38
In the hollow void between Rainbow Bridge and Aerie Station, a terrible battle raged. A giant, spider-like maintenance construct had emerged from the station to attack the incoming elevator, shattering windows, venting its air and nearly destroying the sleek metal cab. Four of the seven passengers had swarmed outside in response, but the fight was not going well.
The giant spider-construct lashed out with its flailing, powerful limbs. One of them tore Marget from her perch on its back, sending the orc spinning away to the end of her tether. Another limb struck at General Erron’s chest. She did not see what became of the elf, because a third stabbing leg had used its electrical tip to jolt Vrol unconscious. Marget knew it at once, because the magic that shielded them all from the void began fading out of existence.
Her stomach lurched and swam as their world, the sun, black void and a rocky space-station cartwheeled around her, perfectly silent except for her own labored breath. The transparent film that compressed and warmed her body prevented death, but did nothing at all against vertigo, and Marget threw up inside her glass helmet. Without Vrol’s magic or a surface to stand upon, there was no way for the orc to stop whirling. She seized hold of her rubbery tether, instead, using it like a rope to reel herself back into battle. Not… yet… out of… the fight!
Roaring an oath that made helmets ring like a gong, Marget grabbed for the tether, then hauled herself hand-over-hand to that rampaging spider construct. She had to squint past hovering chunks of her own vomit and blurred, streaky glass, but kept going. Panted roughly, ignoring the stench and her dizziness, narrowed red eyes on the goal. Her axe had not fallen away. It was clamped by prongs that swelled from the skin of her artificial arm, near at hand, once she was free to reclaim it.
Vrol drifted limp at the end of his own line, apparently still unconscious. Marget had no further time to spare for him, though. Just dragged herself close to that big metal bug, which had started to chew on the cable that stretched between station and planet. And if the spider bit through, they would die.
Almost there…!
Marget tucked and tumbled to reorient herself, slamming both booted feet to the spider’s scarred and crackling surface. Came down and stuck fast with a slam that she felt all the way to the top of her pounding skull. The boots clung magnetically, and all at once there was ‘up’ and ‘down’ once again. Just like that, she stopped spinning. (Except inside her own head, which took a few breaths to adjust.)
Marget yanked her axe from its arm-clamps and swung it up high, bellowing all fifty-one names of the clan mother. Looking wildly around herself, the orc ignored all the flashing lights and pulsing decoy-targets. Instead, she chose a dull and uninteresting lump of metal behind the bug-construct’s head and then lashed out hard. The axe blade crashed onto that spiky steel dome like a cleaver splitting a prisoner’s skull. Cracked it wide open, causing the spider to twitch, flip and jerk, just as a surge of fiery power flared through that half-severed cable.
The streaking red glow was on their side, though; repairing the elevator line as it passed. It did no harm at all to the passengers, targeting that vast metal spider, instead. Marget stared as the light-pulse reached the maintenance construct and flowed right into it, arcing up through the spider’s scissoring mouth parts. The monster glowed for an instant… lit up bright as the sun for less than a heartbeat or gasped, lurid oath… then its parts just unclamped. It was a “machine”, and the impulse sent through the cable made it break apart into layers and chunks that drifted away through the void. Just like that, the battle was over. The monster fell to bits, releasing a small, writhing marten. The helmeted creature floated amidst an expanding junk-cloud like a furry banner, grasping two ends of an unplugged wire.
Marget grabbed for the beast, snagging it just as the section of hull that she rode on soared past. She crouched low, spreading her arms as though riding a log raft on rough water. Useful, that; a likeness she could make stronger with a basic charm of affinity.
“By the will of my foremothers: Like to like… this to that… not just trash in the void, but a steerable craft!”
Marget found that she could alter the hull-raft’s path by shifting her stance and riding those half-perceived waves. Coasted over to Vrol’s slow-spinning body, which was tethered still to the construct’s loose head. Reaching out, she hooked his arm with her axe-blade’s curved tip, then drew the elf in, clasped him tight.
Peering down, she saw that his breath still misted the inside of his helmet; blooming and shrinking, as did her own. His face was pale, and his eyes were closed, but they darted and moved under their lids. Alive, then, but… dreaming? She had no way to tell. Just slung him over one shoulder like a sack of battlefield loot and then leapt from her coasting spider-hull raft.
