"Danny! Danny, run!"
Too late.
The expanding vortex enveloped Washburn and his team. Trevor heard Danny’s confused voice over the radio, barely audible beneath the moaning, crying maelstrom.
"Wh-what? What is this?"
Stone watched his friend warp and stretch…
"What is this? Oh God, Trevor! Help us!"
…and disappear into Hell…
"What is this place? It hurts! TREVOR! HELP US FOR CHRIST’S SAKE! YOU CAN’T LEAVE US! TREVOR! HELP ME! HELP ME! WHAT ARE THESE THINGS? GET OFF OF ME! GET OFF! OH GOD OHGODOHGOD…"
The vortex collapsed and disappeared, its shriek silenced. The radio frequency cut.
The cold snow of a December afternoon fell fast so as to fill the wide round crater where a part of the Earth had once been.
Another victim of Armageddon with one difference: this one had been sent- ordered — to his doom by Trevor Stone.
I could have waited a while longer; could have observed the gate more. I could have sent in Stonewall's relief force. Why didn't I do that? Did Danny really have to die? Trevor watched the spinning vortex engulf his friend again. He heard the pleading for help once more. And then he saw……Beautiful golden fields surrounded New Winnabow. Beautiful golden fields of tall grass sloping up to meet the woodlands. As dawn rose above New Winnabow, Trevor’s army came from those woods. First a few…then more. Trotting forward at a steady pace neither rushed nor slow.
The mass of K9 Grenadiers swarmed from the forest and into those golden fields. Their paws stamped and flattened the grass. Breath from panting snouts sent clouds of frost into the sky like steam rising from machines.
Killing machines. They came. Not dozens. Not hundreds. More. As they descended the slope, their pace hastened.
Unseen behind them, the will of Trevor Stone. The dogs served as his hand. More personal than his human armies; as if his soul descended upon the peaceful village standing in the way of his campaign to rid his world of alien invaders.
Row upon row upon row pouring across the grassy field. Snarling, charging, growling; the mass of invaders smashed into the town like a tidal surge. Their columns streamed down every passage and every street and through every open door as if they were a deluge of water filling all avenues.
The first group of defending militia did not fire their weapons; they turned to run. The dogs dragged them down from behind, arms and hands and throats torn and ripped and crushed in the jaws of the merciless beasts.
Trevor could feel their fear. He heard their cries for mercy but the beasts knew no mercy; they only knew the commands of their master. He saw fathers torn to shreds in front of their children; mothers gored by the demonic legion.
Still they came, smashing through windows and knocking open doors. Every death another red stain on Trevor Stone's hands. He felt it so vividly he might as well be standing among the horde. The sounds of destruction and the hollers for help; the smell of the morning dew. All very real to him even though he had been hundreds of miles away at the time of the assault.
Trevor saw the truth in the eyes of the dead there; the truth of how far he would go in the name of victory. Those dead eyes stared at him in contempt for the man who called himself a liberator but chose to conquer that day.
That hatred for him stuck in his conscience; the fear the people of New Winnabow had known as the K9 corps ravaged their town took root in Trevor's heart. He saw his face in the mirror of his mind and cringed at what evil lurked there. He saw…
…Nina Forest; but no, not her. The imposter. He saw her bound to a bed by straps tied with his hands. He felt an angry, dark lust explode inside his soul, one part violent and jealous of all he had lost, another desperate to taste even a poor copy of the only woman he loved.
He had taken her but not in passion and with no trace of romance. He had taken her in anger; revenge toward the powers steering his fate.
To pervert the act of making love into something more akin to assault, more possession or abuse, made Trevor feel sick and diseased; unworthy to ever feel love again. It seemed a blasphemy to all he had shared with the real Nina.
And he saw that same alternate Nina cowering in the face of his rage as he projected his battlefield failure on to her because the ego of a dictator allowed no room for self-doubt.
Reel after reel of his miseries, of his failures as a person, of his guilt; re-wound and played over and over again. Not memories, but a reenactment of each horrible moment. Everything very real, from the smoky smell of a smoldering Red Hand campfire inside the room where he found the body of Sheila Evans to the emptiness in his heart-an ache as brutal as any injury-as he told Nina goodbye. Each wound tore repeatedly with no respite, no forgiveness, no chance for redemption. Trevor Stone was in Hell. — Brad Gannon walked through the damp, cramped passageway dimly lit by sporadic glowing globes imbedded in the green walls. As usual, the place felt more like an organic artery than a constructed building. The scent of the sea water seeped through the walls giving the entire place a salty smell, like the inside of a fish factory.
The first time he visited one of The Order's facilities had been in Japan. As he recalled, just prior to the invasion his agent landed the up-and-coming actor a role in a Japanese commercial, the added exposure perfectly timed to coincide with the release of his breakout movie, a summer action-flick. Gannon found himself on the far side of the Pacific in a crowded Tokyo hotel when the bad things came calling.
Suddenly the swarm of press and awe-struck Japanese teenagers disappeared. Suddenly the limousines and translators at his beck and call were nowhere to be found.
He knew something to be horribly wrong but did not realize it to be a global phenomenon until he tuned CNN International on the hotel TV. That's when broadcasters speaking in English clued him in on alien invasion forces and monsters.
Still, it did not seem real until his hotel caught fire and he was chased into the streets with the rest of the tourists. That's when he saw a Leviathan for the first time, moving through downtown. At that moment, Brad Gannon realized the world had become a very different place and he soon came to believe that that new place would belong to Voggoth.
During his days of commercials, soft porn straight-to-DVD flicks, and soap opera fill-ins, Brad Gannon learned that being a successful actor did not mean being a good actor; it meant being in the right place at the right time. It meant surviving things such as auditions, contract negotiations, and studio management changes. He saw talented kids end up working at fast food restaurants and hacks given parts in tent-pole movies. Talent, Gannon saw, contributed only a small part to the greater equation.
Those experiences proved an epiphany for the young, struggling actor, and his fortunes changed as a result. Yes, he continued to strive to be a great thespian, but he also strived to know who would be at which cocktail party, which executive had an axe to grind with which director, or how to get a screen writer a meeting with a producer in exchange for a part written in to the film for Brad Gannon.
At that moment when he spied the Leviathan towering above the twin tops of the 800-foot tall Metropolitan Government building in Shinjuku, Brad Gannon felt certain that his efforts in playing the Hollywood game had become irrelevant, that he was now nothing more than a face in the crowd running for his life before the next blast of supersonic wind could tear him apart along with the rest of what remained of Tokyo. Indeed, he remembered laughing hysterically as he fled, knowing he had become an extra in a real-life Japanese monster flick.
Not until Spider Sentries and sword-wielding 'monks' attacked the shelter in Yokosuka did Gannon realize his skills might yet have some application. That is when he met one of the missionaries of The Order. Gannon convinced the odd fellow that he could help the man-or, whatever he was-coax the refugees from behind the barricades.
