The Crimson Tower

by Alex Marshall

appears
in this issue.

conclusion

“All I can say for certain is that, for whatever reason and at whatever far-off point in time, we became separated from the Hattooshan. By distance probably, then tradition and custom and then language and then, gradually even our appearances began to diverge.

“At some point mistrust was born — a mistake, a misunderstanding in the mists of time? Yes, then came anger, retaliation — retribution. Maybe an atrocity to trigger an endless cycle of outrage and revenge. And so it goes on down the ages until nobody remembers or cares to.

“Until we find ourselves here at the eventide of our civilisation, the veritable end of time and still we are at war! And why, because there is nothing else! Our history, our world, our humanity is all gone. There is nothing else!”

Lord Limbold slumped, exhausted upon the pillow. The manservant breathed a heavy sigh, stood and crossed to the window.

“What now, my Lord?”

“What now indeed.” The weapons master regarded him; weariness and sorrow etched deeply in his face. Sorrow but also determination. “I have a plan,” he said.

“That is well then,” replied the other. “For I hear the sound of engines in the dawn.”

* * *

They watched the first wave of attack craft pass over the city, bound for Varushalem, contrary to expectations aired at the council. They made their preparations, ever mindful of the distant pounding that spelled the capital’s destruction.

“What would you have me do, master?” It was the first thing that Haggai asked of him as the sky reverberated with the howl of Hattooshan gunships.

“You must go at once to the basement. There you will find the Interrogator. You will need the following tools...” The weapons master gave the manservant clear, clipped instruction as he belted a richly embroidered robe over the soiled nightshirt. “Hasten now,” he finished, “I will be in the high chamber. Join me there as soon as you can!”

They parted, the light from Lord Limbold’s lantern receding up the winding stair whilst the manservant descended into the bowels of the tower.

In his observatory the weapons master wasted no time. He lit the lamps and crossed at once to the machine, seizing sockets and encoders from where they lay upon the dais and set to work.

* * *

An exploding missile boomed from the far side of the tower. Lord Limbold looked up and swore. Through the great eastern window the dirty glow of the Phosphor Sea wavered in the hazy light. He checked the great clock on the wall and swore again.

“Thankfully there is not much left to do,” he muttered under his breath. “Just another few lines of code here and then we must install the stone. Where is Haggai...”

With a hiss the door opened and not one but two figures burst into the room.

“Forgive me, Lord,” blurted the manservant. “Count Voormidrath would not wait downstairs, he insisted on coming up immediately. I asked that he at least...”

“Never mind that, soldier!” said the count, pulling off his dented helm and casting it to one side. “Limbold, we are out of time!”

Count Voormidrath had come directly from the battle. His exoderm was scorched and smoking. He shook sweat from his eyes and braced his legs wide to steady himself upon the chequered floor.

“No matter Haggai,” the weapons master reassured his aide, ignoring the snorting warlord. “Did you bring the component?”

“I have it,” Haggai said, producing a large, elliptical object from beneath his apron. It was smooth and polished and it lustred with a bluish radiance. The weapons master took it, carefully and turned back to the dais.

“Did you hear me Limbold?” hissed the count. “We are out of time! Varushalem’s a smoking ruin. The battle is lost and the Hattooshan fleet is turning the western desert to glass on its way here. Udin and Kulne are dead, Dhorvush has fled south with what remains of his force. So prepare now, for I would witness this wonder weapon. I want to see death rain upon them, as it has upon the garrison of Varushalem. I would see the terror strike them, before I die!”

With a resounding click as of a latch falling securely into place, the weapons master stepped back from the machine, wiping his hands upon the hem of his robe. He turned upon the count, his eyes glittering strangely from the shadows of the stand lamps.

“I am finished,” he said. It was almost like a sigh, like the blessed release that comes with sleep after much toil. From outside came a sharp whistle and then the thud of a shell detonating somewhere in the city. A siren began to wail above the sound of more shells falling.

“How do we prime it?” said Count Voormidrath, striding to the dais. His gaze darted from the machine to the extremities of the chamber as if he expected walls and ceiling to suddenly fall away and the platform to rotate, bringing the contraption to bear on the western sky — already swarming with the ships of the enemy fleet.

“Simple,” said the weapons master standing aside. “You can do it. On the panel, there — the green button...”

With a snarl, the count tore the gauntlet from his right hand and reached for the console. His silver teeth were bared in a grimace of triumph, his eyes were like splinters of glass in a leathery mask. There was a soft click. Diodes awakened over the machine and the great, metallic ball began to turn.

“What now?” said the count.

“Now? We hope,” the weapons master replied with a strange smile. “It is all we can do.”

“Hope?” the warlord’s anger spilled over. “What are you talking about, idiot! What about the weapon? How do we use it, aim it? How do we fire the damn thing!” Behind him the machine was suddenly alive with light and motion. The sphere was a blur now and around it other parts of the machine were starting to turn and rotate within the confines of the sprawling frame.

More explosions shook the tower and the deep thrumming of engines grew above the drone of the sirens and the crackle of flames. The weapons master, a crazed figure in his night robe with his white hair streaming began to laugh.

“It is no weapon, fool!” he mocked. “Or not of the kind you think! It is far greater than that. It is an accelerator, as I told those other supreme fools at the council, but more powerful than you could imagine!”

“It began as a weapons project, of course. In my youth I too was ignorant and blinded by prejudice. I had no aspirations beyond the struggle that has greedily consumed us all. But all that changed with the Interrogator, and I thank God that it did, for otherwise who can guess the magnitude of destruction my work might have unleashed!”