That fiery glow took hold of Marget and guided her back down to the space elevator. The cab had started repairing itself, sealing burst windows, restoring the air, lights and music. As for her companions…
Salem was tending to Monkey, who’d taken some damage from the cold, airless void. Zak was slumped on the floor, slowly regrowing his metal head. Not far away, Erron was stripping both helmet and survival suit, making them vanish as he stalked across to Marget. She thrust her limp burden at him, needing both hands free to remover her own reeking and clouded helmet. Got the thing off by unlocking its neck-ring, then threw it aside. Next got as clean as she could, scrubbing vomit off her face with a bit of cloth.
“He is unconscious,” she remarked, watching as Erron eased her adopted brother onto the nearest couch. “It may be that a slap or a bucket of water will restore him, General.”
“Might do,” murmured the dark-haired elf. He accepted a canned ‘frosty beverage’ from a hovering snack cart, opened the thing, and tried dripping a bit into Vrol’s mouth, all the while carefully holding his head. Marget shrugged. She would simply have poured it all in and then punched Vrol’s stomach to make him swallow, but… different race, different cures.
Meanwhile, glass shards and debris slid past them like schools of glimmering fish, drawn to a row of rubbish-collection pads on the walls. There, the bits vanished, broken down to their basic parts in a brilliant, sorcerous flash. Their vehicle spoke again, announcing,
“Honored passengers, thank you so much for your patience! Rainbow Bridge 1 is now back in service. Please return to your seats as we conclude our wonder-filled journey to Aerie Station!”
…A request it repeated until the lot of them were back on their couches and fastened down (less Erron, who refused ever again to be bound). Monkey was well on his way to recovery after a good, stiff drink and medicinal fog. Zak’s head was three-quarters restored, giving him the look of a fleshless and staring, glassy-eyed skull.
Vrol remained deeply unconscious, trapped in whatever wild vision had seized him. There was not a thing that Marget could do to help, as slapping, drinks and prayer had only resulted in bruises and (sometimes) a very slight glow. Marget rumbled unhappily but plucked the nuzzling marten away from her elvish brother.
“Leave off,” she commanded. “The spirits have called him to battle, and he will not return until he has done their will, Gnameless.” (She re-labeled the beast on the spot in approved orc fashion, deciding that its courage had earned some elaboration.)
The marten squeaked by way of response, but allowed itself to be carried away, joining the orc on her creaking, over-stressed travel couch. Nothing here was built for a woman of size, Marget thought disgustedly.
“I was a warrior of the hills, Gnameless,” she remarked, strapping in. “I sought glory and battle… along with a few worthy mates for my cavern. Now I have seen air-castles and ridden wagons that fly through the void. I have fought a great construct, up where the air durst not climb… and I do not know if there is any way home, for Marget.”
Gnameless curled up between her muscular shoulder and thick, corded neck, making himself at home. Nipped the orc lightly and sighed, whiskers tickling her ear. Meanwhile,
“Thank you, Honored Passengers!” gushed their elevator. “Please finish your drinks and then hand your empty containers to the friendly mobile waste receptacle. Then, lie back, buckle in and enjoy your ride, as you challenge the heavens with Rainbow Bridge!”
“I would prefer no more challenges,” admitted the orc (very quietly, to Gnameless). “Even the boldest warrior has to rest, sometime.”
Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
“Aye, that,” agreed Erron, whose elven hearing could pick up her heart and the rushing of blood in her veins, much less a hoarse whisper. Nor was he the only one to respond.
Salem uttered a low, plaintive yowl, having lost her glassy invulnerability when Firelord restored her to flesh, fur and breakable bone. Monkey was still breathing in healing vapor, but he chuffed and beat the arms of his couch in agreement. Only Zak and Vrol remained silent, but the one had not regrown his tongue, while the other lay twitching in dreams.
A soft, chiming alert sounded, and then their cab started moving again. The rest of their ride spanned just twenty-three miles and a quarter of a candle-mark, most of that spent speeding up and then slowing back down again. There was a very strange feeling of being crushed into her seat… losing all weight for a bit… then pressing against her straps as the rocky station above them grew steadily nearer. At last, the elevator slowed to a crawl.
“Thank you for challenging the heavens with Rainbow Bridge!” chirped their vehicle. “We will be docking soon, Honored Passengers. Please remain seated until the vehicle has come to a full and complete stop, keeping your hands and arms on the couch at all times!”
There were further instructions, but Marget stopped paying attention. That breezy voice annoyed her, the straps were too tight, and she was sick of waiting for the next boulder to drop. Not even the shimmering glass and mithral palace above them could cheer her.
