Chapter 5 1/2

Sorry, i should have gotten this up sooner. I’m actually almost 10k words ahead of this entry, but I’ve been slightly busy and spaced off posting it.

Recap: Alright, They were heading towards the city looking for Aleister Crowley. However they encountered something in the wilds. It was a person of some sort, and after some discussion they decided that they were going to take her back to the German field camp in hopes that she could give them intel on Crowley.

I apologize also for the huge wall of text appearence my post gives. I’ll try to see if I can format it more appropriately in word.

Chapter 5

The entirety of the field hospital snapped to attention, and Zhanna turned to see who had entered that bared such discipline. They had managed to make good time heading back to the new field camp that the Germans had already setup at the breachhead. The Germans were still pushing against the rebel forces, but they had started to lose the momentum they had gathered the last night.

When they had told the Germans that they had a prisoner that might prove useful, they were granted an audience with one of the commanding Colonels. The colonel had taken one look at the tattooed woman, and immediately had her sent to one of the field hospitals with top priority. As they were responsible for the finding, the five spellcasters had accompanied them to the hospital. One of the eomancers working the hospital had attempted several healing magics that seemed to be working on restoring the woman to decent health, but even healing magic took time to full begin working. While they sat there waiting, someone higher up had evidently arrived.

Zhanna casually turned to look at who had arrived, when two men walking into the tent, followed by several heavily armed honor guards and an assorted group of spellcasters. Both men were well set on years, one being about the same age as Broussard, while the other was much older. The elder of the two was slightly portly with his hair cropped short, and a large bushy moustache dominating his upperlip. He was covered head to toe in medals and ornaments.

The other man was covered in numerous awards and medals, though there weren’t as many as the first. He was of average build, with his hair cut short, and a much smaller moustache than the other man had. Both men walked with the attitude of a man who knew he was in charge. Zhanna realized with a start that these two were no one less than Field Marshal Paul von Hindenburg and his Quartermaster General Erich Ludendorff, the de facto leaders of the German army. That certainly explains everyone’s reaction towards them, Zhanna thought. She remained at ease however. None of the spellcasters were Germans, and they certainly weren’t going to bend knee to the commanding officers of another army, except if they were surrendering. Well, the others might. I wouldn’t.

Von Hindenburg looked about the room, eyeing each of them up and down, before moving onto the next one. His strong gaze sized them up, and Zhanna thought his looks seemed to express the notion that what Von Hindenburg saw was not a threat. Smug bastard, she thought, How like a German. Von Hindeburg, satisfied with his quick look about the hospital stepped up towards the corpse of the woman.

“Some of my subordinates think I am wasting my time being here. They think that I should not have even bothered with letting you through the portal, as this is the Kaiser’s affair. Not the Americans, nor the British, nor the Russians. However, I know better than my subordinates,” Von Hindenburg said, pacing up to them. Quartermaster General Ludendorff frowned at his words, but said nothing and remained standing at the entrance to the hospital.

Von Hindenburg strode up next to the body of the unconscious woman and looked directly at her face. He paused and his words mouthed something, but he spoke nothing. He stood back up straight and paced several steps back. Seamus and Broussard moved aside while the Field Marshal moved past them.

“You’re discovery of this individual has already vindicated my order. The Kaiser himself found your find quite interesting to say the least,” Von Hindenburg said. “I find it only appropriate to let you stay for the interrogation as well. Wake her.” He said this last sentence to one of the eomancers that had walked in with him.

The eomancer nodded and walked up to the body. The ornamental regalia and apparel that the eomancer wore marked them as a very high ranking eomancer from some spellcaster lodge or another. Zhanna had heard of these organizations, private groups of spellcasters that met together to hone their skills and socialize with their colleagues outside of military settings. Crowley had started or taken control of several of these organizations. Zhanna couldn’t remember their names off hand. She took special note of the blindfold on the eomancer’s face, covering his burnt out eyes and saw that on his outfit there was a cross, marking him as a Catholic chaplain. He bowed his head, and Zhanna could see a glow emanate from where his empty eye sockets no doubt were.

The woman immediately gasped and her eyes sprung open. The guards in the tent immediately raised their guns to fire, but Von Hindenburg silenced them with a simple raise of his hand. They dropped their weapons down, but they were still fingering the triggers, apparently not taking any chances. The woman rested back down, but her breathing rate had increased substantially. Her eyes were wide open with both fear and confusion as she looked about the room in a panic stricken frenzy, and she started babbling incoherently.

The assorted spellcasters and military officials confusing looked back and forth at each other, seeing if anyone else could understand her. Zhanna quickly realized what sounded like confused babbling was actually a language. Zhanna raised her brow, trying to see if it sounded like any languages she knew any bits of. None of it was familiar to her, but it had a certain sound to it she couldn’t quite place. One of the spellcasters that had come in with Von Hindenburg however did recognize it.

“She’s speaking some sort of Semitic language. Like Arabic, or Hebrew or Aramaic. But it’s not language I’ve ever heard. It’s heavily corrupted, but I’m fairly certain that is it,” the short woman said. Her robes and the blindfold across her eyes identified her also as being an eomancer.

Von Hindenburg held up his hands and snapped his fingers. “Tongues spell, if you’d please. As amusing as this is, I have other things I do need to get to today.”

“Yes sir,” the eomancer said, and she pressed her two fingers on her right hand to her mouth. Her eyes glowed under the blindfold as she did so. A split second later, the tongues spell took effect over the whole hospital. Tongues spells were one of the specialties that eomancers could perform, allowing anyone in the affected area to understand and speak any language.

The woman’s speech changed from being unintelligible to rapid fire questions that Zhanna was able to understand. The woman asked rapid fire who they were, where she was, and what they wanted. Von Hindenburg remained impassive, but one of his eyebrows raised as she continued on. He held up his hand and she stopped talking, but she cast her eyes towards him with a hint of wary concern.

“I am Field Marshal Von Hindenburg, you are currently in the Field Camp of the Kaiser’s Army on the Kaiser’s colony planet of Charleswelt, and I want information. Your questions have been answered and now you will answer mine.”

The woman paused for a moment. “You serve… the Kaiser? I have not heard of this God.”

The room broke into quiet but nervous snickers. Von Hindenburg brushed his moustache but remained impassive. “The Kaiser is not a god. He might sometimes think otherwise, but I serve the Kaiser. The Emperor of the German Empire. Now I seem to recall saying I would ask the questions here. My questions are simple. Who are you, why are you here, and why the hell is there a rebellion going on here?”

“The Kaiser is not a god? Then which God holds dominion here? To whom does the Kaiser answer to?” the woman asked. Her confusion was fairly evident, but if von Hindenburg noticed or cared, he gave no sign.

“Who the Kaiser is isn’t your issue. As far as you are concerned, I’m the god around here. Answer my questions and maybe I’ll let someone else answer yours. I’m very busy here, so start talking now.”

“I am Adara… I was… a shade guard. I came here to…” she paused and she pressed her hand to her forward and slightly winced in pain.

“What the hell is a shade guard?” Ludendorff asked. He had slowly walked up towards them, and was now standing next to von Hindenburg.

“It is a…” she paused again, “I don’t… I don’t remember. Where I came from… who I am. I was looking for something… or someone.”

“You don’t remember. You don’t remember?! You’ll have to forgive me and the Quartermaster General here if we don’t believe that. I come here and have to deal with a damned bunch of rebels who have made no demands, given no ultimatum, refuse any diplomacy. Then I get someone like you in here. You are not from around here. I can’t help but think there is a connection between you and this situation.”

“I told you. I don’t remember. The last thing I can remember was the portal. I walked through it-odd sensation-and there were men there. They weren’t who I expected,” Adara said.

“The portal? This portal at the coast? You came in from the fatherland?” Ludendorff asked.

“The fatherland? That name isn’t familiar to me. And I don’t know about any portal at a coast. This was up against the mountains, beyond the smoke city.”

Broussard interrupted. “Wait, a second portal? I don’t remember seeing a second portal on any of your maps. Have you been holding out on me?” He turned towards von Hindenburg with a heavy set frown.

“You haven’t seen a second portal, because there is no second portal. You know that major. Accord of 1746. No portals on a colony world except for the one leading back to Earth,” von Hindenburg said, staring down at Broussard. He switched back to Adara, who still looked slightly confused. “Who did you see at the portal?”

“Earth? You came from Earth?” Adara asked.

“Answer the question, girl, and we might answer yours,” Broussard said.

“I didn’t know them. They were dressed in robes, much like the ones you wear,” she said, pointing towards one of the astromancers that had come in with the Field Marshal. “There was almost a dozen of them. They attacked me as I arrived. Yelled thing at me, and hurled magics at me, especially their leader.”

“Describe him,” von Hindenburg commanded.

“I didn’t see that much of him, he was wearing a robe with his hood up. But he was portly, and bald. He had these dark staring eyes, they were sunken back in his head.”

“That sounds a lot like Aleister Crowley,” Zhanna said.

“If I had to describe him, those are the words I’d use,” Amellia agreed.

