We had hoped that our men would find Sutherland and be back out of Tyre in less than an hour, what with time looping and all. Our worry grew after half a day had passed and we hadn’t heard a thing.
“Second team?” Eikhus suggested generously.
Spud snorted. “You would evaporate in five minutes in that climate. You, as well, Nephil Stratum. No, if they have failed, so have we. We were fortunate to get the Trojan horse in the first time. Wart will have surely sealed up that door by now, especially if that troglodyte Platt has informed him he met a Wart doppelgänger at Headquarters.”
I nodded. “Thanks, Eikhus, Nephil Stratum. Rain check. For once I agree with Spud. We’ve just got to wait. Matshi and Ulenem are fighters. I’m not giving up hope. They’ll come through.”
Suthsi sighed, “Everybody loses sometimes …”
“You’re always such a ray of sunshine,” I muttered, adding more loudly, “If Matshi and Ulenem don’t succeed,” I looked at Spud, who nodded, “we’re the ones who’ll go back in.”
* * *
Phoenicia—two thousand years ago
“Where are we?” Ulenem opened his eyes, wincing from the pain.
Matshi dabbed at Ulenem’s head with a cloth soaked in verdar, a Madai antiseptic balm. “In our tent. Can you move your arm?”
Ulenem carefully tried moving the stunned part of his body. His reflexes were slow, but the motion was fortunately there.
“I got the microstunner out, the bastard, but a chemical unstun takes time until your body metabolizes the poison.”
“Looks like I’m out of commission for the rest of the day,” Ulenem grunted. “Bakarixiv hurts.”
“The verdar ointment will help you heal more quickly. Just keep rubbing it on your skin.”
Ulenem tried to sit up. “Where are you going?”
“We lost Yeshua.” Matshi’s eyes flashed. “I’m not going to lose that bastard Sutherland!”
Ulenem lay back and grunted again. “This is why we Izmalis don’t bother taking prisoners. Kill them before they can get the advantage …”
“Sutherland?” Matshi snorted angrily as he stood up to leave. “He’s a dead man walking.”
* * *
The villagers combing through the charred wreckage of the temple didn’t pay much attention to the horseshoe bat that glided through the burned naked branches of the once-proud cedar trees. Blending in with the circling vultures, the bat swooped in and out of the site, unnoticed. His surreptitious Ergal scan of the fire residue was almost complete and there was still no evidence of Yeshua’s DNA.
Matshi landed on a stable tree limb and hung upside down watching the villagers as they mourned their family and friends. How many such scenes of sadness had he witnessed in his relatively short life? Tears, dakris, beshun. A planet the size of Orion Alpha could be filled with the Universe’s liquids of grief. And he was powerless to help. All of us were … except the Omega Archon. He could put a stop to the madness of war, and yet His Highness had always turned away and let the wars go on.
That’s really why, Matshi admitted to himself, he had left Mingferplatoi. There wasn’t any sense in fighting when nothing ever really changed. The wailing of last year’s Hutunye massacre survivors, now thousands of years in the relative future, echoed in his ears, little different from the cries of the sobbing mourners below. Sentient life had not much evolved beyond the aggressive competitiveness of natural selection, despite the intricate pacifist oratory of philosophers like T’PlanaHath. And probably never would.
A new mourner caught Matshi’s eye. The young man’s stride seemed a bit too chipper. Surprisingly free of the dazed dullness of the rest of the villagers, the young man seemed intent on vigorously combing through the ashes with a stick. A polished stick. Unlatching from his perch, Matshi swooped by for a closer look. It was a scanner.
Sutherland. Anamorphed. Matshi was pleased to note that the man’s swagger seemed to ebb, as Sutherland, too, apparently didn’t find Yeshua’s DNA. Clearly irritated, Young Sutherland stood gazing at the ruins, scratching his head. Finally, puzzled, he started off down the road.
Matshi swooped onto Sutherland’s shoulders as soon as they were out of view of the villagers. Sutherland let out a sharp cry and spun around, aiming for the bat with his stick. The Chidurian quickly Ergaled into himself—at his fighting peak in his own exoskeleton armor—and laid into Sutherland with all eight arms.
