Nemesis: Book Four (12 page)

T
he globe
that flowed black and white had changed colors. Helos still stood in it, though she had moved from her place in the center to the side. The Makers took away the black and white, revealing something new.

Helos cried as she looked on, The Makers showing what she never thought she would see again.

Lights beamed down and created her daughter, forming a three-dimensional image in front of Helos. The image was massive, just like the entire surrounding structure. Morena was on some other world, a place very, very different from Bynimian.

Helos saw a Bynum walking at her side. She didn't recognize him, didn't recognize the pale blue of his aura either. This Bynum was young, perhaps just born. That wasn't the most striking thing Helos saw, though—not by far.

Morena was remaking the world she walked across, changing it into the closest resemblance she could to Bynimian.

Why?
she said, not expecting a response. At least not from anything in this globe. The answer was all around her, in her. Bynimian no longer existed, and if Morena was the last of their kind, then she would do whatever it took to resurrect them.

And didn't you see this?

The words were implanted in her head, but didn't originate there. Those words came from The Makers, a question directly to her.

Had she seen it? Had she seen her daughter walking on some foreign planet with the white growth of birth stretching out as far as the eye could see? Perhaps not exactly that, but Helos had known that something would happen. She knew it even before Morena met Briten. Something would test her daughter, something perhaps larger than any other Var ever experienced. Helos tried to prepare her, tried to teach her the best she could.

Had it helped Morena?

Was what Helos saw now a good thing, or a mistake?

Morena never tried to see into the future, never tried to see around corners; her eyes always focused on the world in front of her—dealing with the moment, and that was both a strength and weakness.

What else did
you
see?

She couldn’t ignore the question, no possible way to concentrate on anything but those words. They exploded in her brain like tiny detonations, leaving a cold, icy trail behind them. The cold of the universe.

Nothing
, she said.
Nothing, only that she would need help.

Who helped Morena now? The Bynum that walked with her, the brilliance of his aura, said that he didn't know enough to help Morena. He was too young, not a single show of Fade throughout any part of him.

Why?
Helos asked.
What is this? Why show me her after so much time?

Helos didn't know how long it had been, but certainly a time’s river moved on since Bynimian's passing. Why now? Why when there was nothing Helos could do?

Does she still need help?
The words came back without a pause, as if whoever asked knew Helos’ reply before it ever crossed her lips.

Her eyes were still wet, but fresh tears arose. Whatever was happening to Morena, whatever she was doing, she was alone. She had no one from her past, no one that helped make her into a Var.

Go to her
, the voice said.

M
orena found
herself lost in the core. She knew she shouldn't be. She didn’t have time to stand here like this, looking down into a world that she wouldn't be able to enter for quite some time. Yet even so, she continued staring. Her mind kept moving back to Briten, to when they had walked over the core, before he spoke in front of The Council, before everything changed.

Too many things were happening at once, and though it was stupid to float over the core like this, to waste precious seconds in reflection, she couldn't help it. How had she arrived here? Alone. In a world that wanted her dead, with a host of children waiting on her to save them.

And they would begin dying soon, though they didn't know it.

This world was closing in on Morena. The cold that the humans brought killed with an efficiency she hadn't imagined. The growth, the spread of Bynimian, was not only being slowed, but dying. Losing ground. And what had she done? Retreated to the center, retreated to the place where she once stood thinking she would move through this planet like a powerful wind, changing everything as she saw fit.

The other had returned, she could feel it again, but she had no time to even consider what it was doing or where it was. It walked this planet as it wished, and Morena could do nothing about it, couldn't even
locate
it. It moved as it wanted, just as the humans did.

Such massive differences separated these creatures and her own. Her kind had never been to war; they all lived peacefully on Bynimian. The moment she landed on this rock, these humans went after her, trying to bring her down. She had no choice in what she did. She either started over in this place or she didn't start over. This planet held no ships to send her back into space, no coordinates that would show her other planets. She
had
to birth her children here, now. Not one of these humans came to her and asked why. Their only instinct was to kill her, and to kill her entire species.

And now they were doing it.

What would Briten do? He had always been the calm one, the one who put thought into all of his decisions—and yet when she needed him most, he moved with a speed and purpose that kept her safe.