“So Crowley is opening portals? Where is he creating them and to where?” Ludendorff mused.

“You still haven’t explained why you are here,” von Hindenburg demanded.

“I told you I don’t know!” Adara protested loudly. “I just… I don’t know why. My head hurts…”

Von Hindenburg frowned and the room was silent for several seconds, while someone waited for von Hindenburg or Ludendorff to say something. Von Hindenburg finally spoke up.

“Perhaps you need a rest,” he said out loud. “Your interrogation will continue at a later time.” Without another word he turned around and walked back out of the hospital. Ludendorff followed behind him, glancing back only once before continuing out.

Zhanna looked back towards the woman. She seemed slightly dazed, and was staring off into space. She lay on the hospital gurney, covered with blanked up to her waste. She was still partially wearing the clothes that she was wearing when she had first arrived, although some of the more elaborate garments had been removed and were sitting on one of the chairs along the wall.

“This fellow you saw, what was he doing, exactly?” Broussard said, walking over next to the woman.

“He was creating the portal. I was… somewhere else. Shifting colors, clouds of multiple hues, shifting landscapes. And then a portal opened. I hurried through it, and there they were. We stared at each other for some time, and then he attacked. I managed to get past him… I don’t know how… and I continued past there… until I found myself here,” she said.

Zhanna was interested to know that the tongues spell was still in effect. Eomancy was one of the disciplines she didn’t know much about. She briefly wondered how much longer the spell would last, now that the eomancer had left. She cocked her head to the left, and lit a cigarette off of Grigori’s extended index finger again.

“What was this about gods? I’ve got my faith and all, but you act like you personally knew one,” Seamus asked.

This ought to be good, Zhanna thought, another religious nut bag.

“I did… at least, I think I did. I just remember darkness and shadows. And it was cold, very cold. An immense intelligence was there, one that kept thousands of slaves, millions of them, yoked into servitude,” Adara said.

The groups eyes shifted back amongst each other. Each thinking the same thing. Is she on drugs, or just crazy, Zhanna thought.

“What do those tattoos mean? They’re writing aren’t they?” Seamus asked.

Adara looked down at her body, and looked down each arm as if she had never seen the tattoos. The intricate lines were perfectly drawn, with no errors on the edges, no smudges, no fading away. Either they were incredibly intricate using some type of ink that Zhanna didn’t know of, or they were incredibly fresh.

“I didn’t realize… they are praises. Praises to the Dim Lord. It says ‘Lead us from the flame to the darkness. Lead us from despair to contentment. Lead us from life to death. Praise be to the Dim Lord, the Shadow and the Darkness. Blessed be the name of the Undying Father.’ There is more, but it follows along those same lines,” Adara said, trying to read the writing. She strained as she shifted her head, and paused every few words. Given the orientation of the words, she sometimes struggled to read them upside down.

While she read, Zhanna had paced over next to Seamus. Amellia looked on with a sense of curiosity, while Grigori and Broussard stood by, listening to her talk. Once Zhanna stood next to Seamus, she leaned over to whisper to him.

“What do you think? Crazy? I think she bumped her head a little too hard out there. Amnesia, concussions, delusions, even if she did see Crowley, I think we’re wasting our time here.”

“I don’t know. Things are scattered and disassembled. I think there is some method in this madness,” Seamus whispered back.

“Are you sure? A tattoo riddled trollop found in the middle of a warzone that can’t remember a thing, and babbles about dark gods and death and such? She said Dim Lord! What the hell kind of title is that supposed to be?!” Zhanna whispered back to Seamus.

Adara was still reading off from the tattoos and didn’t seem to notice their discussions. Amellia looked at the two of them with a questioning look, and Broussard seemed to be tapping his fingers against his arm, waiting for her to finish talking. Before he could, Seamus interrupted her.

“They’re quite beautiful, Miss Adara. Where did you get them at?” Seamus said as Adara trailed off while reciting more of the writings.

“Thank you, but I don’t know your name, sir,” Adara said with a smile at Seamus.

Zhanna rolled her eyes.

“No Sir, Just Seamus. Lieutenant Seamus O’Hara if you want to be technical,” Seamus said. He introduced the rest of them and each one nodded or acknowledged him as he introduced them. Zhanna gave no motion or acknowledgement however; she seemed to just be concentrating on the cigarette she smoked.

“And I am Adara, just Adara. You are the ones to whom I owe my life?” she asked Seamus.

“Well, yeah, I guess you could say that. I was the one really who uh, found you,” Seamus said.

Broussard moved forward, interjecting himself between Seamus and Adara. “I hate to be rude, but we have things to do, people to kill, and things to destroy. Where was this portal at? The one that you came through.”

“I highly doubt that Crowley is still there,” Amellia said.

“True, but it’s a better lead than somewhere off in that direction,” Zhanna said with a flippant gesture of her hand.

“Travel the city of smoke, and keep alongside the mountain sides for some time. The portal was set up in a river canyon,” Adara answered regardless of what they said.

“Are you sure we can trust her? She may not be the most… trustworthy source regardless of her intentions,” Zhanna said.

“It’s the best lead we have,” Grigori said, speaking for the first time.

“He’s right, and we’re already behind schedule. We need to get moving,” Broussard said. He looked towards Adara and Seamus. “Apologies miss, but we have to cut our socializations short. This is a war.”

Seamus frowned at Broussard and then looked back towards Adara. “I’m sure we’ll be able to uh, talk… later. When this is over that is.”

The group started shuffling out of the hospital, but Seamus lingered, desiring to talk more with Adara. However Amellia noticed him lingering and walked back over to him. She linked her arm around his shoulders and led him out of the hospital.

Zhanna rolled her eyes again. Typical, becoming smitten at first sight with the exotic locals. She frowned. If that was how he wanted to be, then so be it. He’ll come around eventually. She glanced back at the hospital. Not that I’m jealous or anything, she thought with a smirk appearing on her face. She didn’t know whether that last thought was sarcasm or true.

Who knows what it is...

This is, more than anything, a setting and a fulfillment of my side of the bargain (i.e. to write) but I'm kind of a plodding writer so this is all I could pound out in my free day. What we're looking at here is something quite raw, so don't worry if it doesn't make much sense (it certainly doesn't go anywhere yet...) Hm. Well, rambling apology = over.



“Roll it over,” Hal said, gesturing with the end of his still-smoking rifle at the furry mass lying in the sagebrush twenty feet in front of him. Two young men in wide-brimmed hats and tight jeans hopped out of the bed of the red pickup and approached the mutant calf on either side, leaving Hal a clear shot in case it wasn't quite dead yet. Standing over the carcass, one of them coughed and rubbed his moustache while the other pulled his work gloves on tighter. Then they bent over and slowly pulled the carcass belly-up by pulling up on the normal legs in front and back. Then they took an affectedly nonchalant step or two away. The ridiculous thing lay on its back, its tounge sticking out of its bullet-marred head, six hairy legs sticking up at ten, twelve, and two o'clock.


Hal lowered his rifle and wiped the sweat off of his sun-worn forehead with his sleeve as he walked around the mutated calf. It was clearly plague-bred with wild bison, judging by the thick, curly fur which covered its forelegs and what looked like a small hump between the shoulders, but its long, polled head, but what scared Hal more than anything was its size. Obviously larger than his males at a year old, it might have already been mating and spreading the disaster in his herd. But then, it might be alright. The mutant was out wandering on its own, which meant the herd had expelled it, though probably only a few days, or else the wolves or coyotes would have killed it.

Cory, the cattle hand with a long, black moustache, took a swig from his canteen and offered it to Hal, who shook his head, and then to the other hand, Marcos, who took one careful gulp before handing it back with a grateful nod. “Well, boss, should we burn it?” Marcos asked. He was looking up toward the near line of brush-covered hills, where another eighty head of cattle were waiting for the immunization shots they brought in the truck.

“Get a DNA sample first,” Hal said as he headed back to the driver's seat to start the paperwork. Cory pulled out the blood kit and put on a surgical mask and latex gloves as Marcos cleared the ground of brush and grass and got a set of decomposers from the toolkit behind the pickup. The summer heat made the air shimmer like flowing water as it rose from the dusty earth. The grating sound of crickets was the only sound till Cory and Marcos climbed into the bed of the pickup and knocked on the top of the truck. Hal finished what he was typing and put the tablet back in its charger and switched the electric engine on and the three men silently rode on up the dusty road to the Windy Canyon some miles away.

As the dust trail kicked up by the truck faded into the afternoon, no sign of life could be seen for miles around other than the insisten mating calls of insects. At length, the carcass began to smoke and hiss as the chemically-induced decomposition sped up. Soon the outside of the carcass was burning bright like phosphorus, but without the sparks. A thin whisp of smoke rose up into the sky, attracting a red-tail and a trio of ravens, but they didn't stay long, and all was still again. The burning died down with the sun and first a red sunset and then a moonless night slowly took their turns across the sky. A cool breeze bent the sparse clumps of wheat grass and sagebrush. Coals were glowing soft and red where the carcass used to be. A pack of coyotes yelped its way across the barren steppe, the alpha male pausing briefly at the spot and sniffing around as he wagged his pair of long tails before continuing across the desert in search of something to eat.