Using a combination of his acting skills and his pre-end-of-the-world status as a celebrity, Gannon managed to do just that. Dozens of Japanese men, women, and children were carted off for parasitic implantation while Gannon survived, intact. He felt he deserved an award for that performance, considering he performed for a Japanese audience but spoke only English.
Gannon did not see himself as a traitor, a sell-out, or a puppet of propaganda. He saw himself as a survivor. One without a Voggoth implant because he proved more useful than the typical drone.
He now found that usefulness to be a curse. His role as an intermediary between The Order, the Witiko, and President Godfrey resulted in constant shuttle trips from the mainland to the base, usually in one of the radar-evading Stingrays. And like his other recent trips, he found himself confronting his leash-holders with Godfrey's demands.
Gannon moved along the organic hall followed by two robbed monks, creatures that had once been human. They were armed with unsophisticated swords as well as growths on their wrists capable of firing some type of lethal pellet.
Gannon knew that when the day came that he angered his masters or lost his usefulness, he might just receive one of those implants and join the ranks of the monks. Or worse. He had long ago vowed to do whatever necessary to avoid that day.
"Greetings, Mr. Gannon."
The voice belonged to Gannon's contact. At first glance, he resembled a man, perhaps even a priest based on the black clothes he wore. He had a thin frame but broad shoulders; the skin on his face drew tight around his jawbone and his wide eyes seemed afire with life. Old, perhaps, but not elderly.
Gannon first met this agent of Voggoth upon his return to the Americas. Apparently the 'Missionary' suffered a setback on the east coast during the early years of the invasion only to be re-assigned to California.
They had worked together, in secret, after Gannon earned a public position with the California resistance. When the gateways closed and the tide of battle appeared destined to turn against the Witiko, the Missionary ordered Gannon to change from spying to public relations. The result? The California Cooperative.
While not as effective as a complete Witiko victory, The Cooperative-the Missionary often said-still served Voggoth.
Gannon left behind his escort and followed the Missionary along a side corridor into a half-circle room with closed skin-like shutters. Protrusions from the wall served as seats but Gannon did not sit; not when he saw what waited in that room.
The actor bowed his head and addressed the other, "Your Excellency, I was under the impression you would have departed by now."
Another human form, this one dressed in an ornate robe of red and gold. The splendor of his garb contrasted with his decaying, flaking skin. Patches of green covered his throat. While his eyes may have once been human, now they appeared as emerald balls with pulsing red veins.
"Mr. Gannon," the Bishop replied. "I leave today for other commitments. However, I am quite pleased to see you one last time."
Gannon felt the hair on his arms stand straight. As much as he had come to accept the Missionary, the Spider-Sentries, and the living machines that were not really alive, the presence of the Bishop caused him a cold sweat. "I serve, you know, at your pleasure." The Missionary steered the conversation, "What brings you here again so soon?" Gannon licked his lips. "The um, President, that is, Evan, asked me to relay a message."
Brad knew that his associates would translate the phrase 'message' to 'demand.' The Bishop-as he always did-stood patiently and watched but the Missionary-as he almost always did-showed more reaction.
"What is it this time? We have already begun cleansing operations. After all we have done for him, he had best remember that he serves Voggoth."
Gannon coughed. He knew President Evan Godfrey did not, in any manner, work on behalf of Voggoth. Godfrey had never even met one of The Order's ambassadors. To Godfrey, Voggoth remained just another alien invader and a convenient ally against Trevor Stone.
While Gannon did not feel compelled to recap all that, he did feel the need to remind, "Evan Godfrey does not think he serves Voggoth at all."
The Bishop spoke in a soft, almost sympathetic voice, "No, his kind never do."
"Well, yeah, but the point is the President would like you to, well, he requests you finish up what you're doing and get it over with. I mean, he'd feel a lot better with Trevor Stone dead."
"How dare he dictate to us," the Missionary pounced in a manner Gannon felt sure was for the Bishop's benefit. Despite how inhuman these creatures had become, they still maintained a trace of human weaknesses. Ambition, in the case of the Missionary. He certainly served Voggoth, but made sure his service was noticed.
Gannon said, "Well, now, from his point of view you gained a lot. He's just asking that you finish it up. For his sake, you know?"
The Bishop said, "We have only had access to Stone for a week. More time is required for blessed Voggoth to be satisfied."
Gannon paused and cocked his head. In the silence, the steady hum-almost a breathing sound-of the complex filled the room. "Wait a sec. I mean, you've had him since day one. That's, like, six or seven weeks now."
The Bishop enlightened, "Do you think we were prepared for this? In short order we arranged for the necessary pieces in the plan to deliver Mr. Godfrey into power. Do you know how great a sacrifice this was? Hundreds of Voggoth's children slaughtered in order to cover the truth. We asked only that Stone be given over to us, intact, for the greater glory of Voggoth."
Gannon remembered those negotiations. He remembered how Godfrey insisted that Stone could not merely disappear; his body-a body-needed to be seen by the public.
"Yep. I mean, yes, your Excellency, I am aware of this."
The Bishop appeared agitated. Whatever lurked beneath his robe squirmed. Gannon gulped. He did not want to know what waited behind those covers.
"Yes, we received Stone and before the tranquilizer dart wore off we put him into stasis…to wait until we were ready."
"I don't get it. Ready?" Gannon glanced around the room but thought of the entire complex. "You've had this place out here for months. You weren't ready for Stone?"
"This facility, yes, but not what we needed for Stone's arrival."
The Bishop turned away from Gannon and glided toward the shuttered windows. Those membranes pulled away, revealing the room to be an observation area looking down on a much larger chamber.
Gannon hesitantly followed to the plastic-like windows.
Over the years, Gannon witnessed many iterations of The Order's machines. He once viewed a field of gestating Lesser Guardians, first mistaking them for massive fungi before knowing their true purpose. He once met with a contact in Japan at an implant growth and processing assembly line.
Still, in all his experience he learned little about the technology used by his masters. The equipment, the walls, and the apparatus that served Voggoth appeared to be alive; organic. Yet what little human intuition remained in Gannon's beaten mind told him that Voggoth's machines were very much not alive. They were, it seemed, the antithesis of life. A mockery of it.
The machine filling the large room below resembled a miniature mountain of blob, its surface broken by ribbed lines that could have been spines of a kind. The entire assembly of fleshy material pulsated like a disfigured heart.
At the very top worked a disturbing sight; an image that told Gannon this machine served a special purpose. At first, his eyes thought he saw a giant spider stuck in the taffy-like top of the machine. Then he came to realize that the struggling, thin appendages that worked up and down were not a separate being, but a part of the greater whole. Those thin appendages might be typing away furiously on a keyboard hidden in the muck; or maybe they weaved some unseen silk inside the mound. Regardless, their fast work made them resemble some kind of big insect drowning in sticky quicksand: up and down, up and down, squirming and tangling then untangling without pause.