“Yes, with the knowledge I gleaned from the Interrogator, I realised the end to which my machine must be put. It was not such a leap. After all, if one accelerated matter enough, if velocities beyond light speed could be attained well, I guessed what effect that might have upon space and time — the very fabric of the universe!”

“You have sought to travel in time?” Count Voormidrath breathed.

“Nay, not I,” laughed the other. “Quickly, I realised that the energies released would be more than animate matter could hope to withstand. It became more a question of what, rather than whom, might be transported and to what end.”

“So what have I just...” the count turned to the machine and staggered back, hands lifting before his face. It was now a blazing ball pierced with shafts of dazzling colour. It seemed to suck the light from the room as it gathered more and yet more energy to it. Apparently immured to the brightness, Lord Limbold stared avidly into its whirling, furnace-like heart.

“It is my legacy — a gift from the end, from the very edge of despair! It is my hope, in a world beyond hope. It is a dream of life while there is still time left for dreaming.” He transfixed the count with wide, unseeing eyes.

“The Interrogator was the key! Its power lies in the stone, fashioned with unimaginable skill by the scientists of the third age. It is the stone that lifts the veil upon a man’s innermost thoughts. The rest of the Interrogator, for all its novelty, is little more than a slide-projector! If we had but found the stone earlier in our history who knows how things may have turned out. With it I seek to turn the tide, to heal, to mend — to end the war that has blighted our lives. With it our brother need never become our enemy...”

“What? You are insane, old man!” Voormidrath recoiled.

“Undoubtedly so, but I speak the truth and it is the truth that damns us all! You knew it — all of you. Lord Protectors, but not of humanity — of a terrible secret! A secret that has stripped us of humanity and made of us a race of monsters, killers genetically engineered to destroy.

“Well, I will re-engineer! We, in this age, are beyond help, but if I can reach our ancestors, before the rift, before the rot set in, there may be a chance. If the blue-stone can show a man another’s thoughts, then how can they become separated? A man possessing such a stone must recognise kinship, regardless of difference.

“This is my hope! By sending the blue-stone back to the beginning it can spark a new beginning and maybe a different end for us all!”

“Traitor!” The giant warlord clutched at his empty holster then leapt at the weapons master.

There was a flash and the crackling report of a blaster. The count was hurled spinning across the floor. Haggai, forgotten by the door, followed him with side-arm raised, firing again and again, each livid bolt from the black muzzle smashing into the count’s armoured chest and torso, making him leap like a broken doll. After half a dozen rounds Haggai paused. Standing over the body he looked down critically and discharged twice more before finally turning away.

“Haggai! The window...” Lord Limbold yelled from the floor where he had fallen beneath the count’s onslaught. Haggai turned to see the sleek shape of the gunship looming beyond the glass. He threw himself down as the Hattooshan pilot opened fire and the window exploded into the room.

* * *

Haggai lurched to his feet in a shower of glass shards. Pain lanced upward through his leg. He glanced down, wincing at what he saw and then he peered around the room. Most of the eastern section of wall was gone. Smoke billowed as a chill wind blew in off the Phosphor Sea, stinging his unprotected face and throat. He staggered over to where the weapons master lay, moaning slightly among the debris.

“Master, are you hurt?” He saw the blood, thick and dark in his master’s white hair.

“Haggai, my machine...” the weapons master murmured.

Haggai looked over at the twisted, blackened remains of the time machine. “It took a hit, my Lord.”

“Open it! Take the key from my pocket. Open the door and tell me what you see!” Lord Limbold coughed and blood foamed upon his lips.

Haggai did as he was asked. The door was buckled and almost too hot to touch, but it opened with a heave. Inside there was nothing apart from a few fragments of bluish dust in the bottom of the sphere. He told the weapons master what he had found.

“Good, good. The stone has gone. Perhaps it broke apart first. My calculations suggested that it might, but it is of no matter. It will still serve!” Lord Limbold lay back in the dust.

“No!” said Haggai, trying to raise him up. “We must get out now!”

“No Haggai,” the weapons master’s eyes closed and he sank down again. “I must rest, it is no good, I must sleep...”

The manservant struggled for a moment but the poisonous air took its toll and he had to stop. Briefly he contemplated the task of carrying the master down the long winding stair, nursing an injured leg only to face whatever it was they would have to face at the bottom. He swallowed hard and clearing a little space at the base of the dais he sat, making himself as comfortable as he could on the floor. Gently, he drew the weapons master over and cradled the bleeding head upon his lap.

The sounds of battle seemed to fade. Thick orange light filtered through the dust and smoke, dappling the walls of the chamber and reflecting from the twisted wreck of the machine. To Haggai, time truly did seem to stand poised.

“There is a green hill far away, without a city wall...” intoned the weapons master, softly.

“What is that?” Haggai asked.

“It is a fragment of an old rhyme. It was in the captive’s thoughts just before he died. I don’t believe he knew where it came from. Its meaning is lost, like so much else. He never knew a green hill — any more than we, but I think it was a comfort to him at he end.”

“I like the sound of it, Lord,” said Haggai, leaning his head back. A vast shadow fell over the crimson tower as the battle cruiser lowered from the yellow sky.

“Yes,” sighed the weapons master. “It has a calming quality. It... settles me to think of it.” His eyes closed and his breathing grew shallow. “Perhaps I will go there now...”

Above them, the great cannon came to bear.

The weapons master opened his eyes. Green grass rolled away beneath a sky of endless blue. He felt a small hand in his and he looked down. The little boy smiled up at him with the warm breeze ruffling his tawny hair.

“Look Papa, look! Pieces of the sky,” he pointed above.

Following his finger the weapons master saw the splinters of stone; blue and shining, spinning down toward the earth.