No more the elderly teacher, Sutherland, the young man, was a superb fighter, and, to Matshi’s dismay, was grav-trained. The two men sparred in the isolated field for what seemed like hours, before Matshi’s size and multiple limbs allowed him to knock Sutherland out, stun him, and search him for any additional hidden weapons. Holding the scanner stick under one arm, Matshi grabbed Sutherland with the others and tractored him to the skinos tent.
But Ulenem was nowhere to be found. Leaving Sutherland safely stunned inside the chamber, Matshi stepped outside and pulled out the borrowed Ergal to scan for his partner. A muffled sound from inside the skinos caught his ears, and Matshi dashed back in. Sutherland was still lying in his stunned position on the floor, but his torso was now framed by a halo of crimson blood from the fatal slice across his throat.
Matshi looked up to see Ulenem wiping his blade with a smile of satisfaction.
“What have you done?!” Matshi shouted at the Assassin.
“We don’t need him any more,” Ulenem answered quietly.
“Didn’t you hear Spud? We bring him back alive, we can interrogate him. Who knows what he’d tell us about Benedict?”
Ulenem’s voice was cold. “Nothing. He will tell you nothing.”
Matshi snorted, then stiffened when he realized the true meaning of Ulenem’s words. No, impossible… not his friend … His hand eased toward the Ergal. “You’re …”
“His job is done. Yeshua is dead,” Ulenem said. A momentary flicker of sadness crossed his eyes, and then, without visible emotion, he began once again. “And now …”
Matshi was ready for the attack, but the flying blade from across the room still severed one of his arms. Purple blood gushed as Matshi ducked and dodged the onslaught of whirling blades from Ulenem and tried to get in a few blows of his own. Ulenem somehow seemed to have an unlimited supply of weapons hidden in his robes, and was no longer hampered by his earlier paralysis. Matshi soon lost a leg to the knives, and began to feel weakened by the loss of blood. Ulenem did not pause in his assault, however. It was clear that Matshi’s death was his goal, and that he would likely succeed.
A feral instinct overtook the Chidurian. Matshi was no longer thinking of his partner, of Sutherland, of death. He could only feel the waves of adrenaline pouring from his brain and giving him a strength he never knew he had. As the next volley of knives rained upon him, Matshi grabbed as many as he could with his remaining hands and feet and, fastening them on his exoskeleton so they pointed out, launched his massive torso at his smaller opponent. Matshi landed directly on top of Ulenem, the knives piercing the Assassin’s chest like a bed of nails falling sharps-down from a painful height. Ulenem’s final scream faded as his celadon-colored blood washed over Matshi and drained on the floor of the skinos to merge into a Chidurian purple as it blended with Sutherland’s red heme.
Shaking, Matshi rolled off of a now-still Ulenem and lay on the ground, breathing heavily. He had lost two limbs, but not his life. But he had not managed to escape grievous tragedy. He had killed his partner and his friend.
Chapter 6
Purgatory
Chidurian Enclave, Zyga—present day
When the next morning arrived, and Matshi and Ulenem hadn’t, our anxiety was in the stratosphere. Nephil Stratum had turned a charcoal gray, the Ytrans were locked in a death grip, and Eikhus was dripping himself all over our already damp feet. Even Sarion had stopped making jokes.
Spud kept rubbing his eyes and temples with his long, delicate fingers. I was too nervous to sit, and paced the room, annoy
ed to be sloshing through former bits of Eikhus. I’d been hoping that our emissaries would be as successful as the Hellenic warriors that had emerged from the original Trojan Horse to verse Paris’ minions. Hadn’t our History uploads given the Greeks the victory in that legendary war?
“You’ve read the Iliad and the Odyssey. The Greeks won, right?” was my rhetorical question to my partner.
Spud leaned back in his chair and grunted as he stretched his long legs. “Only Odysseus finally made it home.”
“And that comforts me how?” I said, irritated.
Spud only stretched and grunted once more.
Nephil Stratum finally spoke. “Maybe it’s time to go to the Omega Archon.”
We all sat up at that one.
“Well, he is the head of Zygint,” she defended. “Let us think strategically. You’ve got at least two made moles on the inside, Benedict on the attack, and his lieutenants playing football with your timelines. Why the hell not?”
