Sacrifice
“I hope you’re right about this.” McCulvic’s voice crackled in Mentok’s ear. Mentok ignored him. He still had Siegfrieds to assist with the fighting – drones to position if Cure could manage to pin Heydrich down. And Mjolnir. He checked the status of the satellite. The fuel cells were running low.
Behind him, the Rakowski boy had stopped calling out numbers and collapsed onto his knees in front of the console, crying. Weak. Didn’t need him. Fight now. Grieve later.
On the screen in front and through a hundred pursuing cameras Mentok watched the white-clad champion and the Black Death tumbling, engaging, reengaging and blasting apart. Green energy ripped from Khalsa’s eyes as Heydrich disappeared into mist, which suddenly surrounded the white empath, re‑emerging as five copies which in unison yelled and enveloped Cure in fire. A second later and the fire hit nothing, Khalsa twisting into a being of living flame, and he flew straight at Heydrich, reforming with a wordless roar. Heydrich jetted backwards, opening his palm, and a red oval stretched out between them. Cure’s momentum carried him forward, and for the briefest moment his fist appeared from another portal a few feet away – then suddenly Heydrich snapped his palm and the oval vanished, and the white empath let out an agonised roar as his arm severed at the elbow. He dropped from the sky and rocketed backwards, strafing blasts from Heydrich as the limb regrew.
“We didn’t get him that one,” McCulvic’s voice muttered quietly. This had been their quandary. So many powers for Khalsa to absorb, process and practice – so little time. Mentok gritted his teeth.
“Cure, disengage,” he commanded, “Let the armours cover you while you heal.”
“I go.” In his digital eyes Mentok saw the white-clad figure nod, and Khalsa shot back from the Black Death as S37 and S38 rocketed upwards. The two empty metal figures sped between the empaths, blocking the lightning now streaming from Heydrich’s fingers, the energy dispersing harmless through their shells. The Black Death snapped to a halt and glared, then shot forward, his arms suddenly elasticising to enormous ropes of bladed diamond. He spun as he hurtled through the air, a tornado of slicing death.
Mentok grunted, driving the Siegfrieds apart and clear of the blades. They looped round Heydrich in fast, tight spirals, drawing his attention, staying either side to obstruct his view. Mentok felt both units lurch, tugged in mid-air by telekinetic force.
Deploy flares.
The robots’ legs opened and a stream of what looked like ball-bearings sailed out, dropping towards Heydrich. The balls sailed through the blades, some hitting, some sliced, some exploding in thundering cracks. A moment later the remainder of the bombs exploded in blinding light – but Heydrich was already gone.
Crack! Error reports erupted for S37 as the Black Death appeared on top of it, mouth spewing a stream of acid, tearing the armour limb from limb.
“I go.” Khalsa’s voice scratched over the comms. Mentok glanced up with S38’s eyes in time to see the white-clad man rocketing up from the ground, accelerating at inhuman speeds, his arm regrown, his body turned to steel. He slammed into Heydrich like a bullet from a dreadnaught’s cannon and the sky reverberated with a resounding thud.
Acid spit met super-breath met steel-flesh met magnetism met lightning and then they were teleporting, popping furiously in and out of reality one tunnelling after the other. Their fists met and suddenly the Black Death was grappling Cure in a vice-grip, his body glowing with magenta energy, but before he could explode Khalsa replicated and they both teleported away. A sickening purple explosion crackled through the clouds, but Heydrich hadn’t had time to properly charge it and it didn’t reach the land. On the far side of the fallout the two empaths reappeared, their clothes both smoking, locked in mutual, burning glares.
“He’s not running,” murmured Rakowski. He had pulled himself back into standing beside Mentok, watching the battle unfold on the central screen, his eyes red, his voice cracked – but standing none the less. Good lad. “He hasn’t teleported away.”
“Khalsa’s new. If Heydrich runs now, he only gets stronger.” Mentok switched on his comm. “Lead him down Cure. Get him on the ground.”
“I go.” The white-clad figure plummeted towards the ravaged valley, skimming low along the earth, stones exploding in his wake. He skidded to a halt, boots tearing tracks in the ground, and suddenly all the rock he had displaced flew up at Heydrich, a deadly anti-air barrage the mirror to Heydrich’s own. The Black Death twirled, spreading into water which fell upon the plain. For a moment there was nothing – and then from everywhere a droplet struck a new Black Death grew, identical in their appearance and contempt, their rippling, savage snarl.
“Hammer,” said Ed.
“Too spread out,” Mentok growled, “Don’t know which one.” He stared at the screen and the figures arrayed before him, eyes racing to find a clue.
But before he could calculate which one was Heydrich, the army of replicas opened their mouths, and the Black Death’s voice echoed out.
