Ashlyn Chronicles 1: 2287 A.D. (30 page)

“Keeper, are those who traveled here with us still outside the wall?” asked Ashlyn.

“Yes, they are waiting for you.”

“Steven, why don’t we give them the Gifts? They can help us fight Enlil.”

“I am sorry, Lady Ashlyn, but they cannot enter.”

“Why?” asked Ashlyn.

“I have not always been watching those who are outside. It is possible that even now they are not who they appear to be.”

“I don’t understand,” said Ashlyn, frightened by the implication.

“I am sorry, but I am prohibited from explaining.”

Steven exhaled deeply. “All right then, let the order be given. No one must be allowed through the wall until Enlil is destroyed. Keeper, does Enlil have any weaknesses that we can use to defeat him?”

“Perhaps. I do not know if it will be of use to you, but when Enlil was a child, a creature beneath the surface of the water on Heaven frightened him. It left him with an unnatural fear of what he cannot see. Though he is strong and has millions of years of experience, his weakness is his arrogance. He does not believe that he can be defeated.”

“I understand. If he believes himself to have no weakness, then that, in-and-of-itself, is a weakness.”

“The Anunnaki would be proud of your wisdom, Lord Steven. As your friend, I wish that I could be of greater help to you.”

“Is there anything more you can tell us before we depart, anything that may help us?”

“You must be careful on your journey to the Great Pyramid. Along the way, there will be many dangers. There is the Uttu, a creature that lives beneath the sand. They are on an endless search for moisture and are very dangerous to those who walk upon the surface.”

“The spiders?”

“Yes, your people call them spiders.

“There are also other dangers; you would call them, Neanderthals. They were the first to serve Lord Enlil and were the first to receive an uplift on Tiamat, long ago. Now, they wander the desert trying to avoid the slave caravans that seek them out. While many are timid and complacent, you should not underestimate their strength or ability in combat.

“You must also beware of the Igigi patrols. Your people refer to them as the Grays. They will be hunting you. You must avoid them at all cost. They are barbaric, merciless.

“Lord Steven, Lady Ashlyn—I believe it is possible that Enlil has already created his pure Anunnaki. Nine years ago, he arrived from off world with an escort of new Elite Guard. They are tall and human looking in appearance. I had thought it curious that humans would choose to serve Enlil, but now, after your observation of Enlil’s motivations, I do not believe they are human. He calls them Watchers—the same as those who had served him a millennia ago.”

“Keeper, thank you, my friend. Do you have any information of the others of my group that arrived here on Hades with me? I left them encamped at a mountain surrounded by a forest northwest of here. Do you know if they are safe?”

“The mountain’s name is Sinai, and it has been used by your people for many thousands of years. The others that arrived here with you, now encamped at the mountain, have done great damage to Enlil’s forces. Many thousands of his followers have died. So far, it appears that your people are safe.”

Steven grinned, happy for the good news. “Keeper, I have one last question for you. The pedestal also spoke of the Sword of Truth! What is it?”

“It is a symbol of the Anunnaki—one given to each member of the royal family. The orders of the one who wields it are never questioned. It is a symbol of heritage. A symbol of power. Enki had sought it out when he was here on Hadaesia, wanting to strip it from Enlil and return it to his family on Heaven. He never found it, however.”

“We owe you more than we can ever repay and to simply say thank you isn’t sufficient.”

“As Anunnaki, you have the right to possess the Gifts. Your presence here and the wisdom you have shown make you worthy. I am proud and honored to have helped you, my children.”

“We look forward to returning here and speaking with you again,” said Ashlyn. “Keeper, may I ask, are we able to have some time of privacy here in the Garden, not being observed by you?”

“Yes, when you are ready to leave, simply place your hand upon the wall, and I will see you thru.”

“Thank you, Keeper.”

“Fare thee well on your journey, Lord Steven and Lady Ashlyn,”
said The Keeper. The tree’s glowing light dimmed.

They passed by the stream. “Steven, can you hold me here by the stream for a few minutes before we return outside?”

For all of Ashlyn’s genetic manipulation, her spirit and heart were clearly human. For her, all the troubles they faced were outside the wall. They both knew that they had no choice but to confront Enlil—but for now, they chose to lay claim to a small moment of tranquility.

Sitting on a smooth boulder, Ash deep in his arms, they talked. “Steven, do you think The Keeper is a machine?”