“This is the highest air-castle yet,” she grunted, looking over at Vrol. He’d promised her wonders, and those she had certainly seen. Wanted one more, and that was her elven brother awake and spouting nonsense, again. But it wasn't to be.
The elevator cab docked with a jerk and a long, windy hiss. It thudded home against something that yielded slightly, breaking the last of their speed. Then at last, they were free to unstrap and rise.
“Thank you for travelling Rainbow Bridge Spaceways! Please take small children by the hand and claim all belongings as you exit the cabin!”
…and so forth. Marget was surprised and elated when Vrol unbuckled his straps and stood up… only, it wasn’t him. Not really. Like everyone else but Zak, Marget lunged to greet the risen Old One, only to find that he sparked at the edges, while his eyes glowed red as twin embers. Not Vrol then, but his god.
“Shining One,” said Erron, bowing low. “You honor us. The boy is…?”
“Elsewhere,” said the incarnate god, pitching His borrowed voice to an almost normal volume. “Very far in the future, I think. Taking over My follower’s body seemed better than having him carried.”
“He will return, Lord of Battles?” cut in Salem, her velvet-black ears flattened to either side in confusion; her golden eyes seeming all pupil. Firelord/ Vrol spread both glittering hands in a ‘Who knows?’ gesture.
“I am much less than I was, Kitten of Distant Sands. Alone, where once there were many who sprang from a shattered, great ONE. Still alive, because I had a believer left to shelter Me.”
“Three more now, God of War,” rumbled Marget, pressing a clenched fist to her brow in worship. Added… at a fierce bark from Gnameless… “Four more, and possibly also the Monkey and construct.”
The big golden ape ambled over, walking on knuckles and splayed back legs to hoot his opinion. By that time, Zak had recovered enough of his head to move with purpose and speak. He came forward to join them, shaking his rebuilt skull.
“I worship no one and nothing. In the end, the gods are like everyone else; willing to stab your back to achieve their own ends… To the seventh circle with prayer and incense.” Then, with a flare of crystal-red eyes, “Enough talk. We must get through this station and find a way into Far Keep that isn’t the frekking front door.”
Firelord did not become angry at being insulted. He cocked His borrowed blond head to one side, looking at Zak. Said,
“From ONE, there were many, and now only Me. I will care for My follower’s body, doing all in My power to defend his companions until his return. There will come a time, Drow, when I can aid you in battle as I did with the spider. Sooner, rather than later, if I read the signs rightly.”
Zak uttered the mechanical version of a snort, spinning some internal flywheel against a bit of loose wood.
“I wouldn’t hold my breath, if I had any, ‘Shining One’… and I am a dark-elf no longer.”
They departed the elevator moments later, passing through a short double doorway to reach Aerie Station. Gnameless leapt down from Marget’s shoulder to scamper ahead, as Erron lit up a mage glow. The place was dark, cold and silent inside, until Firelord focused His will.
“The station’s goddess has been removed from her place,” He explained. Then, pulling a small oval stone from Vrol’s faerie pocket, the god said, “There is this, which may not belong here, but might be able to waken the shrine. Come, I explored much before joining the fight. I will show you the way.”
He misty-stepped ahead of them, flaring brightly to light up and warm a grand, lofty entrance hall. Filled with statues, machines, dusty fountains and blank screens, the great hall seemed abandoned and desolate. Firelord’s power caused a few lights to flicker and slow, dreary music to wheeze. Faint holograms wavered like seaweed as they walked past, but the effect wasn’t reassuring.
Gnameless explored ahead of Firelord, who burned like a Vrol-shaped torch. There was a lot to see, and miles of distance to cross on foot. They might have ridden, but none of the moving pathways that Firelord pointed out were functioning. (Marget wouldn’t have trusted them, anyhow.)
The station had been chiseled into the heart of a massive asteroid. Its polished floor was made up of striated metal and stone. Its carved ceiling arched high overhead, swallowing echoes and light. The sense of terrible age and desertion was oppressive, stifling conversation. Marget found herself plunged into thought as she followed Erron and Firelord. They had to climb several frozen escalators and cross a shadowy mall to reach their goal. The shrine was positioned at Aerie Station’s far side, on the fifth floor, behind a great mithral doorway marked: VIP Access Only!
“This way,” urged the god, opening the locked hatch with a flick of His fingers. “I found it when I was looking for a way to shut down that corrupted repair-crawler. I believe that all may enter, as the shrine has no hostess. Its defenses are inactive.”