“You put your finger on it right there,” I muttered. “Hell. Do you know what he’s going to do to me? Losing Sutherland, DNA muting, unauthorized Off-worlders running God-knows-where around ancient Earth. I’m looking at a year in the flames easy.”
“Not so easy,” Sarion jibed, mimicking Suthsi’s lilting tones.
I gave him my coldest glare.
Eikhus said, “You could explain …”
“Never complain; never explain,” Spud interjected in his most prep-school English accent. “Rush is right. Better we try going back in ourselves.”
“That won’t be necessary.”
Matshi! We all turned to look at the door with relief—and then shock. The warrior was missing two limbs, and he leaned precariously on the jamb to maintain his balance.
I couldn’t resist running to him and giving him a hug. My American upbringing comes out at the worst times. He winced as I brushed against his seeping wounds. Eikhus and I quickly led him to a chair where he could rest and Setsei served him a tall glass of Chidurian ale.
“What happened? Where’s Ulenem?” We asked anxiously.
Matshi raised a bleeding hand. “Ulenem,” he began weakly, “Ulenem … gave his life in the service of Zygfed.”
We all stood stunned for a good minute, then Suthsi let out a sob. “Such a heartbreak.”
“What happened?” Spud’s voice was even.
Matshi drank some more from his glass, swallowing each sip slowly before answering.
“I was searching for Yeshua’s DNA—”
“Yeshua’s dead?” Spud’s voice was a little less even.
“No … no,” Matshi paused, then shook his head. “Not that I can say for certain. And before I got back, he, um, Sutherland, Sutherland attacked him. I tried to help but it was too late … they were gone …”
“Sutherland is dead?!” Spud’s voice was definitely not even.
Matshi looked at him, four eyes flaring. “Yes, Sutherland is dead.” The Chidurian downed the rest of the ale in one large gulp. “And he took my best friend with him.”
* * *
Ulenem’s body, fully covered in a white kaffahn, an Izmali burial shroud, lay next to Sutherland’s in an adjacent chamber of Matshi’s kalyvi. I stood quietly by the Assassin’s side for a few minutes, grateful that his shroud kept me from witnessing his face in death. Grateful that Ulenem’s eyes could not bore into mine and further jab my aching conscience. If I had not taken the bait at Io, Ulenem would still be alive.
Eikhus had already notified Ulenem’s family on Orion Alpha, the largest planet orbiting Orion star Saif al Jabbar. They were on their way to Zyga to take their prodigal son home. Matshi had intended to stay and greet the family, but his blood loss had weakened him severely, to the point that even Spud was insisting that the Chidurian seek medical care immediately. Sarion and the Ytrans agreed to accompany the less-than-willing Matshi to Nejinsen, Zyga’s largest and most renowned hospital, while Eikhus and Nephil Stratum awaited the Orion Alpha family’s arrival at the kalyvi.
Our own mission somewhat back on track, Spud and I were now tasked with delivering Sutherland, in his admittedly less than ideal condition, to Zygint. I turned away from Ulenem’s body and saw that Spud, bless his steel heart, was busy inspecting Sutherland’s corpse. I didn’t dare ask if he’d already done a similar examination of the Assassin.
I did ask, “Why the frown?”
Spud shook his head. “It is nothing. Nothing. Let us go.”
Our mood somber, my partner and I tractored Sutherland’s body to Zygint Central, where after extensive WHO and NDNA scanning (as ourselves), we were admitted to the ultra-secure Administrative complex on the 14Tth floor, and directed to the morgue where Forensics relieved us of the corpse.
Our next stop would be with the Headquarters team in Debriefing. We’d rehearsed our story thoroughly. Ward Burton had rescued Sutherland from our clutches at Earth Core and had fooled us into thinking we were actually transporting Benedict’s henchman to Zyga. We didn’t discover the deception until after we’d left the Sol System. Not wishing to show Wart our hand, I did a little undercover detective work—no need to elaborate how or where—and found that the real Sutherland had been sent back to Phoenicia to get Yeshua. So, we raced back to Phoenicia, caught the Andart again, and were transporting him to Zyga when we’d hit unmapped dark matter turbulence at Ganymede. Sutherland, still stunned, had been unable to brace himself as our ship rolled, and met his death from a loose strut that had slit his throat. I saw no reason to tell Headquarters about my having recruited the “Lost Boys” for assistance, a fateful decision that had regrettably led one of them to breathe his last.