“By a stretch of our definition, yes—but as we understand machines, no. He is a creation, a device—but far more at the same time. He may be a true life form on his own merits.”

“Do you think we can defeat Enlil?” Ashlyn asked.

“Honestly, I don’t know, Ash. The only thing I am sure of—we can’t underestimate him. If it were a football game, I’d bet on the team with more experience every time. In our case, however, we have nine billion reasons why we want to destroy him.”

Novacek stared at the man when he suddenly realized what he had been missing. It had been gnawing at him, and now that he saw it, it seemed obvious. Cutting through the chatter of the crowd he said, “You told me earlier that the Anunnaki are on the verge of a civil war and that many regret their attack upon us?”

“Yes—that is so.”

“You’re lying! You told me that there is only one Anunnaki, that the others, the Grays, are his creations, an abomination. There would be no civil war! They would not dare to challenge him or question his authority.”

Novacek had said the words loudly. The crew separated, clearing the path between the two of them.

The man stared at him, a picture of polished poise. “It was just my improper use of your language. As I told you, I do not speak it much anymore. Please understand that we were defending our home. Was it not you that fired the first missiles at our ships when you arrived? Did you not travel here to destroy us? Were we wrong to want to defend ourselves? We realize that a mistake was made when we attacked Earth, but we now wish to make it up to you.”

Novacek knew that many of the crew wanted to believe. The visitor was very convincing.

“I warned you earlier, and yet again you said
we
. Perhaps you truly are one of them?” Novacek’s rage was clearly visible.

“It is only a figure of speech. For thousands of years—it has been the way humans have spoken. We live here now. We are part of their culture.”

“Why have you not given us your name?” Novacek asked, very aware that he had not given his own.

“If indeed I forgot, please forgive me.” The man rose, his stature becoming resolute, imposing. He suddenly seemed taller, more formidable. With a sigh, resigned to discovery he said, “My name is Enlil.”

Novacek reached for his blaster. Seeing Novacek’s reaction, the crew did likewise.

Enlil’s gaze hardened. Deep creases in his forehead betrayed an underlying, seething hatred. His eyes revealed a deceivingly dangerous persona.

A flurry of images suddenly flashed through Novacek’s mind. What he saw stretched his imagination to the point, where for the first time in his life, his small glimpses of insight into the future made no sense.

“You are a vile creation, Enlil, and you will surrender to me now, or die. The choice is yours.”

Enlil ever so slowly moved closer to Novacek. So as not to raise alarm, he put his hands straight out to his sides. In the center of Enlil’s pupils, Novacek saw a burning fire alight. With a guttural god-like voice that filled the cavern he said, “No man has ever spoken to me as you have—and lived.”

As understanding dawned and the flashes of Novacek’s vision fell into place, his finger pulled the trigger.

Enlil swatted him away with one arm as if he were a gnat.

Slamming against the cavern wall, Novacek crumpled to the floor. He fought to remain conscious, his vision black as night from the jarring jolt, his head and back aching. If bones had been broken, it was masked beneath the wrenching pain.

While he listened to the cries and terrified screams of those around him, a deafening, shrieking roar like nothing he had ever heard before filled the cavern, curdling his blood. He could hear the snapping bones of people being killed. From his left, an intense flash of heat singed the hair on his arm, making him roll aside to escape.

Slowly, as his vision began to clear and he could make out the shadowy forms of people scattering—his eyes focused upon the horror from which they fled. In disbelief, he raised his blaster and fired.

***

The sun had just crested the eastern mountains, as Steven and Ashlyn were gently set outside the wall. The warmth of the early morning air greeted them.

Paris saw them first and ran over to them, stopping midway to pick up Ashlyn’s clothes, which they had set atop a rock. “Need I ask what you two have been up to?” she said staring down at Steven’s nakedness.

“You wouldn’t believe it if I told you,” Ashlyn replied.

“I think I might,” said Paris, her eyes fixated on Steven.

Likewise, Brummon, distracted by Ashlyn’s naked body and swaying breasts, stood helpless, watching her put on her white cotton blouse. When she shimmied into her panties and blue jeans, he absentmindedly dropped Steven’s clothes to the ground.

Steven didn’t blame him, for Ashlyn’s body was a spiritual experience. Nevertheless, he still felt a possessive sense of
keep it in your pants, buddy.

