Histories of the Void Garden, Book 1: Pyre of Dreams (50 page)

The metal wall
slid into the floor swiftly, silent except for a satisfying thud
once it’s upper edge became flush with the floor. Stanwick led the
way, tiny lights in the floor illuminating no more than a perimeter
extending a couple of feet all around her.

David nudged
Charlene, “How are we going to see anything?”

Stanwick
answered, “There’s nothing to see. It’s better this way, believe
me.”

Charlene kept
her eye on West’s legs, following closely. She thought it was odd
that it had come to this, that she should be following him into the
darkness, when really she knew so little about him. They hadn’t
spent much time alone, so there had been no real opportunity, not
with everything that had been going on. A lifetime yes, of course;
he could have dropped in on her life at any point, but he must have
had things to do. His trick had been a cruel one though really.
Turning up and robbing her of her opportunity for death, when she
had been so close. She’d had enough time. She had lived her life
without him, and she had been ready for it to end, merely counting
off the passing days. She knew what lay ahead of them, out of
sight, stalking them. She should run, into his embrace, let Dannum
consume her. Then Dannum’s laughter hissed in her ear.

Charlene looked
at the others, but none of them seemed to have heard anything.
“Hated of Pretchis, child of the void …” And she felt like a little
girl, running through an empty house trying to hit all of the light
switches to avert a tragedy, except the dread was worse now,
because there were no light switches. “You can run, but I am
everywhere, and I am all.”

She reached
forward for West’s shoulder, attempting to rouse his attention, but
West was always a step away, always just out of reach. Dannum
continued, his voice the sound of mirrors breaking and cracks in
the pavement, all full of empty promises of heartache and despair,
“The Thane of the Void; that’s who you reach for? See him now, ever
a step too far. Time will bring no succor. The Thane will always be
beyond your grasp.”

With her
stomach knotted, Charlene ran forward, fingernails scratching
busily at her arms, the leeches raising to the surface. She wanted
somehow to reach inside herself and remove him - to drag Dannum’s
words out of her body and eradicate every trace.

David had felt the
warm gentle kiss on his cheek the moment the lights had illuminated
his first footstep. The lights had dimmed, and he had yelled out in
fear, or at least he had tried to, his tongue stopped by the kiss.
The voice was soft, almost loving, but the words were calculating
and destructive, “David, a name that speaks of regal greatness. In
others.” The arms around him, holding him close, fingers tight in
his hair, the mouth at his ear, “How then does it come to be spoken
of the Blood-Bastard who sold his daughter’s future for his own
safety? David Beach, the son of a thief. Damned his beloved
Stephanie to this life outside of life. Ignoble beginnings for the
father of she who’s reign will be anointed in the blood of the new
Mythologue.”

David moved his
head until he felt his chin touching his chest, then he stamped his
feet, watching for the small array of lights.

Cobb heard the voice.
“Last Chosen of the Second Kingdom.” The words dry and coarse,
seething with disdain.

“Nope.” Cobb
managed to yell the word. “Shut the fuck up. La, la, la…” he didn’t
stop. Even with his mouth wrapped with the black tongue of Dannum,
Cobb thrashed his head, humming as loudly as he could manage. The
words rambled on, but Cobb imagined a world full of food, waiting
for him to dive in and glut his ravenous appetite. He’d pace
himself though - because cognitive scaling, whatever the crap
Stanwick had warned him about, and he’d become a colossus, stomping
on cars and picking his teeth with trees.

“You hunger for
power…” the voice tried again, saccharine sweet with promise.

Cobb couldn’t
answer, he mumbled and hummed, then speech failing, he imagined the
words spelled out on a giant neon sign, written in garish blue
neon, “Buffet King.”

Then out of the
blackness, Stanwick’s hand in his. Her laughter filling the air
about him, “You’re coping better than David.” She pointed to David
who was walking along beside Cobb, stamping his feet as if he was
trying to put out a fire, the little pools of light flashing
everywhere he stepped.

When Charlene finally
felt Dannum loosen his hold on her consciousness, the five of them
were stood in a line, their pools of light merged into one.
Stanwick tapped the floor in front of her with the ball of her
foot, and the five were lowered on the section of floor on which
they stood, the light from the room below illuminating a brief
glimpse of teeth. Too many teeth.