Gannon's face twisted in revulsion, despite all he had seen and done before.
"Behold," the Missionary proclaimed, suggesting that he did so as much to impress the Bishop, "the greatness of Voggoth has created what others might only imagine. An inspirational testament to his superior status in the universe."
Gannon's eyes moved from the pumping, churning appendages at the top of the machine and cast down. There he saw a pair of monks standing idly, like robots lacking instruction. Between them, at the base of the giant mound-like machine, lay Trevor Stone.
The former Emperor wore black pants and boots, but his shirt had been removed. A tangle of slimy hoses wrapped around his body. A smaller patch of fibrous tendrils held tight over his eyes like a badly frayed blindfold. Tentacle-straps secured his wrists and ankles. The man screamed a forlorn holler echoing through the chamber. Gannon gasped. "What…I mean, what are you doing to him? Torturing him?" The Bishop closed his eyes and smiled in appreciation of Stone's agony.
"I attempted to purify Trevor Stone a long time ago. We subjected him to a great deal of physical distress," Voggoth's Bishop spoke as if visiting a fond memory. "You see, there is debate within The Order as to the greater weakness of your kind: is it your attachments and emotions, or is it-as I first believed-your physical form? In our first encounter, I subjected Stone to a great deal of physical duress, an attempt to weaken his mind by breaking his spirit with pain. I felt certain we had succeeded, but somehow he overcame the therapy and his mind survived. A failure, and when he escaped, Voggoth was displeased."
"You did all you could," the Missionary consoled.
The Bishop went on, "Do you know what Mr. Stone is? He is a pure strain of what you might call human life, second only to his son. His line can be traced throughout the history of your species, all the way back to the first DNA strand that sparked the growth of men, your animals, your entire ecosystem. As such, he is a symbol of great importance."
"Um, okay, so what is it you're doing? Studying him?"
As the Bishop replied, his emerald eyes grew wide. Not for the first time, Gannon saw the darkness that existed inside the creatures of The Order. Gannon knew that at any moment, if he did not play his role perfectly, he could be eclipsed by that darkness.
"Yes, studying him, in a fashion. We could not destroy him with physical harm, but now we are destroying him without causing a single injury to his flesh. We are tearing him apart from the inside out, Mr. Gannon. Creating the physical likeness that we left to fool your people was an easy task compared to this magnificent machine. It required weeks to grow."
The Missionary chimed in, "How splendid!"
"Years ago, when Stone failed to succumb to physical duress, there were those who suggested his success proved the superiority of your form of life; those who suggested he had earned some kind of victory for your race. But now look at Trevor Stone! He is in agony!"
"How? What?"
"That is the beauty of this machine. We have done nothing but take memories and experiences from his mind and allow him to re-live them, while also warping his perception of time. For you and I, seconds have passed. For Mr. Stone, a day? Two days? These are not phantasms; not deceits. His life. His failures. The times that broke his spirit, or caused him to question his very existence. Voggoth has turned his emotions and attachments against him, and in his brilliance he has illustrated the weakness of your strain of so-called 'life.'"
"Why? Why not just kill him? Isn't he a danger to you? I mean, it's just, what's the purpose of putting him through all this?"
The Bishop turned to Gannon. "There is a point to be made, to others who watch events on this planet. Stone's suffering shows humanity for the frail, undeserving creatures they are."
The Missionary celebrated, "Glory to Voggoth!"
Gannon chewed on that idea. In his dealings with The Order, he tried to tell himself they were merely another alien race. Yet there were times when he realized Voggoth and his followers to be something more. Something worse.
Brad Gannon had cut his teeth in the entertainment industry, a progressive world full of gray; nothing simple or absolute. Now Gannon found himself in the company of pure evil. More so, he served that evil.
I am a survivor, nothing else. Nothing else!
The Bishop finished, "In a short time, Mr. Stone's descent into insanity will prove human life to be fragile. We will show how inferior the thing you call 'life' really is. And by proving you inferior, the superiority of Voggoth will become all the more evident." Gannon's eyes wavered between the monstrous machine and the grinning Bishop. "You do not approve, Mr. Gannon?" "Hey, you know, I'm a team player and all, I just-"
The Bishop lost his grin and warned, "Your approval is not necessary. In fact, your usefulness has become suspect. You did not stop Stone's forces from invading and conquering California. If not for the ambition of this fool named Godfrey the so-called Empire would be in complete control of North America and in a position to threaten this facility as well as our facilities in the Pacific. Furthermore, we insisted on a fifty-percent decrease in their armed forces and that has not occurred."
Gannon stumbled as he explained, "Hey, you know, it's just Godfrey isn't a complete moron. He's a power-hungry politician but he's still going to protect his people. But look, if I go back and tell him Stone is dead for good then maybe he'll listen."
The Bishop moved his skull-like face full of flaking flesh closer to Gannon and instructed, "You will return to President Godfrey and tell him to complete the terms of our treaty, immediately. If you cannot accomplish this task then Voggoth might find a capacity in which you might be more useful."
Gannon whispered, "Yeah, s-sure."
The Missionary broke in, "Your Excellency, transport is on standby for your journey."
"I will be leaving shortly. But first, I must participate in an important communication on behalf of Voggoth. The components of this machine will serve that duty. You," the Bishop looked to the Missionary, "will remain to oversee this facility until your pilgrimage. We are at a critical, vulnerable time. The extra resources spent to arrange for Mr. Stone's assassination and the cleanup operations in Mexico have caused some difficulties. Remain vigilant."
"Of course, your Excellency."
The Bishop bowed his head politely to the other two, then walkedglided — from the room. The Missionary watched him go with a hawk's eye. Gannon stepped away, as if to return to his Witiko transport. One of the Missionary's cold hands grabbed his shoulder. "Wait, Gannon." "Yeah?" "You heard the Bishop. I will be making a pilgrimage to see Voggoth in the near future." "Hey, yeah, good for you. I remember when you did that last time."
"Yes! Yes," the Missionary remembered better days. "That was after we secured the end of hostilities in California. My Lord was eager for such good news after Stone had shut down the gateways. I received such glorious gifts!"
"Hey, good for you. Hope it works out well this time."
"But it won't, Gannon. I have no great deeds to show for my efforts. Landing Stone here, to suffer at the hand of Voggoth, is a great prize that came at a great price. More will come from the seeds we have planted by supporting this Godfrey, but what blooms from those seeds will be credited to his Excellency. My role in this larger plan is far less than I had hoped."
Gannon nodded. The conversation had returned to his world, an arena in which he knew how to play.
