Beyond Armageddon V: Fusion (8 page)

The dream came again. In it she drifted through a charred battlefield. Dead human soldiers lay strewn across a blackened Earth. Trees stripped bare stood on the horizon like zombie claws reaching from the grave. Tiny fires flickered giving the landscape a Hellish glow.

One of the bodies belonged to her son. His empty eyes stared at nothing; his jaw lay wide open suggesting he died screaming.

As bad as the sight of seeing her child dead, the true terror of the dream came from Anita feeling a sense of responsibility. A sense of failure for not finding the answers.

She knew the questions well enough. She knew that the invaders had come from eight different points of origin. She knew that organized armies of various technological abilities as well as aliens ranging from prey animals to predators had also come to her Earth, where initially they had wreaked havoc upon the population but now lived—the animals at least—as part of Earth’s ecosystem.

She also knew that seven of those invaders shared a basic DNA structure with humanity. They were, she rationalized, built with the same building blocks even if their outward appearance varied greatly.

One race, however, stood apart from the rest. They did not share the same building blocks as the other creatures. Voggoth’s warriors—the ‘grown’ entities that served as his war machines—exhibit the traits of simple, archaea organisms, not unlike bacteria. Furthermore, the minions of his race—the ones many had come to think of as the ‘soulless ones’ –had no DNA. No biology at all. They existed as
things,
different from rocks, concrete, and iron only in their behavior.

Those war machines of simple design and those soulless creatures that appeared to live but, in reality, did not all came from the same point of origin. From wherever it was this Voggoth lived.

And now those creatures marched across her country in a seemingly unstoppable tide. As she walked through her dream she saw the results of that march; results that had played out across California, the Pacific Northwest, the deserts of Nevada and New Mexico, the Rocky Mountains, and now the Great Plains. For the moment, the dead body of her son existed only as a phantom harbinger of what might be. If only she could unlock the answers.

In her dream, Anita began to cry. She held her faced in her hands. In the past, this is where she would wake up, the burden of responsibility too great to allow sleep. On this occasion, the dream played differently.

When she removed her hands from atop crying eyes, she saw the bodies of the dead soldiers again. This time, however, they were not human despite still wearing the body armor and battle dress uniforms of The Empire’s fighters. This time she saw the oval heads and oversized maws of Mutants lying on the battlefield in human garb, including her son.

She gasped but before shock could chase her from the nightmare, Anita saw something more. She saw another of the Mutant creatures, this one not dead but standing among the cadavers with its bulky arms raised toward the sky as if praising whatever devil he considered a God.

It finished giving praise and found her eyes.

And spoke.

“The Universe is empty.”

Anita Nehru woke; her arms flailed across the desk in impulsive defensive strikes knocking over a stack of books and sending an empty coffee mug rolling across the floor. Her breath changed from a quick cry to deep and heavy gasps. After a moment she rubbed her baggy eyes with the palms of her hands.

In and out her breath calmed with each cycle, but a constant shaking remained, along with one very strong impulse.

Anita opened the lower desk drawer. Inside she found a jumbled pile of note books, some plain old tablets, others made with fancy bindings or leather covers. The presentation did not matter, only that each of the notebooks offered sheet after sheet of paper begging to be filled with her thoughts.

All but one of the notebooks was full from start to finish in handwriting, some in cursive, some in print; some neat and proper but the majority jagged and rough; yet all from her hand.

Anita wrote a description of her dream. A description that was repeated dozens of times throughout the notebooks. And as she wrote about the new twist to this dream, an idea formed.

She wrote faster. Her pen ran dry of ink. She threw it across the room and yanked another from the top drawer, mixing red ink now with blue. Faster and faster she wrote. Her tired eyes grew wide with crazed fascination.

I will only be sure after I look into their eyes. The answer is there.

The Mutant stood in a room about half the size of a racquetball court but with a lower ceiling. Anita Nehru sat face-to-face with the thing, separated by six inches of safety glass leaning forward with her arms fidgeting. Her tired eyes alternated between fast blinks and bouts of wide-open stare.

A technician flanked her; a short fellow with chubby cheeks and wire-rimmed spectacles wearing a white lab coat. After nearly an hour of sitting next to her doing nothing, the technician inhaled deliberately and summoned the courage to ask, “Um, Mrs., Nehru, what is it you wanted to see the specimen for?”

She spoke, but instead of responding to his question she asked herself, “Why are these things from Region 8 so different? These Mutants, the Wraiths, even those Roachbot-things. How could the Stick-Ogre change from purely organic into some kind of mix? It’s not possible. When I look at these things under a microscope—their dead molecules look familiar—a shadow of something else. I should know—I should see it…”

“W-what’s that, Mrs. Nehru?”

“Most of the species are similar to us. DNA. Carbon-based life. But not Voggoth. And not these things that come from his world. Or does he even have a world? I look at this thing and I see something—an answer is here.
It
knows the answer.”

Anita’s fists clenched and unclenched. Her face grew red. She stood and paced in front of the glass, watched by the creature’s tiny eyes situated on its nearly egg-shaped skull.

“What happened to the Feranites? What happened to the animals from their world?”

Images from her dreams of dead soldiers and charred battlefields played in her mind.

The Universe is empty.

“What are you? Damn it! What are you?”

A child of Voggoth.

At that moment Anita saw the eyes of a human being on the face of the Mutant. She saw an abomination.

Her left hand slammed down on an oversized yellow button.

“Mrs. Nehru!”

A dozen nozzles situated throughout the holding cell sprayed a fine vapor into the chamber. A light panel above the observation wall flashed WARNING: CHAMBER STERILIZATION SEQUENCE ACTIVATED and a sharp klaxon burst to life.