When the world was at its darkest, he was at his best.

Briten would find a way to win. Not her mother, her mother would have never been in this situation. Briten, though—he would find a way to kill the humans or make them bend their knee.

Her children would die soon. That's what scared her. The strands could regrow if she found a way to stop the cold from marching forward, but the children? They were alive. When they died, they wouldn’t be born again. Each life lost was life that wouldn't return, sent to whatever came after this universe, where the rest of Bynimian now lived in memory.

That's what she was sentencing them all to, just as Chilras sentenced her and the rest of her kind. Because of her inability to stop this affront.

She turned slightly behind and looked at the Bynum, the first born.

Named after her husband.

Briten looked back at her with blue eyes, so bright, almost incandescent. He couldn’t speak yet, as his aura still tried to learn the world around him.

It really was all so miraculous, the way life grew. First the aura assessed the physical environment, preparing him for possible threats. Then the assimilation of culture would start, but much more rapidly than the species on this planet learned. Truly, Bynums were more akin to the animals here, the way they learned almost everything within months of exiting the womb—some within hours.

Briten didn't move, only stared back, and Morena realized that it must have been shocking, beyond shocking, to be born into a universe with
so much
. Only through ignoring it all could anyone continue for just one more step.

Morena turned back around and looked down into the core.

Her mother would have never arrived. Her husband would have won. What would she do?

"
L
et's hear it
," Kenneth Marks said.

He stood in front of the same tables that Knox had been bent over all day, studying digital maps, plotting and planning his assault. Kenneth Marks didn't need Knox to tell him how things were going, he only needed to look down for a few seconds and assess what sat before him.

"It's working," Knox said, not looking up.

"It would appear so." He liked the answer. He wanted the alien to see this, that what she created would die if she ignored him. However, it couldn't work
too
well. Kenneth Marks needed to walk that line, not falling on either side. "How far are our inroads?"

"We've shrunk the perimeter by about a mile in all directions. There's hundreds more to go though."

"Hundreds? How long are you planning on this taking?"

Knox looked up at him. "As long as it takes to kill it all."

Kenneth Marks smiled. "Are you forgetting our earlier conversation?"

"I don't know how you want me to answer. At our current rate, a hundred and fifty miles will probably take a week, unless we get more troops in here. If something comes up, then it's going to take longer."

Knox perhaps hadn't forgotten their earlier conversation; perhaps he simply decided to ignore it. Perhaps he just threw it out of his mind right after the conversation took place. Kenneth Marks wanted to sigh, but he wouldn’t drop his smile right now. Finding good help was damned hard. Rigley and now Knox, both of them sealing their fates the same as they would lick envelopes before closing them.

Death comes to all, though, he supposed. It was only a matter of when and how. He would do the duty for these two.

"Thank you," he said. "Bring in all the troops you need. I want this over with in three days. Is that possible?"

Knox looked back to the screens on the table. He nodded as he looked across. "Yes, I think it should be. The more ice we have on them, the quicker they're going to go down."

"What do we do when we meet her?"

"Use the same plan."

Kenneth Marks hoped he would hear that. This white cake growing like a weed might not be able to combat the cold, but Kenneth Marks thought if for some reason they did run into the alien, ice water wouldn't put her down. The plan was for them
not
to run into her, though.

He said he wanted it done in three days, but in thirty-six hours, when the turning tide was too obvious to ignore, he would go to her again and she would relent. Then, together, they could watch the world change—with him and her side by side, ready to fulfill his fate. Ready to evolve humanity.

But, before that happened, the two people he hired would meet an end a bit more grisly than whatever the alien had planned.

"Where is Rigley?" Kenneth Marks asked. He hadn't seen her in a few hours, and his brain pushed the information to the forefront.

"I haven't seen her," Knox said. He zoomed in on a piece of the map.

"When was the last time you saw her?"

"Last night. When she dropped the bomb."

"You haven't seen her since we were in the main tent?" Kenneth Marks said.

Knox didn't look up, but only shook his head as he studied the map.

Kenneth Marks smile dropped away. Something was wrong here. She hadn't been out of his sight, unless in a hotel room, since he arrived—and now all of a sudden he couldn’t account for her? He had been so concerned with the alien, and then with sleep, that he hadn't thought about her since the main tent, either.

