Battle for Earth (38 page)

“Well done,” said the android. “Everything is in hand. I have prepared a plan and communicated our tactics to your new fleet.”

Johnny nodded and walked past the android, heading for the elevators. “Let's get to the bridge,” he said.

“I am sorry,” said Alf from behind. Johnny felt the blast of air on his neck before he could react. A warmth spread through his veins and his eyelids drooped. He fell into the android's waiting arms and was instantly asleep.

“You have a battle plan, midshipman?”

Johnny was lying on the wooden deck of HMS
Victory
looking up at Admiral Lord Horatio Nelson, resplendent in a navy-blue uniform adorned with medals and wearing his bicorn hat. It didn't feel right to be lying down—he must have just fallen from the rigging. Quickly getting up, he dusted himself down and saluted.

“Everything's under control, sir. Alf says the plan's taken care of.”

“And what do you say, midshipman?”

“I … I don't know, sir,” said Johnny. “Sorry, sir—I haven't seen it.”

“Have I taught you nothing? Do you not remember Trafalgar?”

“No … well, yes … sir,” said Johnny, a little confused. Now he thought about it, he did remember the Battle of Trafalgar,
and listening to Admiral Nelson spelling out the strategy. But it had happened a long time ago, when he'd been dreaming. “It was a dream, sir,” said Johnny. “It wasn't real.”

“Is that right?” said the admiral. “My superlative triumph over the French and Spanish fleets, a mere figment of your imagination?”

“Well, not exactly,” said Johnny, but Nelson wasn't about to be interrupted.

“Perhaps this is a dream too? The salt air in your nostrils an illusion? The screech of the seagull merely an echo? The weight of a cannonball in your midriff a flight of fancy?”

It wasn't clear where it came from, but Johnny caught the black metal sphere before it hit him, clutching it to his stomach and falling over backward because the thing was so heavy. A few sailors around him laughed.

“You there,” Admiral Nelson said to them, “the midshipman is harboring the misconception that he is in the Land of Nod, asleep with the fairies. Throw him over the side—that might wake him up.”

Johnny struggled as four sailors grabbed hold of his arms and legs, but they were far too strong.

“On three, shall we, boys?” said one of them as they hauled him across to the bulwark. “One …”

Johnny hadn't reckoned on being quite so high above the ocean. The sailors were laughing and didn't seem to realize how dangerous this was.

“Two …”

He wasn't at all sure he would clear the sides, which widened as they neared the water line.

“Three …”

The sailors let go and Johnny was flung far from the ship. He had time to twist his body so he entered the water feet first with his arms by his side. He'd hoped that breaking the surface
would be enough to wake him, but there was no sign of that happening as he sank ever further down into the gloom. He twisted and turned to try to stop his descent until he didn't even know which way was up anymore. Trying to stay calm, he released a little of the breath still in his lungs and was amazed to see the bubbles descend into the darkness. He must be upside down.

Johnny kicked after the globules of air, racing them toward the surface. If he broke it, he was sure he'd wake up. In his dream he was a far stronger swimmer than in real life and he zoomed ever faster upward, leaping out of the ocean like a dolphin and crashing back into the oddly vinegary water. HMS
Victory
was nowhere to be seen. He was close to shore and staggered out onto a grassy bank. In the distance, two fiery blue suns shone. He knew this place. It was Novolis, Zeta and Erin's homeworld.

He needed to stay calm. Earth, his friends and his sister were all in danger, yet somehow he had traveled eight hundred light years away from them in the blink of an eye. Soaking wet, but not cold for this was a warm world, he made his way through the lush vegetation, parting the thick spiky leaves with his hands and releasing swarms of Sulaflies that glittered like miniature fireworks above him. A giant furry moth, looking out of place, flew into view and gobbled up the phosphoric insects.