"From the sounds of things his Excellency doesn't think fondly of me right now, either."
The two watched as the Bishop entered the chamber below, moving toward Trevor Stone's secured body. As he approached, the Bishop reached to the wall of the machine. The organic structure grew a bulb-like appendage that enveloped the Bishop's hand.
The Missionary explained, "But there is one thing you and I can do together, Mr. Gannon. One thing that will certainly please Voggoth and his Excellency does not need to be aware. After all, he has more urgent matters to attend."
Gannon sneered, "Yeah, what now?"
"Tell President Godfrey that I will kill Trevor Stone immediately, in exchange for one minor concession."
"Yeah, what's that?"
"You heard the Bishop. Trevor Stone is the purest sample of your strain of life. Except for one. Bring me the boy so we might insert him into the machine, too. Bring me Trevor's son."
– Reality. Not a dream, not a memory.
Trevor could smell the rotting corpses of canines, Red Hand warriors, and Sal Corso on the grounds of the estate. He did not merely remember that smell, he re-lived it in its entirety. Along with the smell came the feeling of failure. Of responsibility.
He could feel the texture of the pages in Sheila Evan's diary; he could sense the lingering scent of her perfume. On the pages of that diary, the thoughts of a lonely soul who wished only to feel welcome; only to be comforted by another human being.
Mr. Stone…
But he had not been able to comfort Sheila. His mission held precedence; a mission of numbers, not individuals. Rebuilding from the ashes was a job for a cold-hearted General.
Mr. Stone…can you hear me?
The guilt, the insecurity, the self-loathing remained but the sights, sounds, smells, and feel of the horrible moments faded into a swirl of darkness in his mind's eye.
It is good to be with you again, young man.
He knew that voice: The Order's Bishop, the one who had held the reigns of the torture spider.
It's not your fault, Mr. Stone. You are not personally to blame. It is the nature of your race. It is why you are inferior. Your attachment to false measures of morality and your dependence on emotions weakens your species. For example, do you know how it is you came to be here? You were betrayed by your own kind.
The swirling darkness disappeared, replaced by the smell of aviation fuel mixed with the scent of fresh-cut grass. Slowly colors came in to focus: red, orange and yellow from a flower garden adjacent to a beautiful green lawn.
Then it happened all over again. The Eagle air ship landed and out came Centurians in battle armor, firing their weapons. Evan Godfrey dropping to the grass. Internal Security agents…firing on other Internal Security agents.
Tyr-his best friend-shot and killed by a gray haired member of Evan's security detail. Another blast. Trevor on the ground looking up at Ray Roos. Roos pulled a gun and fired. Trevor felt the sting in his chest but when he glanced toward the wound he saw a small dart.
They betrayed you, Mr. Stone. And you should know that Evan Godfrey now rules your Empire. Piece by piece he is undoing your work. Soon he will weaken your people enough…enough so that…well, I am afraid that you won't live long enough to see the end result. However, today is a great day for blessed Voggoth. Allow me, Mr. Stone, to show you why.
Whatever magic fed new realities into Trevor's mind now took him to another place. Another Earth. He flew through the clouds and to a world where nature ruled supreme. A world without pollution, an Earth where the masters of the environment lived in harmony with all around them.
Trevor felt a cool, clean breeze across his face. He saw rolling green fields, thick and healthy forests, rivers and streams where crystal blue water flowed. He flew overhead with great speed, unsure if he traveled only in his mind or on some kind of transport.
Far below on a mountainside meadow Trevor saw a primitive village with small dwellings constructed of animal hides and a pair of larger structures made from timber and thatch.
All around that village…near the entrances of the homes…near escape paths leading to the cover of the deep forest…bodies. Bodies of slender humanoids dressed in skins and cloth, creatures who comprised one of the eight invading armies on Trevor's Earth but who were indigenous to this Earth in a parallel world where the Feranites-what Trevor's people nicknamed 'Red Hands'-fought to survive.
He soared above, cresting the mountain and beholding a carnival of horrors. In the fields below, the woods had been clear cut and replaced with ugly box-like buildings and dome-shaped homes and tall barricades. Smoke stacks poured soot into the atmosphere; the smell of burning iron works chased away the aroma of nature, the sound of massive machinery toiling away for unknown industries thundered in a symphony of noise pollution.
Trevor saw Feranite warriors, and females, and children in bondage driven by the whips of the bipedal lizard aliens Trevor knew as Hivvans, some too weak to carry on felt the deadly crunch of a master's boot.
And he kept flying still, circling the globe. Feranite slaves tending to the whims of egotistical Witiko owners…Geryon dirigibles burning Red Hand villages so thoroughly that only scorch marks remained where buildings and people had stood…Chaktaw infantry shooting fleeing warriors in the back and tossing the bodies into pits filled with rotting Feranite corpses…human tanks closely matching the Abrams armor in his own ranks blasting the last wooden barriers protecting yet another village.
The world Trevor had first thought to be full of nature turned black from the smoke of the dying civilization that called that Earth home…
Blackness again.
This is the fate that awaits your people, Mr. Stone. You have failed and I wanted you to see what that failure will mean for the people of this Earth. Given your unique knowledge of the greater scheme of things, I believe you can appreciate the vision. But I must go now, to tend to matters of an official nature. I will leave you to your miseries…
The Bishop turned his attention elsewhere, but remained plugged into the machine that contrived Trevor's torture. He needed that machine and its advanced engineering to complete a task for his master. As he did so, he did not fully disconnect from Trevor's mind. In essence, he failed to hang up the phone, allowing Trevor-through the great machine-to be a fly on the wall at a meeting of the Gods…
…"The representative of Voggoth calls the gathered’s attention to the Feranite host world. The Feranite free population has fallen below one percent and no longer offers any organized resistance. Furthermore, nearly five million of their number is in servitude to the other races and the Feranite surrogate has been terminated. The representative of Voggoth calls for the Feranites to be ruled defeated."
"The Feranites challenge this claim."
"The Witiko agree with the representative of Voggoth: the Feranite race has been subjugated and destroyed to the degree that its current state reflects the parameters previously defined as defeat." "The Feranites charge Human violations." "The Geryons support this charge." "The Hivvans object. Rules violations have been counter-balanced."
"The Feranites assert that the counter-balance to Human rule violations were implemented in a manner outside of the linear time line of the host world and, in fact, served to further strengthen the Human position on the host world and therefore failed to compensate for said violations. It is further charged that Human violations also benefited the Chaktaw."
"The Centurians call for further investigation into alleged rules violations by the Humans and Chaktaw."
"The Chaktaw counter-charge that the actions of agents of Voggoth on the Human and Chaktaw host worlds precipitated a series of rules violations that, in actuality, served as counter-balances to maintain the integrity of the host worlds."
"The Humans support this counter-charge."
