Requiem for Anthi: Anthi - Book Two (29 page)

“Our informant told us you had returned. Welcome. Do you bring surrender terms or—”

“Commander,” said Asan, ignoring her completely, “your forces are preparing an attack upon the jen cohorts coming here. Is that necessary? Are you so unwilling to trust Tlar honor?”

The commander blinked at being addressed fluently in Standard. He was a well-built man with a square jaw and an unyielding look in his eyes.

“Honor has nothing to do with warfare,” he replied. “My orders are to subdue this population. As I see it, that means wiping out the military.”

“You have lured my people here under false pretenses.”

“They should know that. If they don’t, then it’s really easier for them to die now and quickly than to be hunted down.” The commander met his gaze coldly. “We are not interested in maintaining this culture.”

“So you see, Asan,” said Aural. “Your pleas are useless with Commander Notini.”

“And you’re a fool,” Asan said sharply, bringing color to her cheeks. “You’ve brought
n’kai
to Tlartantla, given it to them. Have you no shame?”

“If this is all that is left of the world we walked upon, then it is not worth saving! I have my own survival to think of. And you are a fool to live in the past.”

“Is that all that remains between us, Aural? Harsh words and hatred at the end? What happened to all the years we shared together—”

“Dust,” she said angrily. “Dust upon the wind. No feelings remain. No respect is left. The bond that held us was severed when you nearly died. I almost walked to the land of death with you, but I managed to break free. And now when Notini kills you, I shall rejoice.”

A noise at the entrance to the hut made Asan whirl, but he was too late. Guards in gear suits stood there with issue bolt rifles aimed at him. Asan grimaced to himself and slowly lowered his strifer. Now it really was over.

Notini jerked the strifer from Asan’s hand and shoved him toward the guards, who grabbed him and put restraints on his wrists. They were the kind made of razor wire—a thin, almost invisible filament that would slice off his hands at the slightest attempt to pull free.

Fear choked Asan’s throat. For a moment all he could think of was to run. But he forced his mind to clear, refusing to pay heed to the Blaise memories of other restraints and a brutal, though brief, incarceration in a detention center. The guards hustled him outside. The commander and Aural followed.

“I hear the ships,” she said. Her mask gleamed in the sunlight as she turned her head to the east.

Asan could hear the distant roar also. It was the fleet Udge had picked up on his scanner. Soldiers ran across the small camp to assume positions. On the ridge directly ahead, a deton-bomb artillery gun was uncovered and manned. Asan watched bleakly. So there was to be destruction from the ground as well as from the air. He realized they were going to let him watch and then kill him. And from the pit of his stomach rose a black cloud of hate.

“You could escape,” said Aural. “You could probably kill me and most of these men before they realized you were using mental weapons. Why don’t you try? Anger is in your rings.”

“What is your future?” he asked.

She lifted a fingertip. “Oh, I am secure. I shall give them Anthi when this day is finished. They are most interested in our computer technology.” She laughed. “You
are
angry. All this time you thought you were the only one who could control the computer. But you were wrong. I brought her online.”

It was not worth arguing about. He glanced away.

“You delude yourself, Aural.”

“And didn’t you?” she said sharply. She grabbed him by one arm and turned him around, making the restraint nick his wrist. “I heard of your spectacular failure. Bringing the Merdarai back. What nonsense! Your brain has been addled by age. Even the true Asan would not have tried anything so ridiculous.”

He made no reply. The ships were in sight now, although it was hard to see them against the sun. They were small craft, individual fighters. The air was filled with the thunder of their engines, and something about that sound nagged at him.

“Coming in low, commander,” said an aide, running up. “Not on planned course heading. Not responding to our communications.”

“What?” Notini swung around with an oath. “Are they mad? I gave Cooke his orders personally. It’s not like him to screw up.”

“They should have already banked north, sir. It’s almost like they’re homing in on us.”

“Damn! Get on the com. I want a direct link with Cooke. Now!”

And the ships were still coming, an immense, impossible number, far too many for the maneuver planned today, far too many for the size of the force stationed here. Asan stared upward until his neck ached, and recognition suddenly dawned on him.

“Skulmaar!”

The shout boomed out in full tone, loud enough to rattle the sides of the hut behind him, loud enough to almost hold its own against the roar of the ships. The first formation flew over, and their shadow crossed the camp.

“Those aren’t our ships,” said Notini. “What the hell…Jackson! Hardy! Get that deton-bomb swung around! Now!”

It was too late. The second formation broke off and dived in, coming so low and so fast the humans never had a chance. The camp broke into chaos as rapid bursts flared from the nose cones of the ships. The air was filled with screams and the steady
thacka-thacka-thacka
of the weapons.

Notini turned on Aural, who stood there frozen, her gaze locked on the ships.

“You damned bitch, you set us up!”

She flinched, holding out her hands. “No! I swear—”

Notini shot her just before a fighter ship dived at him and cut him down. Asan snapped out his rings and seizerted just in time to escape the same fate.

During that brief moment of displacement, the scene seemed frozen upon his vision. Again and again he saw Aural turn, her arms lifting in supplication before the strifer cut through her. She had spoken the truth; their bond no longer held them. But it was as though her rings sliced through his as she died, and there was grief deep within him for the woman who had walked at his side long, long ago.