* * *

Ray Moreno drove down Paxton's main street at a leisurely speed, his left arm absently hanging out of the window. On the sidewalk, people in sunglasses and long sleeves greeted each other by name as they walked their dogs or pushed their children around in shaded perambulators. The town couldn't be bigger than thirty thousand, but it served as a hub for the area. Farmers from the area brought their wheat to mill and their potatoes to ship. More importantly, Paxton was a stop on the railroad between Salt Lake and Billings. Coalmen, lumber men, businessmen, cowboys, and gold prospectors would stop here on their way to their fortunes, get a bite to eat, transfer money, stop to check their email.

Ray had been working for Henry Anderson, one of the most successful ranchers in the area, for a couple of months, but he hadn't spent much time in Paxton. ...

Chapter 4, Part 2/2

Alright, previously Zhanna and Amellia were discussing Aleister Crowley and what they knew about him. They have since began to head out, continuing after him.

Continuing out from where they had held camp the previous night, Seamus noticed the rumble of the rebel vehicles out on the highway that they were using. Such organization was so odd to see, especially from a rebel force. What are they up to? he wondered to himself as he took point with Zhanna. He had asked the others, and the most he had gotten was various grunts and purposeless answers. Zhanna didn’t care, and Grigori, well, since when had Grigori ever mused philosophical? Broussard had commented that it was intriguing, but non-vital to their mission. Even Amellia, his stalwart companion of several years had nothing to offer except that she had no ideas as to what was going on here.

Crowley, the Beast 666, had arrived one day some months back. Less than a week later, the entire colony had come out in open revolt against the German Empire. Such a thing was almost completely unheard of. Between the fact that Seamus had been under the impression that the German colony planets were all satisfied under the Kaisers rule, or the folly of trying to rebel against the Kaiser, the whole situation didn’t make sense. There is something wrong with this whole mess, Seamus thought, and Crowley knows why.

Moving through the vegetated terrain, he tried to wrap his mind back to the task at hand. Somewhere on this planet, Crowley was hiding and they needed to find him. Finding a needle in a haystack would have been less difficult than this, and all five of them knew it. As is, they were running blind, simply hoping that they would sniff out some sort of lead. Hard to do when you are bushwhacking, away from any sort of civilized area, he thought to himself. Amellia and Zhanna, and thusly Grigori by extension, had all agreed with his assessment, but Broussard was the team leader, and he was a very no-nonsense stick-to-the-rules sort of fellow. They’d have to make due with their search at the city itself. They all had some inkling of where he might be hiding. Libraries, government buildings, each option was open, and it was frustrating that they had no concrete leads on where they really needed to look.

The city was still several miles off from where they were, and if they continued along at a decent pace, they would make it there by nightfall. There were numerous ways of getting there fast, but Broussard had shot each one down as it was suggested. Airdrop from an airship was out, as was trucks, motorcycles and just about every other invention they could think of. No, they had to hoof the mountainside to get there without being seen.

As they escape the treeline, a large open hillside several miles across was presented to them. The sun’s rays beat down on them, now that they had no tree cover, and Seamus covered up any sort of unprotected flesh. He noticed Zhanna doing the same. They would no doubt sweat to death inside all the coverings, but that was better than being covered with burns on any exposed skin. The group stopped at the treeline, looking out over the hillside.

“Very open terrain. Not good for hiding,” Grigori observed, saying aloud what everyone else was simply thinking.

“Do you think anyone is watching?” Amellia asked, shifting her gaze down towards where the supply lines were. Trucks and walkers blazed past, oblivious to anything else happening around them.

“It needs to be passed,” Broussard said, casting his eyes up the mountain. “The treeline is follows alongside the right flank of the opening. It will take longer, but I don’t think anyone will notice us there. Moving through the middle, though…” He trailed off the last sentence, leaving the rest unfinished.

“It’s probably our better option. We’ll likely be arriving after nightfall, so why risk it?” Zhanna said, looking up the hill as well.

Without another word, they shifted their movement and began following the treeline to their right, moving up alongside the mountain. Seamus kept looking back towards the rebel supply lines. The lines were easily two to three miles away, but all it took was one sharp eyes observer to notice them and they would find themselves in trouble. Looking back up the hill, he calculated the extra distance they’d have to travel while they moved around the treeline. At least two or three extra miles. It wouldn’t be as bad as he was initially thinking. The treeline was noticeable less congested with broken branches and fallen timber, and the passing through the area went quickly.

It was maybe twenty minutes later when they were up against the mountainside, that Seamus noticed something odd down the hill a ways. A slight discoloration in the long tannish grass. It was slight, and he had to stop because as soon as he took another step, he could no longer see the abnormality. Stopping the group, he paced backwards trying to catch sight of whatever it was again. Questioning glances filled the faces of the other four, but Seamus was far too distracted in order to fill them in.

What was it? It looked like something had moved through the area. The grass was laid flat against the ground in some places, and in others there was no sign. Squinting closer he noticed a large depressed area of grass. It was as if something was laying there. He caught a slight trickle of movement from the region. Instantly he went down on his chest, flattening himself out. The other four paused a moment longer, but seeing Seamus go to ground instantly spelled out for them that something was off, and they repeated the movement, dropping to the ground in a huff.

“What is it?!” Amellia hissed under her breath

“Something was lying down in the grass. I didn’t see what it was, but it was moving,” Seamus said.

“Rebel of some kind?” Zhanna said.

“I don’t know, possibly,” Seamus responded, “It’s too bright out to use an invisibility cloak to get a closer look. And we don’t want to start throwing fireballs or lightning bolts at it.”

“What is the matter? Don’t want a little wildfire flushing things out, and sending up a big sign declaring our presence of the world?” Zhanna said with a smirk.

“That would be precisely the reason, Sergeant,” Broussard answered. “Petrokova, you and O’Hara flank around the left side that we just came from, and try to come up from behind them. We’ll hold here. Keep low and don’t let them catch on to what you’re doing.”

Zhanna and Seamus nodded, and crawling down against the ground, then moved back the way that they had come from. Low crawling against the ground was not the most ideal way for moving cross country, and their trip proved this thought. Being covered head to toe now in clothes helped ward off any sharp rocks as well as any sticks or branches that might scratch them up while the moved back to a decent point from which they could assess the situation. Both of them carefully maneuvered around any dry branches and twigs, taking careful opportunity to avoid snapping them and revealing their presence. Roughly an hour ticked by until Seamus was convinced that they were in a safe spot that they could stand up at.

From where they both stood now, he could only guess right about where he had seen the object. He decided to get a better view, and tried climbing up one of the massive trees to improve his view. It only took a few steps to get up to a decent height and he looked out over the grassy area, taking careful steps to make sure that he remained hidden. Down below, Zhanna sat in a crouch, shifting her gaze from him, toward the field and then back to him in the tree. From this perspective, he could easily see the object out in the field. However the grasses were still high enough to cover up what he was looking at. The area was completely still, making the hairs on the back of his neck raise up in alarm. He knew where he needed to go however, and with an effortless jump, he gracefully landed on the ground right next to Zhanna.

Using a variant on the different types of hand signals that scouts and assassins used, he conveyed what he had seen to Zhanna

Four hundred yards at your eleven o’clock. Low to the ground.

She simply nodded in comprehension and they ducked in through the grasses, heading in the direction of their target. The only sound in the air was the rumbling of the engines of vehicles down on the supply lines, as well as the occasional snap-cracks of small weapons fire in the distance and occasional punctuations of louder cannon fire from bigger guns. Even the wind seemed to have stopped in the area, even though they were up against a mountain side. They continued crawling through the grasses for what seemed like an eternity, before he realized they were almost there. He could not make out the outline of a person laying in the grass, but the details of who they were or what they were doing eluded him. They lay very still against the ground, making little motions. Seamus, noting that their presence hadn’t been detected yet, relayed the information back to Zhanna behind him.

On three, we’ll jump up and surprise them, he said through gestures.

Zhanna nodded, and Seamus began the countdown. One, two, three!

They both jumped up, Seamus holding a ball of congealed shadow in the palm of his hand, ready to hurl it at whatever target got in the way, while Zhanna held two shadow daggers in her hands, coiled and ready to spring if she needed to.

She even took the surprise a step further, and shouted in German, “You don’t start talking right, then the next words out of your mouth had better be some brilliant Tolstoy prose, because you can be damn sure they’ll be on your tombstone!”

There was answer, and Seamus immediately noticed why. What he had been mulling over in his mind as being an enemy spy or sniper watching them was nothing even close to what lay in front of him. In fact he wasn’t even sure what was in front of him.

“What the hell is this?” Zhanna asked as she turned back towards where the rest of the group was now standing up, awkwardly looking back at her and Seamus.