“We were just about to leave and head back to the rest of the crew,” said Brummon.

“You were going to leave?” questioned Steven, completely bewildered. “Why—we weren’t gone very long.”

“It’s been four days. How long did you think we were going to wait?” said Paris with sincerity.

“Four days?” repeated Steven. He looked at Ashlyn. “It felt like twelve, maybe thirteen hours.”

“Not on this side of the wall!” countered Tomlinson.

Ashlyn looked at Steven. “There must be a time differential within the containment field.”

“Well, that isn’t the only odd thing,” said Tomlinson. “I hiked up the western face of the southern mountain to get a look behind the wall, and guess what I saw? Nothing! From up top, the whole thing is invisible, even the wall. It was just another valley filled with rocks, trees, and scrub-brush. When I tried to climb down into it, I almost broke my nose when I ran into its invisible shield.”

“Enough of the hocus-pocus talk. I want to know what’s on the other side!” said Paris, anxious to hear what they had found.

“Answers!” said Steven. “Answers to everything!”

***

Three days later, traveling by night and sleeping during the heat of day, Steven and his party crested a small dune, the sun just beginning to rise at their backs. Before them, two hundred meters away, was a long, slow-moving slave caravan.

Crouching low on the dune’s crest, binoculars raised, they watched the procession.

“I count 311 prisoners, 57 Igigi,” said Steven.

“That’s my count too,” agreed Ashlyn.

Tomlinson shook his head in amazement at their quick calculation before asking, “By Igigi, you mean Grays?”

“Yes. The Keeper said that’s their proper name,” said Steven.

“They’ll always be fugly Grays to me,” said Tomlinson.

“Cavemen, you can’t be serious!” said Maria. They were straight out of the textbook, large, heavy boned, wide brows, and thick, straggly hair over the majority of their body.

“Yes, there are cavemen down there too,” added Steven, almost chuckling.

The captives were naked except for a few with leathered skins upon their feet. Each slave was bound to another by a single iron cuff around the wrist and tethered by a heavy chain. Like cattle drivers, the Grays kept them moving. They held a rifle in one hand and a twirling whip strung with razor sharp barbs in the other—always at the ready to lash those who were lagging behind.

As Steven, Ashlyn, and the others watched, an older woman stumbled and fell. Even as her partner, a silver-haired female Neanderthal, pulled at the chain between them, trying to urge her to rise, a Gray discharged his weapon making a clean slice across the woman’s bound wrist. The freed Neanderthal immediately turned and again joined the moving procession, dragging the cuffed severed hand along in the sand behind her.

The old woman lay on the ground, clutching her stumped arm tightly to her chest. She screamed, pleading for her fellow slaves to stop and help her—but not one of them bothered to even throw a glance in her direction.

As the next guard came upon her, he put the tip of his rifle to her head and pulled the trigger, silencing her.

“Why didn’t the other slaves try to help her?” whispered Paris.

“Look at all the whip marks. Their spirit has been beaten out of them. Death is probably a blessing,” whispered Steven.

Suddenly, Paris’ back exploded. Her blood, flesh, and pulverized bone fragments erupted with a splash, dousing Steven, who was next to her.

Behind them, a dozen or more Grays walked toward them, their pulse rifles blazing.

Steven raised his weapon, firing at the nearest Gray in the advancing line. The laser struck him, slicing a clean line across his thin neck. His head fell off his shoulders as his body briefly stood erect, rebelling against gravity.

Screams from the crew broke out, “I’m hit, I’m—” cried Maria, as another blast killed the words that hung in her mouth.

Shooting, moving, rolling, they struggled to avoid the blasts that cut them down. Steven caught a glimpse of Ashlyn as her blaster failed to fire. Rolling, she pulled the trigger again, nothing. Her weapon had malfunctioned.

Ash dove and wriggled around three incoming shots. Her training and reflexes served her well as she twirled and spun, unloading the four knives on her armguards in a flurry. The first caught its victim square in the throat. The next two struck their targets between the eyes. The fourth knife caught a guard square in his chest, buried up to the bolster.

Cartwheeling around, she pulled yet another hidden knife from her right boot, and with a side-arm release, caught a Gray in the shoulder, forcing him to drop his heavy rifle.

Ten of the twelve Grays had been dropped when from behind, they heard a voice. “Zae Zig!” uttered by a Gray in a snake like hissing drawl.