"The Witiko consider the Chaktaw and Human counter-charge preposterous."
"The Chaktaw further call into question the objectivity of the Nyx based on observations of cross-time and cross-dimensional travel outside the scope of gateway activity."
"The Hivvans point out that the Nyx are not sentient and therefore their objectivity is not and cannot be in question."
"The Humans suggest that fluctuations in the time line of their host world give reason to suspect that the Nyx may have interfered with linear events both in the local past and the local future, the full effects of which have not yet been determined."
"The Witiko believe that if the Nyx have been misused it has been to the benefit of the Humans, as evident by cross-time travel by segments of the Human population, including the surrogate’s genetic line, in an apparent attempt to protect said population."
"The Duass remind that the source of the suspect travel has not yet been determined due to the constraints of local linear time."
"The Humans object to the suggestion of impropriety and counter-charge that an investigation should be launched into the coincidence of how such a large number of surrogates on all the host worlds were immediately and directly threatened upon the commencement of the challenge."
"The representative of Voggoth observes that these charges, counter-charges and speculations are not germane to the disposition of the Feranites. The host cosmos' were prepared in a manner unanimously accepted and designed to prevent rule violations or unforeseen circumstances from corrupting cosmos’ outside of those directly affected by said circumstances."
"The Witiko remind the Feranites that their race embraced this concept and voted with the majority for utilizing the parallel cosmos." "The Feranites call for a re-evaluation of this structure." "The Duass reject this call." "The Chaktaw reject this call." "The Humans reject this call." "The representative of Voggoth rejects this call." "The Centurians reject this call." "The Hivvans reject this call." "The Witiko reject this call." "The Geryons reject this call." "The representative of Voggoth calls for recommendations as to the disposition of the Feranite race."
"The Witiko reminds all participants that the Feranites have now failed the challenge. Their pattern of life is lacking."
"The Feranites dispute this assertion. The Feranites dispute the classification of their race on the host world as defeated. The Feranites call for an investigation into the circumstances surrounding the death of the Feranite surrogate and whether or not said death constitutes a rules violation."
"The Duass reject this dispute. The dominant sentient species of the Feranite environment has been subjugated. No alternative species in that environment have proven viable."
"The Witiko reject the call for investigation and remind all participants that surrogates serve primarily as markers and observers and are still subject to the same frailties possessed by their races."
"The Chaktaw point out, however, that the death of the surrogate does reduce the long-term viability of the Feranites’ Deus."
"The Humans are confused by the Feranite's dispute of the circumstances of their disposition. Do the Feranites contend they are not the representative species of their life pattern? If so, what alternative representative of their life pattern should be considered?"
"The Feranites strongly object to the Human suggestion and consider it offensive and counter-productive."
"The Hivvans remind all participants that the Feranite race developed additional challenge balances to compensate for the technological differences at the time of surrogate conception including control over a greater number of non-sentient helper species from within their environment."
"The Feranite call attention to the circumstances of non-sentient helper species and suggest further investigation into the nature of and development of these species. The Feranite race believes that a better understanding of the nature of the helper species will support the Feranite claim to greater spirituality and promote a better understanding of the origins of the root cosmos."
"The representative of Voggoth strongly objects to the Feranite suggestion on the grounds that that matter is considered closed."
"The Chaktaw further point out that despite these added balances the Feranites are the first to attain defeated status."
"The Feranites call for closer inspection of the incidents of genetic memory leak between races and suggest that the answers to these leaks may provide greater insights into the origins of all life patterns."
"The representative of Voggoth dismisses this suggestion and encourages the gathered to remain focused on the disposition of the Feranite race."
"The Geryons move that the gateways on the Feranite host world be ruptured so as to sterilize that host world."
"The representative of Voggoth reminds all participants that the consequences of failure in the challenge are not isolated to the host cosmos, as per the agreed upon structure."
"The Witiko recognize Voggoth as the oldest and most learned of all the participants and therefore request guidance in the resolution of the disposition of the Feranites." "The Geryons second this recognition." "The Duass agree." "The Hivvans support the Witiko position."
"The Humans remind all participants that only one outcome was considered at the time of implementation of the agreed upon structure."
"The Feranites object."
"The Witiko move that it would demonstrate the superior abilities, strength, and intelligence of the remaining participants if an alternative to complete sterilization is considered." "The Centurians agree." "The Duass call for the expulsion of the Feranites from the root cosmos." "The Chaktaw call for the Feranites to be de-evolved to a lower life form." "The Geryons reject the Chaktaw call." "The Feranites object." "The Humans suggest the Feranite race be divided and given over in servitude to the other races." "The Feranites object." "The Witiko observe that the Feranites are no longer in position to object to these proceedings." "The representative of Voggoth offers an alternative."
"The Witiko suggest that Voggoth’s proposal be accepted without question due to the superior status of Voggoth as the only immortal entity in existence." "The Chaktaw reject the Witiko suggestion." "The Duass also reject the Witiko suggestion." "The Centurians call for Voggoth to state the alternative." "The Humans second the Centurian call."
"The representative of Voggoth recognizes that the Feranite life pattern has met the parameters for defeat on the host world and therefore has shown its species to lack the strength necessary to remain among the dominant races."
"The Witiko agree with this recognition."
"The representative of Voggoth further suggests that this failure clearly demonstrates that the Feranites, as they currently exist, will never be capable of achieving immortality nor are they worthy do to so." "The Witiko recognize Voggoth as the only such being or race." "The Chaktaw suggest the Witiko refrain from flattery." "The Humans second the Chaktaw suggestion."
"The representative of Voggoth offers an opportunity for the Feranites to achieve immorality and remain intact, although only if the Feranite race will renounce their current life pattern in recognition of its inferiority."
"The Hivvans object to this offer as outside the agreed upon structure."
"The Duass remind the Hivvans that their own progress in their parallel cosmos suggests that the Hivvans might be next to appreciate such an offer." "The Hivvans condemn the Duass suggestion on the grounds that it is inflammatory and premature." "The Centurians agree with the Hivvans and further point out the Duass’ own vulnerability." "The Feranites request further information as to the nature of the offer presented by the representative of Voggoth."
"The representative of Voggoth states that it is possible for the Feranite genetic structure to metastasize into one compatible for existence within the realm of Voggoth. Under these circumstances, the Feranite people will become immortal." "The Chaktaw question if under such circumstances the Feranites will remain a distinct, independent species." "The representative of Voggoth answers no." "The Witiko point out that this action may be the only means of any form of survival for the Feranite race." "The Duass question if the Feranites will maintain the ability to reproduce and evolve."