What it was, was a woman, laying face down in the grasses. She was wearing an odd sort of clothing, with a shirt covering his chest and ending at her mid-drift as well as a vest that hung loosely about her shoulders that probably dangled past her waist, were they not flopped out on the ground in a disorderly manner. She wore a tight fitting skirt that was more like a kilt in design, and a set of pants that at one time had to of been very fine quality. Her feet were bare and bloody, no doubt from trudging through the rough terrain, and the majority of her clothes, having the same quality of the pants, were as ripped and shredded as well.

However it was not the clothing that was incredibly strange to Seamus. Covering her body, or at least the parts he could see, she was covered in tattoos. Each one was small, maybe an square inch total in area, but they were layered right next to each other in rows, and stacked on top of onne another. She must have thousands of them covering her body. Each one was a different character and Seamus saw none that was similar to the rest. They reminded him of Arabic letters, but there was still something different about them. It would probably help if he was even able to read Arabic to start with.

A sudden motion from the body caught his eye. Any other person would have been startled, but he realized that she was still alive. A corpse he had taken for dead laid in front of him, and he hadn’t even bothered to check the vitals to see if she was alive. The movement was nothing but a loud exhale from breathing, and as he watched closely, her breathing was shallow and irregular and it didn’t take a doctor to realize she was close to death. Even through all the tatooes, he could see she was beat red from exposure, and her brow glistened with sweat.

Seamus lay down next to her and rested his fingers on her wrist, checking her pulse, while the other three jogged up next to them. They looked down at the body in confusion. Grigori remained his impassive stoic self, while Amellia knelt down next to the body, checking for any sort of identification markers. Finding none on this side, she and Seamus helped flip her over onto her back. Her hair fell out over the grass, and Seamus noticed that it was as white as snow. He got a good look at her face, and paused where he was at. God, she’s beautiful. He sat there stunned for a moment until Broussard snapped him out of his daze.

“What we got here?” Broussard said, with an eyebrow raised looking down at the body.

“Woman. Barely alive. She’s very dehydrated, and probably at least one or two of these scrapes are infected. She’s not going to last very long unless she gets good medical attention,” Amellia said after having completed her diagnostic.

“What’s to debate? She’s nothing I’ve ever seen before. I think she has something to do with this whole situation. Probably somehow involved in the cause of it! I say we leave her behind and let the vultures have her!” Zhanna blurted out.

“There aren’t any vultures here,” Amellia pointed out. “And we can’t just leave her! We have no idea what is going on here! And didn’t the Germans point out that they were having difficulties with prisoner interrogations? At the very least they would appreciate the intel.”

“Which,” Broussard said, “is not part of our mission here. We’re not here to play gopher for the Kaiser’s boys. We’re after Crowley. That is first and only our main mission here. Not to go gallivanting off and playing the hero after every injured person we’d run across. Wars are not run by charity.”

“You can’t be serious! Seamus! Tell them they can’t just leave her like this!” Amellia protested.

Seamus meanwhile was gazing back toward the woman’s face. She had markings under her eyes like some tribal war paint, but they were faded no doubt from the environment. Her lips were cracked from the dry heat in this area. Still they didn’t seem to detract from her beauty. Seamus briefly found himself wondering who she was and how she had gotten here before he realized that the entire group was staring at him. Amellia’s eyes were both frustrated and pleading, Zhanna’s were angry and accusatory, while Broussard remained passive and stern.

“Leave her? What are you saying? That’s utter nonsense! We have no way of telling who they are, or whether or not they are some enemy soldier. Besides, have you ever seen an enemy soldier that looks like this? Amellia-Lieutenant Thatcher is right. The Germans would be incredibly grateful for any sort of intelligence they can get. Besides, do you want her death on your conscience, because you didn’t help?” Seamus said.

Zhanna folded her arms and glared down at Seamus. “That’s not it at all is it, Leiutenant.” She said the title with a mix of contempt and sarcasm. “I think it’s obvious you’re thinking about this, but certainly not with your head. I think you’re thinking with some other organ,” she snarled.

“You are out of line, Sergeant!” Seamus yelled out at her. He rarely actually used her title when conversing with her. Just like an angry parent shouting someone’s full name when they were cross.

Zhanna held out one of the shadow daggers over the body and she glared up at Seamus. “I hope I didn’t hit a nerve there, Seamus. I’d hate to think you were losing your head over a girl.”

“Enough,” a stern voice called out from the side. Everyone looked over to see Grigori frowing at them. Grigori generally stayed out of disputes. Either he was apathetic to the situation, or he let Zhanna speak his part. For him to actually take charge was considered odd. He noted that he had everyone’s attention and then he continued speaking. “It seems obvious to me that she is connected to what is going around here. Crowley is also connected to what is going on here, have no doubt. Therefore, there must be a link, and she could lead us to Crowley, rather than us aimlessly wandering about like a drunken soldier and hoping we find the proverbial needle.”

Everyone was quiet for a moment, and then Broussard spoke first. “I’d have to agree with you there, Sergeant Raskolnikov. I’ll bet you five will get you ten that she could lead us to Crowley.”

Zhanna frowned, partly because Broussard was disagreeing with her. But Seamus knew that the realy reason she was upset was because for once, Grigori had not agreed with her, and let Zhanna act on her sometimes sociopathic tendencies. Zhanna knew reason when she heard it, and was disciplined enough to fall in line. Seamus feared the day that Zhanna stopped following orders. However no further protest came from Zhanna, much to Seamus’s relief. The shadow daggers in her hand vanished in a puff of smoke that drifted away into the air.

“We’ll need to hurry. Even if she has seen Crowley, we’re still going to be behind him, trying to catch up,” Broussard said.

Grigori walked over to the body, and with gentle care unfitting for a giant such as himself, cradled the body of the woman in his arms. Zhanna, still storming, but not saying a word, took point, and Seamus followed behind her, occasionally glancing back at the unconscious woman. I hope you’re worth this trouble, he thought, glancing back to the front of the group.

Heavenly Docks 2

Sea-urchin boy and horse-face dropped Coleman in a heap at a narrow intersection of two curving corridors, each pausing just long enough to mewl and—well, horse-face shook like he was making a sound but Coleman didn’t hear anything—before vanishing back into the shadows. Not even his suit’s short list of eighteen million different alien species could hope to include every lifeform that wandered the galaxy’s crap farms like the Heavenly Docks, and apparently the two thugs that had just dropped him off were missing from that list. Not that it really mattered. Their meaning had been more than clear enough: got the job done, or get done.

Coleman watched the shadows where the two thugs had disappeared warily and let a count of ten pass before exhaling and chinning his helmet out. The Smarthelm rippled briefly and then decomposed, disappearing into his suit’s collar, and Coleman took a deep, relieved breath of air. As luck would have it, the Hrian who’d built the Heavenly Docks had evolved in an atmosphere fairly similar to that of Old Earth: 65% N₂, 20% O₂, 14% CO₂, and a smattering of other gases. At any rate, it was good enough for Coleman to breath, even if it had taking some adjusting to, three years back. Now, cramped as he was in some God-forsaken corner of the Docks, it merely smelled slightly fetid.

Fetid like his corpse was gonna be if he didn’t find a way to kill Cly M’shtinyb.

And I don’t even own a gun.

A quick twitch of his eyelid initiated his SegVision, bathing the dank corridors in brighter light as his ocular implants painted his surroundings with a variety of info-enhancements and semi-translucent icons. Another twitch of his eye swept away most of the flashing icons leaving his vision clear save for a bright, pulsing bar of blue light that began at his feet and ran off down the corridor to his left, disappearing far, far in the distance around the scarcely perceptible curve of the Docks. The floating piss-pile was a warren no human could have hoped to navigate, and Coleman whispered quick thank-you very much to God for AutoNav systems as he lurched into a jog, following the blue line that led back to the Dock’s inhabited sectors and his current “home”.

How was he going to knock off M’shtinyb? Briefly, while he paused for breath at the next intersection, he considered screwing the job and bolting from the Docks completely—but he discarded that idea almost as soon as it came to him. He doubted there was any ship that would take a human onboard, and even if he found a captain willing to take on a passenger, where could he go? Avantaer was too close. Jendathu would hunt him down, drag him kicking and—literally—screaming back to the Docks and then smear his guts from one end of the Docks to the other.

No, he exactly three options: he could jump through an open airlock and let cold hard vacuum do the rest, or he could trot back to Jendathu, spit in the crab’s eyes and then let the Nagathian do him in, or he could track down M’shtinyb, get in a pot shot or two at the bugger, and then die. Three options—none of them particularly pleasant—and all leading to the same conclusion.

The shining blue Home Bar led him to a long bank of mold-covered elevators that looked like they hadn’t been used in ages, and he palmed the pad of the nearest, bouncing anxiously on his heels and glancing over his shoulder occasionally. He had this irrational fear that M’shtinyb already knew what Jendathu had forced him into—already knew, and was sending his goons to make sure it never happened. When the lift door finally hissed open, he nearly jumped in.

So, three options, and he wasn’t in the mood for suicide, or giving Jendathu the pleasure of ripping him open. That left only one choice: killing the second most dangerous being on the Heavenly Docks and—if possible—surviving the job.