You stand,
thought Steven as he translated the Sumerian words.

Ensign Smith swung around to fire, but before he could pull the trigger, he was hit by several blasts.

“We surrender! Everyone cease fire!” yelled Steven as he dropped his weapon and raised his hands into the air. Without turning, Ashlyn and Brummon did the same. Only the three of them had survived.

From their left came several more Grays who quickly encircled them.

Ashlyn looked down at the bodies of their team that lay sprawled around her. When she saw Tomlinson, who lay on the ground a few meters away, she saw that he was bloodied and hurt, but alive. In acknowledgement, Tomlinson gave Ashlyn a wink and then closed his eyes.

Ordered to stand, the three of them were then told to strip out of their clothes. Steven, in trying to wipe away Paris’ clinging flesh and blood with his shirt, was given two hard lashes across his back with the barbed whip, flaying his skin.

The Gray, who had whipped him, pointed the tip of his rifle toward the ground, motioning for him to drop the shirt. Two of the Grays then collected their clothes, weapons, and gear, allowing them to keep only their boots.

A short Gray, even by their standards, then pulled a shiny metallic rod from his belt and planted it into the ground, activating it. A loud, thrumming sound and heavy vibration droned beneath their feet. Forty meters away, two explosions erupted from under the sand as nearby Uttu reacted to the noise and went racing away. The Grays had known that the Uttu would be drawn to the moisture of the spilled blood.

Steven and Ashlyn turned suddenly, reacting to the sound of a rifle blast. One of the guards walked around the team, shooting each person in the head who had not risen.

As the executioner came to Tomlinson, Ashlyn stepped forward. “Enlil. I want to speak with Enlil.”

Steven had no clue what Ashlyn was doing.

The words stopped all the Grays in their tracks. The nearest one behind Ashlyn approached, hitting the back of her right leg’s calf with his rifle, forcing her to kneel.

“Bring yo’r head to him, I wi’l, so you may talk,” said the Gray in poor English. He followed the words with a screeching noise that grated like a knife blade on a honing stone. Raising his rifle, he put the tip of the barrel to Ashlyn’s head.

“Gil-im mi! Enki gil-im Igigi,” screamed Steven. “Kill woman! Enki kill Igigi,” Steven repeated in English. “Hurt her and Enki will hang your head upon his belt. Enki has sent us to deliver a message to Enlil.”

The Gray, a bit surprised at Steven’s use of their native tongue, paused only briefly. “You li’! God Enlil, ki’l Enki! We se’ if Enki sav’ her,” taunted the nearest of the Grays to Ashlyn. With a
crack
, his whip began lashing her.

Steven started toward her, but the Gray standing behind him butted him in the head with his rifle, dropping him face first to the ground. A streaming trickle of blood ran from his hairline down into his eye, blurring his vision. Steven struggled against the darkness that he felt closing in around him.

A lash from a whip struck Steven across his face, splitting his cheek open down to his chin. It was only the beginning as the guard, who had struck him, lashed him repeatedly.

All the guards, who watched, jumped, swinging their whips around in the air, an exhibition of their excitement over seeing humans whipped.

Ashlyn’s Gray, intent on killing her, lashed at her furiously.

Between lashes to himself, Steven fought to catch glimpses of Ashlyn. She lay motionless on the sand, her body a bloody and shredded heap of flesh.

Steven’s hatred seethed, building into an uncontrollable rage as the Gray gave her stroke after lashing stroke. He tried to
will
his abilities to aid them. He had done it before, when he had saved Avenger and slowed Ashlyn’s Sharkfin, but now—the power escaped him, and he cursed himself for failing her.

He suddenly understood how helpless, how powerless, Novacek must have felt when he witnessed the death of his wife. It was crushing.

Though he knew not what he could do physically, his muscles tensed, bulging in preparation to go to Ashlyn’s defense when he heard the words. “No, Steven. I can endure the pain. We cannot die here. We have to survive so we can face Enlil.”

Through a tormented and anger-enraged mind, Steven declared his love for her, and for that only did he find the strength to hold back.

Only when the Gray grew tired did he stop whipping her.

“Zig,” ordered the Gray, wanting Steven, Ashlyn, and Brummon to get to their feet. Brummon rose first, but Ashlyn lay still as death. If there was any movement of air filling her lungs, it was imperceptible.