*
“W-h-y—d-o—y-o-u—f-i-g-h-t—me—b-r-o-t-h-e-r?” Each word, each sound a discordant melody, flittering rapid-fire from the clones’ mouths like the wings of a chattering swarm. Fifty feet away, dust swirling around him, Cure stared defiantly at the Black Death.
“You are killer. Monster. In the name of Allah, I stop you.”
“Y-o-u-r—m-a-s-t-e-r-s—d-e-c-i-e-v-e—y-o-u.—J-o-i-n—u-s.—R-u-l-e—t-h-i-s—w-o-r-l-d.”
“No.”
“T-h-e-n—d-i-e.”
And in unison the copies erupted, each exploding with a different power – fire, lightning, lasers, sound, hails of stone and ice, streams of acid and air, an unrelenting avalanche of energy and death, but Cure was already gone, already running, supersonic, his body encircled in forcefields, unable to be hit. He let out a roar and the earth around the Black Deaths fractured, flying up and tearing through replica flesh even as Khalsa’s body blurred, splitting into a hundred copies, all glowing with blinding light. Panic flashed across the Black Death’s face and suddenly he too was running, fleeing the horde pursuing him which an instant later crashed down around the falling replicas, the illusions shattering like glass. Round and round the empaths raced, a streak of white and a streak of darkness, lightning arcing from their hands, fire burning from their eyes. In zig-zags then, and then a circle, round and round and round in a great tornado of dust, a storm of wind and powers lit by bursts of raging light. Faster than sight, faster than sound. The air cracked and the ground burned – and faster than all of them, faster than thought, Mentok’s eyes locked on his prize.
S7.
The armour rocketed forward with millisecond precision, slamming into Heydrich's side, tumbling through the dust, its metal vice-grip locking around his form. The Black Death roared, but in a heartbeat Khalsa caught him, and a burning steel fist slammed hard into Heydrich’s belly. Mentok’s heart leapt to his throat, the drones racing to reposition. The Black Death screamed, screamed and writhed against his mechanical restrainer, but Cure struck unrelenting, his fists blurring in pummelling blows of inhuman speed and strength, turning flesh to shard and pulp. Heydrich struggled, his skin rapidly changing, attempting to move, attempting to dodge, but it was too much for him, and with a sickening gurgle his bloodied eyes rolled back in his head, and for a moment his body seemed to shimmer-
Then in a pop and rush of sulphur, he disappeared.
“I go!” Khalsa shouted, triumphant, and he closed his own eyes, blood dripping victorious from his fists, his mind tracing the Black Death’s jump-scar, following-
“NO!” Mentok cried, suddenly knowing why he was so fearful, why the sight of Heydrich being beaten had filled him with such dread, “DON’T-”
But with another pop their empath vanished, leaving the shattered valley silent and devoid.
*
Baashir closed his eyes and focused on the open tunnel. The invisible gap – the squeezing space which the monster had made, and into which he could follow. He had him now, he must not lose him. For his friend McCulvic, for Allah, the Earth and all the unborn. He must stop him. He would save the world.
His body lurched, reality turned black and suffocating. He powered forward. Heavy forces pressed in from every side, sound rushing, blood pounding in his head. This jump was a very long one – so far was the demon running, maybe even to the other side of Earth. It would not matter; he would not lose him. In God’s name, with all His glory, he would strike the defiler down.
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The tunnel spun. The pressure grew. Baashir gritted his teeth and shouted, and his lungs sucked deep the smell of rotten flesh-
Then suddenly, they sucked nothing at all.
The noise abruptly halted, the pressure died, and Baashir’s feet stumbled on the ground. His hands spun as if swimming, as if the air itself was suddenly thick – except it wasn’t, it was empty, and his limbs felt cold and light. His boots touched on grey, desolate stone and suddenly there was pain in his ears, pain in his eyes, pain everywhere-
His gaze turned up, into a sky bereft of blue, where he saw nothing but stars and void-heart black.
Merciful God, he tried to whisper, but there was no air in his lungs. He closed his eyes, heart pounding, pleading in his chest, and pictured desperately of home.
Then an arm grabbed him from behind and wrapped tight around his throat.
See here, the monster whispered, and as Baashir’s body thrashed it held him in bands of iron, one arm clenched around his neck, the other sunk into the stone: See your kingdom.
Spasms wracked through Baashir’s chest. He turned his flesh to steel but still the demon held him, still it squeezed, and he felt deep cracks spreading deep within. He could not think. He could not teleport. His body burned.
The starlit void began to dim.
See what you could have had, the monster whispered. The words trickled through Baashir’s mind like fevered droplets, and with a lurch his head was turned, pulled back to see and stare. His heart flickered a final, desperate rhythm and through bloodshot eyes he looked helplessly upon the distant Earth.