By the time lift doors opened again, he’d moved on to planning his first—and hopefully last—murder. The elevator opened onto the wide, curving expanse of MT-100D, the local parlance for Main Tunnel 100D. As usual, the twenty meter wide passageway was jammed to the rafters with beings from every corner of the galaxy. Literally crammed to the rafters—a crowd of Hrian scuttled past on the tunnel all above his head, chirping to one another like a chorus of gigantic crickets.

Coleman’s SegVision bloomed to life again, Personal Identification Icons, or PIIs, bobbing over everybeing’s head, flashy advertisements painting the tunnel walls and ceiling, and bright public announcement messages and news flashes scrolling by in the empty air near the upper center of the thoroughfare. Coleman’s own PII, a stylized Skull and Crossbones that he doubted anybeing would know the meaning of, was a fake he’d bought three months back.

He angled through the tight crowd, shouldering past two Bo’oramai and working his way to the far wall of the tunnel, where a bank of observation blisters looked out into space. He ducked inside one, sinking gratefully into the cushioned seat that ringed the circular room.

The observation blister protruded from the planet-ward edge of the Heavenly Docks, giving Colemon an uninterrupted view in all directions. To either side, the massive Docks extended, a leviathan ring more than two kilometers thick that shrank to a silver-white, pencil thin line as it dwindled into the distance, curving down and then behind the bright, gray-brown bulk of the Hrian homeworld, Q’charu’ztxzyl—or, as it was better known and more easily pronounced, Glorious Hive. The terminator had crossed nearly half the planet’s face fourty-three thousand klicks beneath Coleman, the black of the night side revealing the honey-comb pattern of the massive Hrian worldhive. Thousands of ships of every type and make imaginable drifted between the docks and the darkening world below, shining like jewels in the blackness of space.

The view was impressive, even breathtaking. Coleman saw none of it.

How do you kill a crimelord?

Coleman would need help, that much was for sure. Professional help, if possible. Luckily, help of that kind was all too available on the Docks, and Jendathu’s promised cash compensation should prove tempting enough for Coleman to use as incentive.

He pulled up a data screen on his SegVision and ran a search for M’shtinyb. Nothing came up. For a half-second he stared at the blank screen, fear knotting his stomach. Then he cursed and slammed his head against the neoglass window. Of course the crime boss wouldn’t show up any public search. What was he thinking? He was going need professional help just to figure out how much professional help he needed!

Calm. He needed to be calm. Squeezing his eyes shut and taking deep, calming breaths, he forced himself to relax. So he needed help, big deal. He’d known that from the beginning. Obviously, that was where he needed to start.

And, as luck would have it, the place for getting the kind of help he needed was right around the corner.

Sliding out of the observation blister, Coleman turned left and pushed back into the crowd. The main tunnels up in the higher levels had sliding walkways and trams and auto-piloted taxis. But they also had higher security, and Coleman had learned long ago that picking a dozen poor beings’ pockets and packs was more profitable—and more healthy—than riding the walkways and dodging private security. So he spent most of his time down below, where beings walked and pockets were looser.

Two hundred meters up the tunnel he turned left through a permanently broken portal and a pair of seedy looking Ch’ogan bouncers into The Underbelly—a hole in the wall tavern/cantina/fiazzen/whatever-a-being-happened-to-call-the-dive-where-he went-to-get-drunk-and-forget-that-he-was-stuck-on-the-Docks.

Coleman had frequented the Underbelly enough to know that there never was a ‘slow-time’ in the cramped tavern; ships were constantly arriving and departing from the docks, and the crews of those ships were always ready to down a cup full of the local moonshine. As usual, the place was crowded cheek to cheek with beings. Pausing just beyond the entryway, Coleman lifted his arms and let the small Feieen waiting there give him a once over with a handheld scanner. As the waist-high creature did his routine, Coleman eyed the crowd.

The Underbelly had been built into the outer wall of the Docks, conveniently utilizing the abandoned nest of some metal-digesting parasites that had somehow snuck onto a grain transport made it from the planet surface up to the docks ages ago. Thus, carved out by non-sentient bugs as it was, the Underbelly had a strange organic feel that followed no particular plan that the Coleman could see. The serving center—on Old Earth Coleman would have called it a bar—dominated the far left of the curving, pitted ‘floor’, and even extended partway up the left wall, where a crowd of Hrian were clustered, standing parallel to the floor and chittering loudly. A group of grub-like creatures that Coleman had never seen before occupied the rest of the tavern floor—he couldn’t tell if the rhythmically contorting slugs were dancing or communicating via body language. Frankly, he didn’t care.

The rest of the walls were pockmarked low and high with deep holes that had once been nesting sites for the parasites, but were now private booths crammed with tables and benches. Some of the booths were sealed with transparent airlocks for the convenience of the Underbelly’s non-oxygen respirating clientele.

The Feieen nudged him forward, its search complete, and Coleman angled through the undulating crowd of sluggish grubs, carefully avoiding touching any of them. The Underbelly’s lights rippled through a wide spectrum of colors—half of which Coleman was sure his eyes couldn’t even see—and a low pulsing beat filled the air and thumped against his chest. The slug things were definitely dancing, he decided.

A small potato-shaped booth bored into the far wall behind the bar was vacant, and Coleman slid into it as quickly as he could, putting his back to the empty, far end of the booth and watching the Underbelly’s entrance nervously, unable to shake the feeling that M’shtinyb was already having him tailed.

He was so intent on watching the entrance that the AI waiter had to speak twice before Coleman even noticed it.

“Sir,” the AI said again, in good old-fashioned English—a sound as sweet as any Coleman had heard in a long while. “Sir, what may I serve you?”

“I’ll take whatever’s being served to my type,” Coleman said, knowing the AI had already scanned him to be sure that no potentially toxic drinks were mistakenly passed his way. The short, rusting robot turned to go, and Coleman quickly added, “Bring me back a writing pad with the drink.”

“Of course sir. Enjoy your afternoon at the Underbelly.”

So it was afternoon, Dock standard time. Coleman hadn’t even thought to check since being dumped by Jendathu’s beings. He brought up a clock on his SegVision, and gulped audibly. It had been roughly half an hour since Jendathu had ‘dismissed’ him, which still left him exactly seventy-one and a half hours to kill M’shtinyb; but, on the other hand, that only left him seventy-one and a half hours to kill M’shtinyb.

He had to get moving quickly.

The AI returned with a tall neoplast glass filled to the brim with a drink so brilliantly green that even Coleman—who’d hardened his gut with many an alien concoction—raised an eyebrow before passing his credcard to the robot. Accepting the payment, the AI swung its second set of arms around and handed Coleman a blank datapad.

“Will that be all, sir?”

Coleman nodded absently, already typing furiously on the data pad. He stopped writing twice to erase everything he’d written and start over. He wanted to attract a very specific type of being—something crooked enough to be of help in planning and carrying out a hit job, but at the same time something dumb enough to not try and simply knock him off and take the job over. After another minute of writing, he paused and studied his short advertisement. Then, satisfied, he ordered the datapad to translate the message into a half dozen of the major trade languages common on the Docks, and then propped the datapad up at the end of his table using his untouched drink as a stand.

The short message read:

Crew needed.

Likelihood of physical harm high.

Reward: Equal shares of 500,000 credit payment.

Amateurs need not apply.

Then, scooting as far back into the shadows as possible, Coleman waited.

Clouds-Amun Chenzira Still Lives

There was a slight breeze in the dry air. It moved small grains of sand from time to time but amidst the heat of the baking sun in the endless sea of dunes it made little impression on the landscape. There was, however, one feature standing out on the landscape. One solitary, low flying cloud hovered like a spirit over the bleak desert. Its shadow cast against the hills of sand giving them a small break from the scorching sun.


Soon its shadow hovered slowly over cracked columns and bricks that were slowly returning to the earth as though they followed the cycle of time and decay. The sand encompassed much of the ruins. There had once been a structure of some sort in the area. The sand sloped off to an empty river bed next to a cliff edge. At a prior millennia it would have been a waterfall and a paradisiacal glen. The only life now amidst the ruins was a tall, slender man. In that moment it would not have been apparent that he was defined, skilled, and hansom. His chiseled features were now hid beneath a cowl; a large cloak that covered his entire person except his brown boots. He crouched atop a certain fallen spire with his hands crossed. Soon the clouds shadow fell on him and he raised his head slightly upwards.

The silence was shattered after a moment. A low hum echoed through the dry river bed and off the torn and fallen columns. The cloaked man did not move. Soon a low flying aircraft glinted in the sun as it crested the closest dune. Its hull was silver and with black veins running along its different facets. It seemed to be armored and out of its back side was a blue fire that propelled it forward like a jet engine only smaller.

The craft landed like a dragonfly amidst the ruins and its cock pit slowly opened revealing two heads. The two people stepped out of the craft and crunched onto the sand floor. The first was a man in his late 40’s. He boasted a scruffy chin and wore goggles. The second was a woman. Her name was Victoria. She had long flowing black hair and wore a business suit with a skirt that was just as black as her hair; the skirt barely made it to her mid thighs. Upon landing in the sand she removed her high-heels and proceeded forward barefoot.