Steven struggled to get onto his hands and knees, his tortured and twisted face a reflection of the immense pain that was ravaging him. He crawled toward Ashlyn. His pain threatened to push him into unconsciousness. The trail of blood behind him painted the sand red. He reached out, touching her hand. Feeling the familiar tingle, though faint, was a ray of hope. It was with a mighty scream that he managed to stand.

He tottered, his legs shaking beyond his control. His left eye was swollen shut, the right filled with flowing blood. The top of his left ear hung limply, as did the left side of his lower lip dangle, ripped. Spitting out the blood in his mouth, he made a quick swipe with his arm to clear his vision. He grunted heavily as he lifted Ashlyn up. Throwing her arm around his neck, he held her fast, supporting her weight on his shoulder and hip.

Ashlyn was little more than a blood covered rag doll. Of the dozens of wounds, the slash that ran from her left ear down her neck was the one that worried him most. The only possible explanation for why she was still alive was the Water of Life.

Steven had been right; death was a blessing for the slaves, for the pain of his own flayed back, arms, and legs dredged up such wishful thoughts.

Within his mind, he screamed at Ashlyn, pleading for her to answer him. In response, he heard only the brutality of stark silence.

Heeding the prod of a guard’s rifle, Steven walked her down to join the waiting slave caravan. Though Ashlyn clearly wasn’t capable of supporting her own weight, he was grateful that she was able to shuffle her feet. It was almost as if she were mimicking his steps, his movements. It was something and seemed enough for the Grays to spare her life.

To say that the pain was unbearable was an understatement, and yet it was renewed with each step. His blood loss was heavy and he felt faint. It was sheer stubbornness and the thought of future revenge that kept him from blacking out.

Upon reaching the caravan, one of the guards cuffed them together.

Brummon was partnered with the Neanderthal woman they had spotted earlier. It was only as Brummon’s eyes scrunched and his face turned away from nausea that Steven realized the source of his reaction.

Following Brummon’s gaze, Steven saw that one of his testicles hung outside his scrotum. It had been ripped open by the barbs on the whip. Steven’s pain had been so intense that he hadn’t noticed. With barely a care, Steven pushed it back inside through the tear. It was all he could do.

Brummon’s mouth dropped in shock as the cave-woman, cuffed beside him, reached out and flipped up his cock with a finger. When it fell, like it were a toy, she reached out to do it again, seemingly hoping that it might stay up this time. When he quickly covered himself, stopping her, she bared her blocky, yellowed teeth at him. Her look was one that could either be construed as mocking him for dismissing her or an overtly, flirtatious overture. Either choice had the same effect. He was suddenly very self-conscious.

When the cave woman grabbed one of her hairy breasts, offering it to him, the focus of her intent became clear.

The two men in front of Steven and Ashlyn never flinched, never moved. Like everyone in the caravan, their backs looked like a game of pickup sticks as layer after layer of scar tissue told of their long abuse. A rancid stench permeated the air as the odor of festering sores and open wounds filled his nostrils. If he’d had the strength, he would have vomited.

“Ngir.”
Walk,
Steven’s mind subconsciously translated from Sumerian. It was accompanied by the hum of twirling whips as they again got the caravan moving.

For the better part of the day, under the blistering heat of the dual suns, the caravan marched along, slowly following the twisting path of a dried riverbed.

Steven’s inward calls to Ashlyn remained unanswered. She had retreated into a catatonic world of silence, a place without pain. Steven feared that she might never return. She simply walked, matching his footsteps.

Finally, just minutes after sunset, they were brought to a halt at the base of a tall bluff. Steven watched as one of the guards hammered in the rod that would drive the Uttu away. Then, he pulled a bundle of three thin straws from a quiver on his back. He hammered them into the ground until out of each a spring of water sprouted.

“Nan.” The call for the slaves to drink had been issued. The people rose timidly, all eager, but none wanting to be the first to drink. It was a weathered, middle-aged man who broke the stalemate. Apparently, as Steven came to learn, the first person always received a single lashing across the back before drinking. He also learned that the first person could drink ‘til he was done, whereas the timing for the others was up to the discretion of the supervising guard.

Over the next hour while the slaves took their turns, Steven tried to rouse Ashlyn. As before, all his efforts went unanswered. Looking at her badly tattered body, he was fearful that she wouldn’t survive the night. Moreover, it was a certainty if she didn’t receive her ration of water.