Her hand slammed down again, this time on a red button. The vapor ignited in a contained fireball of orange and yellow that engulfed the creature, charring the body first black and then to ashes.

Bits of burning flesh lay on the floor of the smoke-filled room. The glass grew very hot causing an aroma similar to singed wiring to drift through the observation area.

“I KNOW WHAT YOU ARE!” she shouted at the pile of remains.

“Mrs. Nehru! Anita! What are you doing?”

She held ultimate authority over Red Rock, but her behavior now moved beyond the eccentric and into unreasonable.

Yet the force of his protest fell apart when she grabbed his collar and screamed into his red face, “Don’t you see? It’s all a deception! We never had a chance! All of our guns and tanks would never be enough!”

“What are you talking about?”

“The universe!” She shouted. “The universe is empty! And I know why!”

Omar followed Lori Brewer around what had once been a garage housing Ferraris but now served as his personal laboratory. Since the earliest days of the post-Armageddon struggle, Omar worked in this shop to understand the technologies brought to Earth by the invaders.

Over the years he had grown accustomed to interruptions. Sometimes General Jon Brewer, occasionally Gordon Knox, and often-times Trevor Stone. On this day Lori Brewer—the Imperial Administrator—visited his habitat. As usual during these interruptions, the accent in Omar’s voice grew more pronounced the longer she lingered.

“I do not know what it is you are wanting me to be saying.”

The short-haired brunette stopped at a glass case displaying a de-constructed Chaktaw rail gun. A half dozen assistants in various combinations of lab coats, overalls, and casual dress tinkered with items at work benches and tables around the garage.

She explained to him again, “My job is allocating resources. And then people make things from those resources. And then I have to make sure that those ‘things’ get put on trains or in trucks and make their way to where they are needed. So here’s the point, Omar. You get a lot of resources. You get technical people. You get lab equipment. I spend a lot of Continental dollars on your storage depots, on your personnel, on the recovery teams, even on the power you use. The question is, what am I getting for it?”

She gave him an opening and Omar replied from what he perceived as a position of strength: “What do you get from my humble efforts? Let us see here—hmmm—have you noticed those really big fancy ships with aircraft upon them? What do we call them…”

Lori tapped her foot and rolled her eyes but allowed Omar to vent.

“Oh, yes, the Dreadnoughts. And then there are the active camouflage suits if I am recalling correctly, and the Eagle transports that have been known to pitch into the effort.”

“Omar,” her patience ran out. It usually did. “What have you done for me
lately?
Our resources are running out. The matter-makers down in Atlanta are running full-bore for bullets and fuel. In a few weeks those facilities may be in The Order’s bombing range. Meanwhile, I’ve got the
Excalibur
over in Pittsburgh that isn’t back in the game yet because we don’t have the people or the parts to finish its repairs. I’ve got to start making some decisions on what gives us the most hope of staying alive. I hate to say this but—“

One of Omar’s assistants cut dared cut in to the conversation, “Dr. Nehru?”

Both Omar and Lori shouted with dueling aggravation, “What?”

The man held a phone. “Phone call. It’s Red Rock. They say it’s an emergency.”

Omar’s cigarette dangled from his half-open mouth. As he reached for the phone his expression turned into one of dread, like a soldier’s parent receiving a phone call from the army in the middle of the night.

“Yes, this is Dr. Nehru. This is about my wife, isn’t it?” as Lori listened to his side of the conversation she found it amazing how clear and plain his English became. “When did this happen? Is she okay? Of course I will be there as quickly as possible.”

He hung up.

“Omar, what is it?”

“It’s Anita. They say she has gone mad.”

The white and black Internal Security helicopter circled the Red Rock facility on its way to the landing pad. Through the windows Omar spied the 1960s-era remains of the topside Air Force base including an old tower complete with a radar dome. The main building—constructed of sturdy but nearly featureless concrete—served as the tip of a structural iceberg.

The chopper landed with a soft
thud.
The rear passenger door opened a split second after the skids hit the ground. Omar hurried out with his lab coat billowing in the rotor-wind. Lori Brewer struggled to keep pace.

The Colonel who ran security at the Red Rock facility met Omar on the tree-lined path leading away from the landing pad.

“Dr. Nehru?”

As he answered, “Yes, of course,” Lori realized that no trace of Omar’s Indian accent remained. “What has happened to my wife?”

The group walked through a side door into a small lobby. Groups of workers and soldiers stood around with their eyes fixed on Omar as if he held a solution to a problem.

“We’re not sure, exactly, sir,” the Colonel said. “She began acting erratically, first when she disposed of a specimen for no apparent reason. According to the technician who was with her, she appeared to calm down after that and said something about going to her office. An hour later we received a security alert from the primary containment cell block.”

The Colonel guided them along a corridor. Lori noticed the security cameras and warning signs that suggested they had moved to a more sensitive area of the facility.

She asked, “The containment blocks?”

“Yes Ma’am. We’ve got about three dozen specimens contained on the lower levels for biological study and weapons testing.”

“Yes, yes, but what about Anita? What has happened?”

They stopped at a freight elevator flanked by a pair of well-armed guards.

The Colonel said, “She started moving through the cell blocks down there and euthanizing the specimens.”

“She just started killing off the things?” Lori asked. “For no reason?”

“Not that we can tell, ma’am.”

“So what is the problem? She decided to destroy the specimens. Is this such a big deal? Is she not in charge here?” Omar may have lost his ethnic accent but he found another accent, one of defensiveness.