"The representative of Voggoth answers no with the caveat that the Feranite race will experience instant metamorphosis across all cosmos to a higher life form compatible with the domain of Voggoth." "The Chaktaw express reservations about this alternative form of closure." "The Witiko move that the Feranites either willingly acquiesce or be compelled." "The Feranites request additional time for consideration." "The Humans question which linear sphere will the Feranites use to acquire more time?" "The Centurians object to the Human question on the grounds that it is flippant and counter-productive."
"The Witiko call for either the immediate acceptance of these terms by the Feranites or the immediate sterilization of the Feranite race from both the root cosmos as well as all parallel cosmos."
"The Feranite Deus accepts the offer from Voggoth on behalf of the entire Feranite race. May He who created us all have mercy upon the souls of my people."
"The representative of Voggoth asks the Feranites to refrain from repeating fantasies of a being superior to the gathered and reminds the Feranites that any soul their race may indeed possess, now belongs to Voggoth."
– Captain Dustin McBride lay on his belly with binoculars staring down at the dusty, almost barren water basin at the heart of Seminoe State Park in Wyoming. There along the featureless, rocky banks waited his quarry packing their wigwams and extinguishing fires.
For months the Red Hands eluded McBride's vaunted 1 ^ st Cavalry, remaining several days ahead and varying their movements so as to escape pursuit. In recent weeks, the hunter gained ground, fighting several skirmishes with Red Hand rear guards. Those skirmishes cost his enemy dearly, dwindling the Feranite numbers to nearly half their original size.
Of course those tribesmen still outnumbered McBride's fighters, but arrows and spears would be no match for assault rifles and grenades, especially with the Red Hands caught along the reservoir banks. Perhaps their chieftain had guessed that his pursuers fell for the false trail left outside of Sinclair. McBride, however, felt the signs leading south to be far too obvious for an enemy proven so coy.
After such a long hunt, McBride regretted that a slaughter would be his only reward.
"Agarn."
Corporal Lawrence Brown crawled next to his commander and shared the view from the brush line at the basin ridge. A rumble marked the approach of a rare morning thunderstorm caused by the remarkable heat wave sweeping through the Midwest. That heat, as much as anything, had slowed McBride's horses and men in recent days. No doubt that same heat tapped his enemy's strength, a strength McBride had grown to admire. Regardless, a good storm might cool things down for a spell. "Ooo, now ain't that a sight for sore eyes." "Yeah, man, it's been a long time coming. The boys ready?" "Hooyah, roger that. We'z been spoilin' for a fight. 'Bout time you found us one."
Dustin set his binoculars down and crawled away from the ridge. Waiting behind cover were two hundred horse soldiers with another two hundred hurriedly circling around to pinch the Red Hands from the flanks. All of them itched to finish a job started long ago.
A radio message broadcast to Dustin, "Hope here, we're in position," followed thirty seconds later by a woman's voice, "Chambers speaking, we're all set."
A bugler played 'charge' and three formations charged the trapped Feranites, including McBride and Brown leading the attack from the ridge. Enthusiastic hoots and hollers joined the stomping sound of horse hoofs that broke the morning calm. In the distance, a bolt of lightning reached for the ground and a veil of water fell on the lake, moving toward the slaughter like a curtain about to close.
Dustin led his warriors down the ridge, careful in steering his horse across the rocky slope and also careful to watch for incoming arrows. The Feranites never showed any fear of modern weapons. They would fight to the death no…matter…what…
The hoots and hollers quieted. Horse hoofs slowed.
The Feranites stood along the lake, trapped in the open with no chance of escape. They stood straight and still, the whole lot of them. No drawn blades, no raised bows.
"What the shit-nuts are these fellas up to?"
McBride did not answer his friend. A trap? Or were the Feranites-for the first time ever-ready to surrender? Had the pursuit broken both their backs and their spirits? Following McBride's lead, the other attacking elements halted some fifty yards from the primitives. Radio calls came in, "Sir? Should we fire?" "Am I seein' things?" Dustin dismounted. Agarn-Corporal Brown-told him, "Now, don't be gettin' no stupid ideas."
McBride first shot Brown a middle finger, then waved to him. The two soldiers descended the hill on foot with pistols drawn. No enemy weapons rose to greet them.
"Hold positions," McBride radioed.
Dustin came within twenty feet of an elderly female Feranite standing perfectly still with her hands resting on the shoulders of a child. A ribbon in her hair made from a collection of nut shells and flowers fluttered in a gust of wind coming from the closing storm.
The woman…the child…all of the Red Hands appeared frozen in time, their eyes wide open but just standing. Dustin could not even see signs of breathing. Rain fell. A pitter. A patter. More. The Red Hands started to shake. "Holy Christ, Dustin…"
It seemed to McBride as if every member of the Feranite tribe stuck their fingers into an electric socket, causing their spines to wobble…their eyes to roll white…and their mouths to open and stretch as if made of rubber.
"Agarn…back off…back off…"
A horrible moan came from the hundreds of aliens along the reservoir; a moan coming from mouths that grew impossibly wide on heads that tilted back…and then split. Split open in two.
"Holy fucking shit! Get outta here!"
Rain fell harder and harder. The moan grew louder. The bodies shook faster. And up from the torn gashes in the Red Hand necks rose iron-like bars supporting big spheres. Vein-like strands of metal flowed out from that bar and ran along the arms and legs of each of the Feranites.
The moan morphed from an animalistic cry into a digitalized sound seemingly born from computer speakers.
The orbs split open like metallic Venus flytraps sporting daggers for teeth. Skin exploded and out came a trio of shiny legs with hydraulic muscles and round pads for feet.
McBride's cavalry waited no more. Machine guns and carbines fired but they did not tear into skin, they ricocheted off mechanized units that had been born from flesh.
As the storm broke and the deluge fell and the lightning sent flashes across the gorge, the Feranite race completed their transformation into the very thing they despised: technology. They changed from creatures at one with nature to something built from metal and gears and lenses where eyes once watched.
Where their arms once hung came two metal pipes. No, not pipes; barrels.
The rat-tat-tat of counter fire came from the mob of mechanized warriors out toward the cavalry. Explosive shells detonated in the belly of horses, shrapnel decimated riders, more mounts spooked and dashed away, most throwing their owners to the wet ground.
As grenades fell into the mob of emerging monsters, two of the creatures died as the concussion from the explosives tore apart their new limbs and shredded circuitry. But those small victories proved no relief as the outnumbered horse soldiers suddenly faced a superior foe.
Corporal Brown grabbed his commander's sleeve and pulled him up the ridge. McBride fired his gun as the nearest Red Hand finished its transition into an artificial beast. The metal bar that held the round mouth bent and the mechanical legs chased the hunter as parts of torn clothing and the remains of discarded flesh dropped off like a snake shedding its skin.