The man in goggles followed Victoria towards the fallen columns.

“You’re late.” The man under the cowl spoke in a gravelly voice. One would perhaps have thought he was ill from his voice but the man and woman both knew better. They were aware that the man under the cloak had recently awoken from a 200 year sleep. They knew it wasn’t his first either. He had survived millennia upon millennia on this earth making his age countless. They knew very well that he had just accomplished a journey into the heart of the earth and back to retrieve something… some artifact. But what artifact exactly? They had hoped to find out.

“Late?” spoke the man. He sounded tired but steady. “We are here on the precise day and time you commanded.”

“I’ve been here for 2 days now. If you had listened to the whisperings of the Bleak you would have known to come earlier.” The cloaked man said bitterly.

The woman gave almost a snort in response. “We leave most of that up to you Emperor...”

“Don’t be a fool.” He said before she could finish his title. A hand protruded from within the folds of heavy cloth and tossed a shiny item that looked somewhat like a dingy brooch attached to leather belts. The scruffy man caught it in his left hand. He immediately began examining the artifact.

“Is this…it? Is this what you went to Marinthe to…”

“It is an artifact that has survived the tests of time.” The cloaked man cut him off before he could finish the question. “It is called a crutch. It’s a gruesome item my Glass Blower of over 10,000 years created…Rajagal was his name. One of the few human souls I truly miss since my time on earth. He was the most talented with glass and the bleak. But seeing how you, Mr. Cannon are the only Glass Blower I can trust at this disdainful time, it must be you who recharges the crutch. And then I will be able to return to normal.”

“When will you want it back? How much time do I have?” Mr. Cannon said holding the crutch up to the light. It was a flattened sphere of perfectly clear glass attached to small leather belts and buckles. The center piece was so clear that it appeared more like a drop of water than glass.

The Emperor arose at this point and approached Mr. Cannon. He walked with a limp and grunted with each step. “I want you to do it…now.”

A brief look of fear flashed across Mr. Cannon’s face. He doubted his abilities and perhaps supposed once the task was complete his purpose to the Emperor would be fulfilled thus making him a unneeded liability. Cannon breathed deep and regained his resolute disposition. “What must I do.”

Beneath the cowl a grin slowly formed.

An hour later Mr. Cannon and Victoria left in the same craft that had brought them. Timing could not have been more perfect for as the jet disappeared into the horizon 2 more figures appeared with the now setting sun to their backs. It cast long shadows from their bodies as they marched towards the Emperor.

“Giacov! Sophacles!” the Emperor called their names. Upon hearing it they ran towards the fallen monument.

When they reached him both Giacov and Sophacles fell to one knee. “Chenzira.” They whispered ominously. Both were dressed for the trek across the desert. Giacov was defined by a head of white hair that was brilliant in the sun. Sophocles was shorter and stocky. His pectoral muscles protruded from his chest and his arms were like over filled sausages that he folded across his front.

“Arise.” The Emperor spoke. His voice was no longer gruff but smooth and enchanting. Giacov reached out and put a hand on the Emperor’s shoulder. “Master. You seem… well. Once more.”

The Emperor put a hand over his chest and heaved a large breath. “Things will be different this time around. The name Amun Chenzira will be known once more across the earth.” Amun turned and faced the ruined monument. “Do you know what this is?” he asked loudly. He walked forward and his limp was gone as well. The crutch was working. “This was the once great Tower of Idune. Time has crumbled it to the ground just as Demetri Idero Idune himself was lost. I am the only thing on this EARTH that has out done the cycles. I am greater than any other. You two will be princes of the Bleak.” Amun turned and smiled at Giacov and Sophocles. “Do you see that cloud fading into the north?”

Giacov and Sophocles both gazed into the northern horizon. “It is a Mage of the Bleak. It will guide us to the next phase in our assault of the Mariner world. Come, we must not lose pace.”

Emperor Chenzira moved to the far side of the ruins. Giacov and Sophocles followed to find 3 horses tied to a large stone. The three mounted and rode north.

Chapter 4, part 1/2

Alright, to business first. For any of you that have missed the first two chapters and want to read them, let me know your gmail account and i'll let you view them on google documents. Secondly, you read that right, this is chapter 4. I need to do more character research on some other guys and I want to make it right, so chapter 3 is on hold until I've read a few books. Luckily, chapter 4 starts a bit after 2 ends, so you're not missing anything vital.

Pre-Chapter Summary: Alright, back at chapter 2, the characters had broken through the trench lines of the rebel forces on the german colony planet of Charleswelt. They're currently hunting one Aleister Crowley, and are also on the look out for another german named Heinrich Himmler.

The early morning haze creeped over the mountain tops as dawn slowly took control of the sky. The forest around Zhanna seemed to come alive as the various native fauna started to come alive. The bizarre bird-like creatures that flew these foreign skies filled the air with their calls and chirps as they slowly woke up and began their day. The massive evergreen trees glistened with a slight dew and gave off a sweet smell of vegetation.

They had managed to get a very respectable distance behind them during the night. Finally after several hours of moving through thick and exhausting undergrowth, and several run ins with the native nocturnal predators that stalked these mountains, Broussard had deemed it time for them to take a quick few hours of rest before continuing on. From their position up against the mountains, they were far away from the rebel supply lines, and out of line of sight of anyone who might send a warning to the rebels that they were coming.

Numerous elite spellcasters trying to infiltrate far behind enemy lines would raise any defending commander’s eyes and it would quickly be discovered that they were no doubt on a mission of assassination against the ranking commanders. Best we keep to the wilds than try to brave the supply lines without being seen, Zhanna thought and then looked back towards the camp where everyone else was at. At least for the sake of some of us.

She and Seamus could generally move unimpeded along any route, provided there were shadows enough. Between the two of them, they could probably have reached the city already, but then would be without the heavy support that the other three showed. Zhanna scanned back over the horizon. Even given the several miles distance they had put down between themselves and the portal, they could still hear the gunfire from both sides as the Germans tried to press the advantage while they still had the momentum behind them, and the rebels tried to defend against the merciless German onslaught.

Several miles down below them, the rebel supply lines bustled with infantry and vehicles heading towards the front. Vehicles hauled massive land-bound guns, and walking artillery pieces clanked and whistled as they marched toward the lines. The rebels went about it with striking efficiency. They seemed to have no troubles getting artillery moving, or telling soldiers where to go. It was almost uncanny to watch them as they went about their different tasks. Watching carefully, she picked out an infantry truck, probably carrying several dozen soldiers in it, race towards the lines with almost reckless abandon that still seemed incredibly controlled. She traced it back towards its origin.

They hadn’t seen the city of Barossastad yet, but the presence of it was immediately called to the attention of anyone looking for it. Massive smoke clouds hung over a section beyond the next rise, as the great fires of industry burned away, no doubt making numerous weapons of war for aid against the German onslaught. That seemed likely anyway, as Zhanna recalled that the entire colony planet was one of the chief industrial sectors for the Germans. Supposed it had massive near-surface deposits of iron, copper and a half dozen other incredibly useful ores.

She gave the lines one last look, and then walked back to the camp. As she entered back in, she noticed that Broussard, Grigori, and Seamus were still quietly resting. Zhanna was holding watch for these last few hours, but Amellia was already awake. She held a coffee pot in her hand, and steam whistled out of the top of it. Pyromancy in one of its more domestic uses, Zhanna thought to herself, noting that if Amellia felt any pain from heating the coffee pot, she gave no notice.

“Drink?” Amellia asked, looking up as Zhanna came back into the camp.

“Yeah, I’ll take a bit,” Zhanna said after reaching back to her pack and removing the tin cup she carried. She extended it out towards Amellia and the cup was quickly filled with the steaming hot drink.

Amellia filled her own cup and took a drink. She swashed it around in her mouth for a few seconds, and then swallowed. She nodded, almost absent-mindedly, and then said, “That tastes awful.”

Zhanna went ahead and took a sip as well. It does taste awful. She finished off the cup and refilled it again.

“So, Lieutenant, didn’t Seamus once mention you knew Mr. Crowley?” Zhanna said, while taking another sip.

“Yes, I did,” she paused then said, “God, please don’t call me Lieutenant. I’m not big on rules and etiquette like the Major over there.” She looked back towards the sleeping bulk of Major Broussard. He sat with his knees up and his arms wrapped around them. It looked incredibly uncomfortable, and Zhanna briefly wondered how he was able to sleep sitting like that.

“It also makes me feel old and gnarly, Zhanna. I’m only two years older than you are,” Amellia said, shifting her gaze toward the supply line of the rebels, before looking back. “Yeah, I knew him. It was well a ways back. I’m surprised I remembered it at all. Cor, musta been, what? 1901, 1902? I was about seven at the time. This was after I had left the steel mills in London and was in India.”

Zhanna took another sip of the coffee. “You were with Redcliff then?” she asked.