Johnny knew there must be a way back. When he'd visited here before, there was always a door nearby—maybe Zeta could help him find it. He called her name, over and over, as he beat a path away from the shoreline, forcing his way through the thick foliage and ignoring the scratches and cuts that stung his hands and arms. His pale skin was soon laced with blood. Finally he burst out onto a wide road, mottled white like burned charcoal, curving through the undergrowth.

Tall plants and trees with triangular leaves lined one side, but
the other had been cleared to make way for an encampment. He paused, hands on hips to catch his breath while he took in the scene before him. He desperately needed to get back to Earth, but there was no sign of a door out into the corridor between worlds. In the center of the camp a large, deep-purple, circular tent dominated the clearing. Surrounding it were shabby, tatty tents, huts and lean-tos and, scattered among them, sitting on fallen tree trunks or simply lying on the ground, were people, presumably Novolans.

Most had only thin wisps of orange or green hair on the tops of their heads, making each pair of stubby horns clearly visible. Johnny took a deep breath and crossed the road, walking toward the gathering. Half a dozen of the aliens were sitting around a campfire above which a cauldron spluttered with thick brown gunk, large bubbles bursting out of its surface like volcanic mudflats. It smelt of burned milk, but he thought it would look rude to cover his nose.

“Hello,” he said. “I'm looking for Princess Zeta. Do you know where she is?”

His question was met by silence. He knew the Novolans must have understood, because of the Hundra's soul within him, but it seemed a great effort for them to even move their dull cat-like eyes toward him.

“Zeta?” Johnny asked again. Close up, he was shocked by the aliens' appearance. Their bodies were incredibly thin and every one of their scaly faces was covered in weeping scabs and boils. Now he could see that some even had missing horns, while those of the others were turning black and looked about to drop off. An air of utter defeat hung over the group and he knew that to stay wouldn't get him anywhere. He moved on, further into the camp, looking for someone more alert. As he went, the aliens he'd passed stood and began to follow, shuffling behind him. It was a little unnerving.

Johnny walked through more groups, meeting the same reaction each time. By now there was quite a crowd building, but finally he'd seen someone who looked in charge and strode across, trying to appear bolder than he felt. Wearing a flamboyant, sparkling headdress, a necklace of triangular purple stones and loose-fitting burned-orange robes, the woman was twice as wide as any of her fellow Novolans. Before her was laid a tray of exotic fruits, a few of them rather too blue for Johnny's taste. She was seated under a gazebo in front of the large round purple tent. Before her, in the center of the clearing, was a much larger cauldron, full to the brim with more of the foul-smelling brown gunk.

“Greetings, Johnny Mackintosh,” said the woman. “I am Yarta, daughter of Yula. We have been expecting you, Terran. All is as it should be.”

“Is Zeta here? I need to get back to Earth … to Terra.” As Johnny spoke, the raggedy band of Novolans shuffled around to encircle him and the woman.

“It was foretold that you would know Zeta, daughter of Zola. The princess is a great healer.” Yarta's long forked tongue shot out of her mouth as she spoke. “You have come here willingly?”

“What? Kind of,” said Johnny. “But I need to go home. I know Zeta can help me. I have to see her—it's important.”

“Were Zeta, daughter of Zola, here, the people would be well.” The big Novalan gestured to the others that surrounded them, the circle closing in. “And the sacrifice that the old gods demand might not be necessary.”

Johnny glanced quickly from side to side. The sick aliens had come to life and swept past Yarta, forcing Johnny backward until he was close to the cauldron. The heat from the bubbling vat was intense, the air around it shimmering. The Novolans' tongues shot in and out in his direction and the burning campfire blazed in their eyes. Scaly reptilian hands covered in
sores reached toward him. Yarta began a chant that quickly spread around the circle. Johnny was hoisted into the air. He wriggled and kicked out, but there were too many of the aliens for him to break free.

“Let me go,” he shouted. He was being swept along, and could hear the plop of the brown goo above the droning of the aliens.