And now, she was missing.

No
, his mind said, refusing to believe it.

He left the tent without saying anything and walked across the parking lot to Rigley’s tent—already plotting out what he would do if she wasn't there, what actions he would take, how he would find her.

Because he would find her.

And if she fucking left, the flaying would only be an appetizer. He'd create a fucking six course meal if she tried to run.

He pushed back the tent's flaps, walking into the barracks. He didn't need to move down the aisle to see her bed, though. He knew where she was sleeping from the first moment she went into the tent, because he didn’t plan on losing his prized possession.

And yet, she wasn't there.

T
he wallpaper melted
.

Black smoke rose and grew thick near the ceiling. Had anyone been on the first floor, they wouldn’t have been able to stand up, but made to crawl on the floor in order to avoid the smoke that would surely fill their lungs. And even on the floor, they wouldn't last long, as the dark cloud pushed down, starting to flirt with the carpet, not content with its conquest above; indeed, the downstairs of Rigley’s mind looked more like the flames that roared across Bolivia than anything resembling the quiet home she built for herself.

The fire spread across the carpeted floor, making its way to the hardwood, and grabbing onto any furniture it could find. The flames danced like practiced lovers, putting on a show not for the viewers, but for each other. All of the sprinkler systems installed in the ceilings were off, or never functioned to begin with. It didn't matter at this point; it was all the same.

Rigley's feet were warm, but that felt good, not uncomfortable. The warmth was much better than the cold she felt in the other rooms or the way the floor first felt when she walked into this place.

The smoke and flames below, besides the warmth at her feet, hadn’t made its way to this high floor. Perhaps the house’s construction kept them at bay, or perhaps it was only Rigley’s mind, fighting to keep the insanity downstairs from rising to the last refuge Rigley knew.

She had begun decorating, and she found it exhilarating. She wondered, when she finished in this room, if she could go back to the others and remove the furnishings already there—the picture of her child, the man holding his hand out, etc. She would replace them with whatever ideas came to her, because in this place, she made the rules—no one else.

Right now, a parrot sat atop Kenneth Marks’ head, squawking. Rigley hadn't found out exactly how to make it stop, but she didn't mind. She found it actually quite humorous.

"More!" it screamed out into the room.

"What should I call you?" she said, turning away from the wall on which she was trying to decide what type of painting to hang.

"Sam!" the parrot's throaty voice threw out.

"Sam. Not a bad name by any stretch of the imagination. What should go on this wall, Sam?"

The parrot pranced around on top of Marks' head, the man's hair sticking up in odd spots whenever Sam moved his talons from one place to the next. The parrot turned around in a circle, squawking in a tune that sounded oddly like a laugh.

"His blood! His blood!"

"Whose blood?"

The parrot pecked down hard, his beak ramming through the skin and scraping the skull underneath. Blood shot up, coating the bird's head and dripping down his body. It rolled to the front of Marks' head and slicked down his face, running in between his eyes and nose.

Rigley turned her head sideways, looking at the blood on his face.

She smiled.

"I don't think that's a half bad idea, Sam."

Sam squawked in response.

Rigley stepped closer to Marks, and brought her hand to his face. She paused momentarily, something flickering in her head. Perhaps it was the last remnant of the rooms downstairs, the calm before the other levels had been built. Perhaps the memory of those rooms said there wasn’t a way back from what she was about to do. Perhaps only a momentary lapse occurred, though, like a circuit briefly misfiring. Perhaps nothing happened at all.

Either way, Rigley pushed forward, ignoring the pause, and rubbed her finger across the blood on Marks face. It still rolled down, fresh and warm, his heart doing its job and pumping the liquid life through him. Rigley looked down at her thumb and saw the dark red sitting there, waiting on her to make art.

She turned from the bird, which still squawked—loud annoying brays that would have driven most people mad. Rigley didn't notice it though, and if she had, she would probably have enjoyed it.

She stepped to the white wall and rubbed her thumb across diagonally. A long red stripe moved just behind her finger, starting off thick and heavy, and tapering at the end. Rigley put her hand to her side and only looked at the stripe.

She liked it.

"Sam, I think you're onto something here."

Sam kept on squawking.