He materialized on a ridge and dropped low out of sight, hugging the ground for what scant cover he could find. His wrists were bleeding from the restraints, and absently he closed the wounds and buffered his wrists with his rings to prevent more serious cuts.

Inside, his heart leapt with pride and disbelief. The Merdarai had come! He had reached them after all.

And, oh, how they came. The skies were filled with their number. He had forgotten how many there were, a full army from the days when Tlartantla’s population swarmed over the entire planet. They came with ships; they came with equipment and munitions; they came with supply tugs in their wake; they came like angry hornets for battle, and the battle was already over. The humans lay sprawled across the little oasis of Kichee, such a small threat after all.

And even as he crouched there and grinned like a fool inside his mask, he began to wonder what he would do with them all once the GSI had been routed from Altian and from Ruantl space. Could he turn a crack fighting force into miners? Or maybe farmers? How would they all be fed?

The ground to the south was flatter where the gullies ran out. The ships began to land, formation by formation until they seemed to go to the horizon. He tried counting them, but couldn’t. More than a thousand. More than two thousand.

The sand was shredding his clothes. Slowly Asan climbed to his feet. He stood on the ridge crest and stared at what he had done, beginning, now that the first flush of surprise and pride were past, to be a little awed.

A noise behind him made him glance over his shoulder. He saw the Tlar’jen and the Bban hordes coming, creeping in wonder and fear. Asan pulled himself erect at once. And he heard the voices: “Asan! It is Asan. He brought the warriors from the shadow land. He spoke the truth.”

And then, to his surprise, the jen cohorts did not advance past him to meet the Merdarai now emerging from their fighters. Instead, they began to kneel one by one in a rippling, black-cloaked sea. Javelins fell to the sand and masked faces bowed.

“N’a en wulrad. N’a en wulrad.”

The chant of worship went on and on, embarrassing him as he stood there silhouetted against the sky with his bronze cloak flying in the wind and his hands still bound.

Then from the other side, he heard the chant echoed from voices with a different accent, the old true inflections of the past.

“Asan! Asan!”

The Merdarai in battle shielding and flight masks knelt before him as well. And the sun dappled the world that was still, or perhaps for the first time, his.

The Children of Anthi

In the grand tradition of Dune, an epic of adventure and survival on a dying world.

Omari has violated every sanction of his world to hijack the Forerunner and blast his way through a black star to reach the Uncharted Zone—and freedom.

But on Ruantl, a toxic world lit by a black sun, Omari found himself hostage in an underground citadel deep beneath a radioactive wasteland. Here the enigmatic high priest and his horde of black-robed barbarian mutants guard an army of crystal caskets—and plan a bloody rebellion to save their race from extinction.

To survive, Omari has one chance. But does he dare undergo the ultimate sacrifice and become one of the CHILDREN OF ANTHI?

The Omcri Matrix

In the Planet Patrol, Costa was the best. The smartest, toughest, most ambitious officer in the ranks. Until the day the Omcri—a deadly alien force of faceless assassins—kidnapped the Kublai of Drugh, killing Costa's patrol but leaving her alive.

The brass think Costa has sold out. And now she's on the run, desperately trying to clear her name. Her search for the truth will lead her from the back alleys of her own planet to the savage dangers of unknown worlds—and finally, into the dark heart of the Omcri Matrix.

The Goda War

For eons, countless races have feared the godas, planet-sized doomsday machines that could destroy all time and space. But no one has ever dared unleash their awesome powers.

Until now.

Brock, dire-lord of the Held, is the only man alive who knows where the godas are hidden. As his empire crumbles, he vows to activate the godas—no matter what the cost.

But Brock has a rival: Colonel Kezi Falmah-Al of the ruthless Colonids. She too seeks the godas, to further her dreams of conquest. So begins the Goda War.

Now, not even the stars are safe.

Time Trap

In the 26th century, chaos threatens to overwhelm civilization—but the historians on staff at the Time Institute are determined to change things for the better. Through first-hand recordings of the greatest events of the past, they hope to reawaken the modern-day populace and restore its zest for achievement. The trouble for the Institute is that saboteurs have infiltrated.

The trouble for time-traveler Noel Kedran is that his mission lands him in the wrong place and century.

Medieval Greece is little more than a way-station for European knights headed for the Crusades. All but forgotten, this small pocket of history is awash in treachery as Greek bandits, French knights, and Constantinople's diplomats battle for supremacy. Caught in their clash to rule Greece, Noel fears that any alteration to the course of history could destroy his own time, until he meets a stranger who is his mirror image. This twin, as determined to destroy the future as Noel is to save it, will take both Noel’s fate and history into his own hands.

Showdown

Unable to return to the 26th century, historian and time traveler Noel Kedran struggles to repair the sabotage that keeps him ensnared in time's web. His evil twin Leon, created by the anomaly, works just as hard to prevent Noel from escaping the trap. Each attempt to go home lands Noel and Leon in a different era. Now, they're in the New Mexico territory in the year 1887—a harsh desert land plagued by lawless bandit raids, border wars, and fierce Apaches.