Erron was first inside, even so, with Marget, Salem, Monkey, Zak and Gnameless trailing behind. Such shrines were meant for the Old Ones, and everyone knew that. They clustered near Erron, keeping their voices low and making few movements. Unlike the elves, the god and Gnameless, they’d never entered such a place, and they were nervous. Though darkened and silent, the shrine was a beautiful sight. There were gemmed platforms, crystalline statues and an ornate matter-creation booth. One of the walls was entirely glass, looking out on the world down below. Their breath misted in the frigid air as Erron, Marget, Salem and Monkey left Firelord’s warmth to stare through the window at home.
What they saw was heartbreaking. Only a single patch of green, brown and blue remained, encircled by a noose of crackling, tightening force. The rest of their world was a cratered desert, as barren of life as Aerie Station.
“Guthrok,” cursed Marget. “I wanted to see, but…”
“Now I wish we hadn’t,” finished Erron, quietly. “There is not much left to be saved, it appears.”
“We may yet be in time to reverse what has happened,” insisted Firelord, flashing over to block their view with His follower’s drifting gold hair and red cloak. Glancing at Erron, He said, “General, conjure some water from a living source. Any stream, pond or lake you can call to mind will do.”
Erron considered momentarily. He nodded after a bit, saying,
“The Meadewine. I learned to swim and to sail there. It is… was… a beautiful river, bordered by forested cliffs on the west, and by my estate on the eastern bank.”
As he said this, Erron sketched a sigil in the frigid air and then cupped his hands. Slowly, at first, then gathering force, water began to trickle. Soon it filled the container he’d formed from enchantment and his own two hands.
“Bring it this way,” ordered Firelord. He led them past groups of tables and chairs and an empty pool, coming at last to a carved metal podium. There was a shallow basin set into its top, and into that bowl the god placed a small oval stone.
“Now pour water over it,” Firelord instructed, moving out of the way.
Erron nodded again, then stepped forward to open his hands over the basin and dried-out stone. He concentrated on his spell, maintaining the flow of fresh water from a river long gone. It poured out in a silvery stream but did not fill that slight depression, for the stone was absorbing it all.
For nearly a quarter candle-mark, Erron conjured and poured. That small, dry stone drank it all up, beginning to glow and then sparkle with color. Once it was fully restored, the podium’s basin filled up. Next came a flash of light like sunshine on water. A lovely, sun-dappled greenish-brown maiden appeared, hovering over the floor. She seemed confused; a river-nymph very much out of her element. Looking around with eyesight and manna, both, the goddess scanned her surroundings. Gasped and shuddered then, shrinking from what she found there.
“This is a terrible place, nearly barren of life,” whispered the restored goddess, as her presence caused lights to turn on and tinkling music to surge all over the station. The shrine’s pool began filling as well, casting soft, healing mist high into the air.
“There were animals and plants. A public menagerie, I believe,” replied Firelord, calling up the station’s schematic. “There can be again, with your power and the matter-creation booth. You have but to step in and command, Goddess.”
She made a soft noise, shaking her head so that tendrils of brown kelp-hair drifted about.
“This is not my place,” she objected, wringing her hands.
“Nor mine, but I controlled it long enough to defeat a corrupted repair-mech,” said Firelord. “And it would not be for very long. You have only to help us reach Far Keep, Goddess.”
“Lirrilan,” she corrected. “I am Lirrilan, hostess of Far Keep Station. It is… it has been…”
“It has been desecrated by War Marshall Trask, the Fallen One,” finished Erron, coming to stand in front of that slim, fragile goddess. “He is my enemy as well, Lirrilan. I seek to end his existence and cleanse Far Keep Station. I failed in our first encounter, but with the Shining One’s help and these companions, I hope to deliver my curse home to Trask.”
The misplaced goddess would have replied. Only, before she could answer him, Aerie Station’s matter creation booth came to life and started humming. Marget leapt to face the cylindrical mechanism, watching as a figure took shape behind its fogged glass. It did not seem likely that anything good would emerge, so the party spread out and drew weapons, expecting a fight. But, as they formed a ring, red lights flashed, and alarm klaxons blared, shrilling,
‘Warning! Insufficient data received! File Hana: exe cannot be run! Warning! Attempted materialization will result in death or deformity. Warning!’
The “anything” coming was Erron’s wife, Hana, but she wouldn’t survive her transmission.