West watched the
platform raise back towards the ceiling, thick hydraulic arms
wheezing softly, “Why are we here?”

The room
Stanwick had led them to was large, but contained no immediately
apparent furniture or fixtures, save for a windowless metal door.
The walls, ceiling and floors all shimmered with the light of
glardium rills, but this bio luminescence was the only
illumination.

Stanwick
stepped towards the metal door, then turned to face the others,
“David, when we checked in on Stephanie, I… I saw a glimpse of what
she was dreaming.”

“How?” David
asked, a little confused. He had been right there, and he could
remember no real exchange between the two of them except for
Stanwick stroking Stephanie’s forehead.

“It doesn’t
matter how,” Stanwick continued, “What matters is what I saw. What
she allowed me to see.”

West’s eyes
were wide. He took a step towards Stanwick, lowering his head. The
question hadn’t formed on his lips when Stanwick answered.

“Yes. She’s
dreaming. All I saw was a flash, but whatever is going on in
Stephanie’s brain, it is…” Her lip quivered, and she drew in a
quick breath, steadying herself. “What I saw, it was so brief, but
it was clear was that you were all through there.” Stanwick pointed
to the door, “It’s a barracks of sorts; arms, armor, ammo.”

West pointed
towards the ceiling, “Hell of a guard dog.”

Stanwick
laughed, her tension easing significantly, “This is certainly the
safest place to be.”

David waited
for her to add some sort of addendum to her statement, but when
none came, he was unable to contain himself, “Then why the hell is
my daughter a mile above us in a fucking bedroom?”

Stanwick pouted
apologetically, “Because she wasn’t here.”

“When?” David
yelled.

“In her dream
David. In that brief glimpse I saw, she wasn’t here with you, and
neither was I.”

West recoiled,
“You’re staying up there with the child?”

David reared on
West now, “She has a name. She’s not just some kooky little kid
with freaky eyes.” He punched the wall, tearing up immediately.

“She isn’t
supposed to be here.” Stanwick’s tone was firm, but she didn’t rise
to anger, “There is a battle, and her part in it is up there.”

David sneered,
“Oh that’s great.” Stanwick came towards him, trying to comfort
him, but he backed away, “No, seriously. It’s marvelous. There’s a
war coming to us, right here, because you invited them, and now
you’re saying that it’s going to be you and my seven year old
daughter on the front line?”

Stanwick
pointed towards the hatch that had lowered them into the room, “Me,
your seven year old daughter, and Dannum, the first and last king
of Allim, one of the true beasts of the Mythologue.”

Throughout most of the
flight, Tiernan stared at a photograph of a Mexican athlete he’d
kept in his billfold for the past couple of years. It wasn’t
strictly necessary, but having a point of focus helped. He made a
couple of calls from his father’s cell-phone; first to Prime
Minister Arthur White in the UK, then to President Xiao Hong Zhuang
in China. Neither of the premier’s had been able to offer any
concrete promises, and both had implied that it was an impertinence
that he would even suggest that their problems were any less
pressing. He had been tempted to throw Lucas’s phone out of the
helicopter’s window.

Lucas Miller
eyed his phone, watching his son’s twitchy hands,“You don’t think
Arctum will be enough?”

“Two things.
Firstly, it’s not about winning some pissing match, it’s about
sending a message to the world that this is how we will deal with
anyone who opposes this administration. Secondly, are you fucking
joking Lucas? Why would Stanwick throw down the gauntlet if she
wasn’t ready? When have you ever known her to miscalculate her
strength?”

He looked out
of the window and attempted to catch a glimpse of the hangers of
Arctum’s advanced training facility. Nestled in dense woodland
outside of Shippensburg PA, from the air, there was hardly anything
worth looking at. “I’m telling you,” he continued, the muscles of
his face filling out as he focused his energy on the photo, “Arctum
may be able to provide a battalion, but there’s no way of knowing
what that little bitch has up her sleeve.”