You’ve had not my cornucopia, the corruption whispered, and even as his heartbeat faltered Baashir cried within his mind, cried out for God and glory, pushing himself once more to rise… to think… to remember the kind men’s training, remember the things they said he could do… remember…
But his mind held no more unclouded thoughts. His cries came empty to soundless nothing, and his soul burned cold with pain. His shoulders slumped and he sunk to his knees amongst the moon’s barren craters.
You could have been a god.
The sky was untold darkness, and into darkness Baashir fell, never again to rise.
*
From Earth, Mentok saw it. Through Khalsa’s iris camera, he watched in helpless anguish as Cure entered Heydrich’s jump scar – watched him emerge in the black of space. Watched the Black Death, healing, waiting for him – watched him unable to teleport away. Watched his vision blur, his vitals surge, watched his body fall apart. Watched him die a cold and empty death.
A rare power. Unusual. To survive in space, to need not breathe. Or maybe Heydrich could make oxygen, hold it telekinetically around himself. Maybe one answer, maybe a thousand. Please be quiet, he begged his thinking, as tears stung in his eyes. Yet they didn’t listen. They didn’t stop.
How many good men will you sacrifice? How many more will you need?
But there was no victory in apologies; no justice in regret. And so, with his eyes closed and his chest heavy, Mentok turned his hand and activated the web of fusion explosives implanted dormant throughout Cure’s suit, and two‑hundred and forty-thousand miles away bathed Klaus Heydrich in burning light.
*
“Detonation confirmed.”
“You son of a bitch.” McCulvic’s voice was a whisper, but Mentok strove to pay it no heed. He had to know if they’d succeeded. The explosives had contained enormous destructive potential, enough to level a country.
“Was this your plan the whole time?”
Was that the director’s voice, or his conscience?
There is nothing we cannot sacrifice.
“Viktor.”
One life for thousands. One life for all of them.
“Viktor.”
“Yes,” replied Mentok. He opened his eyes, or rather, he had never truly closed them – his mind still ran a thousand background processes, ordering soldiers and armour and drones. He returned the speaker, the boy, Edward, to the forefront of his consciousness.
“Successful detonation,” Rakowski told him. Mentok already knew, could already see it, but he looked up at the giant screen regardless and let the footage filter through his mind to the rest of the Legion. “But there’s been damage to the moon.”
“Yes, I see that,” the old man murmured. Suddenly, even inside his young body, he felt very, very old. “Yield as expected.”
“Parts are breaking off.” Rakowski glanced over at him, as did the two psychics, Cykes and Baroque. “Long term, they’re going to descend. There’s tides, ecology-”
“Damage can be repaired,” Mentok snapped. His eyes didn’t leave the screen. “Just confirm if he’s alive.”
The command centre fell silent, save for the hum of distant systems.
“DoD satellites aren’t tracking any movement.” McCulvic’s voice crackled in Mentok’s ear.
“Your sensors couldn’t track water if they fell out of a boat,” the old man muttered; yet his own instruments were likewise not showing any lifesigns. A brief burst of heat and then nothing – the infinite abyss of cold.
Baroque’s voice poked up into the silence, uncharacteristically timid. “Did… did we win?” she asked, glancing from Mentok to Rakowski to the screen to Cykes.
Nobody spoke. For a few seconds, Mentok just scowled.
“S units moving to intercept,” he ordered, “Comprehensive sweep and reconnaissance. Until it’s confirmed we assume nothing. Everyone remain on high alert.” He turned from the screen and strode towards the cave’s exit, pushing past the psychics, suddenly consumed with the overwhelming desire to see sky, to breathe fresh air.
“Bury your dead,” he told them without looking back.
*****
Is this the fate you could not see time walker? Have I given enough to pass your test?
Mentok stood outside the cavemouth. Three days had passed. The Siegfrieds he sent had arrived at the moon, or what was left of it, and found no trace of Heydrich or Cure. There had been no further attacks; no sudden reappearance. When the telepaths linked the Legion’s minds, he could feel the children’s hope, beneath the grief – feel their cautious optimism. Yet he could not bring himself to believe, not without concrete evidence. There were just so many… options. He could have teleported away. Gone intangible. Absorbed the energy. Moved at superspeed. Healed himself. There could be a scrap of flesh hidden in a cave somewhere, awaiting an instinctive order to regenerate, a replica kept dormant. He could be biding his time, gathering strength, recovering… and all they could do was watch, and worry, and wait to see if they started to die. Standing at the entrance to his lair, overlooking the shattered valley, Mentok grit his teeth and closed his eyes. The silence was deafening – a million thoughts entangling out within his mind.