Rounds from Dustin's pistol sparked off the chassis. A bear-trap-like mouth clamped down on the pistol and the arm holding it. Brown tried to help his friend and discharged his own gun at point blank range into the beast, to no effect. In exchange, the newly-born demon swung around one of its gun barrels and pumped ordnance into Agarn's belly. He exploded into upper and lower halves.
The shrapnel tore into McBride, eliciting a scream. The monster's mouth finished biting off his arm then chomped his head. Blood and gore drizzled along its shiny new metal chassis. As Dustin died, so did his cavalry; baptismal gifts for a newborn race. Away from the lake and across all the universes marched the children of Voggoth. Seven to go.
20. Erasers
Jon Brewer walked the first floor hall with a bundle of file folders tucked under his arm. The sound of his footsteps caused a flat echo that drifted through the nearly empty mansion.
He intended to head for the second floor office which, according to Ashley, now belonged to him. Of course that made little difference. The skeleton staff at the estate held little in the way of responsibility. What had been the beating heart of humanity’s comeback now resembled something like a morgue.
Guess that makes me a zombie, he thought.
Instead of climbing the stairs, he turned to the old dining room. He found his wife in there sitting behind her desk staring at the calendar blotter (bearing an advertisement for North Run Rail "Steam or Diesel, we deliver"). "Boo," but his jest held no humor. She glanced up, sighed, and told him, "My phone hasn't rung all day." He sat in the chair across from her. "Wow, is that so bad? I mean, you were pretty over worked before." Lori looked at Jon. No, he realized, she looked at the chair he sat in.
"Trevor used to come in and see me, from time to time. He'd sit there and we'd just bull shit. Sometimes serious stuff, sometimes nothing important." "I know." She went on, "With all the changes…well I guess it's starting to hit home. How permanent it is." "Yeah, tell me about it." "Now the work has dried up. At least that was keeping me busy, but now," she motioned to the nearly empty desk top.
"All this will sort out, Lori. It hasn't been that long. Besides, before it seemed like you had your hand in everything. You had almost no time for Catherine, no time for yourself. Now you're doing important work with more free time."
His explanation, despite how hard he tried, sounded weak even to his hears.
"Allright, yep. I’ve changed from the Administrator for the entire nation to the regional director for Adoption and Child Placement. Woo-hoo."
"Helping kids."
Her eyes narrowed and her voice grew rough, "I helped kids before, too. I also worked with logistics, and supply, and the military, and Internal Security. A couple of months ago, I could tell you how many bags of flour they had on the Chicago docks or the name of the engineer on the west bound mail express. And yeah, I also placed orphans in new homes, made sure they had schools to go to, and made sure those schools had text books. What now, Jon? What? You know what the problem is?"
He did not have an answer. She supplied one, "The problem is Trevor. He made sure that each of us knew we had a stake in all this; that we had a responsibility to fight and to work hard to save our people. Hey, look, I like having extra time with my daughter. But I don't like this feeling that I should be doing more. While I sit here bored, somewhere out there is a kid being eaten by a monster or in an alien slave camp because that asshole in the White House decided the rest of the world isn’t worth fighting for. And you can't tell me you don't feel the same way."
His mouth unhinged. Jon struggled for words.
"I'm a soldier."
"You’re a clerk now, Jon. Dante has got you filling out paper work and doing studies and making reports, keeping you here. You're like me, General; we're big paper weights now."
He stood fast and with a hurt edge in his voice told her, "This damn paper weight has work to do. Maybe it seems quiet to you, but it's not."
Jon threw down one of the files he carried and said, "That's a security bulletin, Lori. Two members of the Dark Wolves commando unit were arrested at the General Hospital emergency room after breaking in to Trevor's tomb. There's a BOLO out for Nina Forest and a man who fits the description of Gordon Knox."
Lori stared at the paper in disbelief and read, "Suspects are wanted in connection with the death of Secretary Maple, a homicide that may be part of a larger anti-government conspiracy."
Jon continued, "Dante called me earlier. He asked me about loyalty, Lori. He's saying that there are those in the government that think someone is going to try a coup real soon."
"Nina Forest? I mean, Gordon Knox, sure, but not Nina Forest."
"Maybe she started to get some memories back, I don't know," Jon ran a hand across his cheek as if checking for razor stubble. "Point is, things are really tense out there. I've got to calm things down. I have to go make some phone calls."
Lori spoke with poison-laced sarcasm, "Right. Make some calls. Tell you what, I'll put a pot of coffee on, too. Why, we're really going to change the world today, aren't we?"
– At one o'clock in the afternoon on Saturday, July 5, Eagle One landed along the banks of Spruce Knob Lake. Thick forests, colorful wildflowers, and the mountain peaks that represented the highest point in West Virginia surrounded the remote landing area.
Pilot Rick Hauser had not chosen that location for its vista but, rather, for the clean lake water. With Gordon's help he managed to fill the transport's hydrogen tanks. Nina waited inside, gazing at the weapon collection. She even dared to run a hand of admiration over the shiny blade of Stonewall McAllister's sword.
In any case, the Eagle took to the skies again and managed to make it most of the way across Kentucky before being challenged by a monitoring station at the old Warren County Airport in Bowling Green. Before intercept jets could make it on-scene, Hauser found a suitable hiding spot inside the Mammoth Cave National Park. While hiding from air patrols, they dined on a late supper of emergency rations.
After night fell, Eagle One went airborne once more, hugging the ground and relying on Knox's recollection of radar zones to weave their way across Tennessee into Mississippi.
However, with Hauser the only Eagle-trained pilot, they had to stop for a few hours of rest before he fell asleep at the sticks. He chose a landing spot alongside the Tennessee River. While Hauser slept, Gordon and Nina replenished the ship's tanks.
As they continued their journey, Knox's knowledge of radar stations combined with the computer maps onboard helped them avoid air defense systems. They stopped to refuel water at the Toledo Bend Reservoir on the Texas/Louisiana border then pushed on through the day into the night to the Rio Grande.
At that point, Eagle One could go no farther. An extensive net of radar installations and surveillance Eagles kept a close watch on the Mexican border. There would be no flying over it.
The Eagle carried a pair of personal hover crafts based on reverse-engineered Mutant bikes resembling a cross between a jet ski and a snowmobile.
While Hauser and Odin the Elkhound remained behind to guard the ship, Nina and Gordon crossed the border at high speed heading south toward Monterrey.
– They rode all night, moving much too fast to be distracted by shadows in old towns, specks of fire on the horizon, or wild beasts.
According to surveys conducted before Gordon "retired" from his post as Director of Intelligence, most of northern Mexico remained a dangerous wasteland prowled by predators as well as human bandits in coastal areas.
The two followed the main roads heading south, using the powerful front headlights of the hover bikes to illuminate the path in fifty yard stretches. On more than one occasion they felt the presence of airborne predators overhead, but even those hunters could not keep pace with the determined riders.