We’d even downloaded the DNA records of the victims of the temple fire from Matshi’s Ergal and turned them in discreetly for a Temporal Disturbance Analysis. Did Sutherland’s fateful arson at the Temple murder a scholar who might either have been critical to Earth’s history, or might have lived to father a descendant who was? To our relief, the analysis confirmed that the unfortunate victims had been religious celibates, and that their premature deaths hadn’t resulted in a significant disturbance in Earth’s timeline.
And, as for Yeshua? Inexplicably, his DNA was notably absent from the victims’ pool. As our assignment had demanded, because of our “success”, the river of Earth’s time would continue flowing unchanged. We had, after all, no evidence either in the ancient past or our modern present that Yeshua was dead.
The mystery of why Yeshua wasn’t dead was one that we chose to avoid answering, or even asking, ourselves. How could the youth have survived Sutherland’s inferno? Where did he go during and after the fire?
Temporal Defense Team Leader Juan de la Cruz was somewhat sympathetic as he processed our reports. He’d had a few missions go off track himself over the hundreds of years he’d served as a Zygan Intelligence catascope.
With great heaviness in our hearts, we described Wart’s suspected betrayal and his role in getting Sutherland back to Tyre through the temporal vector shield. I did have a moment of pleasure identifying Wart’s contact at Headquarters, Carlton Platt, as a traitor. The debrief team seemed understandably distressed to discover that Zygint Central itself had been formally infiltrated. Juan immediately commed Security and demanded Platt’s arrest.
A few hours later, we had finally finished our debriefing and stood up to leave. Juan thanked us both warmly for our dedicated service, and we started for the door.
“Oh, Rush,” Juan added as I neared the exit. “His Highness would like to see you.”
I froze, terror-stricken. Spud looked at me, and then looked away. I said nothing for a few moments. Finally, I ventured in a tremulous voice, “You don’t have any idea what he wants…?”
Juan shook his head. “He doesn’t tell me his business. I’m sure he’ll let you know.” There was a hint of sympathy in his voice.
“Uh, sh-should I set up an appointment?” It was worth a try.
“He’s waiting now,”
Juan informed me, to my great distress.
Survive first, then face the music. John’s words guided me yet again. I guess it was time for me to start my tuneful dance. I took a deep breath, and, patting Spud on the arm, I turned to Juan. “Okay. Let’s get it over with.”
* * *
The Omega Archon is reputed to have an infinite number of reception suites, each designed to make visitors from a universe of planets feel at home. Or, more likely, he anamorphs his chambers and changes the molecular pattern and appearance of his reception areas so they’d look homey and familiar to each guest. Just as he does with himself.
Every Zygan who has had the ‘pleasure’ of meeting with His Royal Highness has a slightly different perception of Zygfed’s leader. Tlhlns think he looks Tlhlni. Angonians, Angonian.xv For Spud, the Archon is a six-foot human king, decked in opulent Louis XIV robes and wearing a sparkling bejeweled crown. For me, the Archon always dresses in office casual and sports a pair of tortoise shell glasses. Frankly, he really should wear a muscle shirt and jeans, but then maybe I wouldn’t be intimidated by him as much any more.
I sat stiffly on the stiff couch in “my” reception suite until His Highness entered. I stood up out of courtesy, and he greeted me politely in unaccented American English.
“Good morning, Ms. Rush.”
“Good morning, Your Highness.” I took my seat again as he eased into a leather office chair opposite my sofa.
“You do know why you’re here.” Short and sweet, as always.
I forced a smile. “Mission accomplished?”
Silence. Only silence.
After a few moments, I couldn’t stand it any more. “Don’t I get any credit for finding the two moles?” I said in desperation.
“We have been aware of the infiltration at Central for quite a while,” His Highness informed me, to my surprise. “And we’ve been managing it.”
I frowned. Had Juan known about the traitors? If so, then why did he act like he didn’t?
The Omega Archon took off his glasses and polished the lenses casually with a linen handkerchief. “But, you are correct, we hadn’t ID’d Ward Burton as a double agent.”