Miller rested
his head back into the leather padding, and turned the volume down
on his headset. His son’s voice had such a way of sawing through to
the bone when he was anxious. And Tiernan was clearly anxious.
Miller had already resigned himself to the thought that his son
would order him back to the hill as soon as they landed. Through
everything, no matter how many times he had served at his sons
side, the little shit still resented his presence on the
battlefield.

The helicopter touched
down hard, bounced, then touched down again gently. Tiernan leaned
forward in his seat, “Father, I need you back in DC. The cabinet’s
in turmoil. At the very least, Jo Faraday is ready to call for a
vote of no confidence.”

Miller raised
his eyebrows, “I’m pretty sure you talked him down. The meeting
went well. You underestimate your ability to persuade.”

Tiernan looked
unsure, “I really feel like it would be beneficial to have you back
there.”

“Why did you
even bring me?”

Glancing up
from the photo of the athlete, Tiernan smiled and tossed his
father’s phone back into his hands. He stepped out onto the pad
wearing the body and face of Paulo. Some of the body. He would need
food. His people in Arctum knew him no matter how he showed up.
There were a number of faces that he wore. Paulo was one of his
favorites.

Arctum, and by
extension, the employees of Arctum usually kept a low profile. If
they were officially sanctioned, or even if they were accidentally
sired by a member of Arctum staff, newborn Blood-Bastards would
usually train at the Shippensbug base - the ringer. The New York
facility was mostly dedicated to research and development,
administration and outreach. Arctum had many other training
facilities throughout the world, but at some point, everyone passed
through the ringer.

Tiernan was
greeted at the pad by Wyatt Mosier (nee Toan Kith Mansur) a man who
had fought beside Tiernan on the battlefield of the Leechborn Wars
and the Mythologue. He towered over Tiernan. His facial scars which
he had worn proudly since his first combat in Allim still glistened
black on his naturally dark skin. He didn’t smile.

“Lieutenant
Mosier.” Tiernan offered his hand in friendship.

“Ahken, cut to
the chase, and let’s dispense with the new world bullshit. It’s
Toan. It has always been Toan. You might like to parade around with
the face of a prettier man, but I will always be as you find me.
You want to address me by rank, then it’s Kith Mansur, First Tier,
East Tirtiary. I’m sure we’d both prefer if you stick with
Toan.”

Tiernan smiled,
“Would you prefer us to revert to the mother tongue also?”

Toan cracked a
thin lipped smile, “I’ve had enough of your mother’s tongue to last
me a lifetime.” He laughed, leaning in to hug Tiernan, “How is
Petra?”

Tiernan grunted
under the weight of Toan’s arms, “You know my mother; same as
ever.”

“She’ll always
have a place in my heart. Constant. Unyielding.” Toan tilted his
head towards the deep blue glass wall of the nearest bunker,
“Should we head down? I’ve pulled together a strong battalion. Very
few young bloods in their number.”

Tiernan nodded
and the two men walked together, Tiernan taking two paces for
Toan’s one, “I should probably eat something.”

Toan agreed,
“We’ll stop by the mess hall on twelve. You look like you need a
good thirty pounds?” He pressed his hand against the blue glass and
a previously invisible seam in the wall parted to welcome them
in.

Tiernan walked
up to the security clerk’s desk, smiling amiably at the woman who
sat behind the bulletproof screen. A needle pushed out from the
surface of the desk. Tiernan slammed his hand down on the needle,
then listened to the mechanical hum of the centrifuge and he waited
for …

“Good to see
you President Tiernan,” the woman offered rigidly, “here’s your
badge.”

A blue glass
panel to the right of the security desk slid aside and Toan led
Tiernan towards the elevator at the back of the bunker.

Tiernan glanced
at Toan’s chest, then his eyes wandered up in the direction of his
face as the elevator door pinged charmingly, “We need to be wheels
down in a few hours. I’m not sure there’s enough time to bulk out
thirty pounds, brief the men, gear up and load out.”

Toan leaned
away from Tiernan, “You should talk less around the men. You’re
trying too hard.” He eyed the number twelve on the small graphic of
the building’s floor-plan and waited for the elevator to announce
the destination in her somehow distractingly alluring voice, “Mess
halls one through six and maintenance. Floor twelve.”