|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Site content may offend. Content includes horror, murder, torture, lawlessness, military carnage, Anglo Saxon crudities, occasional adult incidents and George Bush |
|
|
|
|
|
"Don't shoot!" yelled Paraban. "I surrender!"
The guard lowered his weapon. And Paraban ducked round the corner and fled. In the Residential Convalescent Room, Paraban found Antasy. The first to make the jumpback. Now Paraban remembered. Antasy had been sent back in time to an era more than twenty thousand years earlier. He had been sent back to find out why the Chasm Gates had collapsed. And he had returned .... "Anyone home?" said Paraban, waving his hand in front of Antasy's face. The eyes did not track the moving hand. There was a bland blankness to Antasy, as though his mind had been reduced to a teaspoon's worth of ditchwater. "He doesn't remember anything," said Stelven Zincher, master of the episode summaries, entering the Convalescent Room behind Paraban. "We don't know what happened to him. But, somehow, he got scrubbed clean. He just doesn't work." "A newborn baby," said Paraban. "You're being too kind," said Stelven. "Think more of a jellyfish. That's where Antasy is right now. On the evolutionary scale. Jellyfish level." Jellyfish level. The words cued memories. "I've been here before," said Paraban, without turning, struggling to deal with a fresh surge of liberated memories. "I remember, now. You've been messing with my memories." "We've been grafting on your mission skills," said Stelven. "Chiefly linguistic. But also other things. You know. Making fire. Mushroom recognition - how to know an edible fungus when you see it. Basic horse maintenance - fueling a horse, securing a horse against theft, that kind of thing. Camel skills, too. We've got no idea where you might end up." "What do you mean, no idea?" said Paraban. "I go back, I intercept Hearst, I kill him, I return." "If all goes to plan," said Stelven. "But if there's one small error in our math, you might end up ten years away from where you should be and a thousand leagues off target." Error. The word was creatively productive, awakening Paraban to previously unsuspected possibilities. "Now I understand," said Paraban, blurting out what he was thinking. "You grabbed Hearst, didn't you? You kidnapped him. Brought him here. To shape him, train him, make him yours. You grafted on skills, remodelled his mind. Big mistake! He escaped, didn't he? He escaped, and turned against you. That's why we have what we have on Untunchilamon." What they had on Untunchilamon was a vagrant Rovac warrior turned conquering warlord. What they had was Morgan Gestrel Hearst, the one-armed killer, the master of an increasing number of weapons of mass destruction. What they had was an individual with an aberrant collection of disturbingly potent skills - linguistic, technological, diplomatic and organisational - which exceeded the constellation of talents that he had been known to possess back in his earlier days, back when he had been scraping a living as a mercenary warrior. "You are wrong," said Stelven, patiently. "We don't know how he got himself upgraded. But he did. What I can tell you is that his upgrades exceed anything we could do here. There's speculation that it might have something to do with the consumption of dragon's blood." "That old dragon nonsense," said Paraban. "No," said King, who had materialized in the doorway. "It's not nonsense. A dragon, any dragon, is much more than a bundle of claws and muscle mass. Dragons are used by something - we don't understand what, and we don't understand how - to project itself into what we think of as our world." King was evidently set to enlarge on this, but Stelven interrupted him. "Let's skip the speculative metaphysics," said Stelven. "We don't have time for it. The jump is today." "Today?" said Paraban, dismayed. "That's why I've come for you," said Stelven. "And let me warn you. You had better perform the task you've been charged with. You double cross us, and we will kill you." At this threat, a flash of pure rage enveloped Paraban's mind. It was black-red energy, a bolt of crocodile anger. Paraban stood very still, letting his mind calm. He realized something, now. They were scared of him. Stelven, King, the whole membership of Tralshonkan. Why were they scared? Well, because if Paraban went and changed too much, back in the years of the past, then those who lived in the present might be annihilated. What they were hoping for was a modest change, just a small one - a slightly revised version of reality, minus Morgan Hearst. But Paraban did not have to give them that. He was going back into the past with weapons sufficient to conquer the world. He could trash the ordered flow of time and annihilate existing order of reality. "I will," said Paraban. "Will do what?" said Stelven. "I will carry out my mission and assassinate Morgan Hearst," said Paraban. But that was not what his "I will" meant. No. Not at all. He was resolved. He had been drugged, imprisoned, coerced, enslaved, spied upon and taunted and tempted by the provocateur King. His mind had been invaded, his intentions doubted, his safety threatened. So, now, he would take revenge. Back in the past, he would do such fearful damage to the flow of history that the present would be bent out of recognition. Stelven, King, the whole membership of Tralshonkan - they would cease to exist, at least in their present form. Paraban would destroy them all. "Let's go," said Stelven. "It's almost time." |
|
I saw the dragon-killer. Drunk. |
|
And so here they were. The jump room. Paraban felt claustrophobic. He was too heavy with equipment, and the bright room, clattering with voices, was too hot. "Time plus five!" Too late to say no. "Time plus two!" A moment too soon, there was an inner convulsion, as if an octopus had gotten loose in his stomach. Paraban gave an incoherent shout, but he was protesting to the darkness. The darkness was seething past, too fast for him to count its whispers. It was hot, hotter than the jump room. Now he was the toy of mathematics. The computers had crunched a million calculations. One small error and he was dead. A glimpse of light. The cave? Flying through the air! Too much momentum! Gasped, tried to find air, to find again the capacity to breathe. Rock was rough against his elbow. The rock wall had smashed him as he crashed into the darkness. He was not sure whether he had been knocked out or what. My name. My name is Paraban Senk. My mission. My mission is to find Morgan Hearst. And kill him. Good. He knew his name. He knew his mission. He had reached the dragon's lair, alive. And, all going well, the dragon was already dead. But, if the dragon was dead, then why was the darkness alive with the sound of hugely leisured breathing? |
|
|
This story, "The Dragon Zenphos", made its first appearance when posted online by Hugh Cook on 2003 September 15 Monday. Copyright © 2003 Hugh Cook. All rights reserved. |
|
|