Yarta's shrill voice rang out: “Johnny Mackintosh, son of Michael Mackintosh—by your body, feed us; by your blood, heal us.” The chanting was almost deafening. “By your sacrifice, renew again our world.” The words could barely be distinguished above the hubbub.

Johnny's body was above the edge of the cauldron. Desperate, he looked upward for inspiration and was almost blinded by the blue disk of Alnitak. He turned his head, and his eyes fell upon the purple tent nearby, the same color as Zeta's hair. He shouted her name as he was tipped into the bubbling vat. As Johnny's own hair touched the scalding surface, he closed his eyes. The tent remained imprinted on his eyelids, while the vile smell vanished. His feet were on solid ground. Still alive, Johnny dared open one eye very slightly. He had folded more easily than ever before and found himself standing in front of the entrance to the round tent. He looked around and saw Yarta pointing toward him. As one, the Novolans let out a blood-curdling scream. Johnny pushed through the canvas flap and found himself standing in the corridor between worlds.

The all-consuming fire of the Nameless One had left its mark and there was heavy damage, currently being repaired by several furry aliens with pointy ears and long snouts, wearing blue overalls. One of them, who was scraping an oily black residue off the charred walls, nodded at Johnny.

If only he knew which of the doors led home to Earth. Time must be running out and he had to get back for the battle
with the Krun—and for Clara—before it was too late. He ran along the corridor trying several handles, but all refused to budge. Panicking, Johnny tried to get his bearings. The door by which he had entered the corridor still bore the charred “No Entry” sign that Erin had put there. He remembered watching Zeta coming up the corridor with the Nameless One hot on her heels, and diving off to the side in the nick of time. He walked along the burned section, past the alien workers in their dungarees, and came to the doorway he thought she'd taken. It was round, made of wooden slats. He lifted the latch and the door opened. Holding it ajar, he stepped through.

“Johnny!” A mass of purple covered his face as Zeta flung her arms around him. “You did it—you found the door.” She stepped back, her long tongue caressing his hair, flicking over the brown goo that remained. Zeta frowned. “I taste the sickness of my world upon you.”

“The natives weren't exactly friendly,” he said.

“My people are desperate,” she said. “It is not their fault.”

Behind the princess was a barren, heavily cratered world. Structures as ancient as time itself stood, slowly crumbling, as if here had once been a mighty city, before a million missiles rained down from the sky.

“Where are we?” Johnny asked. It was as bleak and inhospitable a place as he'd ever seen. “I have to get home. The Krun are about to attack Earth and … and Clara's sick again. I'm losing her.”

“But, Johnny,” said Zeta, taking his hand and leading him gently through the still-open door, out into the corridor. “You are home. You are dreamwalking.”

“No,” he said. “I woke up. After Nelson … I really was on Novolis.”

“Yes and no,” said Zeta, laughing and again sniffing his hair with her long tongue. It tickled. “You have so much to learn.
One day, despite all that is to come, I hope to welcome you there properly. Tell me, what ails your sister? I thought we had saved her.”

“It was my fault,” said Johnny. “She knew she mustn't fold again, but we had to move a fleet of ships. I couldn't do it and she had to take over. Now she's returning to the Klein fold.” He looked at her, desperate. “You can help. I know you can. You can heal anyone.”

Zeta shook her head. “My world needs me, Johnny—as you have seen. You have rescued me when I couldn't find my way back and, believe me, I am grateful, but I must return there.”

“Please,” he said squeezing her hand. “I'd do anything.”

The princess's cat-like eyes searched his own. “Anything?” Johnny nodded. “There is a way, but … but it is a path only you can take.” She looked fearful.

“Tell me,” said Johnny. “I have to save her.”

Zeta took a deep breath, her forked tongue sucking in the air around her. “It is her soul that is damaged … that is now being eaten away. To save it, you must graft on a new piece—a healthy piece. A piece of your own.”