true identity. Córonat, in an old tongue long forgotten, means the Self-Crowned, for he believes himself to be appointed by something greater than us. His true name is Lord Malizar.
Ruben breathed in deep, releasing the lungful slowly. So he’d been correct about Edgar Mokrikov’s dealings. He had never heard of the Córonat, however, nor any man named Malizar. It sounded as though such a man was linked to Crilshar. But how did it fit?
He continued reading . . .
I know there have been renewed rumours of the Weapon to Destroy Worlds. My investigations into this matter are extensive, and I have gathered a forceful case. After much examination I myself suffer no doubt that the weapon exists, and I implore you to discover its whereabouts, before my Córonat does so. Because if he already has then I pray you have the strength to stand firm in the face of the perpetual darkness that will inevitably follow.
In these dark times I am doubtful this letter will reach you safely, and therefore I am loath to reveal within it the greatest horrors of my life and the history I share with my Córonat. My journal, which I have kept with me all my life, will be delivered alongside this confession, and it shall divulge the truth: the greatest threat to face mankind in a thousand years.
Alas, this must be our final goodbye. My thoughts and hopes remain with you, in life and death.
Your ever loyal friend,
Edgar P. Mokrikov
The General dropped the letter on the table. He looked at the chief and said, ‘Where is it?’
‘Where is what?’
‘Edgar’s journal. Tell me you have it!’
He looked panicked. ‘I . . . I—’
‘You don’t?’
He shook his head.
‘Then where is it?’
‘Stolen,’ Vasily said. ‘A criminal named Antal Justus took it from his office. I think he was retrieving it for someone else. From the way he spoke it seemed so. He took only the journal. I was unable to recover it or locate his whereabouts.’ He gulped. ‘Does the letter speak of it?’
‘It only mentions it, but reveals that everything he wishes to tell me is in there. The letter itself divulges practically nothing. Does the name Malizar mean anything to you?’
Again Vasily shook his head.
‘Did Mokrikov ever mention someone called the Córonat?’
‘No, General.’
Ruben exhaled in irritation.
Meanwhile Vasily fell down into the seat opposite, wallowing in regret. ‘I have failed you, General. And I have failed my lord. What hope is there now? Nothing stands in the way of the Dishan. We’d be best to sit right here and wait for the Crilshan armada to reach us. No doubt it will, sooner rather than later.’
Ruben watched the young man as he let out a low whimper of anguish. Something about his grief then woke the General from his turmoil; it was a reminder that he could not afford to despair. Gilaxiad and Erebus—whatever in the deepest bowels of hell they were—were undoubtedly tied together. Callista had made the connection. Mokrikov had provided what he could. He was the only one with the combined knowledge.
And he was needed. His girls called for him, and he was going to get them back. No matter what the cost; no matter what needed to be done; they were now all that mattered.
The chief looked up as Ruben stood and said, ‘There is hope, my friend. There is something we can do.’
‘What can we do? Invade the hellhole Crilshar itself?’
‘Perhaps it will come to that,’ he said. ‘But first we will call the Baren Igoth.’
‘The Baren Igoth? How?’
‘Even as an old man I have my ways.’
‘How far would you go, General? What would you do?’
‘Whatever it takes,’ he said, with eyes closed and a trembling jaw.
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
‘THIS IS A bad idea! We shouldn’t have come here. Bad idea. Terrible idea!’
Noah Nuveen mumbled and groaned as he moved quickly through a long corridor—pristine white and completely silent in the darkness of night. He checked behind him, to both sides, and even above, more often than any normal person would. The aging runaway reassured himself that it didn’t make him, as Raj Timbur so often put it, a ‘slug in a lab coat.’
How he had allowed himself to be chosen for the principal role in such a perilous undertaking yet again he’d never know. He was a doctor, not some bone-headed galactic adventurer. He’d made his feelings very clear, and spent the majority of his time aboard the Flux the past year moaning about his level of involvement in their crackpot schemes and rescues. The last one hadn’t exactly gone to plan. He’d warned his captain not to stay on Manera, and it had taken all of his strength not to say ‘I told you so’ after the disastrous mission.
‘Bad idea . . . terrible idea.’
—Will you be quiet! a female voice screeched through his ear-comm. Hold it in
and be a man!
Noah swore under his breath and confirmed his wake was clear, before carefully turning a corner and glancing into the open doorway. He pulled back immediately.
‘This is impossible!’ he whispered in a panic to his captain. ‘The room’s full of patients and there’re guards outside. You’re sure she’s in this ward?’
—This is a hospital, he heard back. You’re a doctor, and yes I’m sure!
‘Oh now I’m chock-full of confidence.’
—Listen, just fake it. You know the plan.
‘Yes I know it. It’s making it work that’s the problem!’
—Well it’s the only one we’ve got. I know you can do it.
Noah sighed. He looked at his reflection in a long mirror mounted on the wall behind him. He licked his hand and smoothed down a tiny tendril of tufting hair from the receding, dirty brown row. Baring perfectly straight teeth in a somewhat uncomfortable smile he adjusted his stolen name badge, puffed out his portly chest, and turned the corner. Donning a staid, humourless expression he nodded to the two guards standing at the room’s entrance, avoiding making eye contact, and shuffled past.
‘Wait there,’ said one of the soldiers, however, a firm grip resting upon Noah’s tense shoulder and dragging him backwards. ‘Your pass? No one’s to enter without one.’
Noah froze on the spot. ‘My pass?’
‘Your pass. General’s orders.’
‘Of course. I . . . err oh, yes . . . my pass . . . it’s—’
‘Doctor!’ called a voice from down the corridor. ‘Doctor, there you are!’
He turned, relieved and shocked, to see a familiar-looking woman quick march towards them. He almost choked when Adra Dimal stopped, lowered her hood, and brought her hand to her breast in salute to the guards. Credulous to her deception they returned the greeting, removing their hands from their holstered weapons. Noah coughed several times before straightening his back and bracing himself.
‘Apologies for the misunderstanding,’ Dimal said, hiding behind a phony Titanese accent, ‘but I bring confirmation from the General’s office. Callista Berenguer is to be moved tonight. Doctor Gigia is here to oversee her relocation.’