Three hours before dawn, the two found shelter among the remains of an abandoned Mexican army convoy covered in a decade of dust, including an intact armored vehicle. More specifically, a World War II vintage half-track painted in modern camouflage patterns. Nina could not believe Gordon when he told her that such an old vehicle had, in fact, been a part of the Mexican armed forces at the time of the invasion.
Regardless, they spent a few hours catching some sleep within the relative security of the abandoned vehicle. As the first flickers of dawn's approach glowed orange on the horizon, a sound stirred the travelers awake; a low rumble of a sound.
They exited the temporary shelter and scanned the fields of broken buildings, brush, and foothills around the deserted convoy. After a moment, they realized the rumble came from the south; it came from Monterrey.
Nina and Gordon mounted their rides and hurried off in that direction surrounded by the shadows of morning twilight. The whiz and whir of the speeding hovercraft could not block out the growing roar of the noise, but it was not until they climbed the brush-covered hills northeast of the ruins of Monterrey that they could trace the source of the sound.
Nina dropped to her belly and wiggled forward amidst the dusty ground and dried sage at the crest of the mountain. Her black tank top and green BDUs quickly grew covered in powdered dirt. Gordon knelt low beside her with a pair of binoculars in his hand. The sun-while still very new that day-grew hot fast, drying the air.
Towering above the city to the south were the Sierra Madre Oriental Mountains. That range trailed off into the distance in a line of dramatic ridges and steeply banked slopes of brown and fading green. The sound that had roused them from their slumber reverberated everywhere, like a million heads of cattle stampeding.
Between their position and those mountains lay several square miles of what had once been Monterrey. The rising sun shed light on the devil's work.
"What the Hell is this?" Nina's brow furled tight but her mouth fell wide open.
She expected to see the singed and melted remains of the city and the Centurian base. Indeed, the smoldering smoke rising from the flattened ruins there did not surprise her, she had witnessed the handiwork of dreadnought belly boppers before.
However, it did surprise them to find that half of those ruins were gone, combed neat and flat into graded dirt. Indeed, the view from the hill resembled a before and after advertisement for a vacuum cleaner: the western side of the city cleansed of debris with only sand-like dirt remaining. The east still a tangled mess of flattened concrete, melted metal, and scorched land with the tallest piles of debris rising no more than six feet.
"Good God," Gordon mumbled in a choppy voice. "It's…it's being erased."
The droning sound came from a swirling cloud hovering and moving southward nearly a mile away from Nina and Gordon's observation point. At the rear of that cloud shot streams of freshly-cleaned dirt, for some reason reminding Nina of the combine harvesters on the farms in her home town in Pennsylvania.
Something worked within that cloud, but it hid inside one of the last remaining shadows at the base of the mountain peaks. Nonetheless, the path the thing followed was easy to see, in its wake it left flat, featureless soil.
"They're cleaning it all up," Knox managed a better handle on his words. "Whatever evidence is down there… we have to hurry."
Nina and Gordon retrieved their hover bikes and swooped down the hill. At the base of that hill stretched a field of debris so flat that the two could see-unhindered-all the way across the remains of town to where that large dust cloud moved at the base of the mountains.
They stopped at a series of stone blocks piled one atop each other to the height of five feet. They stopped because that great cloud on the far side of the old city began to pivot as it reached the end of another line of cleansing. As it turned to head north-to head toward Nina and Gordon-the veil of dust blew off, revealing the machine.
It stretched a half a mile long from side to side and rose some fifty feet into the air. It took Nina's eyes several seconds to understand what she saw. At first, her mind likened the sight to the head of a gigantic push broom, but with squirming bristles. As the dust dissipated, she thought it more a long, hovering wing with thousands of tubes hanging down to the ground, each scrubbing the earth below while a great suction of wind scooped up burnt buildings, melted cars, broken planks, and shattered steel.
It moved slow and methodic tearing away the old, sifting through the mess, and leaving behind a trail of soil cleaned of any evidence the ruins of Monterrey might hold.
"Listen, we have to get in there and find something."
Gordon said, "If I'm right, you're going to need a Centurian body. I'm thinking a head alone would do the trick."
A flash from somewhere between them and the machine caught both their eyes. A stream of liquid light tore between the two people and slammed into the stone pillars. Those pillars evaporated into grains of sand. The explosion knocked both Nina and Gordon from their mounts.
"It's armed!"
Nina corrected, "No. There's something else out there."
She dared a peek from a prone position. Far away the great machine did its work, ripping evidence from the ground a half-mile at a time. But closer…about five hundred yards away…Nina spotted three dark figures, each standing nearly eight feet tall and spread in a picket line with fifty yards between one another.
She raised binoculars for a better view.
The machine's guardians wore dark cloaks, hiding any features. They walked in determined but slow steps, traversing the ground ahead of the cleansing unit. As she watched, one of the two robed arms raised. She saw something that resembled the exhaust end of a jet engine. A golden ball glowed from its end "Get down!"
Another blast of energy streaked toward the infiltrators. It missed high and slammed into the hillside behind them where it knocked great clumps of rock and dirt off a ridge.
"Damn it," Knox groaned. "We can't get anything with these things around!"
Nina's head snapped around and she glared at him through slits-for-eyes. In that instant he clearly saw that she would not retreat after having come so far.
"I'll take care of this."
Before he could protest, Nina jumped into the saddle of her hover bike. While one hand worked the throttle, her other hand slipped the sword from her leg.
Meanwhile, Gordon pulled a Dessert Eagle. 44 from a thigh rig and gripped it tight.
Nina kept working the throttle as she swept to the east flying over the remains of the city. One of the things defending the machine raised its arm, took aim, and fired, but its weapon moved too slow and too clumsy to hit the speeding craft.
Like a dive bomber aiming for a target, she turned the hover bike hard and accelerated at the robed creatures. As she did, she spied another glob of gold…she waited…waited…and jogged to her left as the watery fire streamed by.
Faster…faster…her sword raised…the creature turned to try and follow her approach but moved too slow.
Her sword-moving with her at an incredible speed-slammed into the thing's outstretched gun. The impact nearly threw her from the bike. And then she was passed, her sword still in her hand but her elbow aching from a near-hyperextension.
She dared a glance behind in time to see golden energy consume the thing from the inside out. Its robe exploded in a sunburst. As it did, she saw the hood fall away revealing a translucent skull encasing an organic brain above a metallic jaw. Two eyes-maybe lenses, maybe flesh-bulged from the face of the thing.
Nina turned forward in time to see that she closed on the massive eraser machine. The roar of its toil blocked out all other noise. She felt the first pull of sucking wind. She saw the feelers reaching to the ground and scrubbing away traces of the Centurian base.
She banked hard and sought out the other two robed defenders, accelerating toward another of the guardians. It fired and missed as she raised her sword…closed the distance…