Madrid was in ruin. Rio De Janeiro too. Only London had been spared the wrath of Heydrich’s orbital bombardment; thanks to Natalia Baroque’s pre-existing connections, the telepathic community there had been able to rally enough telekinetics and force-fielders in time to deflect the bombardment east to the mouth of the Thames. Still, overall, the damage was devastating. Millions lay dead. Clouds of ash and smoke choked the respective countries. The Legion, what was left of it, was moving with various militaries and relief organisations to sift throughout the rubble, trying to pull together any who might have survived.
Still, in sheer, cold pragmatism, it paled compared to Africa. His fight had seen cities destroyed, not countries. Little comfort, perhaps, to the dead and living, but still factual. There would be no tsunamis battering the coastlines, no states of emergency across the globe. If this is what it took, he told himself; if this is what it cost. They could rebuild. The Legion could regrow. Decimation, not death.
He closed his eyes, sensing through his neural implants the various Siegfrieds still in operation, the drones and systems he was coordinating around the world. Already, the armours were repaired to about 65% capacity. Unbound by morale and organic tissue; the quickest to bounce back. Those armours that were operational also wandered the ruins with the Acolytes, lending silent aid wherever they went. His flesh Legion and his steel legion. Both bloodied, both intact.
His networks were awash with communications, outraged sentiment, denunciations and orders he stand trial. Lives were lost and the politicians in their handwringing demanded answers. There was great sound and fury yet to come.
“Sir.” Rakowski’s voice spoke in his earpiece, “If you could.”
Mentok opened his eyes and unclenched his jaw. His mind turned back through his neural connection to the central console, where the young genius now stood, reviewing figures on the screen.
“What.” Second-hand, he heard his own rough voice crawl out through the speakers.
“About the moon-”
“It’ll be repaired Rakowski,” Mentok snarled, irrationally irritable. He regretted snapping at the boy the moment he did it, but human interaction right now grated like rusted razor blades on skin. “Prioritise. Let the fish have two weeks of confusion.”
“It’s not that,” the Acolyte responded. He flinched a little at the Grandmaster’s reprimand, but he did not retreat. “It’s the debris.”
Mentok’s thoughts turned to mull through the figures. “What about it?”
“I’ve been trying to account for all the pieces, but the calculations aren’t-”
“We blew it up boy,” Mentok sighed, cutting over him, “It’s dust. How do you calculate the volume of space dust?”
“But I-”
“It doesn’t matter if we don’t have all the pieces. We’ll rebuild it. Artificially. The moon will never know.”
“But sir, we’re out a significant volume.”
You’ll be out if you keep wasting my time, Mentok almost retorted, but instead he bit his tongue and with a reluctant sigh dove mentally into the figures Rakowski was offering. What modelling do we have for blowing up the moon, he started to complain- but then stopped.
Because the mathematics were sound.
Suddenly, Mentok’s stomach pooled with ice. His implants flared and his mind raced back into the central interface, into the readings, the full extent of the boy’s calculations. He tore back through grainy footage, through distant pixels of the explosion three days ago, trying to find, trying to trace-
No. He wouldn’t. No.
“Sir?” A sudden fear swelled in Rakowski’s voice. The screen in front of him was pulsing, flashing with data as Mentok’s mind raced through. “What are you-”
There was no way to tell. It could be under an illusion, it could be invisible, maybe he could secrete some form of substance, a camouflage or paint-
Gravity. Minor, minor variations on trajectories of other objects. Minor pulls, if you calculated the initial vectors, triangulated, a thousand interactions and then a thousand more and-
Yes-yes-yes-yes-please-don’t-be-
No.
No.
Back in front of the cave, Mentok’s knees gave out, and he collapsed onto the floor. His hands scraped rough stone. His arms failed him.
“Sir? Grandmaster? Sir?”
He had failed them.
Failed to spot the tiny gravitational anomaly.
An invisible rock the size of Mauritius, heading straight for Earth, with maybe 20 minutes left until it struck.
*****
In the end there was nothing he could do. Nothing anyone could do. The silent, hurtling meteor was too close now, moving too fast. Heydrich had spent three days accelerating – there was no longer anything that could get close. Regardless, the Russian government ignored his warning – still they scrambled to launch their missiles, what few they could calibrate for open space. Mentok’s half-hearted words sowed only panic, and with utter predictability the bombs were stopped in mid-flight and turned back. It was almost laughably easy. A dozen nuclear warheads gift-wrapped to a soulless conqueror. It would have been a crisis, were it not for what would follow.
At 3:17pm on 4 December 2000, the moonshard struck Central Russia, and Eurasia was destroyed.
From the floor of his cave, Viktor Mentok watched on helplessly as his world was consumed by ash and fire.
Billions, now, would die from this.
There was no way to evacuate a continent.