Amellia nodded. “I didn’t really know who he was or what he did then. Even if I did know what he had been up to, I doubt I could have done anything. I mean, would you have tried to kill a man claiming to be your father after you found out how many people he’d killed, and all in the name of peace and some other things like that?”

Zhanna nodded without giving Amellia much of a pause after she asked. “If that was the case, I would have.”

Amellia raised her eyebrow, but only for a moment. “Well, what can we really expect from you? You killed your first bear when you were younger than that, if I remember right. But I digress. He occasionally entertained dignitaries of sorts at times, and one of those times it was Aleister Crowley himself, apparently fresh from the School of Magics at Cambridge. He must have only been twenty five at the time.”

Amellia paused and popped out a cramp in her neck. She reached back and massaged the muscles before continuing. “He was there looking for a book, or so he claimed at least. Said that one of the professors at the college needed it for some research. He showed Redcliff some sort of seal or paper that made his eyes bulge out, and he immediately accommodated him with whatever he wanted. Apparently everything he wanted meant, quite literally, everything he wanted, as I found out later. He… well you first need to understand that even though we were simply at an alliance with India, working out trade agreements. But that far into India, away from Delhi and Mumbai, some of the British acted much more like conquerors instead of trade partners. Redcliff was like that.”

“But you didn’t find out about that until later,” Zhanna said.

“Aye, that was the case. If I had known then, the fact he was a slave master, the fact that he was a tyrant and megalomaniac, I would have just stayed at the steel mill. But the past is over and gone. Regardless, Redcliff gave Crowley everything. Money, food, women, whatever he wanted. The man was cultured, refined, hedonistic and depraved beyond everyone I’d ever seen or heard of.”

“Depraved and hedonistic?” Zhanna said.

“Quite. I remember first meeting him, and looking into those sunken eyes. He never said anything to me at all, but it was all a manner of his posture. How he held himself, how he spoke to everyone else, it was as plain as the writing on a book that he wasn’t a good person,” Amellia said.

“You were able to judge that just from how he looked? I was expecting that you’d seen things, or he said something,” Zhanna said with an incredulous note in her voice.

“I was only seven or so at the time. I think Redcliff was at least slightly protective of me. Probably didn’t want his ace in the hole ruined before I could play knee-breaker for him. But if even the most belivable rumor about him that I heard was true, then it speaks volumes. Besides, before I left, I managed to read through Redcliff’s journals. Crowley was depraved, make no doubt about that. Ritual sex acts, supposed animal sacrifices, and a whole ‘nother pile of things. ‘Do what thou wilt,’ was his motto,” Amellia said while looking slightly disgusted.

“Ritual sex acts? I thought those had been disproven to have any note of substance or power in them centuries back,” Zhanna said with curiosity.

“Oh, they don’t. I never believed for a moment that they do. But he was big into teaching new magic. He looked for it everywhere that he went, seeing if there were other ways to get into esoteric dealings never before used. He did sex acts, male, female,” Amellia paused and raised her eyebrow,” Probably animals as well, but that one depends on who you talk to.”

“So what was he really after?” Zhanna asked, getting the subject back on track.

“Honestly, I really have no idea what he was looking for. He stayed for about a week, and then took about a dozen soldiers, some porters, some elephants for transportation, and disappeared. He never came back, nor did anyone that he took with him. About a month after he left, Redcliff was about to send out a search party for him, when it came to light that he, Crowley that is, he had an affair with Redcliff’s wife,” Amellia said.

“So he never send out a search part,” Zhanna said.

“He actually almost did, but that was because he wanted to track him down and then, as he said, ‘cut his head off and spit down the bastard’s throat’. So who knows? Maybe all that dirty stuff I read about him in Redcliff’s journal was just Redcliff justifying his response. But he was gone. Crowley never came back for anything that he had left behind. I didn’t hear a word about him ‘til some years later, that he had supposedly tried climbing a mountain, gotten several people killed and been to Egypt, London, Paris and New York. By then I had left Redcliff, and was apathetic about Redcliff’s plight.”

Zhanna nodded in agreement. “And then he steals another book, and flees all the way here. The guy could show the pope a few things or two about life, I’m sure.”

“Your sarcasm isn’t lost on me. He supposedly wasn’t that bad of a person right during the turn of the century. One has to wonder what happened to him,” Amellia said, looking up into the sky, idly fingering her empty coffee cup. “You have to wonder, if he regrets any of what he did. What brought him to this point in time, and did he really want to be here at all?”

Zhanna’s eyebrows rose. “I never figured you for a romantic, Lieutenant. What has happened in the past… nichevo. He’s a not nice person, did awful things, probably kicked puppies and ate kittens while he was at it. Either way, the past can’t be changed, and we’re going to have a fun time getting him to face it.”

Amellia looked back down to Zhanna. Amellia frowned at first, and then smirked. “You have a way of putting things to precise,” Amellia said.

“That’s the way I learned it back in the forests and the steppe. Things happen, for whatever reason they do, and once it has happened, you can’t take it back. The most you can do is take what happens with happiness and pleasure, or you can mope about, worrying about it, and becoming a miserable wreck,” Zhanna said.

“So when we were back at the German camp, why did you spend most of your time at that bar, drinking with Grigori? I’m not incredibly familiar with Russian customs, but when an Englishman sits at a bar drinking all night, he’s trying to forget something.”

Zhanna paused for a moment, but then nodded at Amellia and stood back up. “That is a fair enough question. It’s because it is part of being Russian. It’s fun to do nothing but drink, being left alone with your thoughts.” She smirked. “Some Russians just handle their alcohol better than others, or don’t get drunk as easily. We can drink it just like water, and have about as much of an effect. We’re indifferent, prideful, and we really don’t give a shit about tact. Well, I don’t at least.”
“I don’t know if I could think it’s any fun to do nothing but drink,” Seamus said as he woke up and sat up against the tree he had been resting by. He blinked several times, as his eyes adjusted to the light. This planet was slightly different from Earth. Zhanna had heard some scientist say something about higher oxygen and slightly lower gravity, as well as a dimmer star. For Zhanna that translated as feeling more easily refreshed, sometimes to the point of being light-headed, feeling like she weighed less, and that the light just wasn’t as bright as it was back on Earth.

“We can get away with doing nothing but drinking, because we Russians have given the world so much and that we Russians are so amazing, that we’re privileged to gain some rest when nothing important is happening,” Grigori said with a gruff voice as he sat up as well.

Zhanna smirked. “What Grigori Karamazov says is correct.”

“Really, I’d always heard that getting drunk in Russia only occurred because the list of Russian activies consists of either that or herding cows. I can see why you’d chose the first one at least,” Seamus said with a grin.

Zhanna slugged him in the arm, and he winced in mock pain. She glared at him for a moment as if expecting him to throw a punch back her way. When he didn’t, she smiled at him. “Figures, you Brits always let people walk all over you. Never bother to stand up for yourself against women.” She nodded towards Amellia, “With some exceptions, Lieutenant.”

“You wound me,” Seamus said.

“Not even slighty, uh sir,” Zhanna said with a grin. “I don’t wound.”

Seamus looked back toward Broussard, as the old man suddenly snapped awake. He stood up, shaking the dust and leaves off of him that had bothered to stick, and snapped and popped as he flexed, getting all his joints back into their proper alignments. He eyed the coffee pot with a growing lust, and he turned immediately to Amellia.

“Lieutenant, does that ah…?” he trailed off.

“There should be some left, sir,” Amellia said.

Broussard loped over to where the coffee pot sat, and he grabbed it. He quickly poured himself a cup, and he handed the cup back to Amellia. He took a long sip, draining the entire cup in one go. He smacked his lips, as he aired the cup out with a vigorous shaking. “That’s the good stuff. We ready to get moving now?” he said.
When no one answered to the negative, Broussard rolled his neck, popping several more muscles. Zhanna flinched slightly when she heard every muscle like that pop. As they made ready to leave, she paced back towards the spot she had been at earlier, and started watching the rebel troops moving all the supply line. The continued on, and Zhanna smiled to herself, as she watched them scurrying about. Nothing but rank and file soldiers charging forward into the meat grinder.

Even as she thought that, a massive shape loomed out of the sky. At first she thought it was one of the German airships, but she studied it closer, and realized that it was coming from the city, as opposed to the portal. She hadn’t heard that there were any rebel airships. Just another product of the industry it seemed. The airship was flying forward at breakneck speed, even for an airship, and Zhanna watched it cross the field, flying towards the German lines. She briefly wondered if the Germans were prepared for something like that, but then she mentally kicked herself. This was the Kaiser’s army. They’re always prepared for something like this.
They’d probably engage in broadside battles, or some walking artillery piece would get a lucky shot off and knock it out of the sky. Airships had come a long way since they were first invented several centuries back, and it was much trickier to knock one out of the sky. Isolated compartments as well as backflow valves, and secondary pump systems made sure that if the airship took a hit, it wouldn’t instantly be immolated or collapse to the ground in a fiery ball of destruction.

The airship faded out of sight, heading towards the German lines. Thinking about it for a moment, Zhanna wondered briefly on the tactical screw-up of whoever led the rebels. The airship stood out like a sore-thumb. Bombing runs and artillery barrages from the sky worked infinitely better at night, rather than during the early morning. What is going on here? She thought.

“Moving out!” Broussard’s voice called out, just loud enough for her to hear. She turned from her spot, and walked back to the camp.

The Heavenly Docks 1

As soon as Coleman Ainsworth came to, he realized he was in trouble.

For starters, he was hanging upside down and he was pretty sure that was a bad thing. On top of that, someone had activated his vacsuit’s Smarthelm. He could see his own bedraggled reflection on his faceplate, and hear his rattled breathing fighting with the air cycler. His pulse pounding in his ears was startling loud in the confines of his helmet.

He could feel the synthmesh suit flexing rhythmically against his body, fighting against gravity to keep his blood pressure equalized in his arms and legs—which, apparently, he couldn’t move.

“Okay buddy, keep it together.” His grimaced at the loudness of his own voice, then added in a whisper, “You’ve been in worse spots than this.” And he really had. Nothing came to mind at the moment, but he definitely had.

Someone had opaqued his helmet—he couldn’t see a thing beyond his own reflection—and he practically sobbed with relief when a gentle thrust of his chin brought up the holocontrols before his eyes. Chinning quickly through the suit’s myriad systems, he deactivated the blast-tint.

A pale red glow surrounded him beyond his suit, leaving most of wherever he was shrouded in shadow. He was in a tensor field, suspended upside down in the g-wave trap. For a half-second he struggled uselessly against the red energy waves, cursing and panting and praying that the sweat pouring down his face wouldn’t fog up his helmet; then, still trapped, he let his body sag uselessly into the field’s grasp. He was trapped.

His movements, restricted as they were, had still told him something about his surroundings: the pressure outside of his suit was incredibly high; it felt like he was dragging his limbs through water. So either he was under water, or—

The grating hiss of an opening portal filtered through his suit’s audio system and a sickly green light bloomed around him. Jerking about in the tensor field, he could just barely make out the bright circle of an open airlock, and silhouettes of three beings forcing their way through. One of the shadows paused momentarily, and Coleman winced when a bright white light blinked on above his feet, practically slapping him across the corneas.

A slurping, wet sound broke the silence, and when Coleman opened his eyes again he was staring into the face—or what passed for the face—of the last being he had wanted to see.

The alien opened its wet sphincter of a mouth and slurped again, a long sound that reminded Coleman of the sound oil makes as it drains through a clogged pipe, and this time the dry voice of Coleman’s suit translator chimed in.

“A most pleasurable greeting to you, Ainsworth.” The alien made a burping sound and the suit continued, “Nice of you to pay me a visit.”

Grimacing and wishing he could spit at the creature, Coleman said, “How could I resist the invitation, Jendathu?”

Another belching/squelching reply. “Yes. You should be more careful, you miserable [untranslatable—probably insulting]. On the Heavenly Docks, dark tunnels don’t make good places to hide from Security. Lucky for you my [untranslatable—probably similar to ‘posse’] ran into you.”

Coleman suppressed a groan. So that was how he’d ended up here. He’d been wandering along the main branch of Dock 198, looking for easy targets for a quick pickpocket job when he’d spied a quad of Hrian Security drones angling through the crowded tunnel towards him. There hadn’t been time for a clever escape, and he’d ducked down the first side tunnel he could find—and the alien before him now was right: on the Heavenly Docks, leaping before you looked was a almost as dangerous as playing Russian Roulette.

Jendathu Seep was still sniggering at him—a sound like wet towels slapping rotting meat. The most active black market boss on Heavenly Docks was a big alien, something like a cross between an Old Earth squid and crab that would have towered a good half meter over Coleman. No head, just a long torso ringed with black-marble sized eyes that was supported by four thick legs that ended in grasping claws. The snorking laughter was coming from Jendathu’s mouth—basically a single thick, mucous-ringed lip that was situated beneath the creature’s torso and half-hidden by a thick fan of tentacles that writhed in a hundred directions at once. One his slug-colored back—like all the males of his species—Jendathu carried a clutch of thousands of pea sized eggs, and judging from their green color and the copious amounts of liquid draining from them, they were about to hatch.

In short, the Nagathian crime lord was about as disgusting as they come, even for a place like Heavenly Docks.

Coleman was getting tired of Jendathu’s chuckling, so he cut in. “Thanks for the rescue, Seep. Can I go?”

“Go?” A dozen tentacles lifted up to stroke the blunt end of the alien’s torso in an eerie imitation of a contemplating human. “Believe me [untranslatable—probably insulting], I’d like nothing more than to jettison you. You’re dirt to me, human. But my friend here”—six of Jendathu’s tentacles twinned together into a single limb and gestured to one of the two hulking aliens that were lurking in the shadows—“is one of my [untranslatable—probably similar to ‘posse’] that rescued you from the Security forces.”

A dangerous glint rippled through Jendathu’s eyes, and the Nagathian leaned closer, “He seems to think you owe me.”

The hulking alien that from Coleman’s inverted perspective seemed to be a multi-armed starfish/sea urchin shrouded in a vacsuit made a startlingly cat-like meow that his suit didn’t even try to translate and Jendathu slurped, “And I never disappoint my employees.”

The situation was deteriorating rapidly, and Coleman knew it. Desperately he twisted inside the tensor field and shouted, “I don’t have any money, Seep. You know that!”

“Who said anything about money, you filthy [untranslatable—probably a colloquial reference to excrement]? I need a job done, and you happen to be here in a position to help me with it.”

Coleman shrank back as far as he could from Seep. Anything the crime boss wanted him to do would land him in deep trouble with Security—way beyond anything he had coming his way for pick-pocketing.

“Look, Seep . . . you don’t want me. Security already has an eye on me. I’m branded. You want Geslib down on Dock 123, or Fu over in Orbit Town. They”—

Jendathu snapped two of his tentacles together, and the two aliens lurched forward into the light—star fish boy and a hulking horsey thing with four arms and no apparent eyes that wasn’t wearing a vacsuit. They were both carrying wicked looking knives as long as Coleman’s arm.

“My [untranslatable—probably similar to ‘posse’] here, they are good at getting people to do what I say.” Jendathu continued, gesturing at the knives. He shouldn’t have bothered. Coleman was having enough trouble looking away from them. “Normally, we would do a little cutting and slicing, but with you, I don’t think we’ll bother.” The alien gestured at Coleman’s suit. “These rooms are designed for my comfort, you see. Too much pressure for you, I think, and I have heard that humans like yourself don’t breathe so well in methane. Just give his suit a little cut, boys, and then we’ll throw out the body.”

The two big aliens started forward, brandishing their knives, and Coleman knew that he had lost. “All right,” he shouted, “All right! I’ll do the job.”

Seep spat something and the two aliens reversed course, shambling back to the shadows. “You are a smart man, Ainsworth. As far as you humans go.”

“My mother told me the same thing.”

Apparently the sarcasm didn’t translate, because Jendathu just went on talking. “And to show you I have no hard feelings, I’ll even throw in 500,000 in cash once the job is done. But it will have to be done quick. I need you to kill a being.”

Coleman closed his eyes and muttered a silent prayer. He’d known this was going to be bad.

“You have heard of Cly M’shtinyb, perhaps?” Coleman nodded, his stomach dropping like a rock. If Jendathu Seep was the number one thug on Heavenly Docks, Cly M’shtinyb was close runner up. The two thugs’ organizations had been at each other’s throats on and off ever since Coleman had landed on Heavenly Docks three years back.

“That piss-brained [untranslatable—possible reference to legitimacy of birth] has been cutting into my business for years. I want him dead.”

“You want me to kill M’shtinyb?” Coleman gasped, jerking in his bonds. “Are you crazy? My guts’ll end up splattered from here to planetside!”

“Perhaps you wish for me to—how do you put it?—splatter your guts right here?”

“No. No. I’ll do it,” Coleman shook his head wearily. “But it’ll take a few months.”

The Nagathian wriggled with displeasure. “Not months. Three days.”

“Three days?! I”—

“You are in luck human, for M’shtinyb is here on the Heavenly Docks as we speak. But he is leaving for Avantaer in three days. He must be dead before his ship leaves the system.”

“And what kind of resources are you giving me to work with? I don’t own any weapons and don’t have a gang of thugs like you do.”

“Resources?” the alien spat back at him. “What kind of a fool do you think I am, Ainsworth? There will be no help from me, only the guarantee that I will not kill you. I don’t want Security tracing anything back to me. Now, get going. The time it is—how do your kind say it?—ticking.”

Seep gestured, and suddenly the tensor field around Coleman vanished. Reflexively he curled into a ball, landing flat on his back but protecting his head and neck. The air rushed out of his lungs with a great whoosh, and not one second later the two thugs were unceremoniously dragging him past Jendathu.

The Nagathian slurped evily at him, eyes glinting. “Good luck, human. If you fail me, you’ll be [untranslatable—probably a colloquial reference to excrement].”

Still being dragged across the rough floor, Coleman hung his head in defeat.

He was indeed in deep, deep trouble.